Self's punishment - By Bernhard Schlink & Walter Popp Page 0,46

clients and me. Why I didn’t tell you the story right away, you might ask. I—’

‘I might well ask. But actually I really don’t want to listen to the slick, cowardly falsehoods you might care to tell me. Thanks for the tea.’ She grabbed her handbag and stood up. ‘What do I owe you for your trouble? Send me a bill.’

I stood up, too. As she was about to open the door in the hallway, I pulled her hand away from the door handle. ‘You mean a lot to me. And your interest in clearing up what happened to Mischkey isn’t satisfied. Don’t leave like this.’

While I’d been talking, she’d left her hand in mine. Now she withdrew it and left without a word.

I shut the door to the apartment. I took the olives out of the fridge and sat on the balcony. The sun was shining, and Turbo, who’d been roaming the rooftops, curled up purring on my lap. It was only because of the olives. I gave him a few. From the street I could hear Judith turning on the ignition of her Alfa. The motor roared, then petered out. Was she coming back? A few seconds later the motor was running again and she drove off.

I succeeded in not thinking about whether I had behaved correctly, and enjoyed every single olive. They were the black Greek ones that taste of musk, smoke, and rich earth.

After an hour on the balcony I went into the kitchen and prepared the herb butter for the snails we’d eat after the concert. It was five o’clock. I called Brigitte and let the phone ring ten times. As I did the ironing I listened to La Wally and looked forward to Wilhelmenia Fernandez. From the cellar I fetched a couple of bottles of Alsace Riesling and put them in the fridge.

12

Hare and Tortoise

The concert was in the Mozartsaal. Our seats were in the sixth row, off to the left, so that our view of the singer wasn’t obscured by the conductor. Sitting down, I cast a glance around. A pleasantly mixed audience, from elderly ladies and gentlemen right down to kids you could easily picture at a rock concert. Babs, Röschen, and Georg arrived in a silly mood; mother and daughter sticking their heads together and giggling, Georg sticking out his chest and preening. I sat between Babs and Röschen, patting the right knee of one and the left knee of the other.

‘I thought you were bringing a woman of your own to pet, Uncle Gerd.’ Röschen picked up my hand with the tips of her fingers and let it drop next to her knee. She was wearing a black lace glove that left the fingers free. The gesture was crushing.

‘Oh, Röschen, Röschen, when you were a little girl and I rescued you from the Indians, you on my left arm, my Colt in my right hand, you never spoke to me like that.’

‘There aren’t any Indians any more, Uncle Gerd.’

What had become of my sweet girl? I took a sideways look at her, the postmodern angular haircut, and, hanging down from her ear, the clenched silver fist with the expressive thumb between the index and middle finger, the flattish face she’d inherited from her mother, and the somewhat too small, still childlike mouth.

The conductor was a slimy Mafioso, as short as he was fat. He bowed his permed head to us and drove the orchestra into a medley from Gianni Schicchi. The man was good. With the barest movements of his delicate baton he coaxed the most tender tones from the mighty orchestra. I also had to concede it was to his credit he’d placed an exquisite little female timpanist behind the kettledrums, in tails and dress trousers. Could I wait for her by the orchestra exit after the concert and offer my assistance in carrying her kettledrums home?

Then Wilhelmenia came on stage. She’d grown plumper since Diva , but looked enchanting in a glittering sequined evening gown. Best of all was La Wally. With her the concert ended, with her the diva conquered the audience. It was nice to see young and old united in applause. After two hard-fought-for encores, during which the small timpanist brilliantly made my heart turn somersaults again, we stepped lightly into the night.

‘Shall we go on somewhere?’ asked Georg.

‘Back to my place, if you’d like. I’ve prepared snails and the Riesling is chilling.’

Babs glowed, Röschen moaned, ‘Do we have to walk there?’ and Georg said,