fills his ears. This was precisely the state he was in. He had been struck down dead. His school professor, Moravjetz, had described the scene as “pathographical” when they had discussed it in the optional Classics group. He had compared it with Sappho and Catullus’ famous verses on how the human body reacts to violent emotions. Mock had been struck dumb, not by his recollection of Professor Moravjetz, but by the words his teacher had used to describe the scene in the poetry.
“The pathography of love,” he said out loud. “But there’s no love here. I don’t love this crafty whore.”
He walked up to Erika and tore his jacket from her. She woke up.
“I don’t love this crafty whore,” he said resolutely.
She smiled at him.
“Crafty, are you?” Mock felt the flame of anger rise in him. “Why are you laughing, you crafty whore? Are you trying to annoy me?”
“God forbid!” said Erika barely audibly.
She looked away. Mock sensed her fear. His anger branched and crackled in his breast. “She’s frightened, the crafty whore!” he thought and clenched his fist. At that moment there was a knocking at the door. Slow-slow-slow, pause, slow-slow-slow-slow-quick-quick. Recognizing the code to be the rhythm of “Schlesierlied”, Mock opened the door to Smolorz, who no longer reeked of alcohol but instead gave off a scent of soap. To all intents and purposes he was sober.
“Have you been eating soap?” Mock said as he dressed, not in the least embarrassed by Smolorz’s presence. Erika wrapped herself in her dress.
“Water and suds,” said Smolorz. “To spew it all up and get sober.”
Mock donned his hat and left the apartment. He paused on the stairs. As the stench from the blocked toilet reached him, he was overcome with nausea and took the stairs two at a time. When he got to the gate he stopped and took a few very deep breaths. The nausea left him, but his mouth was still filled with saliva. He was only too familiar with these feelings of self-disgust. He heard his own voice: “Are you trying to annoy me, you crafty whore?”, and was struck again by Erika’s fearful gaze — the gaze of a child who does not understand why it will soon be beaten, of a red-headed little girl who likes to snuggle her face into a happy boxer’s fur. He heard her reply: “God forbid!” He slapped his forehead and ran back upstairs. He tapped the rhythm of “Schlesierlied” on the door. Smolorz opened it. He had been sitting on a chair in the hallway. The stench of wet rags wafted from the kitchen and he could hear the buzzing of blowflies.
“Get the caretaker, Smolorz.” Mock screwed up his nose and handed his subordinate a wad of notes. “Pay him to clean the kitchen. And tell him to bring the girl some fresh sheets. Well, go on, what are you waiting for?”
Smolorz left. The door to the main room was closed. Mock opened it and found Erika sitting on the bed in her summer coat, shivering with cold.
“Why did you say ‘God forbid’?” He went to her and rested his hands on her fragile shoulders.
“I didn’t want to annoy you, sir.”
“Not now, before. When I asked you if your client took care of you or the girl in the wheelchair you shouted ‘God forbid’. Why?”
“It wouldn’t have been so awful if he had taken care of me. But the girl in the wheelchair called him ‘Papa’.”
BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 6TH, 1919
HALF PAST TEN AT NIGHT
“Why do you need my dog for the night?” Dosche the postman looked at Mock in surprise. They were sitting on a bench in the yard at Plesserstrasse, staring at the light shining in the window of the Mocks’ apartment. They could distinctly make out two heads bent over a table: Willibald Mock’s rugged grey mane and Cornelius Ruhtgard’s parting, laboriously perfected over the years.
“What are they doing?” Dosche asked, momentarily forgetting Mock’s strange request.
“The same as you do with my father every day,” Mock answered. “Playing chess. But going back to my request …”
“Exactly. What do you need my dog for?”
“See that?” Mock pointed to the sky where a swollen moon hung suspended, its soft light gliding across the dark windows of the building, the privy door and the stoop of the pump. “It’s full, isn’t it?”
“Correct.” Dosche decided to have his last smoke of the day and extracted his tobacco pouch from his pocket.
“I’m going to tell you something.” Mock glanced meaningfully at the man to whom he was speaking. “But it must remain absolutely confidential, understood? It’s to do with the investigation I’m conducting …”
“Ah, the one everybody’s going on about?”
“Shhh …” Mock put a finger to his lips.
“Yes, sir.” Dosche struck his breast and a cloud of smoke escaped through his lips. “I swear I won’t say a word to anybody!”
“The first murder was committed a month ago …”
“I thought it was a week ago …”
“Shhh …” Mock cast his eyes around and, noticing Dosche’s perplexed expression, went on. “Well, the first murder was committed at full moon, like tonight. I’ve got a suspect who hasn’t got an alibi. If he
“But, Mock,” Dosche wheezed through his old pipe, “are you going to take my Rot off somewhere? To some corpse? Where?”
“Shhh … If my experiment is successful, I’ll take you there, too. Would you like that?”
Sparks erupted from Dosche’s pipe. He passed the leash to Mock.
“Fine, fine, take him. But shhh …”
Mock took the leash and tugged the sleepy Rot out from under the bench. He shook Dosche’s hand and went home.
Ruhtgard stood on the threshold of the old butcher’s shop smoking a cigarette.
“Is this our gauge for measuring the strength of the spiritual event?” With the glowing stick he indicated the dog, which was looking at him distrustfully.
Mock winced when he heard Ruhtgard’s joke and said, “Who won?”
“Three to one.”
“To you?”
“No, to Mock senior. Your father plays very well.”
Mock felt himself flush with pride.
“Are we going to go to sleep now?” he asked.
“We are. I think your father’s already made up the beds.” Ruhtgard looked around uncertainly. “Where can I throw my cigarette away? I don’t want to leave rubbish outside the house …”
“This way.” Mock opened the door. “There’s a drain in Uncle Eduard’s old shop. I even thought the noises might have been made by rats getting into the shop that way.”
Ruhtgard went behind the counter, lifted the grille and disposed of his cigarette butt. He went up the stairs. Mock carefully bolted the door, blacked out the shop windows with wooden shutters, filled the lamp to the brim with paraffin and hung it from the ceiling. The place was now well lit. He then went upstairs to their quarters, pulling the somewhat reluctant dog behind him. The hatch door lay open; he did not shut it. He unhooked the dog’s leash, lowered the wick in the lamp and only then cast his eye around the semi-darkness of the room. Ruhtgard lay covered with a blanket on his father’s wooden bed, with eyes closed. Carefully folded trousers, jacket, shirt and tie hung over the headboard. Mock’s father was asleep in the alcove, turned towards the wall. Mock undressed down to
