I lost. All that week I lived and breathed chess, worked my way through openings, went over the moves of games, found out when and where Berlin chess clubs got together. In the first and second games old Herr Korten still had a chance. But he lost, even though I allowed him to retract the moves he called his “foolish little slipups.” By then I knew how he played, and I toyed with him. That was the last time he challenged me to a game. And the last time he treated me dismis-sively.
So Salger wanted to play with me? Let him try.
Turbo looked at me obliquely. He was sitting in the flower box, steadying himself with his front paws, his head tilted to the side.
“I know, I know, Turbo, no need to look at me like that. That was just hot air.” He listened attentively. When I didn't continue, he turned away and began grooming himself. I suddenly remembered how Turbo had sat on the couch next to me last night, while Salger was facing us with his gun. What if Salger were to take aim and fire faster the next time he showed up? I got up and walked over to the phone. Eberhard? No, he's allergic to cats. Brigitte? Nonni and Turbo fight like cats and dogs. Philipp? I didn't manage to reach him or Füruzan, and was told at the clinic that he was at a conference in Siena. Babs? She was home. She was having a late-afternoon cup of coffee with her two grown-up children, and invited me over right away. “You want to put Turbo up here? No problem, bring him along, and don't forget the kitty litter.”
Turbo always has a fit in the car. I've tried baskets, I've tried collars, I've tried nothing at all. The sound and vibration of the engine, the quickly changing images, and the speed are all too much for my cat. His world is the rooftops between the Richard-Wagner-Strasse, the Augusta-Anlage, the Moll-strasse, and the Werderstrasse, the few balconies and windows he can reach over the rooftops, the few neighbors and cats living behind those balconies and windows, the pigeons and the mice. Whenever I need to take him to the vet, I carry him under my coat, and he peeks out between the buttons the way I would out of a space shuttle. That was how we made the long trip to the Dürerstrasse.
Babs lives in a large apartment with Röschen and Georg, who, if you ask me, are old enough to stand on their own two feet. And yet they prefer to keep their feet firmly planted on mummy's hearth rug. Georg is studying law in Heidelberg, and Röschen can't ever decide whether she wants to study, get some kind of vocational training or a job, or which of her admirers to choose between. She had kept them dangling so long that they finally gave up, and now she was absolutely miserable.
“Were they so great?”
She had either been crying or had a cold. “No,” she sniffled, “but…”
“No buts. If they weren't that great, then you should be glad you got rid of them.”
She sniffled. “Do you know anyone I can date?”
“I'll get back to you on that one. Do you think you can look after Turbo in the meantime? Think of it as practice. Men and tomcats are one and the same thing.”
She smiled. She is a punk rocker with violet and yellow hair, alligator clips in her earlobes, and a computer chip in the side of her nose. But she smiled in a nice, old-fashioned way. “Jonas has—”
“Is that one of the two beaus?”
She nodded. “Jonas has a rat called Rudi. He never goes anywhere without him. I could invite him over for dinner— he did say we should remain friends—and while he eats his spaghetti, Turbo can eat Rudi.” Her eyes misted over. “What do you say to that, Uncle Gerhard?”
26
You're stubborn, just plain stubborn
Back home I lay down again. Brigitte came over, sat on the edge of my bed, and asked me what actually had happened yesterday. I told her.
“Why didn't you want to let Inspector Nägelsbach know where that girl is? And why not tell the man who hired you? You don't owe her anything.”
“I don't know why the police and Salger are looking for her. I need to know that first. She didn't do anything to me, and I don't want to hand her over just to get them off my back