Knives, Forks, Scissors, Flames

by Stefan Kiesbye

  “You are welcome to smoke,” he offered Benno, and dug out a pipe. “I think you are the first to ask me about my book. My brother Andreas has read parts of it, and maybe one or another person in the village has leafed through it. But it’s not . . . a bestseller. It was meant to be a family history.”

  “Self-published.”

  “I wanted to spare myself the search for a publisher. When I taught at the university, I had some contacts with scientific publishers, but most of them are now retired. And the book may be interesting to only a few people. The copy you borrowed I donated personally. Pure vanity. A book belongs in a library.”

  Benno didn’t quite know if Wehrke was modest or just played the part, but his slightly hoarse voice and his even delivery made him appear trustworthy. His unhurried gestures did the rest.

  “Do you live here by yourself?” he asked.

  “At the moment, yes,” replied Wehrke.

  “Sorry.” Benno turned red. “Stupid question.”

  “Don’t worry about it. So, you’re doing research on witches and pagan rituals?”

  “Something like that. But I’ve already stepped on some toes.” He told Wehrke about Friedrich’s indignation. Although it was unprofessional to talk about other sources, he had the feeling that Wehrke wouldn’t take it the wrong way. “And somehow I can understand his reaction. I come along and try to dig up something ghastly about this town. His town.”

  “Yes, that wasn’t very polite of you.” Wehrke smiled. “But your editor probably won’t print an article about the quality of Ford vehicles or Strathleven’s god-fearing people.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And what makes you think that I’m going to spill the beans?”

  “Your book. According to you my house was built on a Thingplatz, the ancient meeting place for the court and civic assemblies.”

  Wehrke filled his pipe with an earthy-smelling tobacco, which he took from a leather pouch. He had trouble lighting it, but finally succeeded and sank back into his chair. “You live on Wodeberg. Sure.” He paused for a moment. “Wotan was very important in this area, but over time worship blended with other gods and rites. Of course, the meeting place itself was taken over by the church. A few people in the village wanted to set up a memorial for the Thingplatz, but the pastor was against it. The Miracle Oak is probably the most obvious remnant of Wotan worship.”

  “I’ve recently seen something hanging in its branches. Looked like cattle stomach,” interrupted Benno.

  “Horse placenta,” replied Wehrke. “It’s supposed to bring fertility.”

  “But that’s superstition.”

  “We just don’t know who really rules the afterlife. We like to believe in God, but we don’t want to upset Wotan, witches, or the devil. We are timid creatures.”

  “And the other legends?”

  “There are, for example, the Rauhnächte, the Twelve Nights. There are only two weeks left until the Wild Hunt.”

  Benno looked at him questioningly. He had never heard of a Wild Hunt.

  “It’s sometimes called the Journey to Asgard, and is led by Wotan, although that is disputed. Depends on where you grow up. Sometimes the leader is called Hell Hunter or Ghost Rider, sometimes historical figures are pulled into the mix. But here it is Wotan who leads the souls of people who have died before their time through the night. And you better keep quiet if you listen to the Wild Hunt. Otherwise, death might take you as well.”

  “Why does Strathleven not have a soccer club?”

  Wehrke laughed out loud. “Do we need one?”

  Benno shrugged. “Not even a handball team.”

  “If it makes you happy—we once had one. Soccer club. Long time ago. But I think there were brawls after the games. Must have been back in the 50s. Friedrich’s father, I believe, was the goalkeeper.”

  “Did he build the dealership?”

  Wehrke nodded. “But Otto didn’t rest on his dad’s laurels. It’s not easy to keep a business going in such a backwater village. His methods are not always subtle, but he has worked hard for his success.”

  “Subtle?”

  “He has a reputation for talking his customers into buying cars they can’t possibly afford. They take out loans, fail to make payments, and then Friedrich repossesses the car.”

  “But that doesn’t seem to hurt his business.”

  Wehrke shook his head. “I bought one of his cars, too.”

  “And the old Friedrich is now in retirement?”

  “Dead. Otto was maybe twenty or twenty-five years old when his father committed suicide. I think he wanted to study Mechanical Engineering. At the University of Kiel. But then he came back home to run the business and take care of his mother. Got married and found out that he was a born businessman.”

  “Why did his old man kill himself?”

  Wehrke took his time with a response. For a few seconds he stared blankly at Benno, then he let his gaze wander over the carefully stocked bookcases and finally come to rest on the window overlooking the garden. Dark clouds took up the entire sky. “I’m a lousy host. Will you have a whiskey with me?”

  Benno nodded. “Certainly.” While Wehrke shuffled in his Birkenstocks toward the kitchen and took a bottle and two glasses from one of the cupboards, Benno took the opportunity to look around a bit. He loved this house. His own—with the smorgasbord of Ikea furniture, old carpets, and framed posters—looked like a college dorm in comparison.

  “What are we drinking?” he asked as Wehrke poured two glasses.

  “Suntory. From Japan. Probably lousy whiskey, but it agrees with my stomach. Can’t deal with the other stuff anymore.”

  The liquid was slightly sweet. “Not bad.”

  “The thing about Friedrich’s suicide,” began Wehrke, “is that the circumstances are a bit strange. It happened a long time ago—I was in my mid-thirties, had just divorced my second wife. Lived in Hamburg at that time and wanted nothing to do with Strathleven. My own father was still alive, and my share of the company was large enough to pay the rent and travel around the world. Nothing fancy, but agreeable.” Here he paused, took a sip of whiskey. “As I said, I didn’t live in town, but from time to time I visited my mother. My father had had other plans for me, I was his elder son and should have taken over the store and the concrete plant.”

  “But you didn’t want to,” interrupted Benno.

  “I wanted to study anthropology—but he thought that was nonsense. Concrete, tractors, those you could touch, see, sell. Anyway, when Friedrich’s father died, a jolt ran through the village. I was here for the funeral, and his death was a big deal. I mean, he was one of the pillars of the community. And suicide is always an unpleasant thing. Fortunately, the old pastor was still here. The church was still Lutheran, but they shut it down a few years later—our souls were not numerous enough.”

  “Fortunately?”

  “Oh, yes, Pastor Daum didn’t care how Friedrich had died. The new one, Cornelius—I don’t think that he would have given Friedrich a resting spot in his cemetery.”

  “As a suicide.”

  “You were buried in the far corner or outside the cemetery.”

  “How did he . . . I mean . . .”

  “That was just the strange thing. I hadn’t come home to attend the funeral, that was just an accident, so to speak. But I distinctly remember the open coffin in church, and the pastor gave his eulogy and talked about the tragic death. The widow cried, and Otto sat beside her and tried to calm her down. Daum did not use the word suicide, of course, that would have been tasteless.” Wehrke fell silent, as if his memories had carried him away from his living room and his visitor. Raindrops hit the windows and made Benno suddenly feel lonely and uninvited. He should have brought Rasmus, he thought.

  “What was peculiar about it?” he asked into the silence.

  Wehrke startled out of his reverie. “He was said to have hanged himself,” he said. “In the old psychiatric hospital. At the end of the fifties it had gone
bankrupt. Or maybe nobody had wanted to take over operations. The whole building was empty, and a farmer who had his cattle grazing on the property found Friedrich by chance. He hung from the balcony over the main entrance. Hanged himself with a white sheet. That alone would have been strange enough—because the farmer didn’t see Friedrich’s car in the driveway or anywhere else and it was later found at his home. But as I sat in church, I could see how disfigured Friedrich’s face was.”

  “It must have been bloated.”

  “Sure, sure. But I sat in the third row and later went past the coffin, and despite the makeup and the meticulous work of the undertaker, Friedrich looked atrocious. He had bruises on his face, cuts. If I’m not mistaken, he also had stab wounds on his neck.” Wehrke shrugged. “My life at the time wasn’t focused on Strathleven. I had no right to walk around and ask questions.”

  “Have you ever talked to Friedrich, to Otto . . .”

  “No, this is water under the bridge. Impossible. But back then . . . how should I say—I had my own reasons for visiting Strathleven.”

  “Love?”

  “‘Affair’ is probably the better word. But because of it I came in contact with the undertaker in Grevenhorst. Long story. After the police released the body, he was responsible for . . . preparing the corpse. And apparently his whole body was covered with wounds.”

  Benno sank back into his seat. “How . . . how . . .”

  “Exactly. I’ve often asked that myself. As I said, I was living in Hamburg, and my affair broke off a short time later. I had no time and no desire to meddle in the affairs of the village. But since then, I’ve often wondered—if you want to kill yourself, why stab yourself like crazy beforehand?”

  The rain beat against the windows, and although it was not yet four o’clock, the room lay in darkness. Benno slowly took his whiskey glass and stared into the now seemingly gray liquid.

  “What I meant,” said Benno, “was, if that undertaker was right, Friedrich must have looked just like the dead woman this summer.”

  Wehrke looked at him directly. He didn’t nod, didn’t even seem to breathe. Something in Benno warned him that he might have gone too far. “Why did you return to Strathleven?” he asked as casually as possible.

  Wehrke shook his head and then chuckled. “I was valedictorian. I was young enough not to have to fight for the Nazis during the war. The people expected great things from me. I went to college, lived for five years in Bougainville to write about the natives and their garden cultivation. And then I must have lost my way. My first marriage broke up—my son still refuses to talk to me—and for a long time I let my work slide. And during the time in which I should have accomplished something great, I had a secret affair in Grevenhorst.” He broke off, but continued after a few seconds.” I think I eventually understood that my life here would be more peaceful and generally better than in Hamburg or anywhere else. My father has been dead for years, so I don’t have to contend with his accusations. Maybe I just gave up. I have money enough.”

  Wehrke fell silent. Benno waited a few moments before asking, “Do you think that Pastor Cornelius has kept the records of his predecessor?” He had to repeat the question before his host finally answered.

  “That would be a miracle. I think he wants to deal with the old church legacy as little as possible. And I do my best to keep out of his way.”

  “You don’t like him?”

  “He quotes God as though he were going bowling with him. And I think he’s quite happy about my absence.”

  “Have you had a falling out?”

  “Oh no.” Wehrke smiled. “Nothing dramatic. But he won’t like to see me in church.”

  “Why’s that? Are you atheist?”

  “Worse. Atheists can be converted. With gays it’s not that easy.”

  He had received only approximate directions, and there were no signs to point the way to the clinic, but Benno had no difficulty finding the place. He turned right on Hökerstieg and then drove north on Glasbuscher Strasse. The old mental hospital was to his left, its blackened brick walls surrounded by bushes and shrubs. He could see the gable of the main building and a huge smokestack at the forest’s edge. The sight of the smokestack, its bricks covered with moss, frightened him.

  He was encouraged and yet disappointed with his visit to Wehrke. The man was certainly interesting, but he hadn’t given Benno much. The strange death of Otto Friedrich’s father was a good story but had little to do with his research. And anyway, at the time of old Friedrich’s funeral, his death must have been investigated and too many people had seen the body to raise any serious doubts about the suicide.

  He parked the car and got out. The wrought-iron gate was worthy of a steel magnate’s 19th century mansion, but it was held together only by a bike lock. Yet it wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard he pulled. When he caught his breath, Benno saw that a few steps to the left was a small door set into the brick wall, and it opened easily.

  Benno waded through dead leaves, which were completely soaked by the recent rainfall and their colors had degenerated to a uniform brown. What might have been a sizable park once, now looked unkempt and ugly. The building itself, which was still quite impressive, seemed to have been vandalized by burglars or adolescents. The doors had long since been broken, the locks had disappeared.

  Inside it smelled musty, and mold crept up the walls. Benno slowly climbed up a broad staircase, which led to a lobby. His shoes squeaked on the old linoleum floor. Behind the reception was chaos—phone books, notepads and blank registration forms were lying scattered, half burned books littered the floor. Files had been ripped from metal cabinets, and their innards had been strewn in the lobby. The clinic was too far away from the city to attract the homeless, but addicts had left their drug paraphernalia lying about. Small, empty plastic bags lay on the ground, along with small pieces of aluminum foil with telltale black spots. Two syringes.

  Benno remained silent for a moment, listening to sounds from the upper floors, then he slowly moved towards the staircase and went up to the second floor. He entered a small room with two bunk beds and four small metal cabinets in it. He had hardly any space to move. According to Jochen Hecht the building had stood empty for more than a decade, but open suitcases and duffel bags were lying around, and the beds were littered with clothes, as if the occupants had suddenly fled the building.

  Benno hurried into the next room and found it in similar condition. The clothes were strewn on the beds and the floor; someone must have lived here a short time ago.

  Who had left such a mess? In the main lobby, the walls were moldy, but the stuff in the rooms had no spots and still looked very dry.

  Benno climbed the stairs to the third and last floor, but even there he found the same inexplicable chaos. Unfortunately, he had left his camera in the car, but he vowed to ask around in the village. Someone had to know what was going on.

  He went back down the stairs and found several small rooms on the first floor, which had probably once been used for the treatment of patients. They had been vandalized, but otherwise they seemed unused. Nobody had stayed here.

  In the basement, Benno looked around the large kitchen. There were broken dishes, dented pots. The dining room had several long tables but there were no chairs.

  It was completely silent down there and Benno almost wished to hear a suspicious noise or to come across a squatter. But nothing happened, nothing at all. Only the rain had begun to fall again and pattered against the barred windows. Benno made his way toward the main entrance, but he took a wrong stairway and suddenly found himself in a hallway he hadn’t noticed before. His hurried steps were too loud, echoing through the building, announcing him to whoever had found shelter there. Finally he began to run and arrived at last at the reception and from there stormed down the stairs. But he did not stop to catch his breath outside the entrance and didn’t turn around until he arrived at his car. When he opened the driver’s door, he suddenly felt foolish. But who could have
observed his panicked exit? Benno looked all around him, but no, no, there was nobody in sight. What the hell, he was an adult. He could run away whenever he felt like it.

  11

  During the week before Christmas, the temperature held steady at five degrees Celsius, and the courtyard in front of the old school turned into a huge mud puddle. Tim was obligated to clean Rasmus’ paws after each walk with a towel, but even so the carpet in the hallway appeared brown rather than off-white.

  On December 21st, the day of the Christmas party at the Strandkurier, Benno had already been in the newsroom since six o’clock. It was a Wednesday, and he was busy with sales ads and special offers, but that mattered little to him. He enjoyed working in Lübeck, and the times he spent with Carolin became ever more exhausting. In the morning she was irritated and scolded him for every little thing; in the evening, she was introverted and unresponsive. Benno was worried about Tim, but at least the boy had Rasmus, with whom he could play and hang out. Benno only had his work.

  Margit Scholl, the accountant who was rumored to have had a longstanding affair with Jochen Hecht, came to his desk around noon. Even without looking up from his files, Benno would have recognized her perfume.

  “Do we finally get to see the wife tonight?” she asked with a smile that probably tried to be friendly, but looked rather dangerous.

  “No, unfortunately not,” replied Benno. “The drive is long, and she has to practice the Nativity play with the children.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Just one, but Carolin is very involved in the church.”

  “Oh my goodness. Poor you!” sighed Scholl. “I’m rounding up willing victims. Have you had lunch yet? We need a firm foundation for the party tonight.” She winked at him.

  Together with Scholl, Holger, and two other colleagues, Benno made his way to the Bourgeois, a restaurant a few streets away from the news office. It didn’t look very inviting from the outside, with its yellowed curtains and withered plants, but it served an excellent pork roast with red cabbage and croquettes.