It’s quite weak, he said, raising his glass in belated agreement.
Usually it doesn’t even keep until New Year’s.
What can I say, it has a pleasant bouquet, its temperature is good, what else could one wish for.
It becomes like water without any warning.
But until then it’s not bad at all.
To your health then.
You were probably saving those bottles for the holidays.
Come on, stop bugging me about the holidays.
Who else but guests would you be waiting for with so much wine.
And he became suspicious in his own eyes, for he was trying too hard and insisting on making headway with these stupid holidays and this pitiful boy. As if he had thought that with the help of this copy he could step into the original, the source of his premonition. Before their fits epileptics disappear into the trap of repetition.
And in that case, suddenly kindled love is not the exit from but the terrible entrance to monotony.
Because you have lit up the house so nicely, he said — and no matter how much he did not want to, he had to repeat some of the words — in nice holiday fashion, so festive, as if he were hearing similar echoes in his own skulclass="underline" holidays, festivities.
There is no holiday, I’m not preparing for anything, Döhring exclaimed, elemental hatred against everything and everyone seething in his voice, but I tell you, since you’re so curious, I am afraid, he shouted, scared, do you understand, he shouted, that’s all, that’s why I lit up the house.
Haven’t you ever been afraid when you were alone in a house, he asked, and his voice faltered as though he was about to cry.
What did he have to be afraid of.
I’m not expecting guests, stop pestering me with this stupidity, and I’m certainly not going to wait for my kid sister.
I thought you were twins. Twins are inseparable.
I hate her anyway. I hate every kind of holiday, he fumed.
As though his hatred had no object at all, only it would have been nice to lower himself to the very bottom of the word designating hatred.
I don’t need calendar holidays for my joy, or for guests. I don’t want anybody yakking at me about holidays or whatever. I constantly think inwardly, on my own I am pretty much enough to make me happy, I can reassure you about that. And I certainly don’t need company to think. Even if I had something to celebrate I wouldn’t have a holiday for it, or I couldn’t celebrate it with others, it’s that simple.
Of course, while he was shouting he suddenly had an insight into this older and undoubtedly more experienced man. Who was sitting here with him, his big thighs spread, his feet in his big shoes, his short jacket open, and, in his large, loving self-satisfaction raising high the misting glass.
As if he were truly drinking to Döhring’s health. As if he could serve himself here to his own satisfaction. He drank to his love, to his happiness; Döhring saw perfectly well what he was drinking his toast to.
And since his sentiments could not be turned off like a faucet, his love spread out over everything, including this unhappy boy. Who was just staring at him, eyes wide.
How does one become so shameless and arrogant with one’s freely gained happiness.
There was indeed much to be astonished about in this question, and what a pleasant astonishment it was.
Kienast felt that he was blushing at having been discovered; the other one had seen through his weakness. He had never blushed before in his entire career. He must have been ashamed of the little secret that he was here because of the woman and nothing else. He was even more ashamed of his soft-heartedness, and not only did he turn away from the young man but he also looked for a place where he could put this stinking glass in case this goddamn epileptic fit decided to get him after all.
He should take off his jacket in this heat. He’d have enough trouble with this miserable man as it was, and he stood up to do this while there was still time; he put the wet glass on the edge of the mantelpiece. He slipped out of his jacket and successfully lobbed it to the sofa, not letting the other one detect the inner struggle in the movement. To which the young man responded by straightening up in front of the fireplace.
It’s a long story, he said in his deepened, manfully ingratiating voice. I won’t spare you, I’ll tell you in great detail.
I have no right to pose questions to you. I must say that right off.
I’m aware of my rights, you don’t need to instruct me, but perhaps I have the right to ask how you ended up here.
Nothing could be simpler.
Because I have the impression that we are way beyond written rights.
Frankly I have the same impression.
I don’t want to give up on getting a clear response from you.
I may not look it, but I am capable with a little bit of luck of solving far more complicated problems than this one. I’d like you to tell me a few things in greater detail than you did before. After all, from the very first moment you’ve been very helpful, that’s why I bothered to come. If you still remember words like the common good or helping, and if they still mean anything to you.
Even my parents don’t know where I am. Only one person does, with whom you can’t have talked.
You must be thinking of your dear aunt.
She is everything but dear, but she’s the one I’m thinking about.
Why couldn’t I have talked to her.
You could have, but you didn’t.
It’s very clear there’s no trick here. At the examination in situ, you were the one, Mr. Döhring, who gave us the important reference points. After that it was quite easy to uncover everything else.
Not from the things I inadvertently blabbered to you, you couldn’t, I don’t believe you. You think I’m stupider than I am.
I haven’t made any direct inquiries anywhere, Kienast replied, I haven’t gone around asking questions, I can assure you, if that’s what you’re worried about.
Well, all right, you’ve found out whom I telephoned, where I made the calls from. Which I didn’t count on in advance, I admit. I made phone calls everywhere I could in the whole world so that I could talk to you as soon as possible. I did it unthinkingly.
And Döhring was terribly ashamed that he’d managed to say something like this; it was such an ignominy that he should still need anybody, especially someone who was nothing more than an ordinary detective.
This is a closed system, Mr. Döhring. Nobody but I and my immediate supervisor can get to your data, and so I couldn’t have given you a bad name.
Which for the time being would not even be justified, he added, yet in his words fluttered the hint of a threat.
I hope you don’t expect me to be grateful for that, replied Döhring quickly, trying to sound as crass as possible.
Kienast had to allow more time again for chat, if only to gain time, more time to catch up with or overtake him and keep him from slipping into his own well-established way of thinking.
He’ll jolt him out of it.
Yesterday you called from the gas station. That’s not a public phone.
The owner’s phone on the counter. I paid for it.
You mean you’d have left a message on my answering machine that the gas-station owner could hear. No, I don’t buy that, I don’t believe it.
You should. I waited until he was dealing with a customer.
The first time you called from a public booth, if my colleagues are not mistaken.
You can check this as easily as you can check anything else.
Well now, the detective said, directing his most charming laugh at the young man, slowly but surely you’re learning the trade. But I did have to puzzle out, and on the run, that the phone booth was in the Hofgarten, opposite the house on whose third floor madam Isolde Döhring has her apartment. Believe me, these are not facts one can’t easily find out. It’s not the person of the murderer that’s hard to identify — the final result is almost always there, ready and waiting for you, someone saw the murder, or some seemingly inconsequential circumstance will give it away, et cetera, et cetera — but gathering legally admissible pieces of evidence, that’s what’s sometimes almost impossible.