a distance like a magician. But now he had to accept that there was nothing magical about the key he was holding in his hand, because he could press and he could wish all he wanted, he could lock and unlock a thousand times, and he’d still only produce this knocking sound, like a drummer in a funeral march, driving the tears from the eyes of the mourners at the grave site. But for all that, the little girl, who the Frau Doctor had placed in his care, didn’t pop back up.
Interesting, though. He must have blacked out at this point-missing footage, if you will. Because later he had no memory of how he had run around the gas station. He didn’t remember running through the car wash. He didn’t remember stumbling out of the lot and running up and down the street. He didn’t remember running a second and then a third time around the gas station and through the car wash. Or better put, he did in fact remember it. But in reverse! Now how is something like this possible?
Watch closely. His forward-recollection kicked in only at the point when he ran back into the gas station. He doesn’t mention a word about the child having disappeared, instead: something’s been stolen from my car. Because otherwise the gas station attendant is going to call the police right away if he says what has been stolen. The police gave Herr Ex-Detective hell for that one. Why didn’t you call the police immediately, close off the streets, crackdowns, raids, the works! And I do have to say, with something like this, you’ve simply got to call the police. Personal history with the police notwithstanding. Herr Simon made a big mistake there. Maybe the pills had him feeling a little too sure of himself. Even if afterward you can say ten times over, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway, there would’ve been no point in calling the police right away, because already far too late to close off the streets. But he couldn’t have known that. And at least he would have spared himself a little trouble. In hindsight. Above all he would have been spared those smartasses at the newspaper, because they managed to dig up from some channel or another his ancient police academy photo, and beneath it they put the caption: BODYGUARD SIPS SLOW DRIP BEFORE CALLING COPS.
Here I feel the need to add: that’s not quite right, either! Because he only ordered his second cup of coffee in order to strike up a conversation with the gas station attendant now. Whether anything might have shown up on the surveillance monitors. The gas station attendant was very sociable, or really I should say cash register attendant, because attendants don’t attend to the gas anymore these days, just the cash register. His name tag said Milan, and the young man explained to his customer in flawless German that the fuel pumps were surveilled, entrance surveilled, cash register surveilled, but over by the air pump, where Herr Simon had of course moved the car, not surveilled. But I have to say, this makes no sense, because an air pump can be stolen faster than a gas pump. But that’s just how it was, and really, Herr Simon already knew as much, the first thing he’d done outside was look to see whether there was a camera in range.
“Can I maybe have a quick look anyway to see whether one of the other cameras picked up the thief getting away?”
“I’m afraid that’s not allowed,” Milan said and set his espresso down in front of him.
I don’t know why, but-did he simply take a liking to Herr Simon, was he hoping for a good tip, did he have a guilty conscience that a theft had occurred on company property, or did Herr Simon just have a look of sheer desperation? — the attendant gestured for him to come behind the counter, and he showed him the flat monitor that hung above the cash register. Ten small cameras, if you can believe it: pump 1, pump 2, pump 3, pump 4, pump 5, pump 6, pump 7, pump 8, entrance, cash register.
Milan rewound the video and after just a few seconds you could see Herr Simon staggering backwards out of the shop, then running backwards around the gas station-you’ve got to picture this for yourself, you see yourself doing something that you just did five minutes ago but don’t remember anymore-backwards into the car wash three times and backwards out three times, the greatest distress of his life looking ridiculous backwards and lasting just a few foolish seconds until, backwards, Herr Simon froze into a pillar of salt, as though Milan had paused the image. And a moment later, an entirely different Herr Simon walked leisurely backwards into the shop.
The attendant rewound the video to the place where Herr Simon was back at his car smiling, dirtying the clean windows, and taking his time sucking the gasoline out of the tank.
From that point on he played the video normally, i.e., forward and at the regular speed. And finally the scenes where Herr Simon was hoping to be able to see something suspicious. First you see him hanging the fuel nozzle back up. Then he moves the car so that the Volvo behind him can pull up. The Volvo driver gasses up, Herr Simon goes into the shop to pay, the Volvo drives off again without a stolen child. Then a silver Alfa pulls up to another pump, but the driver only walks out of the shop with two cans of Red Bull and no Helena. And briefly you see the red-haired woman-who was standing in Herr Simon’s way as he was trying to balance his double espresso on the counter-walk into the shop. The attendant knows her, though, because she lives right across the street and was only buying something from the shop like she does every day. Then an old white Golf pulls through just because it wants to turn around, such that the license plate can’t be made out, but it doesn’t matter, because it didn’t even come to a complete stop.
And then you see-forward this time and at the right speed-how Herr Simon comes back out of the shop and how he recoils as though the earth were opening up before him. It was almost worse for him to be experiencing this moment a second time now on-screen-or should I say for the first time.
“I’m sorry,” Milan said. “You can’t see anything. Was it valuable?”
“What?”
“What got stolen from your car?”
Herr Simon gave no answer. These forgotten minutes were such a nightmare that, if the screen had revealed him to be the kidnapper himself, he wouldn’t have been surprised.
“Should I call the police?”
“It’s too late now. They’re already over the mountains.”
He felt so numb that he had no idea what he should do. The pills weren’t helping him, the coffee wasn’t helping him, and the panic wasn’t helping him. Instead, complete power outage.
“Give me another espresso,” he said to Milan.
Because he was like a little kid now who’s gotten into some trouble and thinks that nobody will find out about it if he just closes his eyes or hides behind the house. That the newspapers criticized him so much for it, though, I don’t think is right, either. Somehow he expected two-year-old Helena to come strolling in through the door, and off they’d drive together. And believe it or not, he even bought a medium-sized chocolate bar for her. He told himself a medium-sized bar without any filling is a compromise that all parties could live with, chocolate proponents and chocolate opponents alike.
He ignored his cell phone’s ringing. Or what’s called ringing. Jimi Hendrix played “Castles Made of Sand” because that was what the son of the clinic’s psychologist had conjured up for him his first week on the job. For the first time in his life, Jimi annoyed him because he was playing the same thing over and over. Herr Simon didn’t even look at who was calling because the risk was too great that it might be the Frau Doctor. You should know, when he was on the road she would often check in during an abortion break to make sure everything was okay, and Herr Simon always made a point of asking Helena something so that her mama could hear her voice over the phone, and then she’d be pacified.
The two gas station drunks at the counter weren’t bothered any by the unrelenting ringtone either. Sure, they glanced over a little, but otherwise, no commentary. Fortunately, the gas station TV drowned out the cell phone a bit, too, because a blond newscaster was saying empathetic things to people with problems, but her voice was so aggressive that it sounded like the plastic surgeon had mistakenly nailed her vocal cords to her ears on her last visit.
Interesting customers came in now and then, which also distracted nicely. Because they didn’t just come in and pay, but would make the rounds, too, a bottle of water, chips and a sleeve of cookies, sausage on a bun, a newspaper, there was a lot to look at, and meanwhile his cell phone would go off, maybe twice per customer. Jimi sang again and again, but Herr Simon didn’t pick up.
From the way the gas station customers ignored him, he realized that they simply took him for a gas station drunk himself. Because one thing you can’t forget. Herr Simon looked like he’d just been to hell and back.
“Your phone’s ringing,” a customer said on her way out, on account of the way he was staring at her. But she couldn’t have known that it was only because of the chocolate bar she’d bought. He ordered himself another espresso, and when Helena still didn’t turn up, he left. Maybe she’d climbed back into the car, maybe she’d just gone on a little outing, and now she was back in her car seat again. Or another possibility. Maybe Herr Simon had just hallucinated the whole thing, possibly due to the pills? Because he did have a nonalcoholic beer yesterday, and
