I rang the doorbell and waited for someone to pay attention to it; as loud as a church bell, it was hard to imagine it being ignored by anyone. I was surprised to find it answered by Dr. Obrenovic, who introduced himself to me with the alacrity of an older man in possession of a much younger wife, as if meeting all of Dalia’s friends and acquaintances was necessary to his peace of mind; or not. Great wealth won’t shield a man from being the victim of jealousy, only from the pain of hearing his wife’s behavior discussed by a wide circle of friends. Men like Dr. Obrenovic don’t have a wide circle of friends, just an inner circle of trusted employees. Almost as soon as I felt him lay his keen blue eyes on me I knew that he knew — or at least suspected — that something had happened between Dalia and me, something outside the normal conventions of the professional, detective-client relationship. It was a curious sensation for me, like seeing my father again on the day I had almost failed my Abitur. But this certainly didn’t make me feel guilty, or even awkward, just unreasonably young — which is to say, more than a decade younger than a man who was probably in his mid-sixties — and perhaps curious as to the reason why a woman as beautiful as Dalia had married a creaking gate like him. It couldn’t have been money; as a young UFA starlet, Dalia was making a lot; then again, for some women, a lot is never quite enough. There’s a French novel about that, I think.
I went inside and took off my hat and followed him through a hallway that was as wide as the Polish Corridor and lined with more old masters than Hermann Göring’s cellar.
“My wife is just changing,” he said, leading me into the drawing room. “She’ll be down in a moment.”
“I see.”
“So you’re the detective who’s been looking for her father,” he said in a way that made me think he was almost amused by the very idea.
“That’s right. I just got back from Croatia.”
“How was it?”
“I’m still having nightmares about the place. I keep dreaming I’m back there.”
“That bad, eh?”
“Worse than bad. Awful. Like something from a horror film.”
“Did she tell you that I’m a Serb? That I’m from Sarajevo?”
“She might have mentioned it,” I said, uncertain if it had been Dalia or Goebbels who’d told me where Obrenovic came from. “I really don’t remember.”
“Of course, I haven’t lived there in a long time. Not since the king was assassinated.”
He didn’t mention which one, and I certainly didn’t ask. As far as I could see, Yugoslavian kings were a bit like taxis; it couldn’t be long before another one came to the head of the rank.
“If there’s one thing European history proves it’s that there’s nothing more disposable than a king,” I said.
“You think so?”
“They don’t seem to be in short supply.”
As tall as Leipzig’s Volki monument, Obrenovic had a full head of white hair, a pair of invisibly framed glasses, a bass tenor’s voice, and ears as large as bicycle wheels. He walked like an old man, as if his hips were stiff — the way I walked myself first thing in the morning, before the day had lent them some greater flexibility.
“You obviously don’t know who I am.”
“Your name is Obrenovic. Apart from the fact that you’re a doctor of something and married to Fräulein Dresner, I have no idea who you are.”
“Is that so?”
A little overawed by the size and luxury of the room, I nodded dumbly. It’s always a surprise when I encounter people like Obrenovic, who seem to own so much: good furniture, fine paintings, familiar bronzes, inlaid boxes, sparkling decanters, ornaments, chandeliers, rugs and carpets, a dog or two, and, outside the French windows, a Rolls-Royce. Not having anything very much myself is as near to feeling like a rich man as I’m ever likely to get, even if it is the kind of rich man in the gospels who actually took the advice of Jesus and sold all of his possessions to give the money to the poor. Perfection like mine never felt so shabby and, for a change, it made me more insolent. But this might just as easily have been caused by the disappointment of knowing I wasn’t about to make love to Dalia — at least not for the present.
“So, Captain Gunther,” he said, pouring himself a cup of coffee from a silver pot on a little tray. “Did you find him? That’s what we’re dying to find out.”
I waited for a moment, until I was quite sure that none of the coffee was coming my way, and said, “Did I find who?”
He frowned and put the coffee cup to his lips. Even from where I was standing it smelled better than the coffee in the hotel. Just as important, it looked hot, which is the way I like it.
“Dalia’s papa, of course. Father Ladislaus. Did you find him in Banja Luka?”
“Not in Banja Luka, no.”
“In Zagreb, perhaps?”
“Not there, either.”
“I see,” he said patiently. “In Belgrade, then.”
“I didn’t get to Belgrade. Or Sarajevo. Or the Dalmatian Coast. Which is a pity, as I believe the beaches are very nice there at this time of year. I could probably use a holiday.”
“You’re not telling me very much.”
“I certainly didn’t intend to.”
“My wife hadn’t told me your manners were so bad.”
“You’d best take that up with her, not me.”
“I don’t suppose I should be all that surprised. You Germans are not known for your courtesy.”
“Being a member of the master race has some social disadvantages, it’s true. But you can take my word for it, Dr. Obrenovic, I’m just as rude in Germany as I am in Switzerland. I get plenty of complaints from my superiors. I could paper my walls with them. But if you’d just come all the way from Zurich to Berlin, I might at least offer you a cup of coffee.”
“Help yourself,” he said, and stepped away from the tray.
I didn’t move except to turn the hat in my hands.
“You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?”
“Now you’re getting it.”
“Might I ask why?”
“What I have to say is between me and your wife. I don’t know you from the Swiss prime minister.”
He frowned. “I thought you wanted some coffee.”
“No. That’s not what I said, Doctor. I had coffee at the hotel. It was the offer I was keener on.”
“Well, I must say — I’m not accustomed to being spoken to in this way. Especially in my own house.”
I shrugged. “I can wait in the car if you’d prefer.”
“Yes, I think that might be best.”
Twenty-nine
I stalked back to the door and, followed by one of the dogs, went outside. I didn’t much care if it got out of the house. It wasn’t my dog. I lit a cigarette and sat on the shiny bonnet of the car, hardly caring if I marked the new paintwork. It wasn’t my car. The morning was already a warm one; I threw my jacket into the backseat of the Mercedes next to the flask of homemade rakija I’d brought as a present for Dalia from Bosnia, and tossed some stones into an ornamental pond that was full of koi carp. It wasn’t my pond. I waited awhile and when the big door opened again, I flicked the cigarette into the garden. It wasn’t my garden. Dalia walked toward me and stood silently in front of the front passenger door. She wasn’t my wife but I could certainly have wished she had been instead of the one I already had back in Berlin. Her golden hair was collected in a little bun at the back of her head and this added a regal touch to her Nefertiti neck, although that might as easily have been the sapphire-and-diamond necklace that was wrapped around it. She was wearing a navy blue dress; I might have said a plain navy blue dress except for the fact that nothing that was worn by the lady from Zagreb could ever have looked plain. She smiled a slight, rueful smile and then put her hand on the door handle of the car.