“Steady, Haussmann,” Rheinhardt whispered.
The man was well over six feet tall but appeared even more massive on account of his clothing. He was wearing a Russian hat, with the flaps released over his ears, and a long fur coat pulled in at the waist with a thick leather belt. Hanging from it was a cleaver. In one hand he held a tin lamp suspended at the end of a whittled staff, and in the other the hind legs of a brace of bloody animal carcasses that were slung over his shoulder. Almost all of his face was concealed behind a wild, wiry black beard.
“Good evening,” said Rheinhardt. “We are looking for the Aufkirchen oberrealschule.” The mysterious woodman remained silent. Rheinhardt tried again: “The military academy? Saint Florian's?”
At last, something in the big man's eyes showed recognition. He grunted an affirmative and began to speak.
“Back down the hill.” The sound he produced was low and sonorous. “Take the right fork.”
“Right fork?” Rheinhardt echoed.
The giant grunted again. Then, turning abruptly, he trudged back into the woods.
“Thank you,” Rheinhardt called out. “Much obliged.”
Rheinhardt and Haussmann stood very still, watching, as the mist closed around the giant's shoulders and the shimmering flame faded into obscurity.
“You see, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, straightening his bow tie and adjusting the studs on his cuffs. “Country folk: full of stolid virtues, I'm sure. But their conversation always errs on the side of brevity, don't you think?” Rheinhardt turned to address the driver.
“Well, did you hear what our friend from the forest said?”
“Down the hill—right fork.”
“Exactly.”
“And you want us to follow his directions?”
“What else would you suggest?”
“Himmel, he was a strange one.”
“True, but I dare say we looked a little strange to him too.”
3
THE DORMITORY WAS PITCH-BLACK but alive with sounds: snoring, rustling, mumbling, and the occasional terrified cry as one of the boys surfaced from a nightmare.
Kiefer Wolf listened to the breathing darkness. It had an orchestral quality—a heaving, restless depth.
“Drexler?” He reached out across the narrow space separating his bed from the next, and poked his fingers into the warm eiderdown.
“Drexler, wake up!”
His neighbor moaned.
“Drexler, wake up, will you!”
“Wolf?”
“Wake up, Drexler. I can't sleep.”
“Oh, for God's sake, Wolf,” said Martin Drexler.
“I'm going for a smoke. Are you coming?”
The boy sleeping in the bed on the other side of Wolf began to stir. “What…” His voice was thick with sleep. “What's happening?”
Wolf's fist swung out with ruthless ferocity, slamming into the boy's stomach. The youngster let out an agonized cry.
“Shut up, Knackfuss!” Wolf hissed. “Just shut up!”
The boy began to whimper.
“Oh, for God's sake, Wolf!” It was Drexler again. “What's the matter with you!”
“I'm going upstairs. I'm going to the lost room.”
Wolf got out of bed, felt for his clothes, and slipped on his jacket and trousers. He did not bother with his shoes.
“Well, Drexler? Are you coming or not?”
Wolf heard Drexler turn over, grumbling into his pillow.
“Sleep, then!” said Wolf angrily. “You… you baby!”
Wolf groped his way into the central aisle and—orienting himself by touching the bedsteads—took short steps toward the door. Turning the handle very slowly, he pushed it open and peered through the narrow gap. The corridor was empty. Slipping out of the dormitory and closing the door quietly behind him, Wolf took one of the paraffin lamps from the wall and tiptoed off into the shadows. He had not gone very far when he heard something: footsteps, rushing up the stairs, and voices.
Damn! Damn! Damn!
Wolf sprinted to the end of the corridor and, skillfully negotiating a sharp corner, pressed his back against the wall. He held his breath and listened. He could hear a man's voice (speaking very quietly) and then a woman's voice.
Nurse Funke?
He had no intention of waiting there long enough to find out. He hurried off.
On one side of the corridor were windows overlooking a courtyard, and on the other side was a row of empty classrooms. At the end of the corridor was a wooden staircase that rose in a series of right angles and small landings. A further staircase ascended to a locked iron door.
Wolf paused—and listened.
Apart from the sound of tiny claws behind the baseboard, there was silence.
The upper level of the school had—over a period of many years—been subject to a series of eccentric modifications and revisions. Thus, the partitioning of spaces around the attic had led to the creation of many architectural anomalies: redundant corners, blind alleys, pointless niches, and steps that led nowhere at all. Among these architectural anomalies was the lost room—a neglected cavity that existed between the attic and the third story of the building.
Wolf crept underneath the final staircase and, crouching down, ran his hand over the floorboards. The tips of his fingers soon found the edge of a trapdoor, which he lifted gently. He sat on the edge of the hole, dangling his legs in the cold emptiness. Then, lowering himself, he eventually found support on a crate that had been positioned there especially for the purpose. Reaching up, he grabbed the paraffin lamp and then leaped down. He landed with a hollow, dusty thud. Wolf hung up the lamp on an overhead beam and made his way to an old leather suitcase in which he (and his small circle of associates) retained a cache of recreational aids: cigarettes, matches, brandy, some games, and a modest collection of pornographic postcards.
Wolf immediately lit a cigarette and began pacing around the room. He was annoyed with Drexler. Why hadn't he come? He wasn't the same, these days. Something in his character had changed. He was becoming more contrary, obstructive, less willing to go along with things.…
Wolf sucked on his cigarette and blew the smoke out through his nostrils.
He didn't really want to confront Drexler; however, if he had to, he would. Wolf slumped down on a pile of cushions, and dragged a blanket over himself. Then, reaching into the suitcase, he pulled out a volume of philosophy that Professor Gärtner had given him. It was titled Beyond Good and Evil, and it contained a passage that had played on his mind. He didn't quite understand it, but he felt that repeated readings might reveal its secret—some special truth that resided just beyond the literal meaning of the printed words.
Wolf lengthened the wick of the paraffin lamp and opened the book at the correct page. He read the passage aloud: “There are no moral phenomena at all, only a moral interpretation of phenomena.…”
Wolf stubbed the cigarette out on the floor.
Yes, this was true—and so, by implication, one could never really go too far.
4
RHEINHARDT WONDERED WHETHER HE had treated the driver's remarks too flippantly. The woodman was indeed a strange one. Might such a man purposely instruct strangers to follow a dangerous road? Were they—at that very moment—blithely rolling toward some fatal precipice?
Again, he was reminded of the old stories: wolves, witches, and supernatural beings whose appearance invariably presaged death. To dispel his unease, he began humming Rosen aus iem Süien. His thoughts returned to the ball. What would the orchestra be playing now? Künstlerlehen, perhaps—or Wein, Weft uni Gesang?