Of course, she could ask her mother about such details. Obviously, Monica had legitimate reasons to know some details about her mother’s lover no matter what the circumstances.
Even in circumstances that were rather more normal than these.
And what about his life in general? What did she know about his life?
Hardly anything. He had been married, he had mentioned that: but it was evidently a long time ago. He had never said anything about any children.
So presumably there aren’t any, Monica thought.
It’s strange, she thought. Strange that I know so little about the only lover I’ve had in my life. Still have.
But at the same time she realized that it wasn’t really all that odd. The main topic of conversation between them had always been her. Every time they had met.
Monica Kammerle. Monica Kammerle’s childhood and youth. Her mum and dad. Her teachers, her old unreliable friends, her favourite hobbies and favourite books. Her thoughts about everything under the sun, and how she felt when he touched her in various ways. And when he was inside her.
But what about him? Nothing. It was hardly his fault. She liked to talk, and she liked him listening to her. To be perfectly honest, you could say that she wasn’t much more than a self-centred sixteen-year-old who liked to contemplate her own navel and never looked beyond the end of her own nose.
On the other hand, she had never had anybody to listen to her since her father died. That’s life, she supposed. You have certain needs, and if you had an opportunity to satisfy them, that was what you did of course.
Apart from the phenomenon of Monica Kammerle there was really only one topic of conversation to which they devoted any time.
Their relationship.
The forbidden fact that she had the same lover as her mother. The fact that she, Monica Kammerle, sixteen years of age, and he, Benjamin Kerran, thirty-nine, spent their time screwing each other. From in front and from behind. With mouths and tongues and hands and everything possible. Screwing away like the very devil. She soon realized that she felt a sort of delight mixed with horror, a rather stimulating dismay, as soon as they began talking about it.
As if they had invented it. As if no other person was aware that you could act like that.
Or as if putting all the disgusting actions into words somehow made it all acceptable. By talking about it. She was quite sure that he felt the same way about it as she did.
We are well aware that we are doing wrong, and so we can allow ourselves to do it, she said on one occasion.
And so we can allow ourselves to do it?
At first she believed that.
At first she was really no more than a willing victim in his arms — she was bright enough to be aware of that.
Because she enjoyed what he did to her. Everything — almost everything.
And she enjoyed what he allowed her to do with him. And the fact that he enjoyed it as well.
He told her on one occasion that there are other cultures in which they introduce young girls to sex by letting them go with experienced, grown-up men. Perhaps that’s not a bad idea.
Monica agreed. Not a bad idea at all.
After a night that Benjamin had spent in her mother’s bed before leaving shortly before dawn, she confided in her daughter that he was the best lover she had ever had.
Monica was inclined to agree, but she said nothing. There was no doubt that Benjamin had a strong and positive influence on her mother, it was impossible not to notice that. The manic high she had enjoyed during the latter part of August had come to an end. She was taking her medicine regularly — as far as Monica could judge by checking the medicine cupboard — and she seemed to be healthier and more relaxed than Monica could recall her being at any time since her father’s death.
She was attending her work therapy classes four times a week, cooking meals, shopping and doing the laundry. Almost like a real mother. She had never been so patient and focused. Not as far as Monica could remember, in any case.
So touch wood, she thought. What we are doing might be lunacy — but we are living in a different culture, as it were.
She smiled at the thought. If only her classmates knew. .
The need to confide in somebody, to tell at least one other person what was going on, cropped up a few days later: to be more precise, the early morning when he left her mother in her bedroom and came to hers instead.
It was early one Wednesday morning at the beginning of September. Shortly after five o’clock. As far as she could make out Benjamin and her mother had been on a trip to Behrensee, and got back home quite late. She was already asleep in bed when they returned, and had only a vague recollection of hearing them in the hall.
She was woken up by him caressing her nipple. He held a warning finger to his lips and nodded in the direction of her mother’s bedroom. Took her hand, placed it on his rock-hard penis and looked suggestively at her.
There was something hungry in his eyes, she noted, but at the same time something entreating, almost like a dog.
And although she was only sixteen years old — and had been a virgin as recently as eighteen days ago — she read in that look of his something about the balancing act that is a hidden component of bodily love. Had crystal-clear insight — although she was only half awake — into all the bottomless pits that lurked behind the most gentle touches and modest glances.
How quickly something could go wrong. And how easily something could go wrong.
She hesitated for a moment. Made sure that he at least closed the door properly. Then nodded and allowed him to penetrate her doggy-fashion.
It hurt, wasn’t at all like it usually was. She hadn’t been properly prepared, it hurt and he was much rougher than usual. He seemed to be interested only in satisfying his own needs, and after a minute or so he ejaculated all over her back without her having been anywhere near to an orgasm.
Without her having experienced an ounce of pleasure.
He mumbled an apology and went back to her mother’s bedroom. No, this was nothing like it usually was, and for the first time she was filled with a surge of extreme disgust.
No doubt he would tell her mother that he’d just nipped out to the loo. If she happened to wake up. Hell’s bells.
She got out of bed. Staggered to the bathroom and threw up until she felt completely drained. Showered and showered and showered.
His dark secret love does thy life destroy, she thought. No, I can’t go on like this. I need to talk to somebody.
4
‘Can you tell me what this is?’
The young shop assistant smiled nervously and fingered his moustache. Van Veeteren wiped the counter with his shirt sleeve and placed the object in the middle of the bright, shiny surface. The young man leaned forward to examine it, but when he realized what it was he straightened his back and watered down his smile.
‘Of course. It’s an olive stone.’
Van Veeteren raised an eyebrow.
‘Really? Are you absolutely sure of that?’
‘Of course.’
He picked it up carefully between his thumb and index finger and eyed it closely.
‘No doubt about it. An olive stone.’
‘Good,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘We’re in agreement so far.’
He gingerly took a rolled-up handkerchief from his pocket and unfolded it meticulously.
‘What about this, then?’
It seemed as if the young man was about to give this object the once-over as well, but for some reason changed his mind. He remained halfway bent over the counter with an odd expression on his freckly face.
‘It looks like a tooth filling.’
‘Precisely!’ exclaimed Van Veeteren, sliding the olive stone towards the little dark-coloured lump of metal until they were more or less side by side, with only a centimetre or so between them. ‘And might I ask if you have any idea who you have the great pleasure of conversing with on a beautiful September day like this one?’