Giovanni cleared my plate away and placed a sambuca in front of me without a word. I ordered a coffee to go with it. At the neighbouring table a woman of around forty was sitting, reading Brigitte. From the cover I saw its lead article was ‘STERILIZED – AND NOW WHAT?’ I gathered my courage.
‘Yes, indeed, now what?’
‘I’m sorry?’ She looked at me in confusion and ordered an amaretto. I asked her if she came here often.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘After work I always come here to eat.’
‘Are you sterilized?’
‘Believe it or not, I am sterilized. And after my sterilization I had a child, the sweetest little boy.’ She laid down Brigitte.
‘Incredible,’ I said. ‘And does Brigitte approve of that?’
‘The case doesn’t crop up. It’s more about unhappy women and men who realize they want children after they’ve been sterilized.’ She nipped at her amaretto.
I crunched a coffee bean. ‘Doesn’t your son like Italian food? What does he do in the evenings?’
‘Would you mind if I joined you rather than screeching the answer through the entire restaurant?’
I stood up, pulled back a chair invitingly, and said I’d be delighted if she – well, the usual things you say. She brought a glass with her and lit a cigarette. I looked at her more closely, the somewhat tired eyes, the stubborn mouth, and the tiny wrinkles, the lacklustre ash-blonde hair, the ring in one ear and the Band-Aid on the other. If I didn’t watch out I’d be in bed with this woman within three hours. Did I want to watch out?
‘To come back to your question – my son is in Rio with his father.’
‘What’s he doing there?’
‘Manuel is eight years old now and goes to school in Rio. His father studied in Mannheim. I almost married him, because of the residence permit. When the child arrived he had to return to Brazil and we agreed he’d take him with him.’ I frowned at her. ‘Now you consider me a raven mother. But I didn’t get sterilized for the fun of it.’
A raven mother, indeed. Or at least an irritating one. According to German fairy tales, raven mothers and fathers push their fledglings from the nest. I never found out whether this does justice to real ravens, but it seemed to apply to her and I didn’t have any particular desire to keep flirting. When I remained silent, she asked, ‘Why the interest in the sterilization thing anyway?’
‘First something clicked in my mind, because of the cover of Brigitte. Then you interested me, how composed you were as you dealt with the question. Now it feels too composed, the way you talk about your son. Perhaps I’m too old-fashioned for this kind of composure.’
‘Composure can’t be imparted. A shame that prejudices are always confirmed.’ She took her glass and wanted to leave.
‘Could you just say first what RCW brings to mind?’ She gave me a frosty look. ‘I know, it’s a stupid-sounding question. But the RCW has been in my mind all day and I can’t see the forest for the trees.’
She responded earnestly. ‘A whole lot comes to mind. And I’ll tell you, because there’s something about you that I like. RCW to me stands for the Rhine Chemical Works, contraception pills, poisoned air and poisoned water, power, Korten-’
‘Why Korten?’
‘I massaged him. I give massages as it happens.’
‘So you are a masseuse?’
‘Masseuses are our impure sisters. Korten came for six months with back problems and he spoke a bit about himself and his work during the sessions. Sometimes we got into proper discussions. One time he said, “It’s not reprehensible to use people, it’s just tactless to let them notice.” That stayed in my mind for a long time.’
‘Korten was my friend.’
‘Why “was”? He’s still alive.’
Yes, why ‘was’? Had our friendship been buried in the meantime? ‘Self, you sweetheart’ – again and again the words had gone through my head in the Aegean and sent a shudder down my spine. Submerged memories had resurfaced, blended with fantasy, and forced their way into my sleep. With a cry, I’d awoken from the dream bathed in sweat: Korten and I hiking through the Black Forest – I knew very well that it was the Black Forest in spite of the high cliffs and deep gullies. There were three of us, a classmate was with us, Kimski or Podel. The sky was deep blue, the air heavy and yet surreally clear. Suddenly stones crumbled and bounced away silently down the slope, and we were hanging from a rope that was fraying. Above us was Korten and he looked at me and I knew what he expected of me. Still more of the cliff tumbled silently into the valley; I tried to claw my way up, to secure the rope and pull up the third man. I couldn’t do it and tears of helplessness and despair came to my eyes. I got out my penknife and started to cut through the rope beneath me. I have to do it, I have to, I thought, and cut. Kimski or Podel fell into the ravine. I could see it all at once, flailing arms, getting smaller and smaller in the distance, gentle mockery in Korten’s eyes, as though it were all a game. Now he could pull me up and when he almost had me at the top, sobbing and bleeding, ‘Self, you sweetheart’ came once again, and the rope broke…
‘What’s wrong? What’s your name, by the way? I’m Brigitte Lauterbach.’
‘Gerhard Self. If you didn’t come in your own car – may I after this bumpy evening offer you a lift home in my jolting Opel?’
‘Yes, please. I’d have taken a taxi otherwise.’
Brigitte lived in Max-Joseph-Strasse. The goodbye peck on the cheek turned into a long embrace.
‘Would you like to come up, stupid? With a sterilized and raven mother?’
8 An everyday sort of blood
While she fetched wine from the fridge I stood there in her living room with all the awkwardness of the first time. You’re still wary about what might not grate: a canary in a cage, a Peanuts poster on the wall, Yevtushenko in the bookshelves, Barry Manilow on the turntable. Brigitte was guilty of none of the above. Yet the wariness was there – perhaps it’s always in one’s self?
‘Can I make a phone call?’ I called through to the kitchen.
‘Go right ahead. The phone’s in the top drawer of the bureau.’
I opened the drawer and dialled Philipp’s number. It rang eight times before he picked up.
‘Hello?’ His voice sounded oily.
‘Philipp, Gerd here. I hope I’m disturbing you.’
‘You bet, you crazy dick. Yes, it was blood, blood type O, rhesus negative. An everyday sort of blood, so to speak, age of the sample between two and three weeks. Anything else? Sorry, but I’m tied up here. You saw her yesterday, remember, the little Indonesian in the elevator. She brought her friend along. It’s all action.’
Brigitte had come into the room with a bottle and two glasses, poured it, and brought a glass over to me. I’d handed her the extension, and Brigitte looked at me in amusement at Philipp’s last sentences.
‘Do you know anyone at forensics in Heidelberg, Philipp?’
‘No, she doesn’t work at forensics. At McDonald’s at the Planken, that’s where she works. Why?’
‘It’s not Big Mac’s blood type I’m after, but Peter Mischkey’s – he was examined by forensics at Heidelberg. And I’d like to know if you can find out. That’s why.’
‘But it doesn’t have to be right now. Come round instead, let’s talk about it over breakfast. Bring someone with you though. I’m not slogging my guts out so you can come along and lick the cream.’
‘Does she have to be Asian?’
Brigitte laughed. I put my arm round her and she snuggled into me demurely.