Rosa

trousers were another nod to his perfection, as was the slip of blue handkerchief that peeped out from his breast pocket. The delicacy of his hands was also something remarkable, pale and soft as they graced the waves of satin.

“You will find none more exquisite in the city, Madame,” he said, equally transfixed by the gloves. “Feel them against your skin. Lovely.”

It was clear from Fichte’s expression that he had never been inside Kaufhaus des Westens, or KaDeWe, as it had come to be known: the high temple of capitalism, undaunted by threats from either socialists or shortages. Utterly self-assured, the place was alive with consumption, and Fichte seemed unable to take it all in fast enough. There was the endless sea of scarves and blouses, soaps and colognes, each department with its own distinct color and feel. Even the size of the clerks seemed to change from one area to the next: long, elegant men to clothe the customer, squatter ones to perfume her, thick-necked boys for her sporting equipment. And somewhere in the distant reaches, men’s ties and shirts filled the glass-topped rows; they, however, were lost behind a wall of ever- moving flesh. Above it all, the din from countless conversations crested in an orchestral echo that, to Fichte’s ear, sounded as if it were tuning. He had played the violin as a boy, poorly, but had always enjoyed that collective search for pitch.

Looking up, he followed a network of wires that crisscrossed the vaulted space; the lines were only a stepladder’s climb from him, but they seemed to soar high above as they rose to a squadron of desks on the mezzanine level: this was where all transactions were consummated; money was never kept at the counters. In a constant whir of tramlike efficiency, tiny boxes whizzed overhead, carrying receipts and payments back and forth. This had been the way at KaDeWe since its opening; modern mechanisms had yet to infiltrate. Fichte had to wonder if a pluck on one of the cables might produce a perfect A-flat.

“Oh, well,” said the woman as she removed the glove. “Not today.” She thanked the clerk and moved off. The man nodded politely, replaced the two sets of gloves beneath the glass, and then turned to Hoffner and Fichte. He needed only a glance to take stock of the two men: Fichte was still gazing upward. It was enough for the clerk to know that his frustrations would continue.

“And now, mein Herr,” he said to Hoffner with icy civility. “How can we be of assistance today?”

Hoffner pulled from his pocket a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. He opened it and placed the contents on the counter. “I’m wondering,” he said, “where I might get a pair like these for my wife.” The voice and attitude were unlike anything Fichte had ever seen or heard coming from Hoffner before. There was something almost apologetic, even puny, to him. It was an astonishing transformation. The wonder of KaDeWe instantly faded to the background.

“For your wife,” said the man, as he glanced indifferently at the muddied gloves. “Yes, mein Herr.”

“The dog got into the bureau,” said Hoffner sheepishly. “Made a complete mess of them. All my fault.”

“Yes,” repeated the man. He took in a long breath, then picked up one of the gloves. Almost at once his demeanor changed. He quickly brought the glove up to his face and began to examine it closely.

“Is there-something wrong?” said Hoffner.

The man looked across at him. “Oh, no, no, no, mein Herr,” he said, now the model of fawning servility. “It’s just-I couldn’t tell the remarkable quality, what with all the staining.”

“I see,” said Hoffner with a bland smile.

The clerk continued to pick his way through the lace. “Wonderful,” he said. “May I ask where mein Herr originally purchased them?”

“A gift,” said Hoffner. “From an aunt, I believe.”

“I see,” said the man. He placed the glove on the counter and pointed behind him to two large volumes. “May I?” he said.

Hoffner nodded his assent.

The man pulled the second of the books from the shelf and, placing it on the counter, began to leaf through. It was clear he knew exactly what he was looking for. “It’s an extremely intricate pattern, mein Herr,” he said as he continued to flip through the pages. “Quite rare. We don’t carry it ourselves, but we’d be happy to order it for you. Ah, yes,” he said, stopping on a page. “Here it is.” He flipped the book around so that Hoffner could see the drawing. “Mechlin Rseau de Bruges,” said the man as he watched Hoffner scan the page. The clerk then picked up the glove and began to illustrate for Fichte. “It’s like the Brussels mesh,” he said as he dusted off the palm. “But here you see the four threads are plaited only twice, instead of four times, on the two sides, while the two threads are twisted twice, instead of once, on the four sides.” The clerk stared at the glove with almost spiritual devotion; it was as if Hoffner and Fichte had disappeared. “Marvelous craftsmanship.”

Fichte had no idea what the man was saying; he nodded nonetheless.

“It’s Belgian?” said Hoffner, looking up from the book.

“Yes, mein Herr. And made only in Bruges. As I said, we can order it for you.”

“From this firm, here,” said Hoffner, pointing to a name on the page.

“Edgar Troimpel et Fils. Yes, mein Herr.”

“Do you make such orders quite often?” said Hoffner.

“All the time, mein Herr.”

“To this particular firm in Belgium?”

The man seemed momentarily confused. “Well-no, mein Herr, but our couriers are excellent.”

“No, of course,” said Hoffner. “I’m just wondering if you’ve placed an order with them in, say, the last few months?”

Again, the clerk seemed slightly put off. “Not that I recall, mein Herr. Not with the war. But that shouldn’t be a problem at all now. They know us quite well. Since before the war.”

Hoffner knew he had hit the point of retreat. Clerks like this wanted to be coddled, not prodded. Still, Hoffner needed a little more information. He smiled and took a final, harmless swipe. “Of course,” he said. “I imagine KaDeWe is the only store in Berlin they work with.”

As if on cue, the man’s face tightened. “No, mein Herr.” His words were now clipped. “I’m sure Wertheim’s or one of the lesser stores has contacts with the firm. I can’t address the quality of their service-”

“No, of course not,” said Hoffner with a penitent smile. “I was only inquiring.” He decided to throw the man a bone. “Rest assured that when I order them, I will order only from the best and most respected. KaDeWe.”

The man softened as he beamed. “That’s very kind of you, mein Herr, and may I say, I think a wise choice. Shall I get the order form?”

“I’ll need two pairs of the gloves.” Hoffner saw the Reichsmarks dancing in the man’s eyes. “The second for my sister. Unfortunately, I haven’t brought her size with me. I didn’t want to get her hopes up if I didn’t know I could find them. You understand.”

“Absolutely, mein Herr.”

“You are here until-”

“Six o’clock, mein Herr.”

“Then I will be back before then.” Hoffner retrieved the package.

“Excellent, mein Herr.”

“Come, Reiner,” Hoffner said to Fichte with sudden determination. “We mustn’t keep your bowel doctor waiting.”

Three minutes later, Hoffner ordered two coffees before making his way over to a table and Fichte, who had settled in by one of the caf’s outdoor heaters: the long, iron-encased lamp was working at full capacity to create a pocket of toasted air. Ten or so other lamps littered the space under the wide awning; even so, most of the clientele had opted for seats inside. Hoffner, on the other hand, liked being out on the street; he liked the occasional spray of rain that seemed to defy all logic by attacking from the side and not from above; most of all, he liked that Fichte was getting the brunt of it. Across the avenue, KaDeWe loomed like an enormous troll.

“All right,” said Fichte. “So, now that we’re sitting down, why the performance, riveting as it was, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar?” For the first time, the title seemed to carry less than its usual reverence: Hoffner liked the change. He tossed his hat onto an empty chair.