Knives, Forks, Scissors, Flames Page 3

  Benno was about to go downstairs again when he noticed a collection of carefully clipped images on Tim’s desk. Normally, these would have been photos of stars or race cars that one could find in every seven-year-old boy’s room. But these clippings showed victims of car accidents, fires, and fights, and next to each of them lay a second image of the surgically repaired face. The features still looked mangled. A man who had been attacked by his own dog was still missing lips and a nose, another man’s eye had been torn and the lid sewn shut. The magazine in which Tim had found these photos lay open on the floor. The Stern, of course, although Benno could not recall noticing the article. He quickly left the room.

  “You’ve got two minutes,” he shouted a bit louder than necessary. “But I can’t pick you up from school, you’ll have to take the bus back home.”

  Tim followed him silently outside. Maybe Carolin’s response to the incident yesterday had embarrassed him. He had shown his new friends a neat trick, had bragged with his illness. He had shown them something that only he was able to do, and his mother had ruined his performance.

  It was a foggy morning, although the sun was already peeping out from behind the white mist. Tim wore a blue windbreaker, whose sleeves hid the freshly healed ‘T.’

  “It almost looks like a cross,” he said.

  “Do the Stroths go to church?”

  Tim nodded. “Can I come with you?” he asked into the harsh rattle of the VW.

  “Your mother . . .”

  “Doesn’t need to know.”

  “She’ll be waiting for you at the bus stop.” Benno didn’t mind taking Tim with him to Lübeck, but Carolin wouldn’t be thrilled. Even though they were married, Carolin insisted on making important decisions for Tim by herself. And there were no clear guidelines for the things that were important or unimportant, right or wrong.

  “You can call and tell her that I felt dizzy.”

  Benno had to laugh. “And what about tomorrow?”

  Tim sighed. “Please?”

  The offices of the Strandkurier seemed transformed with Tim’s arrival. The light appeared warmer, the colleagues more affectionate, and loud, rumbling Mr. Hecht almost seemed fatherly. While it wasn’t a big city, Lübeck seemed a world apart from Strathleven. In Lübeck, nobody knew about Tim’s illness, nobody offered them a huge marble cake. Last night, Carolin had carried it over to Mr. Cornelius’ house, saying she didn’t want a single bite of it.

  Benno called the school, then Carolin, and no argument ensued. Maybe she was glad that Tim didn’t have to sit in a classroom with Daniel and Jens. Instead, the boy was allowed to spread his things on the desk of an absent colleague, and Benno spent the morning trying to drum up more ad business. Together with Holger they went for lunch to a cafe that served Labskaus.

  “That’s disgusting,” Tim said, poking his fork into the suspicious-looking mush.

  “Not disgusting,” Holger corrected him. “This is just how it is here. Like fisherman caps, marzipan, and shooting clubs.”

  “Shooting clubs?” asked Benno. He still remembered the club in the small Hessian town where he had grown up, the feathered hats, the festival around the time of the Feast of Corpus Christi and the hideous brass music.

  “Jörg on the first floor is responsible for the coverage. They get really angry if we forget their board meetings.”

  In the afternoon the two of them went to a handball game in Bad Segeberg. As soon as they stepped inside the sports arena, they could hear the whistles and horns of the fans. Benno showed his press pass and then led Tim to the tables reserved for journalists.

  Bad Segeberg lost terribly. Tim sat next to Benno, ate marzipan potatoes that Benno had bought in Lübeck, and cheered loudly for his team. From time to time, when the boy felt unobserved, he touched his arm and scratched at his new scar. And once or twice Benno caught the boy looking at him sideways, from behind his thick glasses and with his mouth half open. Every time, Tim moved slightly closer to him, and when Benno finally tousled his hair, he let him without protesting. When he later introduced Tim to the Bad Segeberg coach, he felt almost like a real father. “That’s my boy, Tim,” he said. Tim did not correct him.

  In the early evening they drove back to Strathleven and stopped at the supermarket to buy sweet woodruff soda and red wine.

  The owner, Mr. Johannsen, stood behind the counter himself and nodded at them. Benno wondered about the strong odor in the store. In Berlin, the supermarkets had smelled of glass and plastic wrap, but here, every packet of sugar, each tube of mustard and each bar of soap seemed to compete with the smell of stalks of celery, tomatoes, and coffee. Even the sliced cheese seemed to come straight from the cow, the canned stew still seemed to bear the fingerprints of the butcher. Benno did not trust the Bordeaux—where did this poorly printed label come from? What did the bottle truly contain? And the soda looked much too green.

  “Plastic bag?” asked Johannsen and pushed the purchases past him.

  “How long have you owned the store?” asked Benno.

  Johannsen laughed. “Forever. My father already owned it when I was a little boy, but back then it wasn’t a Spar market yet, and we still sold loose flour.”

  Tim looked at him skeptically, but Johannsen nodded emphatically. “There was no woodruff soda either, but we picked and ate the sweet woodruff at the roadside.” Then he turned back to Benno. “This is the miracle boy, right?”

  Benno saw Tim’s grip on the shopping bags tighten.

  “No ‘miracle.’ The doctors just don’t know what it is,” Benno said.

  Johannsen nodded. “Doctors don’t know much.”

  “Yes, you’re right, of course,” Benno said carefully. Apparently, Mrs. Stroth had spread the news of Tim’s illness in the village. “By the way,” he said, trying to switch topics as casually as possible, “are there any wolves around here? We thought maybe . . . we recently . . .” The shopkeeper looked at him strangely and he broke off mid-sentence.

  “It’s an evil spirit,” Johannsen said. “Appears everywhere, but we cannot catch him. Lean like the devil himself. A bad omen if you ask me. Since he’s appeared here, we’ve had nothing but hail and frost. And now it hasn’t rained since June.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “Rabid maybe. You should be careful with the boy. Rabies is no joke.”

  Benno nodded and took the shopping bags from Tim.

  Before they stopped in front of the old school, the boy asked timidly, “Am I a ‘miracle boy’?”

  “Nah, you’re not.” Benno didn’t want to encourage further experiments with the boy’s skin.

  “But what if I am?” Tim asked defiantly.

  “Miracle boys don’t eat marzipan potatoes and don’t drink sweet woodruff soda,” Benno replied, and knew immediately that his answer was wrong. Tim had been serious, and he had treated him like a small child.

  “Never mind,” Tim said and wouldn’t talk to Benno for the rest of the night.

  4

  When he stepped outside in the morning, Benno discovered Manfred leaning over the hood of the Beetle. It was only six o’clock, but Benno had not been able to sleep because of the vinegary Bordeaux.

  The fog had returned and made it difficult to see anything beyond the church. Manfred was wearing his gray suit and a white shirt and when he heard Benno’s steps behind him, he hastily turned around. Still, Benno caught a glimpse of his reddish penis before Manfred could zip up his pants. Then the widow’s son fished in his pockets for a white handkerchief and began to wipe the hood.

  “What the hell are you doing?” asked Benno, but it was only sleepiness that made him ask. He had already understood.

  “Nothing, you see, everything is clean,” Manfred stammered.

  “If I ever catch you at my car again, I’m going to talk to your mother.”

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary,” pleaded Manfred. “You see, nothing’s left.” He kept standing in front of the car, held the handkerchief in his hand and lo
oked directly at Benno. It was a peculiar look, piercing and yet unfocused. “I won’t touch your car again.”

  “Why mine?” asked Benno. “Why not that Ford?” Gustav Heintz drove an old Taunus, a special edition with yellow paint and black trim, black bumpers and sport rims.

  “It’s disgusting,” Manfred said contemptuously and finally put the handkerchief back into his pocket. “You want to see something awesome?”

  “Maybe some other time.” Benno wasn’t interested in what else Manfred kept in his pockets.

  But the big, red hand had already come out again, and now held instead of the handkerchief a long Bowie knife.

  “What’s that?” Benno did not know whether he should laugh or be alarmed.

  “I collect knives,” Manfred said importantly and ran a finger over the wide blade. “I have twenty-three of them. This one has a hunting party engraved on the blade. It was quite expensive. From America. There are bison on it.”

  “I see,” Benno said without looking, but Manfred seemed to have forgotten all about him. He took out the handkerchief once more and wiped his knife carefully, then turned without a word and disappeared toward the bus stop.

  “They are quite harmless,” Ms. Schmied assured Benno later that morning. “He finds them beautiful. He has never done anything to harm anyone. The knives are much too important to him. He doesn’t want to scratch them.”

  What could Benno say in response? He was the newcomer. How could he explain to the widow that Tim had a rare disease and that a mere paper cut could disfigure the boy?

  She might have read the doubt on his face. Maybe that was the reason why she invited her new tenants to Sunday worship. Or maybe she just saw an opportunity because Benno had mentioned earlier that he had nothing planned for the weekend.

  “We are not very religious,” he said, which he knew was an understatement. He had left the church at age 18, and Carolin hadn’t even been baptized.

  “Oh, none of us are.” Ms. Schmied winked at him. “But we have fun.”

  The church had stood 500 years before it burnt down in 1619, along with large parts of the village. The new church, as the bronze plaque at the entrance explained, had been renovated in 1866 and the present church tower had been erected.

  It was mid-September, and inside it was cool and smelled musty, just like the church Benno had frequented as a child. His parents had not believed much in God, but they were willing to worship the power of appearances. Attending service at certain choice times of the year had been a social necessity.

  Pastor Cornelius greeted Benno and Carolin with a red, shiny face. His thinning hair was neatly combed, and he introduced them to his wife and children. One of the girls was in Tim’s class; she had four other siblings, and all of them sang in the choir.

  The service was simple. Instead of the sad drone of an organ, two teenagers were playing guitar, and even if the songs still sounded old and dusty, they were more tolerable than the half-heartedly sung hymns Benno remembered. The pastor did not deliver the sermon from the pulpit, but stood in front of a microphone next to the choir stalls and never spoke of eternal damnation.

  “We still have a future despite Chernobyl and the neutron bomb. We must learn to guide our youth, rather than deprive them of all hope! Cynicism is not a virtue,” Cornelius said at the end. “Maybe I’m old-fashioned. And if I’m to believe my children, I’m pretty uncool.” The congregation laughed, the pastor beamed. “But cynicism is too expensive. It’s the currency of the devil, and we cannot sell him the future of our children. ‘No Future’ is not the way, not the solution. And Jesus Christ teaches us that there is always a way.”

  “Even if it leads to the cross,” Benno whispered into Carolin’s ear.

  After the service he just wanted to get up and go home—in his childhood, even staunch believers had left in a hurry after the last song—but nobody seemed to want to exit the church. Tables were set up and large thermoses full of coffee were carried in from the sacristy. Some women had baked and were cutting their cakes now. For the children there was orange juice and cola.

  “Maybe we should . . . ,” Benno whispered, but Carolin looked at him sharply and said, “Why are you in such a hurry? Be polite for once.” And soon she was surrounded by a small group of women, praising the cake and listening to the protestations that it was so nice to meet the new family. Even Mrs. Stroth was there, and although she didn’t smile as mildly as the pastor’s wife, she didn’t say a single word about the argument.

  “How did you like it?” The pastor had suddenly appeared behind Benno. He had disposed of the black robe and was now wearing a plaid shirt and beige corduroy pants. He held a piece of cake in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. “You play an instrument?”

  Benno shook his head. “A good sermon,” he said politely.

  The praise seemed to flatter Cornelius. “We have a good congregation here. Not everyone is fond of our work in the village, but the ones who give us a chance, mostly stay.”

  Benno wanted to say something noncommittal, after all he was eating the pastor’s cake, but all he could think of was, “How’s your jogging?”

  “It’s going,” the pastor said cheerfully. “At my age you have to pay attention to your beltline.”

  Benno nodded. Ever since meeting Carolin, he had trouble keeping his weight down. “Have the police contacted you again?”

  Cornelius shook his head. “Vile thing. Vile, vile thing.”

  Benno often thought of the contorted body under the pastor’s red jacket and wondered why Strathleven wasn’t swarming with cops. Not even the Grevenhorster policeman had paid him a visit or asked him to come down to the station. “I was just thinking,” Benno said. “We were witnesses, so to speak.”

  Cornelius’ small eyes looked at him sharply. The many laugh lines around his eyes were suddenly wiped away.

  “Just a thought,” insisted Benno and quickly drank a sip of the bitter coffee.

  “So you’ve been thinking a lot about it,” he said, nodding slowly. Then his good cheer quickly returned. “Do you want to sing in the choir? We could use some more men’s voices.”

  “A dog?”

  “I can sell my bike if I you want me to.”

  The bike was now six days old, the new speedometer a mere three. Benno was home alone with Tim, and he knew that without Carolin, there were only wrong answers. “Have you asked Caro?” He still refused to say ‘your mother,’ which made him think of wet woolen socks, bean soup, and floor wax.

  Tim shook his head. “She’s helping out with the youth group.”

  “And you didn’t bother to ask before she left?”

  Tim looked down at his feet.

  “We’ll see.” Tim’s question presented one of those typical problems Benno knew mostly from other families. How does one behave as a father? What answer do you give a boy who mustn’t get a single scar? Do you yell “No” until you are red in the face? His mother had preferred that approach.

  When he had last seen his parents, Benno had visited that small town in Hesse with a new love in tow. Together with his parents they visited the cemetery to take care of the grave of his recently deceased grandmother. On the way back to the car, his father had taken the arm of Benno’s girlfriend and walked ahead of the others to the parking lot. Suddenly his hand had come to rest on the girl’s buttocks, as though it naturally belonged there. After that incident, Benno had broken off contact with his family and never initiated it again.

  “You don’t like dogs?” Tim asked timidly into the silence.

  The question startled Benno, who had almost forgotten about the boy. “In Berlin I didn’t like them,” he said quickly. “All that dog poop on the sidewalks.”

  Tim nodded seriously. “Here it’s different.”

  “Yes, maybe.”

  Carolin seemed to take Tim’s wish in stride. Benno couldn’t make any sense of her whims. What made her fly into a rage today, could leave her cold the next. “Yes,” she simply said. �
��Maybe they can grow up together. The dog could protect him.” They were sharing a bottle of wine in the kitchen, and Tim was in his room, probably too smart to show his face. He had made Benno promise to talk to Carolin about the matter.

  It was getting dark, and they hadn’t switched on the lights yet. Outside the window, the scrawny bushes moved in the wind, shaggy creatures scratching at the windows, as though demanding entry.

  “Or he could bite Tim.”

  “You’re too dramatic,” she said.

  Her calm irritated him, but maybe it was the drugs that transformed Carolin. Or maybe they saved her from more frequent or more intense crises. Three bottles always stood side by side in the medicine cabinet.

  “You were against the bike.”

  “He won’t fall off the dog,” Carolin replied, laughing.

  “How was the youth group?”

  “Nice,” she said. “I might invite the children over for coffee. Would be good for Tim if he had a few more friends.”

  “Even more?” asked Benno. He sighed.

  Carolin looked at him through her thick glasses, and it was impossible to see what she was thinking. The next moment she slung her arms around his neck, pressing her lips to his. “You’re sweet,” she said. “I think you’ll be alright with a dog.”

  “With a wife, a boy, a dog, and a youth group. You will eat me alive.”

  Tim was careful to conceal his joy. “Cool,” he said quietly at breakfast.

  “You also don’t have to sell your bike,” Benno said, and after a quick glance at Carolin added, “I believe.”

  Later he asked Ms. Schmied if she knew anyone who might have dogs for sale. When she said no, he waited for Mr. Witte, the mailman, who delivered early in the morning. And when he didn’t know anyone either, Benno stopped by Johannsen’s store on his way to work. The owner had hung a corkboard in the store where farmers advertised fresh eggs and children tried to sell their model railways and roller skates, or offered to wash the neighbors’ cars.