Eternal Life (4 page)

The fact of the matter was that he himself couldn’t remember all the details from the night before. Only this much is certain: that the woman who was spreading apricot jam on her toast there at breakfast was his colleague from the office, Secretary Bichler. And that he’d agreed to switch over to a first-name basis with her over a drink yesterday at the birthday party of another colleague of theirs, Schmeller, who was then shot to death two and a half years later during the bank robbery.

But he didn’t know much more than that—above all if he’d actually slept with Anni. But she probably did know, and that’s probably why she was opening her mouth now to complain about something that Brenner, despite his best efforts, possibly didn’t even remember.

“Frankly, your apartment doesn’t have any atmosphere.”

Brenner was momentarily relieved. But it was only momentarily a relief. Because it struck him later that when a woman starts fannying around with your furnishings, this might mean something. Okay, in good German: Serious Intentions. But, not to worry, because Anni, just super, at the office she acted like nothing had happened.

And maybe nothing actually did happen, or possibly something did happen but neither one of them remembered, but—whatever, it’s no concern of mine, because it’s got nothing to do with who Ted Parson and his wife, her name was Suzanne, who put these old people on the chairlift.

But then, two weeks after the story with Bichler, okay, Anni, was at the police ball. And Brenner brings the Precinct Music Director’s daughter back to his new civil service
apartment. And that’s when it slowly, bizarrely began to dawn on—well, how should I put it: realization. Because the Precinct Music Director’s daughter hadn’t even took off her shoes yet before she was saying:

“I don’t know, somehow your apartment doesn’t have any atmosphere.”

The very next weekend he was having those two walnut cabinets moved into his apartment. And not just had them moved, but he had cabinets that don’t come apart moved into the third floor of a civil service apartment building. It was by the skin of their teeth that they even got them up there, but believe it or not: no use.

Because the next weekend, or the weekend after that, he gets paid another visit. Brenner wasn’t exactly choosy in that sense of the word, and this was one hell of—but please, I could care less. Anyway, short and sweet, she said:

“Your apartment somehow doesn’t have any atmosphere at all.”

Now, why am I telling you all of this. Brenner’s sitting in his hotel room at the Hirschenwirt and waiting for his migraine pills to finally kick in. And instead of writing his report, he’s staring at the veneered table and thinking of the walnut cabinets from his grandfather. Those nervous blue eyes of his weren’t roaming nervously around now at all. But not because they were fixated on the table, because they weren’t, really. What they were really doing is looking
through
the table. The table and the whole hotel-room atmosphere didn’t bother Brenner one bit.

There was just one thing that did bother him. That he
couldn’t concentrate. And that was what Nemec was always getting on him about, too. And Brenner didn’t know any better than to secretly admit now that Nemec was right.

Only one thing I can say about that. It was no coincidence. Nobody would’ve been able to concentrate on this case. Because there wasn’t anything there for you to set your sights on. What are you supposed to concentrate on when there’s nothing there. And another thing that’s no coincidence. That Brenner of all people, who wasn’t exactly the focused type, either, that, in the end, he of all people was the right one to have on a case like this.

Because it’s like black ice, or the way I see it, deep snow, or compare it to something else if you want. You’ll need a different gait to go forward better than you would on, say, asphalt. And here’s a person who’s way too, circumspect, let’s say, and slow, even on asphalt, but who’s possibly got an advantage in the end.

And a person who cuts a good figure eight on the asphalt like Nemec, let’s say, who marches blindly forward—a real comedy—somebody who, goes without saying, falls flat on his face right from the get-go—what a farce.

The police investigation back in January led to absolute squat. At first, beginning of January, this meant that there were two leads that they had to keep secret about. And by the end of January, they’d cleared out again, and there wasn’t any more talk of leads.

“No stone shall go unturned,” was Nemec’s motto at the beginning. Or that’s how it appeared in the PP anyway. In the
Pinzgauer Post
. And on top of that, get this, Nemec
made it seem like he’d be smoking the culprit out of his hole within a matter of hours. Or better put:

“Smoke the culprit out of his, or her—or their—hole,” because Nemec was always jumping in and correcting everybody like that if they talked about anybody. A person need only say “he,” and she could be sure that Nemec would interrupt her:

“He or she or they.”

“Or it!” Brenner would correct Nemec again. And this in front of his coworker, Tunzinger! Because Schmeller, well, a year and a half before, during that bank robbery at the, uh, the—well, he got shot there.

Now, I don’t mean to say that Nemec had an especially meaty face. Although he is thin, skin and bones, really. But more like peptic-ulcer thin. No, not that either—more like a student. It was actually a real babyface that he had. Over forty, that I know, but if you saw him on the street, you might take him for thirty, for just a student with wire-rimmed glasses.

And maybe it’s on account of his kiddish face that a person’s apt to notice. Because when he was fed up, a blue vein thick as your finger would, believe it or not, pop up out of his forehead. And the harder he tried not to let his anger show, the thicker the blue vein on his forehead would swell up. You’d have thought that all the anger he was trying to suppress just got pumped straight into his forehead vein.

But, apart from the blue vein, he showed no reaction to the scene that Brenner made back there, I mean, him saying “it.” This was end of January already. And people already knew about it, the whole bungled mess.

Two leads starting out, but now, no leads at all anymore. And for those two leads, the police only got laughed at by the Zellers anyway.

But I have to be honest, what else were they supposed to do. Vergolder was the victims’ only blood relative, so they started with him. A motive, well—he had one. Because he’d stand to inherit a few million—and, no, not what you’re thinking, Austrian schillings. Because, America, and over there the dollar is legal tender. But since he himself owned half of Zell and since he’s not that stupid to have—I mean, his own in-laws on his own ski lift in Zell—what can I say, end of January, the police realized it, too.

Maybe, well, it wouldn’t surprise me. Maybe it just irritated Nemec that Vergolder was one of the bigwigs in town. And so they were practically asking the mayor or the priest for an alibi.

At the time, I think Nemec was already picturing himself in the newspapers, heroic exposé or something, and a photo of him alongside, Uncompromising and Incorruptible. But they couldn’t prove anything on Vergolder, and needless to say, a disgrace of the first order for Nemec. End of January, suddenly there was no more talk of Vergolder.

And the “Heidnische Kirche,” I don’t dare speak of that, because that was the second lead, but even less than nothing came of that. But Brenner must’ve been thinking about the “Heidnische Kirche” now, too, but for a different reason. Because he put his shirt back on and went out onto the balcony off his hotel room at the Hirschenwirt.

Down at the lake it was high season just a week ago,
and now, just a few lone swimmers. It was the beginning of September, way too warm for this time of year, like the weatherman was always claiming. But school had started in spite of it. The vacationers disappeared overnight, only a few retirees were still here.

And Brenner, of course. He was still here, too. And this feeling he’s got—that’s why it’s so dangerous when a detective relies on his feelings. Because this feeling he had just an hour ago that gave him a sense of hope, now, as he was standing there on his balcony and looking out over the lake, he felt completely hopeless all of the sudden.

One thing’s gotta be said, a magnificent sight. And the mountains so close, you couldn’t believe there was a lake in between. He could’ve looked all the way to the reservoir now, no problem. But a wooded outcropping obstructed his view of the area, which, in the hiking maps from the old days, was called “Heidnische Kirche.”

“Heidnische Kirche” is the way the threat letters are signed that turn up in the op-ed section of the
Pinzgauer Post
. And the claims in these letters, I mean, listen to this, either a madman or a prankster wrote them: The Zell community ought to—just imagine, all the skiing. Shut down. The whole industry. Eradicated! And if that doesn’t happen, then the Mooser Dam, blown to pieces. That’s exactly how it was written in the letters. Signed: Heidnische Kirche.

Now, you can’t forget that here above Zell is—well, really in Glocknermassiv, but practically right over the heads of the Zellers—one of the biggest dams in all of Europe. People don’t realize this at all when they’re passing through
Zell. That it’s over them—practically Damocles, if it breaks, a dam like that. Because the Mooser Dam, that’s one of the three dam walls. And it’s located practically right in the middle of this area that’s called “Heidnische Kirche.” Where the name comes from, nobody knows.

And then there’s the Drossen Dam and the Limberg Dam, too, the other two dam walls. It’s impossible, of course, for a dam to actually break. But let’s say it’s not. When it breaks, don’t even bother worrying about there being any survivors from Zell.

On the other hand. The dam’s been up there for almost fifty years because the reservoir was opened right after the war. “Symbol of the Republic,” it said in the newspaper, that was 1951 when they opened it. Nowadays, of course, you couldn’t build a reservoir high up in the mountains in just six years. Or maybe you could today, but back then, you couldn’t. The politicians, of course, didn’t lose any sleep over it, about the whole—but I don’t want to get started in on the Nazi years now.

By the twenty-five year anniversary, critical reporting was all the rage, more or less. And a few years ago, that would be 1991, that was the forty-year anniversary. They even invited a few of the Ukrainian POWs because hundreds of them had died up there on the construction site during the War. It was the Americans, then, who finished building the reservoir.

After the war, everybody was glad about the electricity and about the upswing, and the politicians called the reservoir the “Symbol of the Republic.” So maybe it was on
account of the “Heidnische Kirche” that Nemec guessed political terrorism or something like that, but the people down here aren’t real political.

The police only came up with the idea because of the ski tourism, I mean, on account of the demand that it be shut down. Because the dead bodies. In the ski lift of all places. Because that’s deliberate. Practically a final warning. But there was no letter accompanying it, no phone calls, either, and so what kind of a warning’s that, really.

And then it got pointed out that this kind of threat is as old as the reservoir itself. Somehow the reservoir just stirs people’s imaginations. Maybe some anxiety, unconscious, I don’t know. The mayor of Zell had a whole collection of these letters. But the cops were here three weeks already before they found out about them. Because you’ve got to see to it that something like this doesn’t make its way into the public. Imagine if the tourists stayed away, possibly on account of some nonsense like this.

And the mayor always said: “Blow up a wall ten meters thick? It would be easier to blow away the mountains all around it.”

But in the council meeting minutes, well, sentences like these never made their way in. Because someone saw to it that it didn’t become official, let’s say, more like dead silent. And for the best. Because the reservoir’s still up there.

Brenner was thinking that, too, now, as he looked out at it from his balcony. The reservoir’s still up there, and nothing else has changed, either. Because if he was going to be honest, then he, too, a full half a year later now, still didn’t have
a lead. And Brenner was in exactly the kind of mood where a person’s bound to get honest with himself.

The sun was slowly going down, and the lake was gleaming. Now there’s nature putting on a show, enough to make you say: unreal, nothing like it.

And it occurred to him that he was being about as thick as the Precinct Music Director’s daughter when, silently, he says to himself now:

“Frankly, it wasn’t the Heidnische Kirche, and it wasn’t Vergolder Antretter, either, and it wasn’t anybody else, either. But it must’ve been somebody.”

No, no, now look here. Zell’s not so small that everybody knows everybody else. But everybody does know Goggenberger, the taxi driver, Johnny. He’s an original, alright—you can say that again. Because he’s 120 kilos and got a pink Chevrolet that he’s been driving around Zell for twenty years. He’s never done anything else, because, Johnny’s not quite as old as he looks. But where he got the Chevrolet from, that’s what I’d be interested to know.

Now, on the seventh of September, Brenner had Johnny drive him to Kaprun. It was more, let’s say, not because Brenner absolutely had to go to Kaprun. But because taxi drivers, often times they hear a lot. And if he has Johnny take him somewhere, then maybe I’ll learn something, Brenner thought, but then it backfired on him.

Because, Johnny, he don’t say moo or baa. And even if you drove all the way up to Sweden with him. Because once a Swede broke his foot skiing, and he had Johnny chauffeur him all the way home to Sweden. And I have to say, enjoyable, that cannot have been, because Johnny smokes Virginias, and the stench in that Chevrolet of his—you can barely put up with it from Zell to Schüttdorf. And needless to say,
he didn’t do much in the way of talking with the Swede, either, because the Swede didn’t know any German, and Johnny, well, I have yet to hear him say anything in Swedish.