Knives, Forks, Scissors, Flames

by Stefan Kiesbye

  After ten minutes he sat up, took off his right sock and unwrapped the bandage. It was an ugly sight. Red, blue, brown and green intermingled, and the swelling had hardly gone down, if at all.

  Hanne picked up after the second ring. “Where are you?” she asked.

  “I didn’t want to get on your nerves,” he said, after he had given her the address.

  “Oh.” She stretched the syllable until it sounded like a very long word. “Do you want company in your little room?”

  He longed for attention, but he could still feel Carolin on his body.

  “The silence probably means ‘no’?”

  Benno groaned, laughed, felt tears come and swallowed hard.

  “Can you read Sütterlin, set feet straight, shrink swellings, buy toothbrushes and lend me a sweater and socks?”

  “In 1893. Brunhild Schreier. Egon Busse. August Wehrke.”

  “He was 56.”

  “Children?”

  “Five.” Benno pointed to the family tree in Martin Wehrke’s book. “Sophie, Margot, Hans-Rudolph, Ernst and Günther.” He bit into a spring roll Hanne had brought, and burned his mouth. Hanne had been let into his room without difficulties.

  “People think that there are no fat whores,” she said with a mirthless grin. “They probably thought I was your mother.” She pointed with a chopstick to an entry on his notepad. “You have a second Wehrke here. In 1917.”

  Benno stared at his scribbles, trying to see which name she was talking about. “This here means Wehrke?”

  “Hans-Rudolph.”

  With his still clean pinkie, he searched for the correct entry on the family tree. “He had no children.”

  “Right. And in 1941, there are no Wehrkes among the dead.”

  “Who do we have?”

  “Else Johannsen. Ingeborg Fries. Martin Witte. Bernhard Wohlfarth. Ernst-Otto Wegner.”

  “That really spells Bernhard?” asked Benno.

  “Probably. Your handwriting is terrible.”

  “Witte is our mailman.”

  “And when did the shooting festivals take place?”

  Benno shrugged, causing a piece of chicken to slip from his chopsticks onto his lap. He cursed as sauce spread on the fabric. “Every twenty-four years.”

  “Every year,” Hanne said.

  “Every year what?”

  “People die. The twenty-four years could be a coincidence. You are looking for a connection. If you had looked at a different set of years, you would also have discovered names you know.”

  “Two Wehrkes?”

  “There’s a lot of them. Just look.”

  She was right. The family tree was huge, and family members were born or died almost every year. In Strathleven and in other cities in Schleswig-Holstein. Throughout Germany.

  “Both in March?”

  She raised her eyebrows, the corners of her mouth pointed downward. “That’s strange, but no evidence. Your foot smells.”

  “Only one? But what does that have to do with Irina?”

  “Maybe nothing. The pastor may have killed the woman, but he’s not a member of the shooting club. No, not just the one, but the other one is too far away. You need a bath.”

  The bathtub of the hotel had barely enough room for both of them, and when Benno finally dropped into the water, it spilled over and drenched his dirty clothes on the floor.

  “Now I have nothing to wear,” he said. How coldhearted to sit in the tub with his mistress, while his wife waited at home for a call that her son was still alive. Who was this Benno, whose foot was now carefully soaped and tended to? Who was this guy who let everything happen to him, and who knew that he would eventually pay a price for his actions and omissions, and who still didn’t care?

  “I have to drive to the village tomorrow morning,” he said.

  “Did you recognize the shooter? Or have any idea who he was?”

  He shook his head. “Perhaps Cornelius. I have no idea who else might be in on this.”

  She put his foot gently on her breast. “Actually, you know pretty much nothing at all, right?”

  Benno looked at her for a long time. “In Wehrke’s book it says nothing of a king.”

  “He wouldn’t shout it from the rooftops.”

  “If you say that, it sounds almost obscene,” he remarked with a smile.

  Before going to sleep they lay in bed and flipped through Martin Wehrke’s family history.

  “No photo of August,” Hanne said. “And here,” she pointed with her finger to a paragraph, “only his death is mentioned, but not the cause.”

  “And Hans-Rudolph was his heir.” Some pages later, they came across a family photo, Hans-Rudolph with his siblings and their children in front of the family home. “Martin never met him. He is the son of Hans-Rudolph’s brother Eugen. Born in 1933. Eugen took his jolly good time before producing any offspring.” Hans-Rudolph wore a thick white beard, a coarsely woven yet elegant-looking suit and a grim expression. All Wehrkes favored this same expression.

  “He’s not wearing a crown,” Hanne said.

  “No children. Maybe Hans-Rudolph was gay or infertile. Or a woman-hater.”

  “Maybe he just didn’t want to.”

  Benno stared at the photo until it began to flicker before his eyes. Then finally everything seemed to add up. “The first Wehrke had children, then his son died twenty-four years after him. But he had no offspring, no son. So another family’s turn.”

  “To do what?”

  “Friedrich was the next, and Otto . . .” He trailed off. “Otto has three daughters.”

  “And Otto . . . ?”

  “And I told him everything.” Benno’s face was hot, he had spoiled everything. Frantically he asked, “Why did Cornelius kill her? Because of Friedrich?”

  “Maybe it was just jealousy, maybe she was blackmailing him.”

  Benno had the urge to immediately drive back to Strathleven. But how should he proceed? How would that help his son? He still had no idea who might have kidnapped Tim.

  “Thank you for coming into my small room,” he said softly.

  She put a tattooed arm around his waist. The demon grinned at him.

  “Can we leave the lights on?” He was afraid that without light he might disappear and get lost almost as if by accident. And as if she understood, Hanne also put one leg around him, holding him so tightly that he could feel himself. It hurt, but he didn’t dare move.

  24

  In the morning, the world outside his guesthouse window was chilly, the window itself full of frost patterns. Snow was in the air.

  Hanne was sitting naked on the bed, and he ran his hands over her drawings, the leopard on her belly lying in folds. He had inspected her, she was his mistress. This woman was the reason why he no longer slept at home. No, not the reason, just the occasion for his infidelity.

  “And?” she finally asked.

  He spread her like a map. “My hands are too small.”

  The van of a Lübeck glazier stood in front of the house when Benno drove into the yard. He rang the bell, and when no one came to the door, he walked around the house into the garden. Martin Wehrke and a man in overalls stood outside the newly inserted window. When he saw Benno, Wehrke’s serious face brightened. “What happened to your foot?”

  “Kicked someone,” Benno grinned.

  The glazier whistled and looked at the sky. Single snowflakes scouted out the garden. “I’m finished here in ten minutes,” he said. “Just in time.”

  “Someone shot at the window,” Wehrke said and shook his head.

  “Shot at it?” Benno tried to sound surprised.

  Wehrke shrugged. “When I was young, we shot at street signs.”

  “Do you have a minute?” Benno asked, glancing quickly in the direction of the glazier, who was wiping down the new window.

  “Come,” Wehrke invited him and walked to the front of the house. “Coffee?”

  Benno followed Wehrke’s example and took off his shoes
, grateful for Hanne’s thick black socks. They were a little too small and fit snugly around his foot. Gingerly, he walked behind Wehrke into the kitchen.

  “Last night I read your book again.”

  “Oh yes? How are you getting on with your research?”

  Benno leaned against the counter to relieve his right foot. From where he stood, he could see the glazier standing in the garden, in almost exactly the same spot where he had been shot. “You didn’t write anything about the king.”

  “The king? The old legend still fascinates you?”

  Benno watched his host, but nothing in his face changed. He inserted a filter, poured water into the container, and soon the machine started to gurgle.

  “Two of your ancestors. And they had to die for it. Why?”

  Wehrke sighed. “Does this have still to do with your article?”

  “My son has been kidnapped,” Benno said.

  “Yes, the news has spread in the village.”

  “And has the news about who did it spread too?”

  “The village isn’t happy.”

  “Not happy?”

  “Many people had placed great hope in him.”

  “Who?”

  “The harvest was dismal, the last few years haven’t been good here.”

  “But then why has he been kidnapped?”

  Wehrke did not respond to Benno’s question. Instead, he said, “Maybe you should call next time before you come to see me.” When he saw Benno’s questioning look, he added, “I’ll have to be more careful. You’ll also need to be more careful.”

  “And what or whom should I be careful of?”

  “My brother. The pastor. Friedrich. The whole village. We don’t have much time, and you should stop interfering. You currently live in Lübeck, right?”

  Benno looked at him with growing unease. “Who is the king? Wotan’s representative? You’ve known all along that there’s still a king. Who is it?”

  “That’s the most important question, isn’t it? And you know already. Why don’t you confront him? What are you waiting for?”

  “Why does he have to die? Why did your relatives have to die?”

  “You still don’t get it.” Wehrke looked at him calmly, adjusted his glasses. “But until then we’ll keep our guns ready.”

  “Our guns?”

  “I grew up here, I shot my first deer at age six. Just because I’m gay, doesn’t mean I can’t handle a gun. When someone intrudes on my property and peeks through my windows, he should better be prepared for my response.” He paused for a moment, looked at the steaming coffee, and said, “Maybe I should drink my coffee alone.”

  Sybille Antler arrived around two o’clock in the afternoon by bus. Benno had been patiently waiting on the street corner, letting the engine idle from time to time to warm up, but now his toes were numb. Snow fell on the windshield and melted.

  She was a lanky girl and was wearing a black anorak, jeans, and a Walkman. When Benno got out of the car and approached her, she cocked her head. “What are you doing here?”

  Benno looked at her in surprise. “Is it illegal?”

  She took off the headphones. “No,” she drawled, rolling her eyes as if he had said something terribly stupid. “But my parents don’t want me to talk to you. You know that.”

  “What are you listening to?” he asked.

  She shifted from one foot to the other, biting her lip, and remained silent.

  “You found the dead woman, right?”

  The girl placed a gloved hand on the fence, looked quickly toward her house, then nodded.

  Sybille had been kidnapped about a month ago and abandoned in the woods. Benno was aware of this fact, could feel the many eyes of the neighborhood on him. They would probably suspect him now. Loudly, way too loudly, he asked, “And one of the boys stole something, right?”

  “Who told you that?” Sybille asked. Her eyes narrowed to slits.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Was it Volker?”

  Benno knew no Volker, but said nothing, just looked sternly at the girl. She avoided his eyes, put the other hand on the fence as well and wobbled on the crooked heels of her boots. “Is that why you were kidnapped? Someone wanted to intimidate you? That was no coincidence, right? You knew the driver.”

  The girl swallowed. Her nearly black eyes had no shine.

  “I’m sorry,” Benno said quickly. “I didn’t mean to stalk . . .”

  “The miracle boy is gone.” She gave him a quick look.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  She shook her head. Music came from the headphones around her neck.

  “Who was that man?”

  She shook her head vigorously. “I can’t say. My . . .” She trailed off again.

  “What did the boy find at the body? The man wanted to know, didn’t he?”

  “Why are you asking about that?”

  “I want to find Tim.” Benno exhaled, forced himself to unclench his fists. “Who was the boy? I won’t drag him to the police. I won’t hurt him.”

  “You will never see your son again. Completely impossible,” Sybille said matter-of-factly.

  The next moment, Benno could hear steps behind him and Sybille’s mother, wearing a kitchen apron and high-heeled slippers, came up to them. “Sybille,” she shouted angrily, and fixed her eyes on Benno. “What are you doing with my daughter? What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing,” said Benno and felt caught anyway, as though he had really stalked the girl.

  “Then leave us alone. You only bring evil upon our village.”

  “My son is gone,” Benno said pleadingly. “I’m just trying to find him.”

  “That means nothing to me,” the woman said. “Don’t drag my daughter into this. She has suffered enough. Sybille!”

  The girl was still clutching the fence, looking down at the ground. Her mother was strongly built, and she tried to grab her daughter’s hand. “Are you finally coming?”

  “My fault,” Benno said.

  Sybille finally let go of the fence, put the headphones back on and began to nod to the beat. With shuffling steps, she followed her mother down the road. Mrs. Antler disappeared quickly in her house, as though Benno were giving pursuit. But Sybille took her time. At the garden gate she lifted her head again.

  “Ralf Witte,” she said, loud enough that he could hear it. “I didn’t rat him out. But he’s an asshole.”

  The postman lived in an old brick house with a crooked but neatly painted porch. When Benno rang the door, he was greeted by loud barking, and seconds later a small black terrier scratched on the frosted glass. Steps became audible, then the door was opened a crack by a teenage boy of about seventeen.

  “Ralf?” asked Benno.

  “My brother,” said the boy. “You’re the guy who lives in the old school.”

  “Yes,” Benno said. “Is Ralf here?”

  “Well yes, but . . .” He obviously didn’t know what to do next. “One moment,” he murmured and left the door ajar, without asking Benno inside. The terrier forced his nose through the narrow slit and growled softly.

  Two or three minutes later, a freckled boy came to the door and pushed the dog aside. He might have been a little older than Sybille. His hair was cropped short and red, and his eyelids seemed almost translucent.

  “What’s up?” he asked. His voice broke.

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “My parents aren’t here.”

  “It won’t take long.”

  “We can’t let you in.”

  “We can talk out here.”

  Ralf furrowed his brow. “Okay.” In socks he stepped out onto the porch. “What do you want?”

  Benno explained that he was looking for Tim. “I’ve heard that you took something from the dead woman’s body,” he said.

  Ralf fidgeted; his feet had to be freezing. The sleeves of his Norwegian sweater he had pulled over his hands. He couldn’t stand still. “Who said that?” he ask
ed.

  “Do you still have it?”

  “What?”

  “The thing you took.”

  “Why?” Ralf grinned.

  “I can also talk to your father,” Benno said. “And tell him that you stole evidence.”

  “I’m cold,” the boy said with hostility. “Why are you still sneaking around here? Your wife has thrown you out.”

  Benno had difficulty staying calm. “I’ll talk to your father,” he said and left the porch. When he was at the fence, he heard Ralf’s voice. “Hey, wait.”

  Benno turned and paused for a moment.

  Ralf was standing on the stairs, scratching his head. “Come back!”

  Benno remained at the gate. “What did you steal?”

  The boy looked around, put a finger to his mouth and on tiptoes came running towards Benno.

  “Come, come!” He grabbed Benno’s hand and pulled him back to the house. He opened the door and marched toward the kitchen. “We were just joking,” he said.

  “We?” asked Benno. It smelled like re-heated potatoes and vegetables. A light gray plastic clock ticked on one of the cabinets, and above the old corner bench hung a china plate with the inscription ‘Dad is the best.’ Benno fervently hoped that Witte would not show up now. He would probably react the same way Sybille’s mother had and throw him out. He looked at his wet shoes and the footprints he left on the bright linoleum. “We?” he asked again.

  Ralf sucked in his upper lip, which gave him a goofy expression. Then he let it go with a smacking sound. “Volker, Sybille, Silke, Torsten, Bernd and me. But she was already dead.”

  “And what did you take?”

  The boy ran out of the kitchen, and Benno could hear his footsteps on the stairs. A door opened and slammed shut again, then it was quiet in the house. Benno went to the window. From here you could see the church steeple and the roof of the old school, and the sight cut into his heart. What was Carolin doing now? Maybe she was sitting at home and waiting for the phone to ring. Maybe she was in church and sought solace from Cornelius. Cornelius, who had killed his lover. Benno grabbed the roll of paper towels that hung next to the stove and began to wipe his footprints.