Self's deception (21 page)

18
A little peace of mind

“As far as we can tell, he should be fine. We took out the spleen and patched up his lung.” The surgeon who had operated on Philipp took off his green cap, crumpled it up, and threw it in the trash. He noticed my cigarette. “Can I have one, too?”

I handed him the pack and a lighter. “Can I see him?” “If you like. But you ought to put on a gown. It'll take a while, though, for him to come around. When his girlfriend comes back, she'll take over.”

When I got to the room, Füruzan was no longer there. Perhaps she was in the process of shooting her brother. Or reconciling with him. Or was mad at Philipp and didn't want to see him again. I sat at his bedside listening to his labored breathing and to the low hissing of the pump from which a tube leading to his ribcage disappeared beneath his hospital gown. Another tube ran from a drip to the back of his hand. His hair, wet with sweat, was sticking to his head. It was the first time I noticed how thin and sparse it was. Was my vain friend a maestro with a hair dryer? Or had I just never noticed? The blood around his mouth had not been cleaned away properly; it was brown and dry, and flaking at the corners of his mouth. From time to time his eyelids twitched. The sun and the blinds drew lines through the room that slowly wandered across the linoleum floor, the bedcover, and up the wall. When the nurse changed his drip, he woke up.

“Maria with the pretty ears.” Then he recognized me. “Remember, Gerhard: Nice earlobes mean nice breasts.”

“Really, Herr Doctor!” Maria said, playing along.

“I'd do better not to speak,” Philipp whispered with some effort.

The nurse left the room, quietly closing the door. After a while Philipp beckoned me to come closer. “My spleen is out? The pump is running? I used to dream sometimes that I was dying. I'd be lying in the hospital, in a room and a bed just like now, and I would bid all the women I ever knew farewell.”

“All of them?” I, too, was whispering. “You mean they'd be lining up outside, along the corridor and down the stairs?”

“Each woman would say that after me she never met another guy like me.”

“I see.”

“And I would tell each of them that I never again met anyone like her.”

“What you'd need is a room with two doors, one in front and one in back. The women you've already spoken to mustn't come face-to-face with the women still waiting. Can you imagine if word got down the line that you were telling every woman that you never met another woman like her?”

Philipp sighed and was silent for a while. “You have no idea about love, Gerhard. In my dream, all of them get together anyway. They leave my deathbed and go to the Blaue Ente, where I've arranged a banquet for them, and they eat and drink and remember me.”

I don't know why Philipp's dream made me sad. Because I have no idea about love? I took his hand. “Forget all that for the time being. You're not dying.”

“No, I'm not.” He found it increasingly hard to talk. “As it is, I couldn't even speak to all of them now. I'm much too weak.” He fell asleep.

Füruzan came around five. I could see that her brother had beaten her, but she whispered to me that they had made up. “Do you think Philipp will forgive me, too?”

I didn't understand.

“Because the knife was meant for me.”

I didn't feel that this was the time to give her a crash course in emancipation. “I'm sure he'll forgive you.”

I didn't wait for Philipp to wake up again. At six I was in Nägelsbach's office, at seven in prison at the Fauler Pelz. Nägels-bach was taciturn, and so was I. He did, however, tell me that there'd be no more food by the time I got to the prison and took me shopping. Pretzels, some Camembert, a bottle of Barolo, and a few apples. I remembered the Mangold beets being sold at the market in Mannheim. I have a soft spot for this underrated local vegetable when it is cooked au gratin or served as a salad—but one has to put the beets in a marinade while they are still warm and let them sit for a few hours.

I hadn't been at the Fauler Pelz prison since the days when I was a public prosecutor. More than forty years had passed, and I no longer recognized the layout. But I did recognize the smell, the echoing sound of steps, the correctional officer's fumbling for the right key on the jangling bunch, and the unlocking and relocking of the cell door. The warden closed my door and locked it. He and Nägelsbach walked away, and I listened to the echo of their steps. I ate a few of the pretzels with some cheese and apples, drank the Barolo, and read Gottfried Keller. I had taken along his Zurich stories, and learned from the Bailiff of Greifensee to what extent one can be driven to gather together all one's old loves. I wondered if Philipp, too, was seeking a graceful and edifying end to a ridiculous story, as well as a little peace of mind.

I was doing quite well until I lay down on the bunk for the night. Numbing cold seeped through the thick walls, and yet a summer breeze blew waves of warmth through the openings in the window. It also brought the voices of reveling barhop-pers, calls of greeting and good-bye, the droning laughter of men and the bubbling laughter of women. Once in a while there was utter silence, until I heard faraway steps and voices approaching, getting louder, and then fading again in the distance. Sometimes I caught shreds of conversation. Sometimes a couple would stop beneath my window.

Suddenly I was gripped by longing for the bright, warm, colorful life outside, as if I had been locked up and would be locked up in this cell for years. Locked up for years—was that what was in store for me? I thought of the pride that comes before a fall, and of the fall that follows pride. I thought of the successes I had striven for in my life and the failures I had had. I thought about Korten's death. Was I experiencing the victory of poetic injustice?

The next morning I attempted a few squats and push-ups. They are said to help you survive years of solitary confinement. My joints ached.

19
Pending proceedings

At nine thirty I was taken for questioning. I had expected Bleckmeier and Rawitz. Instead I sat opposite a young man with a clever face and manicured hands who introduced himself as Federal Public Prosecutor Dr. Franz from the Federal High Court. In a clear, pleasant voice he read me the charges, ranging from aiding a terrorist organization to obstruction of justice. He asked me if I wished to be represented by a lawyer of my choice. “I am aware that you have a legal background,” he said, “but so do I, and when it comes to my own affairs I wouldn't touch something as simple as a purchase or rent dispute. Never act on your own behalf in legal matters—that's a solid old legal principle. In your case, the main issue will be the severity of the sentence, so overview and experience will be necessary, neither of which you have.” He smiled affably.

“You mentioned Frau Salger—and what did you say was the crime for which I am supposed to have obstructed justice?”

“I haven't said anything yet. The crime is an attack on an American military installation perpetrated on January sixth in Käfertal.”

“Käfertal?”

Dr. Franz nodded. “But I think we'd better talk about you. You picked up Frau Salger in Amorbach and helped her cross the border into France. You need not worry about any infringements against the Passport Law, Herr Self; we will be happy to sweep that under the rug. I would like you to tell me what happened after you got her to France.” He continued to smile affably.

After I had closed the book of my journey with Leo and put it away on my return to Mannheim, I hadn't touched it again. Now it flipped open of its own accord. For an instant I forgot where I was, didn't see the Formica table, the dirty yellow walls, the barred windows. I let myself be carried away by a wave of memories of Leo's face, the moon above Lake Murten, and the air in the Alps. Then the wave set me back down, and once again I sat facing Dr. Franz. His smile had frozen into a grimace. No, the book of my journey with Leo would remain shut for him. And what about the obstruction of justice? Does not obstruction of justice require that a crime has actually been perpetrated and can be punished? Without an attack in Käfertal on January 6, there was also no obstruction of justice. Without an attack, there was also no terrorist organization that I could have supported. What if, instead of the attack in Käfertal, there had been one in the Lampertheim National Forest?

When I asked him that, he looked at me, puzzled. “Instead of that attack another one? I don't quite understand.”

I got up. “I'd like to return to my cell.”

“Are you declining to make a statement?”

“I'm not sure yet if I will decline or not. I'd like to give the matter some thought.” He was about to reply, and I knew what he was going to say. “Yes, I am declining to make a statement.”

He shrugged his shoulders, pressed the bell, and without saying a word waved me off with the warden who came in.

Back in my cell I sat down on the bunk, smoked, and was incapable of thinking in an orderly manner. I tried to remember the name of the professor with whom I had studied criminal law as a young man, as if his name were of the greatest importance. Then images of my years as a public prosecutor went through my mind: interrogations, trials, and executions at which I had been present. In the flood of images there wasn't a single one that might have instructed me about the specifics of obstruction of justice, or otherwise about the legal problems of my situation.

The warden returned and led me into the visiting room.

“Brigitte!”

She was crying and could not speak. The officer allowed us to embrace. He cleared his throat, and Brigitte and I sat down at the table, facing each other.

“How did you know I was here?”

“Nägelsbach called me yesterday evening, and this morning another friend of yours, a journalist, Peschkalek. He was the one who actually brought me here. He wants to talk to you, too.” She looked at me. “Why didn't you call me? Were you trying to hide the fact that you are in jail?” Nägelsbach had told her my situation was serious, and she had immediately set out to get me a good lawyer. Because the sick like to be treated by a professor, she wanted me to be represented by a professor and had called the Heidelberg professors of law. “Some of them said it wasn't their field, which sounded like internists who don't want to operate; with others it seemed to be their field but they couldn't understand what I was talking about; and then there were also those who didn't want to get involved in pending proceedings. Is that how it is? Aren't defense lawyers allowed to get involved in pending proceedings? I thought that that's what they're there for.”

“Did you find one?”

She shook her head.

“It doesn't matter, Brigitte. I might not even need one. If I do, I know one or two lawyers I can turn to. What does Manu say to my being in prison?”

“He thinks it's great. He's behind you—we're both behind you.”

Peschkalek also assured me he was behind me. He twirled his mustache anxiously and asked if he could do anything. “You could bring me a meal from the Ritter Restaurant. It's only a few steps away.” He had brought a carton of Sweet Aftons.

“How did you find out about my arrest? Was it in the papers?” If I was to get out quickly, I didn't want Frau Büch-ler to hear the news and hit the roof.

“I tried calling you at home, and when I couldn't reach you there I called your girlfriend's place, and she told me the news. No, there's nothing in the papers yet. I don't think it will hit the local or regional press till the middle of next week. But things won't really get going till you appear in court. A former public prosecutor being cross-examined: You'll be the star of the show! Then you'll turn the tables on them, and become the accuser instead of the accused. You'll question them on the exact location where the attack took place, what the damage was, what the aftereffects were, and then the bombshell: The attack was in the Lampertheim National Forest, the target was a poison-gas depot, and all this is being covered up because the fact that there is poison gas stored there is itself being covered up. What a tour de force! I admit I'm quite jealous.” He beamed, delighted by the scenario he had created and my role in it. “And then we have the romantic touch—not that I think the judge will be interested, but the readers will love it. Ticking bombs, beating hearts, an old man and a young girl: That kind of stuff makes for a great story. The old man and the young girl,” he savored his words, “that would make a good title, wouldn't it? If not for the whole story, then at least for an episode.”

“You're skinning me, basting me, roasting me, carving me up, and serving me—I am still alive, Peschkalek, and old stag that I am, it is closed season right now, not shooting season.”

He blushed, ruffled his mustache, clapped his hand on his bald head, and laughed. “Oh no! The vultures of the press, the hyenas! Am I confirming all those preconceptions about reporters? Sometimes I frighten myself when I can't see or hear anything without thinking whether it would make a good story. Reality is only real when I've captured it”—he tapped his hand against his hip, where his camera usually hung—”or, rather, when the story has been aired or is in print. We've talked about this before. Who cares about anything that isn't in the media? And when nobody cares, the thing itself has no effect, and if it has no effect it's not real. It's as simple as that.”

I let Peschkalek have his media-driven idea of reality. I didn't hold it against him that he reduced my story to a feature article. He asked me to forgive his déformation professionelle, asked anxiously how I was, and looked at me again the way a friendly sea lion might. No, I didn't hold any of it against him. But the favor I had wanted to ask of him I asked of Brigitte instead, and also asked her not to tell him anything about it.

20
As if

If the first night in prison was bad, the second was worse, not to mention the fear now plaguing me that things would escalate, each night proving worse than the one before.

I dreamed that I had to arrange the layout of the front page of a newspaper. Every time I thought I had artfully put together the pictures and articles I had been given, another picture or article would turn up. And every time, I was faced by the insolubility of the task: The page was full and there was no space for additional material. But I would start over every time, moving things around, thinking I had pulled it off, but then realizing yet again that I had missed a picture or an article. I was unsettled, but hard-nosed and persistent. Then it struck me that I hadn't really looked at the material properly. The articles all had the same foolish headline—”Self Himself”—and the pictures showed me always with the same wide eyes and awkward grin. But even this didn't wake me up. I continued moving the pictures and articles around, failing each time, until the sun woke me.

“We want to set up an interrogation on Sunday. We'd like to talk to you one more time before you are brought before the judge.” Dr. Franz was again sporting his affable smile. Nägelsbach was sitting next to him unhappily, Bleckmeier looked glum, and Rawitz had grown even fatter, holding his paunch in place with folded hands. “Unfortunately we had a silly little slipup, and your arrest was entered on Saturday instead of Friday. As a result, we couldn't secure the judge yesterday and will have to do it today. We'd be grateful if you wouldn't mind considering yourself as having been arrested on Saturday.”

Had Nägelsbach entered me under the wrong day? Was that why he was looking so unhappy? I didn't want to cause him any problems, and waiting an additional day for a hearing before a judge didn't make much difference to me. But what was I to make of the prosecuting attorney's “as if” philosophy?

“I will be brought before the judge as
if
I'd been arrested yesterday. I am being accused of obstruction of justice as
if
a sentence for Frau Salger is imminent for a crime she committed in Käfertal. An attack in Viernheim is going to be handled as
if
it had occurred in Käfertal. Wouldn't you say there are a few too many 'as ifs' here?”

Rawitz unclasped his hands and turned to Franz. “There's no point. Let him tell the judge whatever he wants to. If the judge decides to release him, we'll just bring him in again. And don't worry, we'll purge him of that Käfertal-Viernheim nonsense by the time of the hearing.”

“You have arrested one of the men and are intending to put him on trial,” I said. “Are you intending to convict him of a crime he didn't commit? Are you—”

“The crime, the crime,” Franz interrupted me impatiently. “What a strange notion of crime you have. It is the charge that generates the crime. The charge scoops up a few specifics from the infinite and overwhelming flood of occurrences, activities, and actions, and puts them together into what we call the crime. One man shoots, another falls dead, at the same time birds are chirping, cars go by, bakers are baking, and you're lighting a cigarette. The charge knows what it is that counts. The charge turns the shot and the dead man into a murder, and neglects everything else.”

“One man shoots, you say, and another falls dead—but the attack was not in Käfertal but in Viernheim. Käfertal is neither here nor there.”

“Oh, yes?” Rawitz said sarcastically. “Käfertal is neither here nor there? So where is Käfertal, then?”

“A place is one thing, and what happens at a place is another,” Bleckmeier jumped in. “What is punished is what happens, not the place.” He looked at us uncertainly and, when there was no reaction, added, “so to speak.”

“The place is neither here nor there and isn't punishable,” Rawitz said. “How long do I have to listen to this bullshit? It's Sunday, and I want to go home.”

“Bullshit?” Bleckmeier was prepared to take quite a lot, but not that.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Franz said soothingly, “let us forget the philosophical questions of space and time. You, too, Herr Self, have more important issues you should be thinking about. You are right, we have arrested someone. He has confessed to the attack in Käfertal and will also confess in court. Furthermore, we will have the statements of our German officials and our American friends. Let us leave the pointless preliminaries and come to you and Frau Salger.”

“Could you have the envelope brought here that arrived for me this morning?” I asked. I had found out from the officer who had brought me to the questioning that the folder Brigitte had sent me had arrived, but that it was going to be given to me on Monday, after inspection by the court. “You, of course, are authorized to open and view it without a judge.”

After some back and forth Franz had the folder brought in, opened it, and took out a copy of the American file.

“Go ahead, read it,” I said.

He read it, and his mouth tightened. After he read each page he handed it to Rawitz, who then handed it on to Bleck-meier and Nägelsbach. For ten minutes there was complete silence in the room. Through the small window I could see a section of the Heidelberg Castle. From time to time a car drove along the Oberer Fauler Pelz. In the distance someone was practicing on the piano. Everybody was silent until Nägelsbach had read the last page.

“We have to get the original. We'll have his place searched.”

“I doubt he'd have the original lying around at home.”

“Perhaps he does—it's worth a try.”

“Why don't we go have a word with the Americans?”

“I don't like this business either,” Nägelsbach said, looking at me sadly. “But an attack in Viernheim in which poison gas was released—poison gas belonging to the Americans or from old German stockpiles—that's simply not acceptable.”

“Was poison gas released?” I asked

“Our American friends …” Bleckmeier began, only to fall silent at a glance from Rawitz. I repeated my question.

“Even if poison gas was not released—if the trial centers on it and the press zeros in on the story, all hell will break loose. Even if mass panic can be avoided, Viernheim will be a branded town. People will want to avoid it the way they would avoid Chernobyl. The terrorists should not be allowed to boast of this potential damage and threat. And the inhabitants don't deserve to be plunged into such fear by the terrorists.”

“Are you trying to justify—” I tried to ask.

“No,” Franz interrupted, “you've got your logic all mixed up. The trial can't take this course, but that certainly doesn't justify letting the perpetrators get away. What it boils down to is that we have a double responsibility: on one hand to the people of the area, particularly in Viernheim, and on the other for the implementation of the government's charge. And our responsibility doesn't end even there. We must consider the Americans, and the relationship between Germany and America, and the fact that the abandoned hazardous sites of the world wars have to be approached with a systematic solution. If there is ice in Viernheim, then we are dealing with the tip of the iceberg and we can't do things by half. You know as well as I do …”

I stopped listening. I was tired of all the talk, and tired of the grand words of double, triple, quadruple, and quintuple responsibility, and all the bickering surrounding my head. Suddenly I was no longer interested in threatening to throw a wrench into the Käfertal trial, nor in them letting me go free in order to save the trial. I just wanted to go to my cell, lie down on my bunk, and not give a damn about anyone or anything.

Franz looked at me. He was waiting for a reply. What was it that he had asked? Nägelsbach helped. “Dr. Franz is referring to a mutual rapprochement—on one side your role in the legal proceedings, and on the other the question of guilt and punishment.” They looked at me expectantly.

I didn't want to take on the role they were trying to foist on me. I told them that. They called the warden and had him take me back to my cell.