“But why a gay joint?”
“Because I couldn’t think of any other that far away. Charlie had told me about it. He said they filmed the patrons there, and then.…” He rubbed his index finger with his thumb. “I thought it would be a good false track, farfetched enough for you to stick with it for a while. And, besides-,” he punched my shoulder playfully, “one should try everything once.”
“Thanks but no thanks.”
“I read something about that in a paper. It said everybody’s a little queer, so if you just do a little soul- searching, you’ll discover that little bit in yourself. Jeez, people must have a lot of time-to search their souls to find out what it is they really need for a good time …”
“Just imagine what their good times consist of.”
We turned a corner and passed a tavern in which people were roaring the German national anthem. Two fat pimply-faced kids with shaved heads stood guard on either side of the door, holding wooden clubs at beer-belly level. The bomber jacket one of them was wearing bore a legend in black, red, and gold lettering; it said Keep Germany Beautiful-No Miscegenation!
Slibulsky said, in a loud voice: “Know the one about the three Nazis getting a haircut?”
The kids’ heads turned irritably. For a moment, they seemed to be contemplating action, but then they resumed their pose, staring dully straight ahead and pretending that they hadn’t heard anything. Compulsion to obey orders.
“How does it go?”
“Yeah, right. The barber asks the first one how he’d like to have his hair cut, and the guy says ‘Parted on the right, like Hitler’s.’ He asks the second one; he says ‘Shave it.’ Then he asks the third guy. He looks a little perplexed but says, quickly: ‘Like the others.’ ”
We were the only patrons of the Haiti-Corner. Raoul joined us and treated us to a bottle of rum. After we had eaten and finished that bottle, we opened and worked on another one until Raoul locked the door and closed the blinds. Then we started rolling the dice. The loser had to propose a toast and down a shot of rum. Each game lasted five minutes.
16
I sat at the kitchen table in my bathrobe, breakfasting on black coffee and pickled herring. The window was open. Radiant sunshine, blue sky. A warm wind caressed my face. In the street, a car radio blared “Bella, bella, bella Marie”. That noise was interspersed by shouted orders: “Gertrud! Turn the water on!” and “Gertrud! Turn it off!” The first spring day of the year. My cabeza felt like it was made of lead.
I managed to swallow two rollmopses and a cup of coffee. I got up, lit a cigarette, and leaned on the windowsill. People on their lunch break and housewives carrying bags streamed down the sidewalks, a gang of kids was sitting on a pile of building materials, spitting in front of their feet, and a miniskirt stood leaning against the bus stop sign. I watched the greengrocer pop out of his store to berate a woman about touching his wares. Then the phone rang. I pulled myself together, padded back into the room and flopped into my chair.
“Kayankaya.”
“Good morning. This is Elsa Sandmann. I woke up in your car, yesterday morning.”
“Oh …” I sat up straight. The party angel. Even though I hadn’t forgotten her, I had hardly expected a call. Her voice was pleasantly hoarse, and I could tell she was puffing on a cigarette between phrases.
“I thought you might know how I ended up there.”
“Well, let’s see … You had left that party; you were rather drunk, and you wanted me to take you to Frankfurt. But I had to go someplace else-so you just got in and crashed in the back seat. When I came back, I tried to wake you up, but without success.”
“You weren’t at that party?”
“No. I just happened to be there, on the street.”
“And then you just left me and drove off into the woods?”
“That’s it, more or less. I did put a blanket over you.”
“Pretty strange, I must say.”
“Yes, it was. I had to leave you again. And then I was locked up. And then I got arrested.”
“Your card says you’re a private investigator.”
“I know. After all, it was me who had those printed up.” After a brief pause that gave me the impression there was a smile at the other end of the line, she asked: “But I always thought cops and private detectives were in cahoots?”
“You don’t watch enough television.”
“That’s possible. I also thought that detectives really needed their cars. But in your case, I suppose the suspects would have to help push.”
“Well, it’s my kind of car.”
“Have you been looking for it?”
“No.”
“But I’ve been looking for you. After I had checked out the woods and every tavern in Gellersheim, I decided it would make more sense to drive to your place. I had no idea what that would involve. I stalled out three times, the fourth gear wasn’t working, and the brakes-well, all right. When I got to my place, I was exhausted. That car isn’t just your kind of car, it doesn’t even like strangers.”
“Oh, no. I’m sure it just got too excited by having you drive it. How about giving me your address, and I’ll come and get it.”
Instead of giving me her address, she blew smoke into the mouthpiece. In the background I could hear street noises and the bell of a streetcar. I imagined that she was sitting there by a window, in her bathrobe, a plate of croissants in front of her.
I saw the sunlight glinting in her hair.
“When?”
“Tonight.”
She thought it over. A cup clinked against a saucer. “Between seven and eight?”
“That’s fine,” I said. She gave me an address in Sachsenhausen. Then we said ciao and hung up. It occurred to me that the telephone was as poor a setting for Elsa Sandmann as the rotting back seat of my car had been. Then again, none of us are too good on the phone, especially not when speaking to strangers: as often as not, the result is a chain of misunderstandings, inappropriate laughter, and pauses in which neither one knows whose turn it is to speak next.
I went back to the kitchen to study the street some more until the mailman arrived and handed me a large brown envelope. I ripped off the tape and pulled out a pink file folder, labeled in black magic marker: Rakdee, Sri Dao. Besides unimportant bits of paper including an Interpol printout that reported “no data,” the file contained the following entries:
“Mrs. Sri Dao Rakdee entered the Federal Republic of Germany on June twenty-second, nineteen hundred eighty-eight, on a tourist visa.… applied on September twenty-second for an extension of visa in order to marry Mr. Manfred Greiner.
“A further extension was granted on December twenty-second, nineteen hundred eighty-eight, after a delay encountered in efforts to obtain documents necessary for the marriage from Mrs. Rakdee’s birthplace, Chiang Mai.”
It was one of those old buildings freshly painted in candy colors that make one praise one’s lucky stars for having plain old gray facades across the street. Day-Glo turquoise stripes on a yellow background with pink window frames. As if that weren’t enough, every balcony was overflowing with potted palms and other plant life, helium balloons, children’s toys turning in the wind, and all kinds of other tchotchkes. A blend of “Dear Neighbor, Anarchy is Doable” and “Our Village, Ever More Beautiful.”
I walked to the front door, which was off to one side under a glass awning, and into the entrance hall. A gigantic chandelier hung from the ceiling. The staircase was carpeted in red. An advertising agency occupied the
