Knives, Forks, Scissors, Flames

by Stefan Kiesbye

  It was the first time since the summer that Benno saw Jörg Ottermann, the reporter responsible for articles on the local and regional shooting clubs.

  “I didn’t see you at the Autumn Ball,” he said, trying to keep up with the thin man.

  Ottermann lowered his head and looked at him over the rim of his glasses. “I wasn’t there.” Then he quickened his pace.

  Margit pushed closer to Benno. “They don’t want him. They aren’t registered or whatever you call it, and don’t belong to any association. I believe during Jörg’s last visit twenty years ago, it came to blows.”

  “It came to blows?”

  “They also sliced his tires. Not that anyone would have admitted it.”

  Inside the restaurant, Benno sat as far away as possible from the accountant and her perfume and ordered a beer before he went to the restroom. Here too, the restaurant was far behind the times. It smelled musty and if you wanted to dry your hands, you were forced to use a dirty, wet towel next to the sink. Above the urinals hung the headlines of the Lübecker Nachrichten, and Benno skimmed over what the competition had to say.

  Seconds later, he apologized to his colleagues, paid for the beer and ran out into the street. He could feel a dull pain at the back of his head as he ran through the streets to the nearest newspaper store.

  He ignored the line of lottery players, put his money on the counter, and ran out of the store and opened the paper.

  The lines only made sense after the third and fourth time he read them, so overwhelming was his agitation. The dead woman’s name was Irina Sobieski, she had been a Polish citizen and had come to the West as an undocumented immigrant two years ago. She had worked as a waitress in Lübeck—the police had received the tip from a former colleague. Out of fear of being deported, she had kept silent until now.

  “What did she want in Strathleven?” asked Benno and only then realized that he had spoken the words aloud. He stared at the woman’s face smiling into the camera, as if she and the photographer shared a secret. But the short article revealed nothing more about her, and Strathleven wasn’t even mentioned by name. The general population was asked to help, and the telephone number of the Lübeck police was printed underneath the photo.

  Benno felt the urge to run to the next phone booth, call the number and say, “I found her. I was there.” But he remembered his talk with Sergeant Gruber all too well. Of course, the Lübeck police would think he was just after a story.

  He stood on the small cobblestone street, surrounded by Christmas lights and the smell of grilled sausage and cinnamon. It was so long ago that he had found the dead woman. Why should he care about her? His face turned into a grimace; he couldn’t do anything about it. Ashamed, he stared at the lightly soiled clouds above. His face was wet, and for a moment Benno thought that he was crying for the dead, but then he lowered his eyes, and he seemed all alone on this narrow street, with the newspaper in one hand and a lump in his throat, and stray flakes fell around him. They seemed as clueless as he was, seemed to look hesitantly for a spot to land. Benno followed their course and didn’t move, didn’t want to get in their way.

  At four in the afternoon, most of his colleagues were already tipsy and fingering the gifts that lay in piles next to the Christmas tree. Benno couldn’t miss the party, especially not Jochen Hecht’s annual speech, in which he praised individual successes and sometimes even rewarded employees with cash.

  Hecht was in top form and climbed on top of a desk. In one hand he held a glass of cognac, a cigarette in the other. He spoke vividly of Margit Scholl and her twenty-two years at the Strandkurier, Holger’s award for a series of articles about migrant workers in Lübeck, and Torsten Mayfarth’s success in raising ad revenue. When he finally mentioned Benno, he smiled and said that he had never received so many complaints about the sports section. He paused and took a long drag from his cigarette. Music blared in the background, but the room was strangely silent. “Two. From the same subscriber. And he is convinced that you are taking kickbacks from TSV because Lübeck always comes off so badly in your articles. I quote: ‘If he ever pulls his head out of his ass, maybe I’ll give the Kurier a second chance. Until then, it’s not even suitable as toilet paper!’“

  Everyone else burst into laughter, but Benno’s face burned uncomfortably. Hecht jumped off the table and was now making the rounds to distribute the red envelopes and even Benno got one.

  “Good work, Diedrich,” the publisher said, patted him on the shoulder and went to refill his glass.

  When the party turned raucous around half past seven and someone began to play Torfrock, Benno stole away. The snow was falling more heavily now. In the last week before the holidays, some stores were open longer, and so he strolled through the streets, not knowing what he was looking for, enjoying the cool night air and the glittering lights. His stomach felt completely screwed up from skipping lunch and drinking bad champagne. He pulled the red envelope from his jacket pocket, opened it, and took out the two hundred-mark bills.

  In a candy store he bought a box of brightly painted marzipan figurines and had them wrapped. Of course, she wouldn’t be waiting for him, he told himself. And even if she was at the library, she would rebuff him.

  But Hanne Stein stood at the door when he reached the library. She had just locked it from the inside and now stared at the approaching figure. A smile showed Benno that she had recognized him. The smile widened when he invited her to dinner with a little pantomime. She opened the door a crack, and he handed her his gift.

  “I still have to finish up something, you can wait here in the foyer.”

  Benno sank into one of the leather chairs and watched Hanne disappear into a back room. Only a few lamps above the checkout were still on, and from his position he had a good view of the street and the snow that was picked up by gusts of wind and whirled around the houses. He had no idea what he was doing at the library or what he wanted from Hanne Stein, but he was glad to have caught her. He shook his head, as though he could shake off thoughts about Carolin like so many drops of water.

  “And where are you taking me?” asked Hanne when she reappeared after twenty minutes, wearing coat and hat.

  Benno hadn’t given it any thought. “I know almost nothing here. Maybe you could decide?”

  Together they left the library and walked towards the cathedral. The hotdog stands were still open, and men and women with huge shopping bags stood in front, drinking grog and mulled wine. “Do you have plans for the holidays?” the librarian asked.

  “We just bought a tree. This is our first Christmas as a real family.”

  “Frightening, isn’t it?” Hanne Stein laughed.

  “Yes, a bit,” Benno admitted. “What are you going to do?”

  “On the 24th, I’ll visit a café in the morning and watch the crowds. I have already purchased and sent all my gifts, so I can take my time and regret my fellow men. In the evening I’ll take myself to a fine restaurant and the rest of the holidays I’ll spend in bed, on the couch, or on walks through the snow.”

  “No family?” Benno asked. “Not that it’s any of my business . . .”

  “Mother lives in Kiel, my father in Munich, my sister in Italy, my brother in France. No, I’m staying here. And I will visit my grave and set up flowers.”

  “Your grave?” Benno stopped in his tracks. Hanne turned to him and smiled. “I have adopted a grave. The cemetery is not far from my apartment, and the grave looked very neglected, so I adopted it. In the summer I sometimes visit with my picnic basket and read there.”

  “Who is buried there?”

  “Hubert Stolzenburg.”

  “Was he anyone special?”

  Stein shrugged. “I’ve never tried to find out anything about him. He’s just my Hubert.” She smiled.

  The Indian restaurant was only half full this evening. Red light chains running along the ceiling created a pleasantly cheesy atmosphere. The waiter led them to a table by the window, from which they had a view o
f the street. Cold air was coming through the cracks and made the candle on the table flicker wildly.

  “Are you cold?” asked the librarian, but Benno shook his head. “The food is excellent,” she added. Then she rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, revealing a number of tattoos that were joined together so that no bare skin was left. Hanne saw Benno’s look and laughed. “I could not let them come down quite as far as I wanted. And the neckline,” she said, “had to remain white too. I’m still in public service.”

  Benno could make out a figure that reminded him of a Buddha, but who grinned mischievously. On her left arm he saw the rays of a sun half hidden by the sleeve. “That must have been painful.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  She nodded. “A little bit. If my customers saw it, they’d probably run away screaming. Or propose on the spot.”

  Benno was no longer sure that the invitation had been a good idea. He realized that he didn’t know Hanne Stein at all. To conceal his silence, he immersed himself in the menu. “Any recommendations?” he asked.

  “The lamb is excellent. If you’re not vegetarian. How’s it going with your article?”

  Benno looked at her in silence, unsure of where to begin. Finally he said, “You remember the dead woman?”

  “Which one?”

  Benno smiled involuntarily, then he told Hanne that the woman he’d found in the summer had finally been identified. “I don’t know. It shouldn’t concern me, I had only just moved there and still didn’t know anyone, but when I read her name today it made everything worse.”

  Hanne nodded.

  “And then this guy—the one who wrote the book you showed me—told me that the father of Strathleven’s car dealer was stabbed in the same gruesome manner more than twenty years ago, and that his death was declared a suicide. And Tim, my son, has this strange disease, and my wife is making friends with the Baptists.” He told her about his fruitless search and about Sergeant Gruber’s distrust of reporters. When he was finally finished, he did not feel better, just empty. “Sorry,” he muttered.

  “Come closer to the candle. Closer still.” Hanne’s voice was quiet but determined. “Let me use a bit of magic.” She grabbed his hands and held them for a minute or two. His hands were cold and clammy, but hers felt dry to the touch. They looked padded, and the nails were painted dark purple. Grinning at him from her forearm was the demonic Buddha, and the sun now showed itself in its entirety. Benno sighed deeply and realized that he had held his breath for quite a long time.

  Hanne took a small bag from her purse, extracted something that looked like grated basil and sprinkled a pinch into the flickering flame. It crackled pleasantly, and small sparks flew in all directions. It suddenly smelled of the summer days he’d spent as a boy about town, of dry branches, tall grasses, and the bark of birch trees that you could peel off like paper.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “Sage. Cleans the atmosphere. But don’t look around now, we don’t want to attract any attention. Not everyone appreciates magic.”

  Her serious face convinced Benno that she wasn’t making fun of him. “Magic?”

  “I won’t turn you into a toad,” she replied with a smile.

  Benno shifted in his chair and looked at the candle flame in order not to look into Hanne’s face. Magic? Here at an Indian restaurant in Lübeck?

  She laughed. “You’re doing research on superstition, and a bit of sage intimidates you?”

  “It’s just . . .”

  “That reasonable people don’t do such things?”

  Benno grinned and shook his head. “My wife, Carolin . . .” He trailed off. He thought of Pastor Cornelius, the young pastor and his sermon on rock music. How could he explain to Carolin that he had left the Christmas party to have dinner with a strange woman who had cleaned the atmosphere at their table with sage leaves?

  “Men can be so stubborn. That’s why I work mostly with women.”

  “Work?”

  “I sometimes give seminars. My family didn’t get along very well, and I spent summers with my grandmother. She collected herbs and made teas and tinctures. You would never have called her a witch, but that’s what she really was. She sometimes sold herbs and powders at local markets.”

  Benno nodded.

  “Everything you send out comes back threefold. Good or evil. So you should think carefully about what you do and how you behave towards other people.”

  “But that has nothing to do with magic, right?”

  “Magic just means that you manifest something. If you believe in something, then opportunities will open up.”

  “And the tattoos? Are they magical too?” he asked.

  “No, those are expensive.”

  The food came and interrupted their conversation. Benno’s stomach growled loudly, and both had to laugh. “It’s about time, it seems,” she said, handing him the bread that was as big as a balloon and shimmered with grease.

  The food was really excellent, and it seemed to Benno that rice, raisins, nuts, and lamb exorcised the uncertain fear he had felt since noon. “I miss Berlin,” he said, without thinking about it.

  “Even the Wall?”

  “Even the Wall. My God, I sound really whiny today,” Benno said apologetically.

  “Strathleven is quite a change. Have you finally visited the Miracle Oak?”

  “They hang horse placenta in the branches. It’s supposed to bring luck. And Mr. Wehrke went on about the Twelve Nights and the Wild Hunt, which will travel through the village.”

  Hanne nodded.

  The snow had picked up outside. Benno watched it being blown against the window, then he said, “Maybe I’m just not ready for this whole family thing.”

  “Is that the reason why you invited me tonight?”

  “No, no,” Benno said quickly, but felt caught. How much easier it would be to follow Hanne home, accept stoically the inevitable row with and separation from Carolin, and then live as a bachelor in Lübeck.

  “No, you don’t want that,” Hanne responded, as if she had read his mind.

  “And if I do?”

  “I would have to agree first.”

  After they left the restaurant, snowflakes blew into their faces. The street was almost deserted now, with only a few pedestrians hurrying past, keeping close to the walls of houses.

  “Are you able to drive?” asked Hanne. She had pulled her hat low over her forehead.

  He nodded. It was time to return to Strathleven.

  “Do you have far to go?” he asked. “Shall I drive you home?”

  “It’s faster if I walk,” she said. “Thank you for the invitation. And the marzipan. I think I have never been given marzipan before.”

  “Thanks for coming. And for the magic.”

  They remained quiet for a moment outside the restaurant, the reddish light from the interior lighting their faces. Snow melted on Benno’s nose and flew into his eyes, but he did not even blink.

  Hanne leaned forward, grabbed his hair and pulled him close. A moment later, the kiss was already over. “Just wanted to see what I’m missing out on,” she said, turning away quickly. After a few seconds she had disappeared in the snow.

  Benno trudged back to his car and wiped off the windows with his bare hands. He felt miserable and yet oddly comforted. It was just a kiss. Just a kiss. But the warmth he felt in his chest and in his belly betrayed him. “She wants nothing from me,” he said aloud. It was the second time that he had spoken to himself out loud that day. Maybe he was finally losing his mind.

  The roads looked almost untouched; the wind was erasing all traces tonight. The snow seemed to slide off the windshield so that he didn’t even have to turn on the wipers.

  Benno had switched on the heater, and after hours sitting near the drafty window, he was finally getting warm. For the first time he realized how much he had really drunk. In order not to fall asleep on the short route to Strathleven, he searched for a radio station with Christmas songs, an
d to Bing Crosby’s “Little Drummer Boy” he drove past white fields and dark farmhouses.

  Before arriving in Strathleven Benno slowed down, looking for the Miracle Oak. When he finally spotted it, he pulled over. He switched off the radio, opened the glove compartment and grabbed his camera. While he was still looking for the small flashlight he had placed in the car yesterday, it happened. He did not understand what was going on, and only when he slipped out of his seat and his head bumped against the passenger door, did he realize that the car had just slipped into the ditch.

  “Shit,” Benno said loudly, and as if the car felt insulted, it made a second, smaller jerk, and something outside seemed to break. Benno cursed a second time. In the upper part of the front passenger window he could still see snow-covered bushes, but the bottom was completely black. After the heavy rains of the past weeks, the trenches were still full of water.

  Cautiously, he tried to sit up and lift his legs over the shifter. The car groaned, but did not slide down farther.

  To open the door was relatively easy. To keep it open, however was much more difficult. Both hands on the doorframe, he pulled himself up, his legs pushing against the passenger seat. Then he lifted his upper body out of the car and finally clambered up the ditch to the road.

  Around him was only silence. He let the door fall shut, locked it, and without a flashlight but with camera in hand, he began to walk toward the village. Yet after a few meters he stopped. The damage was done, and a few minutes more or less wouldn’t hurt the car. Benno didn’t know if the alcohol was making him do it, but he felt suddenly very sober, and without further thought, he jumped across the ditch and ran through the snow to the Miracle Oak.

  Only a few lights from the village shone across the fields and made the white bustle around him visible. The cold penetrated his clothes and wiped Hanne’s kiss from his lips. He stopped and howled like a wolf, paused, and then howled a second time.

  He suddenly heard a noise beside him, quietly, as if someone was sucking in the cold winter air. Quickly he turned around, but there was nothing. Only snow.