“Maria with the pretty ears.” Then he recognized me. “Remember, Gerhard: Nice earlobes mean nice breasts.”
“Really, Herr Doctor!” Maria said, playing along.
“I'd do better not to speak,” Philipp whispered with some effort.
The nurse left the room, quietly closing the door. After a while Philipp beckoned me to come closer. “My spleen is out? The pump is running? I used to dream sometimes that I was dying. I'd be lying in the hospital, in a room and a bed just like now, and I would bid all the women I ever knew farewell.”
“All of them?” I, too, was whispering. “You mean they'd be lining up outside, along the corridor and down the stairs?”
“Each woman would say that after me she never met another guy like me.”
“I see.”
“And I would tell each of them that I never again met anyone like her.”
“What you'd need is a room with two doors, one in front and one in back. The women you've already spoken to mustn't come face-to-face with the women still waiting. Can you imagine if word got down the line that you were telling every woman that you never met another woman like her?”
Philipp sighed and was silent for a while. “You have no idea about love, Gerhard. In my dream, all of them get together anyway. They leave my deathbed and go to the Blaue Ente, where I've arranged a banquet for them, and they eat and drink and remember me.”
I don't know why Philipp's dream made me sad. Because I have no idea about love? I took his hand. “Forget all that for the time being. You're not dying.”
“No, I'm not.” He found it increasingly hard to talk. “As it is, I couldn't even speak to all of them now. I'm much too weak.” He fell asleep.
Füruzan came around five. I could see that her brother had beaten her, but she whispered to me that they had made up. “Do you think Philipp will forgive me, too?”
I didn't understand.
“Because the knife was meant for me.”
I didn't feel that this was the time to give her a crash course in emancipation. “I'm sure he'll forgive you.”
I didn't wait for Philipp to wake up again. At six I was in Nägelsbach's office, at seven in prison at the Fauler Pelz. Nägels-bach was taciturn, and so was I. He did, however, tell me that there'd be no more food by the time I got to the prison and took me shopping. Pretzels, some Camembert, a bottle of Barolo, and a few apples. I remembered the Mangold beets being sold at the market in Mannheim. I have a soft spot for this underrated local vegetable when it is cooked au gratin or served as a salad-but one has to put the beets in a marinade while they are still warm and let them sit for a few hours.
I hadn't been at the Fauler Pelz prison since the days when I was a public prosecutor. More than forty years had passed, and I no longer recognized the layout. But I did recognize the smell, the echoing sound of steps, the correctional officer's fumbling for the right key on the jangling bunch, and the unlocking and relocking of the cell door. The warden closed my door and locked it. He and Nägelsbach walked away, and I listened to the echo of their steps. I ate a few of the pretzels with some cheese and apples, drank the Barolo, and read Gottfried Keller. I had taken along his Zurich stories, and learned from the Bailiff of Greifensee to what extent one can be driven to gather together all one's old loves. I wondered if Philipp, too, was seeking a graceful and edifying end to a ridiculous story, as well as a little peace of mind.
I was doing quite well until I lay down on the bunk for the night. Numbing cold seeped through the thick walls, and yet a summer breeze blew waves of warmth through the openings in the window. It also brought the voices of reveling barhop-pers, calls of greeting and good-bye, the droning laughter of men and the bubbling laughter of women. Once in a while there was utter silence, until I heard faraway steps and voices approaching, getting louder, and then fading again in the distance. Sometimes I caught shreds of conversation. Sometimes a couple would stop beneath my window.
Suddenly I was gripped by longing for the bright, warm, colorful life outside, as if I had been locked up and would be locked up in this cell for years. Locked up for years-was that what was in store for me? I thought of the pride that comes before a fall, and of the fall that follows pride. I thought of the successes I had striven for in my life and the failures I had had. I thought about Korten's death. Was I experiencing the victory of poetic injustice?
The next morning I attempted a few squats and push-ups. They are said to help you survive years of solitary confinement. My joints ached.
19 Pending proceedings
At nine thirty I was taken for questioning. I had expected Bleckmeier and Rawitz. Instead I sat opposite a young man with a clever face and manicured hands who introduced himself as Federal Public Prosecutor Dr. Franz from the Federal High Court. In a clear, pleasant voice he read me the charges, ranging from aiding a terrorist organization to obstruction of justice. He asked me if I wished to be represented by a lawyer of my choice. “I am aware that you have a legal background,” he said, “but so do I, and when it comes to my own affairs I wouldn't touch something as simple as a purchase or rent dispute. Never act on your own behalf in legal matters-that's a solid old legal principle. In your case, the main issue will be the severity of the sentence, so overview and experience will be necessary, neither of which you have.” He smiled affably.
“You mentioned Frau Salger-and what did you say was the crime for which I am supposed to have obstructed justice?”
“I haven't said anything yet. The crime is an attack on an American military installation perpetrated on January sixth in Käfertal.”
“Käfertal?”
Dr. Franz nodded. “But I think we'd better talk about you. You picked up Frau Salger in Amorbach and helped her cross the border into France. You need not worry about any infringements against the Passport Law, Herr Self; we will be happy to sweep that under the rug. I would like you to tell me what happened after you got her to France.” He continued to smile affably.
After I had closed the book of my journey with Leo and put it away on my return to Mannheim, I hadn't touched it again. Now it flipped open of its own accord. For an instant I forgot where I was, didn't see the Formica table, the dirty yellow walls, the barred windows. I let myself be carried away by a wave of memories of Leo's face, the moon above Lake Murten, and the air in the Alps. Then the wave set me back down, and once again I sat facing Dr. Franz. His smile had frozen into a grimace. No, the book of my journey with Leo would remain shut for him. And what about the obstruction of justice? Does not obstruction of justice require that a crime has actually been perpetrated and can be punished? Without an attack in Käfertal on January 6, there was also no obstruction of justice. Without an attack, there was also no terrorist organization that I could have supported. What if, instead of the attack in Käfertal, there had been one in the Lampertheim National Forest?
When I asked him that, he looked at me, puzzled. “Instead of that attack another one? I don't quite understand.”
I got up. “I'd like to return to my cell.”