Knives, Forks, Scissors, Flames

by Stefan Kiesbye

  When the lights in the building were turned off, Benno already regretted his decision. Muted voices reached him from the staircase, shuffling shoes, echoing steps, and then silence. He stood at the information desk on the third floor. His heart pounded and he felt like an intruder. Five minutes later, Hanne joined him. “Ready?” she asked.

  Benno kissed her. Her neck smelled of cheap perfume, of crumpled pillows. She grabbed his hair and pulled him closer. He thought of Strathleven, saw the courtyard of the car dealer, his Christmas tree, and was afraid one of Hanne’s colleagues might surprise them. They stood for several minutes, completely silent. The noise in Benno’s ears made him deaf, he could not even hear his own breath.

  Then, on cue, they slowly let go of each other, and Hanne smiled at him almost shyly. Together they went into the still-lit reading room. He switched on a second reader, happy to do something so simple and mechanical. Maybe he should call Carolin, maybe he should just storm out of the library. There was still time, there had been only a kiss, he could still retreat, he could still appease his conscience. He was married, he had a son, a dog, a house, a car, a job and . . . a silver chain around his neck.

  “What I’m seeking is a report on Egon Friedrich’s death. It was probably a suicide, but that may not have been mentioned in the newspaper. It must have happened sometime in March. I think, anyway. And maybe there are other things.” He sat down in front of the screen.

  “Other things,” she said.

  He laughed with her, relaxed somewhat. “The police officers who were shot—no idea what they wanted in Strathleven. My neighbor has only made hints, but there must have been a reason. Maybe it had to do with Friedrich, maybe not.” He sighed. “And maybe it wasn’t even in March. Anything that has to do with Strathleven.”

  “Anything?”

  He nodded and went searching through the local section. “Something,” he muttered to himself, like an incantation.

  “No corpses,” Hanne said. “If you were hoping for those. Shooting festival.”

  “Shooting festival?” He looked up. “In Strathleven?”

  She nodded. “On March 26th. That appeared in the newspaper on the 28th. Brief report.”

  “Isn’t that too early? In our village that was always in June. June or July.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Robert Wennersten was crowned. There’s also a photo.”

  He rolled on his chair toward her. The man was wearing one of the big necklaces that Benno had observed during the autumn ball, a hat with a feather, and together with his wife he was laughing into the camera.

  “Wennersten,” repeated Benno. He had heard the name, but he hadn’t met the family.

  He wanted to kiss her neck, but she turned her head and offered him her lips.

  “Am I working off my debt?”

  “Is it hard work?” she asked.

  He shook his head, rolled back to his reader. Ten minutes later, he finally found what he was looking for—Egon Friedrich’s obituary. Beloved husband, father, member of the community . . . Friedrich had left behind three children, two sons, and a daughter. Otto was the eldest, the other children Benno couldn’t remember meeting at all.

  When he showed his find to Hanne, her first question was, “Nothing else?”

  “There is another one,” he said, pointing to the obituary paid for by the shooting club. “Seems to have been popular. Was only fifty-nine.”

  “This is much larger than that of the family,” said Hanne.

  “Quarter-page.”

  “Couldn’t celebrate with the other shooters.”

  “No great loss,” Benno said with a grin. “I was at the autumn ball and I . . .” He paused, leaned forward and read the obituary again. “But he was not the king.”

  Hanne looked at him blankly.

  “The king must die,” he said, and told her about New Year’s Eve, the attack on the pastor and the wooden figurine in Heintz’ workshop.

  “When your son receives a crown, it doesn’t mean that it has to involve the shooting club, right?”

  “But I had hoped it would. So it’s just a silly game. Like a scavenger hunt. Or this guy they burn every year. In England.”

  “Guy Fawkes?”

  Benno nodded. “The pastor doesn’t seem to like the shooters much.”

  “Really?” asked Hanne. “In the article about the shooting festival they say that the church congregation and the shooters held a common church service.”

  “When?”

  “On Sunday. After the festival.”

  Benno scratched his head. That Friedrich had died on the day of the shooting competition could have been a coincidence, but why was somebody shooting at the police the day after? Also a coincidence? Friedrich had been found in the old hospital. That’s what Wehrke had told him anyway, and Gruber and Reuter had been in an accident. Huginwalde. He had never heard the name of the clinic before. Were the three events connected? And what did they have to do with Tim and Pastor Cornelius?

  It was almost eight o’clock. The hockey game had started half an hour earlier without him. Tomorrow he would have to plagiarize the report from the Lübecker Nachrichten and he felt already guilty.

  “How much time do you have?” she asked.

  He shrugged and looked at his fingernails, which were not very well cut. What did he want from Hanne? Did he really want to put his marriage in jeopardy?

  “Let’s go.”

  In light, snowy rain they ran through the streets of Lübeck’s old town. Hanne gave him occasional kisses, like breadcrumbs. He followed their trail. The cold couldn’t sober him up.

  Her apartment was on the third floor. His shoes left dirty, wet tracks, and she took them off in the hallway. He felt oddly reassured. He carefully removed the little silver cross and put it in a pocket. He did not want to leave it lying around. He almost believed Carolin could watch him otherwise.

  “Magic,” he said.

  “Did you expect unicorn posters?”

  “A cauldron,” he said softly. Then he unbuttoned her shirt. She kissed him, but otherwise remained completely motionless.

  The tattoos started just below the deep neckline. How strange it was that she was wearing a white bra on top of the images and symbols. He took his time playing with his panic, his guilt, but still didn’t want to miss a single moment. A wild joy rose up in him, a joy which he couldn’t explain and that stung his hands like so many needles.

  Benno pulled Hanne away from the lit hallway to a room whose door stood half- open. It was probably her living room—the sofa, the small stereo system and the bookshelves said so. It smelled cold, somewhat flowery, and Benno led her to the surprisingly large windows through which light from the street lamps below reached them. The sound of footsteps on the pavement was audible.

  He pulled down her shirt and took off her bra. Her breasts stretched, the nipples were pierced with rings.

  He followed the lines of the tattoos on her back, drew them with his finger. In the middle was a leopard in black. Pale green, gray and red leaves and plants stretched out at his sides, but they were soon replaced by geometrical figures and symbols. Hanne’s forearms were designed more playfully—Buddha and sun were paired with a geisha and a galloping horse, with flowers and leaves—it seemed as though she had only been practicing. But her upper arms and shoulders were covered with jagged rectangles, through which green and red snakes slithered. These appeared to be the armor of a medieval knight, who was preparing for battle.

  He unbuttoned her pants and let them fall to the ground. Knelt down and slipped off her black socks. Her nails were too long, her feet wide but well-formed and completely naked, the tattoos only reached to just below the calves. He took three steps back and let the hazy light fall on Hanne’s body. He tried to memorize it.

  There were steps on the stairs, then they heard the slamming of a door. He almost wanted to tear open the window and—and what? Raise his arms skyward and scream and howl or sing? Her apartment was full of noi
ses.

  The leopard also stretched out on her stomach, his legs reached down to her thighs. She had turned to him and looked pitiable, grotesque, frightening, and silly. And a lump in his throat told him that he cared, that this body excited him, shook him. He felt very tender toward her, and the next moment he wanted to slap her. She was a few years older than Benno, her skin wasn’t as tight as that of a young girl. Her legs weren’t muscular. He himself had a sprawling varicose vein in his left leg and flat feet. His forehead had to shine even in the room’s darkness. All this he was aware of, and yet it did nothing to cool him off.

  18

  The new edition of the Kurier had come out, and Benno looked sullenly at his stolen piece. It wasn’t bad, read quite well, but somehow it didn’t sound as though he had been there.

  “And you weren’t,” Holger said cheerfully. “Welcome to the club. You didn’t think that I’m the only one here who is lazy?” Benno sighed.

  “I have a long article on page five. Scrupulously researched. Should interest you.”

  Benno flipped to page five. Since Christmas he had thought little about the dead waitress. But this Thursday she was worth three columns—Holger had obviously been unable to think of anything better. The too-ornate turns of phrase left little doubt that Holger had copied them from several newspapers. But when Benno glanced at the photo of the victim, the one that had been in every paper three weeks prior, he paused. His irritation with Carolin, even the night with Hanne disappeared from his head.

  “You’re trembling,” Holger observed soberly. “Has Bad Segeberg won again?”

  “The photo,” Benno said, holding out the article, “where do you have it?”

  He had seen it a dozen times. A laughing Irina, somewhere in a park or a wooded area. It was the photo that had been issued by the police. But all the papers had cropped it to include only Irina’s face and upper body. Benno had never seen the entire photo. Holger had certainly been too lazy to edit it for publication. Now he rummaged through his drawers and finally found a copy, which the police had made in the hope of receiving leads.

  Irina Sobieski stood smiling in the grass, the trees behind her sharper now. She wore a striped blouse, her hands were folded in front of her body, and in her fingers she held a leash. At her feet sat a large dog with a short, dense coat, and it seemed almost as if he was laughing at the camera. Around his neck the coat was thick and bulky. His right eye was still intact. It was Rasmus.

  Around midnight Benno was awakened by Carolin’s scream. He jumped off the couch and ran to the second floor. Tim was not in his room, his bed was rumpled, but neither the boy nor Rasmus were anywhere in the house.

  He grabbed one of the magazines that lay on Tim’s desk. Tattoo was the simple title, and the paper was cheap. But the pages were printed in color and women and men showed off their half-naked bodies. Tattoo artists gave interviews about their work. But there were other articles, reports about people who scarred themselves deliberately and buried small objects under their skin. There were dozens of pictures of scars arranged in patterns, forming intricate drawings. Most of them covered arms and legs, where others could see them well. Benno couldn’t help thinking of Hanne’s Leopard.

  “How long has he had these?” asked Benno. He was wearing only his pajama pants and felt naked all of a sudden.

  “What does that mean?” Carolin stared at the magazine and then yanked open the drawers. Other issues came to light, the whole drawer was full of them. All of a sudden she held something in her hands and gasped.

  Benno came up to her and grabbed what Carolin had found. Slowly he pulled the knife from the leather sheath. He recognized it: it was the same knife Manfred had shown him in summer. A hunting scene was engraved on the blade. And while he still stared at the knife, looking for possible answers, Carolin emptied the trash on the ground, tore open Tim’s closet and threw clothes and toys in a big pile. “Shit, shit, shit,” she swore.

  Benno turned and ran out of the bedroom, rushed down the stairs into the hall. He slipped into his sandals, took his coat out and yelled, “Call the police!”

  But when he pulled open the entrance door, there stood Tim with dirty feet and dirty pajamas. Beside him sat a wet and disheveled Rasmus.

  “Tim.” Carolin came down the stairs and pushed past Benno. Benno felt nauseous, as if someone had kicked him in the stomach. Something was wrong with Tim’s face.

  Carolin held her son in her embrace. But Benno gently took her shoulders and pulled her away.

  “Tim,” he said, hoping that saying the name might work a miracle. He grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him into the light to get a better look at his face.

  Carolin’s scream made the boy wince, then both began to cry.

  “Why did you do that?” Carolin was struggling with tears. “This is not going to smooth out again. People who mutilate themselves are not like you.”

  Tim wept. “You’re not like me. No one is like me.”

  His left eye was half closed, a scar ran from one corner of his mouth to his ear. His new injuries gave his face a sinister expression.

  “I didn’t do it on purpose,” he said tearfully. “I didn’t see the branch.”

  Benno pulled Tim closer and stroked his head. “It’s all right,” he said. “You’re back, you’re back,” he whispered, and the boy relaxed. “You’re back.” Following a sudden impulse, he asked, “You went to the Miracle Oak?” Even before Tim had time to reply, Benno knew the answer.

  The boy nodded. “But it was so tight, I barely fit through the hole.”

  At three o’clock in the morning, Benno was still awake, and he got up quietly and went over to Tim’s room. He switched on the lamp on the bedside table, one of those rotating apparatuses, which threw its light through transparent paper and made animal shapes run in a circle along the walls. It was a gentle light, but it woke Tim within a second.

  “What’s up?” His face was puffy, his eyes squeezed shut.

  “Come on.” Benno led the boy down the stairs into the dining room. Tim wore clean yellow pajamas, with ships and lighthouses printed on the material. It wasn’t one of his favorite pajamas. Rasmus trotted after them, shook himself, and sat down in front of Benno, as if he expected his food. He still smelled damp.

  “Do you want a glass of water? Or a hot chocolate?”

  “With marshmallows?” Tim asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Is Mom coming too?”

  “No.”

  Benno heated the milk, fished in the overcrowded closet for cocoa powder, and found a half-empty pack of marshmallows. Tim’s eyes followed him closely, though his face was still creased from the pillows.

  “Are you mad?” he asked.

  “No,” Benno said. “I’m worried about you.”

  “Can I tell Mom about this?”

  “What the hell,” Benno blurted out. “What is it? Are you afraid of me?”

  “Can I?”

  “Sure thing.” Benno exhaled. He suddenly felt guilty. “I just don’t want to wake her.” Why wouldn’t Tim trust him? Why was he nervous when Carolin was not around?

  “Thank you,” Tim said when Benno handed him the steaming cup of hot chocolate. The sugar foam on the surface died a slow death.

  “So,” Benno began, and poured himself a cup. “I just wanted to have a little talk with you.” He pulled out Manfred’s knife and put it on the table. “Did you steal it?”

  The boy shook his head. “He gave it to me.” He stared in front of him and blew on the sinking marshmallow. Rasmus was lying down at his feet, looking up from time to time in hopes he might snatch a treat.

  “I just want to tell you that we won’t give up.”

  “What?”

  “We will continue to fight. You shouldn’t feel as though you are alone.”

  “Okay.” It was obvious that Tim had no idea what Benno wanted to tell him.

  “I don’t think that you cut yourself just out of curiosity.” All of a sudden he r
ealized that Tim had done it more often than they had assumed. Already in Berlin, that was for certain. How could he and Carolin not have noticed? Even the bicycle accident might have been intentional. Tim swallowed, held on to his hot chocolate.

  “You’re mad at me,” he said.

  “No,” said Benno, “but to cut yourself is dangerous. You’re not one of those . . .” He could only come up with a vague gesture. “These people with their injuries. You cannot help it. They have been disfigured, they would do everything to be normal again. And the others, those who pierce themselves or get tattooed . . . for them it’s only pictures, jewelry.” Benno’s mouth was dry. “With you it’s different. This is not like a fad or a haircut. You can’t remove your scars, ever.”

  “They can’t remove their tattoos either,” Tim said. His hands were still clutching the cup.

  Benno was suddenly aware of the absurdity of the situation. He had a tattooed lover in Lübeck. Two days ago, he had traced the legs of a leopard with his mouth. He could no longer speak with Tim, as though he were an adult. He was only a seven-year-old boy.

  “But they do it voluntarily and without harming themselves.” Benno knew that anger would not help him with Tim. “I’m afraid for you. You have nothing to prove to the people in the village. You’re not a king, and whatever they see in you is just their imagination. You are Tim, you’re our son. That’s it.”

  Tears fell on Tim’s lighthouse pajamas. He tried not to let it show, tried to suppress every sound coming from his throat. His face suddenly became red, his lips trembled. “They didn’t come.”

  Benno looked at him puzzled. “Who didn’t?”

  “You said that the king must die, and then they appeared on New Year’s Eve at the church. But no one took me away.”

  Benno walked around Rasmus and picked up the boy.

  “Damn it,” he said softly, squeezing the warm body. “Damn you.” Tim wasn’t disappointed that the doctors hadn’t found a cure, but because no one had tried to kill him.