I got up, walked a few steps, opened the window and then the door to the balcony, and took a deep breath. But whatever wasn’t right in my chest didn’t go away. It grew. It turned into a pressure, and my fear turned into panic.
The pressure abated and I calmed down. Hadn’t my last heart attack sent a numbness along my left arm? I felt nothing in my left arm. At that moment I decided that in the future I would live a healthier life, not smoke anymore, not drink anymore, and get some exercise. If Philipp went for the gold, couldn’t I at least go for the bronze? I was immersed in pleasant and positive thoughts. Until the pressure returned and I again broke out in a sweat. I was gripped by panic when the pressure remained and increased, in a slow ebbing and flowing. I sat down on my bed, hugged my chest with both arms, rocked back and forth, and heard myself whimpering softly.
But the pressure had been only a forerunner of pain. It, too, came in waves, sometimes slow, sometimes fast: there was no regular rhythm I could count on. The first onslaught was like an electric shock that made my chest seize up. It electrified my brain, and with full clarity I realized I had to do something. If I didn’t I would die. It was just after five in the morning.
I called the emergency service and twenty minutes later two paramedics from the Red Cross arrived with a stretcher-twenty minutes in which the pain cut through me like waves. Like labor pains-at least what I imagined labor pains to be-and whenever the pain kicked in, I took a deep breath. The paramedics made a few soothing remarks, got me onto the stretcher, and hooked me up to a drip from which a blood thinner flowed. They carried me down the five floors and put me in the ambulance. They turned on the flashing blue lights; through the window I could see them flaring over the wall of the building. Then they turned on the siren and drove off. They didn’t drive fast. The drip and the plastic tube swung gently.
Was there also a tranquilizer in the drip? The pain didn’t subside, but in its peaks and valleys my impressions became blurred and my fear disappeared into a whimpering resignation.
In the emergency room a lady doctor put stronger medications into my drip. These were supposed to dissolve the clot in my heart. I choked on gall and wondered why my gallbladder didn’t like my thinning blood. The nurse didn’t wonder; she reached for a kidney-shaped pan and held it under my chin.
After a while I was sent to intensive care. Corridor ceilings, swinging doors, elevators, doctors in green, nurses in white, patients and visitors. In a daze I took it all in, as if I were rolling on a silent train through a perplexing and seething swarm. At one point we went through a long corridor that was empty except for a patient in pajamas and dressing gown who followed me with his eyes, bored and without curiosity or pity. At times I managed to gag into the kidney-shaped pan that lay next to my head, at times I missed. It stank repulsively.
The pain had settled into my chest as if it had sized me up when it had first arrived in rising and ebbing waves and now knew that it was the sole proprietor. The pain had become even, an even pulling, a pulling into and out of my chest. After a few hours in intensive care it subsided, as did the vomiting. I was only exhausted, so exhausted that I thought it possible simply to fade out.
20 Crimes for lost honor
Philipp showed up in the afternoon and patiently explained to me what happens during an angiogram. Hadn’t it already been explained to me once before? A catheter is inserted and pushed all the way up to the heart so that pictures can be taken: of your beating heart, of good arteries, constricted arteries, and blocked arteries. If luck isn’t on your side the catheter irritates the heart, with the result that it can no longer maintain its rhythm. Or the catheter pries loose a thrombosis, which wanders off and blocks an artery at a vital point.
“Do I have a choice?”
Philipp shook his head.
“Then you don’t need to explain all this.”
“I thought you might find it interesting.”
I nodded.
I also nodded when, after the angiogram, the surgeon informed me that two bypasses would be necessary. I didn’t want to know why, how, or where. I didn’t want to act to the doctors or nurses-and definitely not to myself-as if I had a say in any of this.
The surgeon told me of a colleague of his in Mosbach who’d had nine bypasses and then climbed the Katzenbuckel, the highest mountain of the Odenwald range. There was no need to worry; we’d just have to wait a few days until my heart had calmed down a little and was less vulnerable before we operated.
So I waited, and my exhaustion slowly began to fade. I was still tired. The fatigue allowed me to live down the loss of my autonomy, the tubes hooked to my wrist, the face that looked back at me in the mirror, and the fact that whenever I peed, half went astray. I dozed.
At times Brigitte sat by my bed, her hand resting on mine or on my forehead. She read to me but I got tired after a few pages. Or we would speak a few words, which I would often forget shortly afterward. I understood that Ulbrich was either still in Mannheim or that he had come back, and had been looking for me all over, and had finally found Brigitte; that he was agitated; that he wanted to talk to me at all costs, even if it meant here in the hospital. But the doctors wouldn’t let anyone see me except Brigitte or Philipp, and that was fine by me.
Then came the time for me to start walking again. I made my way up and down the corridor, out into the garden, and around the pond, but I was worried that a rash movement might loosen whatever was clogging my arteries and send it wandering to an even more dangerous place. I knew this fear was foolish. But it was there. I was also afraid that the pain would return, that my heart might start beating irregularly, that it would stop beating altogether. I was afraid of dying.
Needless to say, while I lay there waiting, images and scenes from my life came to my mind. My childhood in Berlin, my career as public prosecutor, my marriage to Klara, my work as private investigator, my years with Brigitte. I also mulled over my last case, which I hadn’t concluded the way I’d wanted to.
“I’m glad you didn’t do anything to Welker,” Brigitte said. “It rattled you, but it didn’t kill you. You’ll get back on your feet again.”
It was only later that I fully understood what Brigitte meant. I wasn’t reading the papers, nor watching or listening to the news. But one day I came across an old copy of the Mannheimer Morgen lying on a bench in the garden and the headline caught my eye: EXPLOSION IN SCHWETZINGEN. I read that a bomb had exploded in a bank in Schwetzingen. Nobody had been seriously injured, but there was extensive damage. The culprit, a recently fired employee, was detained on the scene with minor injuries by other employees and arrested by the police. The bomb seems to have gone off sooner than he expected. The lead article focused on the matter of the bomb: it was the wrong way to respond to a dismissal, regardless of whether the dismissal was justified or not. But the article pointed out that the culprit was from Cottbus, and that citizens from the former East Germany, after forty-five years of Communism, often found it difficult to come to terms with the open labor market and often regarded a dismissal as a stain on their honor. The article went on to make a few insightful remarks about crimes for lost honor.
I sat on the bench and thought about Karl-Heinz Ulbrich. I would ask Brigitte to go visit him in prison and take him a good book, a good Bordeaux, and some fresh fruit. I wanted her to take him a chess set, too, and my Spassky vs. Korchnoi. Chess was widely played in the East. I wanted her to ask Nägelsbach to put in a good word with his former colleagues. Crimes committed because of a loss of honor-the writer of that article didn’t know how right he was.