“I don’t know what you want from me,” he says. “And I don’t know what kind of a game you’re playing. But you’ve won.”
Tears are gleaming in his eyes. Not bad. The blow on his head really was good for something.
“You don’t know what’s going on here?” I ask.
“No!”
He almost screams the word.
“Why did you say earlier on that you had the impression the sister in my book was the murderer?” I ask. “Were you trying to provoke me?”
“Why should that provoke you? I don’t understand you!” Lenzen shouts. “You were the one who wanted to talk about the book!”
Not bad.
“And the carry-on with Charlotte?”
He looks at me as if I were speaking a foreign language.
“Charlotte?”
“Charlotte, my assistant. What was all that about?”
Lenzen gives a tortured sigh and forces himself to reply calmly.
“Listen. Your assistant was flirting openly with me; I’m not to blame for that. I was just trying to be friendly; you can’t hold that against me, I…”
“What was the idea behind the questions about my dog?”
“I wasn’t hoping to achieve anything with those questions, Frau Conrads,” he says. “Please try to remember that I’m here at your behest. You invited me. I’m being paid to talk to you. I’ve treated you politely throughout. I’ve done nothing that would justify your behavior toward me.”
“What was the idea behind the questions about my dog?”
“We’re here for an interview, right?” says Lenzen.
He looks at me as if I were a dangerous animal that might pounce on him at any moment. I can sense how much strength it’s costing him to keep calm.
I don’t reply.
“You’d mentioned that you had a dog,” says Lenzen, “so it’s only natural that I should ask about it.”
By now he probably thinks I’m completely nuts — totally unpredictable. That’s good. With a bit of luck, I’ll soon have him where I want him.
“Why did you ask me if I was afraid of death?”
“What?”
“Why did you ask me if I was afraid of death?” I repeat.
Again I hear thunder, far, far away — a menacing rumble, like the scolding of a morose giant.
“I didn’t,” he says.
He looks bewildered. Not for the first time, I am on the point of getting up and applauding him.
“Please let me go,” he begs. “I’ll forget this has happened. Only…”
I interrupt him. “I can’t let you go.”
His hypocritical posturing, his crocodile tears, his yammering — it all makes me feel sick. I find it hard not to puke at his feet. Seven stabs — and he goes to pieces over a little cut.
I take a deep breath.
“Do you have children?” I ask.
Lenzen groans and buries his head in his hands.
“Please,” he says.
“Do you have children?” I ask again.
“Please leave my daughter out of this,” Lenzen moans. I notice that he’s crying.
“What’s your daughter called?” I ask.
“What do you want from my daughter?”
He says it almost pleadingly. And I suddenly realize. Is it possible that he thinks I mean to harm his daughter in some way? That it’s why I keep asking about her? That it’s a kind of threat? I’d never have come up with that, but all right. I decide to ignore his whining. Maybe he’s ready to give me what I want now.
“You know what I want,” I say.
Give me what I want and I’ll leave your daughter alone, I’m saying between the lines. Lenzen knows that and I know it. I don’t have the time to feel bad about it.
“A confession,” says Lenzen.
The surge of adrenaline, which had flooded my body when Lenzen attacked me, is suddenly back with a vengeance. I feel its heat.
“A confession,” I confirm.
“But I don’t know…”
Here we go again. How long is he going to keep this up?
“Then I’ll help you,” I say. “Where were you living twelve years ago?”
He considers for a moment.
“In Munich,” he says. “That was my last year in Munich.”
“Do you know an Anna Michaelis?” There’s nothing in his eyes — nothing.
“No. Who’s she?”
Liar. I almost have to admire him. Considering there’s a gun involved, he’s holding out pretty damn long. Maybe he really isn’t afraid of death.
“Why are you lying to me?”
“Okay, okay, okay,” he says. “Let me think. The name does ring a bell.”
What kind of a game are you playing, Victor Lenzen?
“I found out during my research that your real surname is Michaelis. Conrads is a nom de plume. After Joseph Conrad, one of your favorite authors, right?”
I’m having trouble keeping my temper. He’s still acting.
“Is Anna Michaelis a relation of yours?” Lenzen asks.
“Where were you on 23 August 2002?” I retaliate.
He looks confused. You could clean pity the man, the way he’s sitting there, bleeding and sniveling.
“Where were you on 23 August 2002?” I repeat. Put him under stress, wear him down, break him.
“Bloody hell, how am I supposed to remember that?” he asks.
“Think about it.”
“I don’t know.” Again he buries his head in his hands.
“Why did you kill Anna Michaelis?”
“What?”
Lenzen leaps up, knocking his chair to the floor. The sudden movement and the clatter make me start. For a moment, I think Lenzen’s going to make a second attempt to attack me, and I too leap up, and back away a few steps. But he only looks at me aghast.
“I want to know why you murdered my sister,” I say.
He looks at me. I look at him. I feel nothing. Everything about me is cold and numb; only the gun in my hand is red hot.
“What?” says Lenzen. “Have you finally…”
“Why did you do it? Why Anna?”
“Oh God,” Lenzen says wearily. He’s reeling.
“You think I murdered your sister,” he murmurs.
He seems dazed. He’s not looking at me anymore; he’s looking at the floor, staring into space.
“I know you did,” I correct him.
Victor Lenzen looks up and stares at me with wide-open eyes. Then, grasping the edge of the table, he turns away from me and breaks into spasms of vomiting. I look at him in horror: he’s bleeding, he’s crying, he’s throwing up.
Lenzen rallies himself. He coughs, gasping for breath, and looks at me, his upper lip beaded with sweat, that curious expression on his face like a child that’s been punished. For a moment, I see a human being instead of the monster and my stomach tightens with pity. I feel his fear — the fear he feels for himself, but more than anything else the fear he feels for his daughter. It’s written all over his face.
That face. I notice again that he has a sprinkling of freckles. I can imagine what he must have looked like as a little boy — before life, before the wrinkles. Interesting wrinkles. I catch myself thinking that I’d like to touch his face, just to know what it feels like. I remember my beautiful grandma and her lovely lined face. Lenzen’s face would feel different beneath my fingers — firmer.
I brush the thought aside. What am I doing? I’m like a child at the zoo who wants to stroke the tiger even though she’s quite old enough to know that it would tear her limb from limb.
Get a grip on yourself, Linda.
I mustn’t let myself get carried away by my pity. Lenzen is retching again.
“You’re a murderer,” I say. Lenzen shakes his head.
I’m perplexed. Either Victor Lenzen has no breaking point, or else…I hardly dare think it through. What if I’d long since reached the point at which Victor Lenzen would break down under pressure? If the only reason he hasn’t yet confessed is that he doesn’t have anything to confess?