Black Ice

by Hans Werner Kettenbach

  On the way home Scholten wanted to leave the motorway at Blumenthal. He said it would be only a little longer to go by way of the Brahmsee, and maybe they could catch a glimpse of the Chancellor’s holiday home, maybe Helmut Schmidt himself would be out sailing on the lake, he’d always been interested in sailing. Hilde said this was all she needed, she didn’t know how she was going to stand the drive back anyway: she was feeling very unwell.

  Scholten passed the exit road to Blumenthal. He was driving very fast. Hilde asked why he had to rush along like that; it made her feel dizzy. And the cat didn’t like it either, the cat would go frantic again. Scholten said the cat didn’t mind at all. He put his arm behind him, patted the cat basket and said: “Isn’t that right, Manny?” The cat mewed. “There you are,” said Scholten.

  He abandoned himself to a daydream for the rest of the journey. He returned to his daydream after every interruption by Hilde, he imagined it all in detail.

  He saw himself going to the works on Monday morning, they were all there already, strangely enough, even Kurowski. All but Wallmann. They were standing in the project managers’ office. He asked: “What’s up?” Büttgenbach looked at him and said: “Haven’t you heard? Herr Wallmann’s been arrested.” Inge Faust was crying.

  When Scholten went to the works on Monday morning Wallmann was out in the yard with the chief mechanic, inspecting the surface finisher that had been overhauled at the weekend. Standing high up on the surface finisher, he looked down and said: “Had a good time?”

  “Yes thanks, very good.”

  “And how’s your wife?”

  Scholten realized that he had put his hope in the police in vain. They hadn’t taken his phone call seriously. Perhaps they hadn’t understood it. There hadn’t even been a policeman at the other end of the line, only that stupid female. He’d probably interrupted her in the middle of painting her nails. Very likely she hadn’t even passed the message on.

  Over the next few days Scholten tried to think of another approach. But none of his ideas came to anything. He knew in advance that he would always reach a point where the whole thing could be dangerous to himself. Very dangerous.

  In addition, Wallmann was behaving reasonably well. This went on for some time. Plenty of orders were coming in. One afternoon in September, when Scholten had found him a few files, Wallmann even offered him the cigar box. “Like one?”

  Scholten said “If I may,” and selected a cigar.

  Wallmann said: “Herr Scholten, we have a bit of leeway, but the boat will have to be prepared for winter quarters some time. You know what to do, dismantling all the gear and so on. Could you maybe drive over next month and see to it? I should think a day would be enough.”

  Scholten turned the cigar in his fingers. “And all those weeds will need to come out too. They grow like nobody’s business up there.”

  “I don’t mind if you stay there two days. I’ll pay you.”

  “Yes, well, I must just see how I can fix it with my wife.”

  “Take her with you, why don’t you?”

  “Well, I’ll think about that.” Drive to the lake with Hilde. That was all he needed!

  When he left Wallmann’s office his conscience smote him. He looked at the cigar with distaste, put it down on his desk. He went over to the window, looked up at the sky and said in his mind: “Erika, help me. Why don’t you tell me what to do?”

  Fifteen minutes later he lit the cigar again. It wouldn’t do Erika any good for him to throw the expensive thing away.

  In mid-September heavy rain set in. A couple of building sites were flooded. The mood in the office was low. Büttgenbach was away for four weeks, having a kidney stone operation. The weather improved but not the mood in the office.

  Early one afternoon Wallmann came striding out of his office. He shouted down the corridor: “Kurowski, come here at once. The sewer in Adenauerstrasse has collapsed.”

  “What?” cried Kurowski in alarm. “How did that happen?”

  Wallmann stood there in the doorway, bellowing. “Didn’t you hear? Rothgerber called – there’s someone underneath it! That bastard Vierkotten, he didn’t shore it up!”

  Kurowski came out with his overcoat in his hand. Scholten ran after them, calling: “Shall I come too?” Wallmann got into his car, slammed the door, opened it again and shouted: “No, you stay here, what would you do on the site, just stand there, staring?” Scholten went in again. He told Rosie and Inge Faust what had happened. Half an hour later the phone rang. Scholten answered it.

  It was a reporter from the newspaper. He wanted to know about the accident in Adenauerstrasse.

  Scholten said: “Well, these things do sometimes happen, you know. After this rain. And probably the foreman of the excavation crew didn’t realize that they’d taken the sewer down too deep.”

  The reporter asked the foreman’s name.

  “Vierkotten,” said Scholten. “Matthias Vierkotten.”

  The reporter asked what he meant about taking the sewer too deep.

  Scholten said: “Well, it’s like this, you see, when you’re digging a tunnel for a sewer, and it gets to four feet deep or more, you have to shore it up. Support it with boards on both sides, left and right. So the earth doesn’t collapse in on it, do you see?”

  The reporter said yes, he saw, and did that mean the sewer in Adenauerstrasse hadn’t been shored up?

  Scholten began to feel slightly uncomfortable. He said: “Well, I don’t really know. I haven’t been to the site myself. We’re all waiting to find out what happened.”

  The reporter said he supposed it was against regulations not to shore it up.

  Scholten repeated: “We’re all waiting to find out what happened.”

  The reporter asked if he could tell him his name.

  “Oh, that’s of no importance,” said Scholten. “Just say the firm of Ferdinand Köttgen, Civil Engineering Contractors. The Ferdinand’s abbreviated. F-e-r-d, full stop.”

  The reporter said he really did need his name. Was he one of the company executives?

  Scholten said: “Yes, but there’s no need to write that. And like I said, we’re all still waiting to find out what happened. Goodbye.” And he hung up.

  Rosa looked at him. She said: “Didn’t you tell him a bit too much?”

  Scholten said: “Oh, what the hell.”

  But he still felt uncomfortable.

  18

  Next morning Wallmann called everyone into his office. He was sitting at his desk, both arms resting on it. The newspaper lay in front of him. When they were all there Wallmann looked up and said: “Who told the newspaper fellow this stuff?”

  No one said anything.

  Wallmann said: “I have my own strong suspicions.” He looked at Scholten.

  Scholten said: “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Because it was you who talked to the newspaper fellow.”

  “What makes you say so? What’s in the paper anyway?”

  “Don’t pretend you haven’t already read it. No piece of paper is safe from you.”

  Scholten said: “I won’t be spoken to like that.”

  “And don’t answer back.” Wallmann smoothed out the newspaper, leaned over it and read: “According to the Civil Engineering Inspectorate, a tunnel of four feet in depth must be shored up, that is to say, the sides must be supported by wooden planks or iron plates. A company executive at Köttgen admitted as much. The tunnel for the sewer in Adenauerstrasse was nearly five feet deep but had not been shored up. One of the staff at the Civil Engineering Inspectorate added that the recklessness with which some firms tried to save on labour costs was astonishing. Such cases are only too often forgotten when commissions for public works are allotted.”

  Wallmann leaned back and looked at Scholten.

  Rothgerber said: “He got it from the Civil Engineering Inspectorate obviously. Could have been that bastard Fassbender.”

  Kurowski said: “That’s right, ever since Herr
Rothgerber had that little spat with Fassbender he’s had it in for us.”

  “And how about this company executive of Köttgen?” Wallmann brought the flat of his hand down on the newspaper. “Just who can he have been? We were all on the building site.” He jerked his chin at Rothgerber. “You sent one reporter packing yourself.” He looked at Scholten again. “No one was here but Herr Scholten. Herr Scholten the executive.”

  Scholten said: “I won’t be spoken to like that.”

  “You’ll be spoken to however I please, understand?” Wallmann leaned forward, half lowering his head, and looked at Scholten from under his brows. “Let’s get this quite clear, Mister Executive, it looks like you’ve been lucky again. I called the newspaper. That fellow answered back too. Said he didn’t have to tell me the name of his informant. Could be he’s right, I’m not sure. I’ll ask my lawyer. So maybe you really are in luck, Scholten. Yet again. But you mark my words: one more incident like that and you’re out on your ear. I’ll be sacking you for damage to the company’s interests. And don’t start thinking I won’t get it past the industrial tribunal.”

  Rothgerber stood up and said: “Is that all?”

  “Yes, that’s all. I wasn’t intending to keep you from your work any longer. Get ready, would you, Rothgerber? The man from the industrial insurance association is coming at eleven.”

  Out in the corridor, Rothgerber said: “You must be out of your mind, giving a reporter a story like that.”

  Scholten said: “What do you mean?” His heart was thudding in his throat.

  Kurowski said: “Oh, never mind. It would all have come out anyway.”

  Rosa was already at her desk. She didn’t look up. Scholten sat down, looked through his papers for a while. Then he said: “Talk about high and mighty! And he tells the foremen himself they don’t have to shore up every last little piss-hole.”

  Rosa said, without looking up, “But he can sack you.”

  “Him? He’s going to get a big surprise.”

  “You can’t do anything to him.”

  “That’s what you think. That’s what you think, Rosie.” He leaned forward and sang, “Oh, oh, oh, if you did but know all . . .”

  Rosa shook her head decidedly, pushed her chair back and went out.

  That afternoon Scholten had trouble with one of the Yugoslavians. The man had come into the office and was about to drive away in his big, battered car when Scholten saw him through the window. Scholten leaped to his feet, stood in the doorway of the office building and whistled through his fingers. He waved. “Hey, you!”

  The Yugoslav stopped, wound down his window. “Me?”

  “Yes, you. Come over here.”

  The Yugoslav hesitated then reluctantly got out and came over to Scholten.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you, who else?”

  The Yugoslav stroked his moustache and then said: “Herr Protic. Milan Protic.”

  “Right, Milan. Here.” Scholten held out a packet that he had done up after seeing the Yugoslav arrive. “You can give that to your foreman.”

  Protic looked at the packet. “What is it?”

  “That’s nothing to do with you. It’s private.”

  Protic said: “Then take it yourself. I not postman.” He turned and went back to his car, saying not loudly, but very clearly: “Arsehole.”

  Scholten shouted: “You watch out, my friend, or I’ll show you who’s the arsehole around here!” He nodded vigorously and at length. The Yugoslav spat and drove away.

  That evening, when Scholten was climbing the stairs, old Frau Kannegiesser opened the door of her apartment and said: “Herr Scholten, that business with your cat, it can’t go on.”

  “What can’t go on?”

  “The way you keep letting it up and down past my balcony.”

  “What bothers you about it?”

  “I always get such a fright when the creature comes down. There I am on my balcony and down comes the cat. It could jump on my head. It’s a nasty animal.”

  “It’s not half as nasty as you.” Scholten went on climbing the stairs.

  “That’s outrageous! I’ll complain to the cooperative, you toad, you drunk!”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, go boil . . .” But Scholten bit back the rest of what he had been about to say.

  Hilde was waiting for him with the door of the apartment ajar. “Who was that you were arguing with?”

  He passed her in silence and hung up his coat and jacket on the coat-rack.

  “Aren’t you speaking to me any more? I asked who you were arguing with.”

  “And I didn’t answer!” He himself was startled by his loud tone of voice.

  She snapped in a whisper: “You shouldn’t shout like that! What will people think?”

  “I don’t care a fart what they think!”

  “Don’t be so vulgar. What’s the matter with you?” She followed him into the bedroom. “Was it Frau Kannegiesser?”

  “Frau Kannegiesser, Frau Kannegiesser!” He sat down on the bed and undid his shoelaces. “Stuff Frau Kannegiesser.”

  “Don’t be so common!” She pulled her cardigan together over her breast. “I’ve told you hundreds of times that business with the cat won’t do. If it gets scared in the basket it’ll go frantic, and then it might attack someone. You must carry it down when it has to go out.”

  Scholten picked up a slipper suddenly and threw it at the wardrobe. There was a heavy hollow thud.

  “Joseph!” cried Hilde in a shrill anxious voice. She put her hand over her mouth. “Have you gone out of your mind?”

  He jumped up, went into the kitchen, almost falling over his shoelaces, and caught himself up against the fridge. He took a bottle of beer out of it, put it to his lips and drank half of it. He belched noisily and at length.

  He didn’t see Hilde. She was out in the corridor. “This is too much!” she whispered.

  “What did you say?” He raised the bottle again.

  She looked round the kitchen door. “You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re only acting like this because you know I hate it. You know it makes me feel ill.”

  He clutched the bottle to his chest, drew in his chin, blew out his cheeks. Only at the second attempt did he manage to belch, but then it was good and loud.

  Hilde sobbed. “You must be crazy.” Her mouth was trembling. “How can you be so horrible? What’s happened?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. Everything’s perfectly normal.”

  She gulped. “I expect Herr Wallmann’s been bullying you again, and now you want to take it out on me.”

  He looked at her. “On you? I don’t want to take anything out on you.”

  “Yes, you do. Your anger. You want to take it out on me because you can’t open your mouth in front of Herr Wallmann.”

  He looked at her.

  She returned his glance and said: “You don’t dare stand up to Herr Wallmann. You’re too cowardly. You’ve been a coward all your life. That’s why you never made good.”

  He turned away, put his foot up on the chair and tied his shoelace.

  Her voice rose, high and shrill. “What are you doing? You’re not going out again, are you?”

  He tied the other shoelace, passed her in the corridor and put his jacket and coat on.

  She stood in the kitchen doorway, both hands clutching at her cardigan. “Joseph, take your shoes off again at once! You’re staying here, Joseph!”

  He passed her, opened the front door of the apartment. Voice half-choked with fear, she said: “But Joseph, supper’s ready!”

  As he went downstairs he heard her sobbing wildly behind him.

  19

  He got into his car and went to the brothel. After half an hour he came out. He drove into the city centre and found a place to park in a steep alleyway.

  He climbed up the cobblestones of the road surface. The narrow strip of sky above was still light, a melting mixture of green and
blue. Lighted windows glowed in the crumbling black façades. Kids were playing in the entrance to a yard. Foreign kids. He had lived in a building like that with his parents before they got the apartment from the cooperative on the other side of the river.

  There’d been a knocking-shop here too. They mainly passed it by when they came away from bowling. Sometimes they went in, but only for a couple of beers and short drinks for the girls. You couldn’t do much in such a big crowd. You went along with the others, and a few times they’d been flung out when the women realized they weren’t wanted.

  Scholten took a deep breath. Garlic. Well, it didn’t smell much better here in the past. Pickled beans. And it always used to stink of piss too. This really didn’t smell so bad. They were probably frying mutton.

  He felt hungry. He climbed up to the old city gate, went along the narrow high street. Warm fug drifted out of the bars. He came to the narrow building where his Uncle Franz once had an ironmonger’s shop. It was a Turkish butcher’s now. Unrecognizable. A sheep’s head surrounded by little red lights goggled at him from the display window.

  Scholten’s fingers felt the sharp iron hooks let into the windowsill. He had never understood what they were for, but probably to keep people from sitting on the windowsill; the shop window might have been broken.

  In spite of the hooks he did sometimes sit on the sill, supported on both hands so that the hooks didn’t dig in. On summer evenings; that was when he’d had to leave school and Uncle Franz took him on as a trainee. Uncle Franz closed the shop at seven, but there was always clearing up to do, and he liked young Jupp to stay and help out.

  Little Jupp certainly stayed when Aunt Gertrud had something special for supper. Fried potato pancakes or pork knuckle with sauerkraut. She would tell him the day before, and Jupp would tell his parents, and then he was allowed to stay to supper with Uncle Franz and Aunt Gertrud and come home afterwards. If it was taking Uncle Franz a long time to clear up, Jupp would ask if he could go out for a walk, and Uncle Franz would say: “Yes, yes, off you go, lad, get a bit of fresh air. Supper will taste better for it!”