Knives, Forks, Scissors, Flames

by Stefan Kiesbye

  “Looking for something specific?” Johannsen’s coat was still white and stiff, though by the evening it would be heavily stained.

  “A dog,” Benno said. “Tim wants one.”

  The shopkeeper scratched his chin and furrowed his forehead. “Farmer Reincke,” he said. “He owns and sometimes sells dogs. It’s the last farm on the road to Wengsten, it’s a bit hidden, so you can see it only after you’ve already passed his driveway.”

  That same evening, Benno, Carolin and Tim made their way to Reincke’s farm. Benno had called him from Lübeck, and after he had indeed driven past the entrance, he made a U-turn on Wengstener Straße and then bounced over potholes toward the low-slung farmhouse. To his right, Benno suddenly spotted something reddish brown and slimy hanging in a tree. He pointed with his finger, but Carolin shrugged. “Cow stomach?” She shook herself.

  Reincke was already waiting in the yard, his hands in his pockets, a pipe in his mouth and a greasy cap on his head. His cheeks were covered with burst veins, his feet were stuck in dusty rubber boots. He relaxed only when Tim climbed from the back seat and politely stretched out his hand.

  “The miracle boy,” he said and spat. “Wants a dog.” Without shaking hands he led the visitors behind his house to a series of cages. “I once had more of them,” he said, as if he wanted to apologize. “Now I only have my Asta. Ran off and got involved with a Lab. That’s what it looks like, anyway.”

  Asta was a German Shepherd, her offspring more black than yellow and with very short, dense fur. There were five pups, and Tim stared at them greedily. But when he knelt down to pet them, Benno heard a brief whimper that seemed to come from one of the cages in the rear. Reincke had also heard it, took his pipe from his mouth and spat to the side. “A stray that belongs to nobody. Full of worms and fleas. He’s as good as dead.”

  Tim played with the puppies, let them lick his fingers and gave them the food that Reincke kept in a plastic bucket. The boy laughed at their rough tongues that tickled him, the teeth that nibbled on his fingers.

  At last he stood up, his knees dirty and wet, and went over to the last cage. Benno followed him. The whining had stopped, and the stray neither seemed to pay attention to the noise nor to worry about the presence of the family. He was taller than Reincke’s dog, and stood motionless in the cage and kept his eyes lowered. Tim’s fingers clutched the wire, while he stared quietly at the dog’s matted, reddish-brown fur.

  “Last winter he showed up in town,” Reincke said to Benno. “Nobody knows where he came from. Wouldn’t let anyone come near him. He was too thin and weak to run away when I discovered him here at the barn.”

  Slowly, the dog lifted his head, sniffed, and turned to the boy, as if he remembered something from a long time ago. He whimpered softly and pressed his body against the wire. His left eye seemed almost black.

  “This one here,” Tim said, turning toward the adults. His cheeks were flushed. Then he knelt down in front of the cage and put both hands through the bars. The dog stood still, closed his eyes and let the boy pet him.

  “Wouldn’t you prefer another one?” Carolin asked. “The little ones are so sweet.” She looked anxiously at Benno. The dog didn’t seem to please her.

  Tim shook his head.

  “He’s still sick. And he is quite wild. Who knows if he’ll ever listen to you?”

  “Your mother is right,” Benno agreed. “And something is wrong with his legs.” He pointed to the right front paw that looked crooked.

  Only when the boy was close to tears, did Carolin give in.

  “You can have him for free. You’re saving me a lot of trouble.” Reincke unlocked the cage, took a coarse rope that hung at the gate and tried to put it around the neck of the dog, yet the animal backed away.

  Wordlessly, Tim took the rope from the farmer’s hands and led his new dog to the car. The animal followed without resistance, but was too weak to climb into the back seat; Benno had to lift him into the car. Afterward his shirt and pants were smeared with dirt, and the stray lowered his head as though embarrassed. Quickly, Tim got in after him and hugged his dog.

  “Do you have a name for him?” Benno said, as he climbed into the car.

  Tim leaned over and whispered in Benno’s ear, “It’s the wolf. We saved the wolf.”

  5

  For a week, the veterinarian in Grevenhorst kept him in her care. After three days, Benno went with Tim to the county seat to look at the patient. The dog came to the cage door to greet them, yet he displayed no exuberance, nothing that Benno could have recognized as obvious pleasure. Still, the dog’s demeanor gave him the strange feeling that Tim hadn’t found the dog, but that the animal had rediscovered the boy.

  The farmer had been right: the stray had worms and was terribly emaciated. Only his thick coat hid the protruding ribs. Both ears were crusted with blood. Flies, said the doctor, the black spots would never heal. A front leg had been broken and healed incorrectly, the right hind leg was weak, maybe just a sprain. “But there is something very peculiar about him,” she finally said.

  “What do you mean?” asked Benno. Tim knelt in front of the cage and fed the dog treats from a large bag.

  “I don’t know what it is, but if I had found the dog, I wouldn’t want to give him up again.” She didn’t even smile.

  “And there’s another thing,” continued the doctor. “He has been shot, pellets were still in his flank. One hit him in the skull, bounced off a bone in the jaw and is stuck behind the eye. That’s why the eye looks black—he can’t see much with it, if anything at all. But around here, that’s not necessarily something special. Maybe a farmer chased him off his property.”

  “Could he become dangerous?” asked Benno. “If Tim plays too rough with him or wants to take away his stick? Or, or . . .”

  The doctor shook her head. “He’s been through a lot. But no, not him.”

  Yet when Tim finally got up and stepped away from the cage, the dog’s demeanor suddenly changed. He screamed and carried on like crazy. With horror, the boy watched as the animal bit down on the metal bars and rattled the door. Benno had to take Tim’s arm and drag him out of the office, and when they finally sat outside in the car, they could still hear the dog howl.

  One morning in early October, Benno got into the car and turned the key. On the fourth attempt the engine finally started, only to give up the ghost a few seconds later with a loud bang, which was followed by a violent clatter. The Ford dealer was the only repair shop in town, and the service department sent over a tow truck. Benno rode shotgun after he had been promised a loaner for the trip to Lübeck.

  When Otto Friedrich called in the afternoon to tell him what the necessary repairs would cost—a new engine would have to be installed—Benno and Carolin decided to pay a visit to the dealer and look at his used cars.

  “We have the best prices in the area,” he said, and shook hands with them. His friendly smile bared long, brownish teeth. The front pocket of his suit jacket held a pack of Camel Filters. “And I’ll make you a special offer as a welcome gift, so to speak. Have you settled in a bit in our backwater village?”

  Carolin nodded. “Slowly we’re getting to know everyone. Mr. Cornelius has taken us under his wing.”

  Friedrich laughed. “He’s eagerly collecting souls. And up on that hill, you’re a captive audience.” He winked at her and asked, “What can I tempt you with? A quick Sierra or something larger? A Scorpio?”

  “Maybe a Fiesta,” Benno interjected. “There are only three of us.”

  “Don’t forget the dog,” Friedrich said with a grin. “All of Strathleven already knows that you have adopted the ghost dog. Nothing remains secret here.” In a confidential tone, he continued, “Nothing ever happens here, so we welcome every bit of gossip.”

  “Have you ever met our predecessors?” Benno asked on impulse. “Christensen told me that they left in a hurry.”

  Friedrich shrugged his shoulders. “Christensen doesn’t like anyone. Especi
ally not people who are not from here. Don’t take it personally. For your predecessors, the village was probably too small. What we call peace, they probably felt was just plain dull.”

  Together they walked across the yard. Friedrich seemed in his element, forcing Benno behind the steering wheels of cars that were much too large and much too expensive. “We really shouldn’t buy a new one,” Benno said, but seconds later he sank with a sigh into the leather seat of a Sierra. ”I’ve read your articles,” Friedrich said. “You’re good. The previous editor was too conservative, you bring a bit of fresh air to the Strandkurier.”

  “Why doesn’t Strathleven have a soccer team?” asked Benno. He couldn’t help but feel flattered. “The place is big enough.”

  “We don’t need it,” Friedrich replied cheerfully. “All the others already have one. We have enough work with our shooting club. But that’s not your department, right?”

  Benno shook his head. “My colleague handles that.”

  “If you stay here, you must join us, absolutely. It’s a great opportunity to get to know Strathleven, and we have a lot of fun.”

  “That’s what the pastor said about going to church,” Benno said and rolled his eyes.

  Friedrich laughed loudly. “Hellfire is no longer enough. The children want to have fun, the church must be modern.”

  After an hour-long discussion, many concerns and doubts, and a generous trade-in offer for the old Beetle—Benno’s first car ever had survived only six months—he agreed with Carolin on an almost brand new Escort. It was a show car, not even a year old. Light blue metallic with gray cloth seats. Four doors.

  “You won’t regret it,” said Friedrich when Benno finally signed the contract. “This is a solid car. And it’s under warranty.” Friedrich’s office was spacious and had a huge glass wall that looked out onto the showroom. On his desk stood a photo of his wife, another showed three children.

  “Your daughters?” asked Carolin. “They are very pretty.”

  “They’ll send me to the grave,” sighed Friedrich. It was an old joke, and Benno was sure that Friedrich used it every single day of the week, but the dealer had an expression on his face that looked like real pain. Then the moment was gone and he grinned broadly. “If they don’t eat me out of house and home first.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Eleven, thirteen and sixteen. Difficult age. The boys are paying attention.”

  “They should come to our youth group,” Carolin said eagerly. “We have a dance group, and even a band.”

  “My wife helps out there,” Benno said.

  “Yeah, sure.” Friedrich beamed at her. He leaned in and whispered. “I’ll send my daughters to the pastor and you’ll get two tickets to the next shooting club ball.”

  “I don’t know what the pastor would think of such a trade,” Benno tried to joke. The thought of old men in loden and silly hats did not sit well with him. “Are you maybe the champion marksman, the king?”

  “God forbid.” The dealer leaned back in his chair. “That would bankrupt me. I’d have to buy everyone a drink. And not just one, these things always end in a binge. If you come, do what I do, aim a bit to the right.” He paused briefly before he continued. “Anyway—who wants to buy a car from the king? People would start getting suspicious and not trust my prices. Am I not right? Why should I make my life unnecessarily difficult?” He winked before he pulled open one of his drawers and took out two tickets. “For our Autumn Ball at the end of the month. Absolutely free. I’m making your decision easy.”

  When they finally drove off the lot, Benno complained, “The car looks so dignified, “I feel so old.”

  For a moment, Carolin said nothing. Then it broke out of her: “Don’t always badmouth Cornelius. He means well, and I think he does his best to offer the children a place where they belong. I like helping him.”

  “It was just a joke,” Benno said. “The talk about hellfire.”

  “You always have to pick on him. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Just because someone’s trying to give our lives a bit of meaning.”

  Every day after school, Tim worked his way through encyclopedias, novels, and even the phone book. The night before they were to bring the dog home, he finally decided on a name. The stray would be called Rasmus.

  “Is that stupid?” he asked Benno.

  “How so?”

  “He already has a name.”

  “But we have no way of knowing what it is.”

  Tim nodded slowly. “But what if he doesn’t want to answer to his new name?”

  Benno took his time with the answer. “Now that you’re his owner, he will obey you.”

  “And if not?”

  The next day, Benno walked into a pet store Holger had recommended, and bought a huge, red plush bed and a collar with a tag that the owner engraved in the store. Then he picked up Tim at home, and together they drove to Grevenhorst. Carolin had no time this evening, she was at a ‘singing group’ rehearsal—Cornelius apparently wanted to avoid the word ‘choir.’

  Rasmus trotted out of the cage and greeted them silently, but once Tim put on the new collar, he came alive. Whining excitedly, he bit into the leash and pulled Tim out of the vet’s office. Benno paid the bill and got two bottles of medication.

  “Take it slow with him. The dog is still weak. And come back in two weeks for a follow-up.” She winked at Benno from behind her black-rimmed eyes. “I want to see him again.”

  This time, Rasmus climbed into the backseat himself, Tim only had to hold the rear door open. Then the dog pressed his face against the window and looked at the dark fields passing by and occasionally took a slice of sausage from Tim’s hand. The road was almost empty, and white and yellow reflectors curved ahead of them and turned the night sky into a tunnel. It was a cool evening, and Benno had the heat turned on, and smiled happily because it really worked. In his old car it had only come on in the summer.

  When they got home, the lights were on inside, and Benno could see Carolin standing in the kitchen. In the apartment next door, Manfred stood by the window, and when he saw Benno, he waved a bit too frantically. The church bell rang seven times. Rasmus peed on the flowerbeds and then trotted behind Tim into the living room, settled on his new bed and was asleep in minutes.

  6

  On Sunday Benno was awakened by Tim’s voice coming from the garden. He sighed and stared at the ceiling, closed his eyes again. When he finally got up and walked to the window, Tim was just about to throw a stick. Rasmus looked expectantly at him, but then showed no inclination to retrieve the stick. His fur was clean and had gained some shine, but when he trotted after Tim, he was still limping. However, he seemed to instill fear in the people from the village, and even Mr. Heintz did not come too close to him. “He looks quite dead,” he had said. “As if he had sprung from hell.”

  After breakfast Carolin insisted that the whole family attend church. “Don’t you want to hear me sing?” she asked, batting her eyelashes.

  “Sure,” Benno said. “But I don’t want to listen to Manfred. Or this woman with the hideous floral dresses. Your soloist.”

  “Elfi Krieg? You don’t like Elfi?” Carolin laughed. “But her voice is as sweet as honey.”

  “Yes, exactly. And I really need to go to this soccer game in Timmendorf.”

  “This is more important than your wife?”

  “You could come with me. Tim too. And they also sell decent brats there.” While he was still going on about the fun they would have, he noticed that Carolin’s face was slowly darkening. “Of course I’m coming,” he reassured her.

  That morning, Cornelius had invited a guest from Lübeck, a young pastor with short, black hair and a gentle smile. He was very slim, rather short, and looked like a schoolboy next to Cornelius with his belly and bright crimson face. Next to them, a cassette recorder sat on a small table.

  Cornelius introduced the guest as Daniel Thomas, who had just returned home after a long stay in the U.S. an
d was now once again active in his home community. Today he would speak about the influence of British and American rock music.

  Daniel Thomas had a pleasant, bright voice that suited his schoolboy charm. He reached behind the podium and came out with a Led Zeppelin LP. “Stairway to Heaven,” he said. “Sounds good, right? A stairway to heaven? Don’t we all wish we knew where it was? And so many young people are attracted to this music.” He took a dramatic pause. “But the text is a satanic message. ‘It’s a feeling I get when I look to the west and my spirit is crying for leaving.’ Played backwards, this means, ‘I have got to live for Satan.’ I have to live for the devil.” Thomas stared at the congregation. Disgust was written on many faces. The teenagers looked fixedly at the young man in the black suit. He pressed the ‘play’ button and the next moment the congregation could hear a scratchy voice, which seemed to really say something, though Benno couldn’t make out what it was.

  But already the young pastor was holding up a new album. “The Beatles. They became famous in Hamburg, and are now considered one of the best bands that have ever played. Four cute guys, right? With mop-top haircuts. But their music glorifies drug abuse. ’Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’? Have you ever wondered what that actually means? It stands for LSD. And ’Yellow Submarine’? Also a drug text. A song that will corrupt our youth. John Lennon once said during their stay in Hamburg, ‘I know that the Beatles will have success like no other group. I know it for a fact—because I sold my soul to the devil.’” A smile spread on Thomas’ face. “All the records devoted to Satan are built on the same principles. This includes the rhythm, also called beat, that evokes the movements of a sexual relationship. You suddenly have the feeling of losing your mind and going crazy. To have its fullest effect, a volume is chosen that is seven decibels above the tolerance limit of the nervous system.”