When Lorenz arrived at his table only Faustine acknowledged his return. She looked bored. ‘Who was that?’
‘Someone I had to speak to.’ He shook his head as if to say it wasn’t important. ‘Shall we go back to my hotel?’
‘No. Come to my apartment instead.’ She lit a cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
‘But I promised to meet a friend there later this evening.’
‘Oh?’
‘Gessner — Kurt Gessner. You haven’t been introduced.’
‘Come to my apartment.’ Faustine repeated. ‘You can always go back to your hotel after. I won’t mind. I understand.’
‘Why don’t you want to come to the hotel?’
‘I don’t know.’ She tapped the ash from her cigarette. ‘Sometimes it feels…’ Her expression was reproachful.
Lorenz nodded, recognizing her point immediately. He had been tactless, expecting her to come to his room every night like a whore and to endure the disdain of the concierge, the lewd smirk of the bellboy. ‘Yes, you’re right. Forgive me,’ Lorenz conceded, ‘I’ve been inconsiderate. I should come to your apartment more often.’
They left the Scheherazade Club and chose a route that avoided busy thoroughfares. It had been raining, and the cobbles beneath the lamp posts were coated with a yellow glaze. Passing through a little square surrounded by quaint, shuttered houses, they listened to a turbulent Chopin prelude being played on a nearby piano. The effect was absurdly romantic. Further on, they turned into a narrow lane and came to a building with a rickety front door. Faustine pulled it open, switched on a hall light, and led Lorenz up a twisting staircase. The first floor landing was exceedingly narrow and chunks of plaster had fallen from the wall.
‘Why don’t you get this repaired?’ Lorenz asked.
She produced a key and turned it in the lock. ‘The landlord says it’s too expensive.’ They went straight to the bedroom where Faustine lit candles and attended to a cast-iron stove. On the window sill was a pile of creased paperback books, most of which seemed to be works of sensational fiction: Fantômas, Arsène Lupin, Sherlock Holmes. There was also a copy of The Double by Dostoyevsky. Without preamble, Faustine began removing her clothes. Lorenz watched her as she folded her skirt and hung her jacket in the wardrobe. Her fastidiousness was enchanting. She placed one foot on the mattress, released her suspender fastenings and rolled a stocking down her shapely leg with slow grace.
When their lovemaking was over, Faustine opened her hand on his chest. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied, stroking her hair. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘You seem… I don’t know — a little different.’
‘Oh?’
‘Preoccupied?’ She took his hand and brushed it against her lips.
‘No,’ he murmured. ‘I am very contented, actually.’
The room was drafty and the agitated candle flames moved shadows across the ceiling. A ticking clock attracted Lorenz’s attention, and when he looked to check the time he discovered that it was later than he’d thought. Without much enthusiasm, he muttered, ‘I’d better be going.’
Faustine got up and wrapped herself in a dressing gown. She tightened the belt and said, ‘Why don’t you come back? After.’
‘No,’ said Lorenz. ‘You’ll be asleep. Don’t you have to get up early for work tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then.’
She lit a cigarette, and he noticed that her hands were shaking. ‘I’m cold,’ she said, making her shoulders shiver excessively. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘Not really.’
‘Would you like to go to a concert sometime this week?’
‘If you can get tickets…’
Lorenz collected his clothes together and carried them to the bathroom. He washed and dressed and when he returned he found Faustine, still smoking, her hair mussed and a smear of kohl beneath one of her eyes. Her disheveled appearance was curiously alluring.
‘I’m going,’ he said, raising her chin with a crooked finger. He kissed her smoky mouth, and when they parted she said, simply, ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Yes, tomorrow,’ he repeated.
Lorenz stepped out onto the landing and rushed down the stairs, sliding his hand along the banister rail. When he reached the end of the corridor he pushed the flimsy door open and was momentarily startled by an impression of movement. Two shapes were rushing toward him. A glimmer of light on steel signalled that he was in mortal danger. His response to the attack was swift and instinctive. His left arm swung upward and outward, deflecting what might have been a fatal lunge, and he delivered a kick that ended with his foot finding soft accommodation in his assailant’s groin. Turning swiftly he landed a punch on the second assailant’s jaw. It produced a loud, satisfying crack. He sensed rather than witnessed the figure teetering and falling. Lorenz charged toward the first assailant, who was doubled over in pain, and brought his knee up with considerable force. Cartilage crunched, and he repeated the action several times until he heard the knife clattering on the ground. Then, he grabbed the collar of his assailant’s shirt, raised him up, and rammed him against the wall on the other side of the road. Lorenz’s fingers closed around a scrawny neck.
An image flashed in his mind: Sutherland as vengeful strangler.
Lorenz had been reminded of his homicidal dream only a few days earlier, when the lamps had failed on U-330 and Sutherland had appeared in his flashlight beam. Now their roles were reversed; now it was he, Lorenz, who was doing the strangling. An inner voice reminded him of what he had said to Sutherland, and what Sutherland had repeated in the dream: ‘Destruction is your purpose as much as it is mine.’
For the first time he could see what his assailant looked like. He was young, no older than sixteen, and blood was pouring from his broken nose. The boy’s eyes were wide open, and his expression communicated surprise rather than fear. Lorenz tightened his grip. Glancing over his shoulder at the boy’s unconscious accomplice, he registered the slightness of the prostrate body and supposed that he was roughly the same age.
They had had been waiting for him.
The boy began to make choking noises. Lorenz was tempted to squeeze tighter, but gradually, as his anger subsided he released his grip. Immediately, the boy started coughing, spluttering, and massaging his throat: he edged away, his back remaining in contact with the wall.
‘Go,’ said Lorenz in French, ‘before I change my mind.’ The boy looked at Lorenz in disbelief. ‘Go!’ Lorenz barked.
Startled into action, the boy staggered over to his comrade who was just regaining consciousness. He helped the dazed accessory to his feet, and the two boys limped off as fast as they could, occasionally turning to make sure that they weren’t being pursued.
Lorenz took a few steps and picked up the knife. He tilted the lambent blade and tested the sharpness of its edge. Had his reactions been a fraction slower it would have easily passed through the material of his coat and between his ribs. He reentered the building, climbed the stairs and knocked on Faustine’s door.
‘Who is it?
‘Me.’
‘Siegfried?’
‘Yes.’
He heard the key turn and the door opened. ‘Did you forget something?’
‘Why?’ he said bluntly.
She tilted her head to one side: ‘What?’
‘How could you?’
Faustine pushed a lock of hair off her forehead. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Please don’t treat me like a fool.’ They stared at each other. He saw her hand disappear behind the door. She was getting ready to slam it in his face if she failed to convince him of her innocence. ‘Let go of the handle,’ he said. ‘For God’s sake — do you really think I’d hurt you — even now?’