If he wanted to learn something from him, he had to be on guard and address not the young man but the lurking stranger; he would have to overtake the fugitive in his flight.
Döhring’s eyes were wide and alarmed; he looked at the other man and showed that he did not understand what was happening or what more might happen as they walked together, carrying the basket.
He felt a kind of defenselessness that he could not resist, but neither could he forgive Kienast for it, and these contrasting feelings tugged and pulled his features in different directions.
And at that moment he accepted something he did not know, something he should not have accepted or come to know. A love-filled sentiment radiated from the other man for which he had no words, which he did not know, and which was not intended for him. He realized he was scowling, though in his own interest he should have been smiling at this miserable cop.
His grotesque silence felt oppressive once they reached the house; he felt he did not have enough air and was behaving in ways that did not serve his own interest, especially after they put down the freshly chopped wood by the fireplace. Maybe it was only because of a single bad move. Kienast hardly had time to look around, for they’d brought the wood in just in time; the fire was about to go out. And Kienast was, very politely, about to lift the short-handled axe out of the basket so that Döhring could quickly throw a few pieces on the fire, or who knows why he did it.
Döhring grabbed at it as if someone was trying to take it away from him or as if he feared being assassinated. As if Kienast were an assassin. Human blood had clung to the handle of this axe once before, and it had been carefully washed off so the axe could be used again and not given or thrown away; both handle and head had been sandpapered clean. The Döhrings did not talk about this, but everyone knew what had happened with the axe. Even though no trace of his uncle’s blood or marrow remained. And objects cannot be held responsible for their being used for irregular purposes. He managed to grab it, but this move embarrassed them both, the embarrassment of one only strengthening that of the other.
As if they were mutually familiar with every episode in the other’s life.
The mutually revealing move and mutually felt fear offended them in their shyness and dignity, affected them all the way to the groin. Surprised by the unexpected contact, they had the presence of mind to exchange furtive bashful looks, as conspirators do when they take large risks and then turn quickly away.
Which emphasized the silence all the more — the fact that until now Döhring had said nothing, had not returned the detective’s greeting, and was unlikely to be the one to break the silence of this house in the woods. Nevertheless the detective decided he wouldn’t be the first to speak, no need for hasty politeness, he’d bide his time. He had come here in response to the young man’s schizoid outburst, having understood the hidden meaning of the personal invitation, and that should suffice for now. He could not appear weak. It was warm and there was a smell of apples, and anyway it was time to look around, see who these Döhrings were, what he might expect. The walls were covered with old wainscoting, wooden stairs led to an upper floor, and every light was on, every lamp and sconce as well as the chandelier.
Döhring hastily leaned his carefully guarded axe against the side of the fireplace as if his very body, his bodily existence, had become shameful. To avoid facing the leisurely, brazenly inquisitive detective with his intrusive physical self-assurance, he squatted down before the fire. But he was unable to break their mutuality. He quickly surrounded the dying flames with thin pieces of kindling. Everything was positioned on its prescribed course; he could not deviate from it. The detective actually liked to see how practiced Döhring’s fingers were at this, though he had no movements that weren’t hurried, sharp, unrestrained, compulsive. He probably always leaned the axe against the fireplace at the same angle.
He blew on the fire so the flames would catch the new kindling, his agitated blowing obviously meant not only for the embers but also for the detective. Who then turned away, as if to absorb the young man’s quiet performance with his shoulders, as it were, and with leisurely steps creaked his way around the room, whose beamed, old ceiling seemed low. The rather friendly space seemed to be struggling under the weight of the upstairs bedrooms. He looked out every one of the small windows.
A man in love likes to flaunt his body. He became terrifically excited at the sight of the threatened young man. He would not have admitted to himself that he considered him easy prey. According to the rules of his profession he must remain indifferent.
His profession demanded from him two things that could be carried out neither simultaneously nor in parallel.
To avoid exaggeration or to keep his embarrassment at bay, he carefully observed the view that someone taking refuge here would see from each window. And the blowing on the fire behind him strengthened his impression that from the first moment of their encounter this unfortunate young man had been broadcasting distress signals in his direction. Being asked for help, having hope placed in him, was a very touching experience and not exceptional for the detective, but this young man was already beyond the point where he could be helped.
One kills not only out of need, interest, or selfish enjoyment but also out of suffering.
Suffering that might be eased but cannot be relieved.
A lonely bird was hooting outside, perhaps an owl. This too was rather odd at this tense moment, as if deriding the tension. And while he examined each small painting on the walls, one by one — undistinguished landscapes or still lifes done by untrained local painters or perhaps family members — he thought that no matter how colorful and rich the world might appear in its various transformations, ultimately it was a pile or collection of homogeneous materials, and that was why objects seen for the first time seem familiar or full of significance. The owl brings no misfortune to anyone, but the person anticipating danger notices its hooting. The young man’s back curved nicely. Under his thin sweater his spine was nicely outlined, vertebra by vertebra. He was staring at the flames licking the kindling, which he carefully nudged with the poker, and kept radiantly quiet with his back.
The miserable people we should consider exceptional are those who do not kill out of suffering or at least acknowledge in retrospect what they have done.
The room was furnished simply and sparingly. Between the two larger windows stood a chest of drawers, above it a rustic mirror which for a fraction of a moment while he passed before it distorted Kienast’s face, but he nonetheless found himself attractive because he was looking at the two last nights he had spent so joyously. He saw that it was really he. Facing the fireplace in the middle of the room stood a threadbare sofa with flower-patterned upholstery on which the young man most likely had slept the previous nights under the shabby blanket; perhaps he stayed there yesterday too. Next to the sofa was a deep easy chair, upholstered with the same flower-patterned material, from which a hitherto unnoticed cat jumped out and silently disappeared under the sofa as he approached. Kienast stood behind the abandoned chair. He resisted the murderously tense silence with all his physical self-awareness, overheated by love, and alternately looked out the little window, under which stood a single rough-hewn peasant chair, and kept an eye on the nape of the young man’s neck as he squatted before the fire.
Döhring sensed this precisely on his bare cervical vertebrae — his nakedness, his spinal marrow, and the forever-lost dignity in his groin.