On the TV, McEnroe was wiping out a taciturn Swede. I drank my beer and watched him tell a female referee something about his backside. I wished that Sri Dao would reappear that evening: case closed. The villa in Gellersheim was probably inhabited by a wealthy family that really enjoyed vacations. Tanned faces and frequent absences must have given Mrs. Olga the impression that this had to be a nest of gypsies.
Ten minutes later, the goulash was warm. With some bread and a plateful of the stew I sat down to the tie break. Six five. Six six. Double fault McEnroe, six seven. The Swede’s turn to serve. I spilled goulash on my pants. Second serve-return on the line, seven seven. The bread was turning back to dough between my fingertips. Long exchange, McEnroe to the net, save of the century-eight seven! Deep breath. Change of service. Left and right forearm raised to forehead. Take position. Not a sound. Serve, ball in court, backhand return, half-volley, lob, smash, the Swede leaps-and misses. I detached the bread from my fingers and picked up the spoon again. At the beginning of the second set, the doorbell rang.
“What do you know.”
“I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d look in …”
I held the door open. “If it doesn’t bother you to watch tennis with a cop.”
Slibulsky rolled his eyes. We went back in, and he draped his soaked overcoat over the radiator. His cast had turned gray from moisture. I leaned against the doorjamb,
“Should I close the curtains?”
“Maybe you could cut the bullshit and offer me a bowl of stew? God, is it shitty out there.”
I went to the kitchen and heated up the goulash. When I came back, Slibulsky sat leaning forward in my chair, following the game through his dark shades. I handed him the plate and sat next to him on the armrest.
“What’s the score?”
“First set for us.”
We spooned goulash into our mouths for a while. As the Swede was serving in the fourth game, Slibulsky set his plate aside, wiped his mouth and said: “Pretty vile stuff. By the way-I know the name of that guy.”
I set my spoon back on the plate.
“Boy, you’re really building suspense-should I wait to serve the dessert while you proceed with further revelations?”
“Come off it. It’s useless information in any case. The guy was put behind bars two weeks ago for receiving stolen goods. Name’s Mario Beckmann.”
“Is that info from Charlie?”
“No, from a guy at the Queen of Hearts.”
We stared at each other briefly. Then I shrugged. “Probably wouldn’t have been any use to me anyway. I’m pretty sure it’s a gang of forgers.”
I took the plates back to the kitchen. Slibulsky shouted:
“What’s your next move?”
“Got a tip. A villa in Gellersheim.”
“Where?”
“Gellersheim!”
I put the saucepan in the refrigerator. Winding things up, McEnroe metamorphosed an overhead ball and made the break. Slibulsky growled his appreciation. I waited for the first serve-fifteen love. Then I took a fresh shirt out of the closet and kicked my shoes under the bed.
“And how do you like being a snooper?”
After a moment’s silence, he growled back from the chair: “Kayankaya, do you know what makes you such an exceptional detective? It’s your ability to stay stuck for weeks on the same thing …”
Ten minutes later I had shaved and changed clothes. I stepped out of the bathroom, picked the mail off the bed, and sat on the armrest again. Slibulsky had stretched out his legs and sat there with his arms crossed over his chest, slightly hampered in that pose by his plaster cast. Now the score was five three.
“You don’t know what you missed.” Without turning his gaze away from the screen, Slibulsky waved his left arm. “He’s at the net, he’s made two returns, the ball comes down the line, he has to jump, and then-he just smashes it back, in mid-air!”
I lit a cigarette and thumbed through the maiclass="underline" phone bill, power bill, a letter from the building management, stacks of advertisements, and then suddenly the handwritten note. It was awkwardly penned on a sheet from an Interconti Frankfurt hotel note pad: “The girl is in Dietzenbach, at After Hours.” I stared at it, not sure what to think. Then I handed it to Slibulsky: “You know the joint?”
A pause.
“I think it’s a brothel for queers.” He looked up. “What would they want a girl for?”
“I have no idea. But someone must have had one.”
Slibulsky scratched his neck. “If even the queers are muscling in on this trade in women-then things are getting really weird.”
Match point McEnroe. Loud yelling. “Quiet, please”-an ace, with the look that indicates he finds it hard to believe he has to deal with such a low-grade opponent.
I got up and took my Beretta from the shelf. “The next game is Becker against Carl Arsch. But I have to go now.”
“To Gellersheim?”
“No, to Dietzenbach.”
I put in the clip. Slibulsky reached for the remote control.
“If someone calls?”
“Get their name and number and tell them I’ll call back tomorrow. There’s beer in the icebox.”
On my way down I ran into Mr. Knapp. He studied biology, owned a car plastered with campground stickers from all over the world and equipped with a removable tape player, which he carried around everywhere, as well as a girlfriend who also was a biology student. This time he was carrying the tape player and a cordovan briefcase with a combination lock. His outfit was beige. Even his green jacket was beige, somehow. He would probably look beige even if he wore a black suit with red polka dots.
As always, he greeted me cordially: “Guten Tag.” As never before, I replied: “Heil Hitler!”
Totally confused, wildly waving his briefcase and tape player, he stopped and stuttered. “Wha-what did you say?”
“Didn’t you sign that petition? For the Republikaner billboard?”
“But …,” he shook his head in protest, “I didn’t do it because I support their aims-on the contrary. In fact, I am an outspoken-how should I put it …” He opened and shut his mouth a couple of times, searching for the word. “Friend of foreigners.” He nodded and beamed.
“If I’m included in that,” I said, “you better watch out that this friend doesn’t punch you in the nose.”
“Please don’t say that, Mr. Kayankaya. I signed only because I think it is important to give everyone a chance to voice his opinion freely-this is a democracy, after all.”
“Right. Even when there are times when it seems as if that freedom of expression had been reserved only for Republikaners-and people who have no opinion-it is still available to others. And on that note, Mr. Knapp,” I raised my right arm, “break a leg!”
7
“You’re my baby, baby, baby-oh yeah. You’re my sunshine, sunshine, sunshine-oh yeah. You’re my-” krzzzzzzfghtntrzzzzzz “-the Chancellor put on a hat in honor of the Jewish victims of National Socialism. President Richard von Weizsacker, who also attended the ceremony, concluded his speech by asking, aren’t we all human beings, after all? And I agree wholeheartedly: Yes! Yes, we are human beings. The weather-” krzzzzzzzerbgmgnzzzzzz “-in the light of stars far away, I love you night and day, as if we were two stars, shining there so fa-” krzzzzzzzzfghnlrtzzzzzzz “-now a purely technical question, Mr. Fips. How do you manage to concentrate on your text while Simultaneously trying to beat a hole into the table top with your forehead? Just considering the rhythmical-” “In my heart lives a machine gun, and my texts are bursts fired into the dark future.” “I see, well, that’s nicely put. But you haven’t answered my question. Could you tell us something about the visual aspect-what do you do when blood starts running into your eyes? Do you wear sweatbands on your wrists, like a tennis player, or does it just fly off to the side?” “In my heart lives a machine gun, and my words are bursts into the dark future-if you like, I can read a poetic sequence that will answer your question.” “Uh-well, why not. But please let’s not have any blood stains on the carpeting-” krzzzzzzfgnerzzzz “-the President’s speech yesterday, on the theme Joy through Peace, at the beginning of the NATO exercise Friendly Touch, met with both national and international acclaim …”