Self’s Murder

22 An old circus horse

I didn’t find saying good-bye to Berlin at all difficult. I looked down as the plane flew in a wide arc over the city on Saturday morning. A lot of water, a lot of green, straight and crooked streets, large and small houses, churches with towers, churches with cupolas-everything a city needs. One can’t deny that Berlin is a big city. That Berliners are unfriendly, their children unruly, their taxi drivers inhospitable, their policemen incompetent, and their doormen impolite-perhaps that is to be expected in a city that has been subsidized for decades. But I don’t like it.

I arrived in Ma

The few steps from my office to my apartment were like wading through mud, and on the stairs I worried that again I wouldn’t make it, like before Christmas. I got into bed and called Philipp. He wasn’t on duty at the hospital and came over right away.

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am you’re here,” I told him. “Will you give me a quick checkup and get me a prescription? I have to be back on my feet by tomorrow.”

He took out his stethoscope. “Let’s see if this thing still works-I haven’t used it since I was an intern.”

I coughed, held my breath, breathed in and out. There was a rattling; I could hear it, too. His face looked grave, and he got up. “You’re going to have to take some antibiotics. I’ll go down to the drugstore and get some for you. As for your being up and about tomorrow, forget it.”

“I’ve got to get up.”

“When I get back you can explain why, and I’ll talk you out of it.”

He took my key and left. Or was he still standing at my bedside? No, he was back already with the medicine and had brought a glass of water from the kitchen.

“Take this.”

I’d fallen asleep.

He got a chair from the kitchen and sat down next to my bed. “It’s just a matter of time before you have your next heart attack, even though you smoke less. If you’re in a weakened condition, like you are now, and also exert yourself, the risks are especially high. I know you’ll do what you want, but the question is simple enough: Is whatever you’re intending to do tomorrow worth the risk? Aren’t there things that are worth more? More important cases, an adventure with Manu, a wild night with Brigitte?”

“There was a time when you’d have put a wild night with Brigitte at the top of the list, or you’d have prescribed me two rambunctious nurses,” I said.

He gri

“What about you?”

“Me? I’m glad I’ve got my little Furball. I think I’ll brace myself and give marrying her another go.”

I thought of the first time he’d given marrying Füruzan a “go.” I had waited for Philipp with Füruzan-a proud, beautiful Turkish nurse-her mother, and her brother. Then, right at the door of the town hall, Philipp, dead drunk, had a

“And you’ll never touch another woman?” I asked him now.

He raised his hands and slowly lowered them again. “When a woman looks at me, I look back. I’m like an old circus horse. When he hears all the commotion and fanfare, he goes trotting around the arena. But he’d much rather be in his stable, munching oats. And just as the public can tell that the circus horse is old, even though he goes trotting around the arena, women notice it in me, too, even though I look at them and flirt and know what they like to hear and how they like to be touched.” He stared into the distance.

“Did you see it coming?” I asked.

“I always thought that when the time comes all my memories would compensate me for what the present would be depriving me of. But remembering doesn’t work. I can tell myself what was, and how it was, and that it was great; I can conjure up pictures in my i

“Well, that’s the way of the world. Memories are memories.”

“No!” he countered vehemently. “When I remember how furious I was when they remodeled our operating theater, I’m furious all over again. When I remember what pleasure I had when I bought my boat, I relive that pleasure. Only love eludes memory.” He got up. “You have to get some sleep. Don’t do anything foolish tomorrow.”

I lay there staring into the twilight. Did love elude memory? Or was it desire? Was my friend mixing up love and desire?

I decided I was not going to call Welker the following day. As it was, I hadn’t decided what to tell him or what to threaten him with or how to stop him. I would sleep and get some rest. I would give Turbo the can of mackerel I had brought him from Cottbus. I would read a book and play a game of chess with Keres or Euwe or Bobby Fisher. I would cook. I would drink red wine. Philipp hadn’t said anything about my antibiotic clashing with red wine or red wine clashing with my antibiotic. I’d postpone my heart attack to some other time.

23 Cat and mouse

But at nine o’clock I was awakened by a call from Welker.

“Where did you get my number?” My number has been unlisted for five years.

“I know it’s Sunday morning, but I must insist that you drop by my office. You can park inside the gate, that way it’ll be…” He broke off. I already knew the game well enough: Welker would start talking, the receiver would then be covered, and suddenly Samarin would be on the line. “We’ll be expecting you around noon. Twelve o’clock.”

“How do I get inside the gate?”

He hesitated. “Ring three times.”

So that was that as far as catching up on my sleep was concerned, or getting some rest, cooking, reading, or playing chess. I filled the tub, sprinkled some rosemary into the water, and got in. Turbo appeared, and I irritated him with a few well-aimed drops. Some water on the thumb, flicked off with the index finger: with a little training you can become quite a champion. And I have many years of training behind me.

Why did I hesitate about how to handle my client’s money laundering? I didn’t really have much of a choice. The TV cha

So the early call and the appointment at noon did have a good side: I could close my case. I brought the phone to the bathtub and called Georg, who told me the rest of the sad tale of the Laban family. Laban’s niece died of tuberculosis in the 1930s in Davos, and his nephew had killed himself and his wife during the Nazi rampages of the Kristallnacht. The nephew’s son and his wife had died childless in London, while his daughter had not managed to flee abroad in time. She had gone into hiding when the deportations to the concentration camps began and was never heard from again. There was nobody who could claim the inheritance.