Brenner and God (16 page)

You see, they haven’t invented that yet. It’s been going on for long enough without any personal contact—i.e., porno mag and a reagent cup—that they have it well in hand these days, but even that doesn’t work the other way around, where you’ve already been on vacation with the kid twice when one day the collection letter comes that you’re finally supposed
to sire the child. No, everything’s got to wait its turn: first beget, then have.

Just so you understand why Brenner was so shaken up when suddenly it did get reversed. Because what he was about to experience on this night, no man before him had ever lived to tell; on that I’ll stick my hand in the fire.

Watch closely: around one in the morning, after the South Tyrolean had placed another plate of the world’s best midnight spaghetti on the table, and after Brenner had fallen deeply and soundly asleep on a full belly and within five seconds was dreaming about some police academy nonsense, the South Tyrolean hopped into bed with him.

I don’t know, there are often different rituals with women—one says this, another says that—and the South Tyrolean belonged strictly to the group that says:
with me, not a chance, bed, sex, case closed, and especially not with you
. And when, as a man, you completely understand that, when you’re tired yourself and happy to be crawling into a freshly made bed, when you’re already falling asleep, when you’ve possibly already been the best wife to yourself, when you’re blissfully dozing off—that’s the moment she crawls into bed with you, and the rules don’t apply anymore because she’s changed her mind.

And quite energetically in fact, the South Tyrolean. I’ve honestly got to say, she awoke a young Brenner within the old Brenner. But maybe the sudden change of heart wasn’t the South Tyrolean’s doing alone. I could thoroughly imagine it being his fault. Because one thing you can’t forget: since finding his way back onto the detective track again, Brenner was exuding a completely different magnetism.

You’re going to say, by now Brenner’s already put the longest day of his life behind him—he’d looked the Frau Doctor in the eye, he’d called her husband, he’d read off of Natalie’s neck that Stachl was the father of Kressdorf’s kid, he’d ventured into the Schrebergartener’s lair, he’d found Milan and hired him to find Sunny, he’d done more police work in one day than some of his colleagues had in their entire civil service careers—and so he’s allowed to say
let me sleep
without his honor as a man being at stake. And even if you’ve slept in a guest bed ten times, you’re allowed to turn down even the best hostess, midnight spaghetti or no midnight spaghetti. But no chance of that, because the secret behind her surge of energy and his newly raging detective hormones weren’t having it. Believe it or not, when the South Tyrolean came to him, he didn’t even cry for help; on the contrary, he said to himself,
why not, we’re not getting any younger
.

Now surely you still recall the trend that was once popular among tennis players where they’d let out a powerful groan with every stroke. At the time, my dear swan, people said, the way tennis players exult over every ball could put thoughts into even the most respectable person’s head. But here we go again with the before and after. Because these things can flip themselves around like desperation on a surveillance video, and all of a sudden now—as the South Tyrolean grew more and more animated—Brenner thought of televised coverage of women’s tennis. And while the South Tyrolean took ever greater delight in her guest, every possible name of tennis players he’d seen on TV ran through his head, the Czechs were good for a while, the one was lesbian, and the other was even named Hantuchova, now he was
just thinking about her, about Hantuchova—when all of a sudden the door opened, and eighty-eight hours after her disappearance, Helena stood in the doorway crying.

“Aw, you’re awake,
Schatzele
!” the South Tyrolean said tenderly and pushed her long red hair back from her face.

Brenner would always remember the faint electric zap as one of her strands of hair left his sweaty neck. Otherwise, complete mental standstill for Brenner. In a situation like this, of course, when you’re lying in bed and had been asleep before, you can easily escape into the hope that you’re dreaming. But for how long? Two, three seconds? After that, Brenner played for time a few seconds more by contemplating whether it wasn’t just alcohol that was forbidden while on the pills but sexuality, too—ergo, side effects, e.g., hallucinations—and he was just imagining that little Helena was standing in the doorway crying, imagining that there were rivulets of tears running down her upset face, as the South Tyrolean said, “Aw, come here,
Schatzele
. Did you have a bad dream?”

And you see, that’s what I wanted to say. Before they were even halfway done with the sex part, Brenner and the South Tyrolean were already lying in bed like the happiest married couple with their child. And believe it or not, Helena fell asleep on the spot, because there between the South Tyrolean and Herr Simon was as good as anywhere. The bit of sleeping pill that the South Tyrolean had put in her milk before putting her to bed was having a slight effect still. And because I’m talking about milk: I don’t know whether this stood out to you, but it was definitely taunting Brenner now that he’d overlooked it. The South Tyrolean had explicitly
told him that she didn’t drink milk, she couldn’t digest it, she didn’t have the enzyme, and what did she buy the first time he met her at the gas station? A liter of milk! He’d wondered about the newspaper that she bought but didn’t read. But the milk he’d let slip right past. And so you see how often we very nearly miss things in life, because you go looking to the newspaper when the interesting news is right there in the milk.

“Well, now you know that I took her,” she said quietly. “But only because you left her sitting there in the car for hours on end. In the heat! If you’d done that to a dog, there’d be a national uprising and a warrant out for your arresht.”

Brenner’s heart was beating with such relief that he didn’t hear what the South Tyrolean was saying at all. He was just amazed that Helena could even sleep when just a few centimeters away, his heart was beating like a baby dinosaur that was about to hatch out of his chest and greet the world. But the beating was so loud and so rhythmic that no such musical dinosaur could exist, Brenner thought. It sounded like it had swallowed Jimi Hendrix’s drummer, Mitch Mitchell, and he was playing “Foxy Lady” in honor of the red-haired woman in bed.

You know what’s interesting, though? When Brenner really did lose his mind out of fear eleven hours later, he didn’t fully realize it. But, for now, he lay there with a clear mind, watching Helena sleep and thinking to himself,
so this is what it’s like when you lose your mind
.

The pills probably helped save him from the brink. Because eighty-eight hours after Helena’s disappearance and a few minutes after her reappearance, the pills in him said:
these things just happen in life. And as you’ve already noticed
, the pills reassured him,
the South Tyrolean is a little strange. My god, she took the child. Better than if someone else had taken her. She just borrowed Helena for a few days. “Borrowed” or “born,” they sound so similar that it can’t be that bad. You hear time and time again
—the pills floated before his eyes—
about women who don’t have children sneaking into maternity wards and snatching newborns. And anything that happens over and over isn’t not a little normal
, the pills in Brenner argued. But the dinosaur in his chest said,
Here I come!
But the pills said,
that can’t be a dinosaur, because—too musical, it must be Mitch Mitchell, who, out of thanks that you dedicated the PIN to him, is playing “Foxy Lady” for the South Tyrolean
.

You should know, it was the pills that were holding Brenner’s mind together. And he didn’t actually lose his mind. He listened to his heart’s drummer drumming his heartbeat the whole night through and thought about what he should do now. And about why Knoll had landed in the cesspit if he had nothing to do with the kidnapping.
How is it all connected
, he asked himself, while Mitch Mitchell wouldn’t, wouldn’t quit hammering his foot into Brenner’s chest. He simply didn’t, didn’t get tired, and Brenner couldn’t, couldn’t stop thinking.

What had Knoll wanted from Kressdorf? Was he just another sidecar driver like the nanny’s husband? What had Kressdorf wanted from Knoll? Do Reinhard and Congressman Stachl know that Knoll is dead? Does Kressdorf know that Helena isn’t his? Brenner was riddled with so many questions but never, never the answers.

My god, “Foxy Lady”’s three and a half minutes should be
long over by now
, he groaned. But Mitch Mitchell played on till morning. He simply wanted to prevent Brenner—after Jimi Hendrix and after Noel Redding and after himself, too—from cashing in his chips before his time. The downside to such a vigorous heart massage, of course, is that there can be no talk of sleep. Helena was sleeping, the South Tyrolean was sleeping, Brenner couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t, couldn’t. But you’d think an answer to his questions would’ve occurred to him at least, like Helena’s accidental kidnapping and Knoll’s death being connected. But it didn’t, didn’t. And didn’t, didn’t. And didn’t, didn’t.

It was shortly after four when Brenner finally stopped thinking. But don’t you go thinking he fell asleep or died. No, instead of “Foxy Lady,” Mitch Mitchell switched to “Castles Made of Sand” all of a sudden—in other words, Milan was calling Brenner’s cell phone. You’ve got to picture this: it’s after midnight, you’re lying in bed with a South Tyrolean, and before you can really get going, the kid shows up, and a few hours after that, Milan’s calling you, too—straight from a Yugo-disco. Because he’d found Sunny.

“If you ask me, she’ll be back there in no time,” Milan explained to Brenner.

But he didn’t understand. Acoustically, sure, understood, cell-phone-wise a first-rate connection—unheard of—but strictly brain-wise, it didn’t fully compute. You can’t forget, half an hour earlier the South Tyrolean had forced another glass of warm milk with honey on him because the sound of his grinding teeth kept waking her up.
Warm milk with honey is the besht sleeping pill in the world
, she’d proclaimed yet again. But as for the actual sleeping pill that she’d put in his milk, she didn’t say a word. And right about now when it’s starting to take effect, here’s Milan on the phone.

After everything that had happened, it seemed to Brenner like the call luring him out to the Yugo-disco at four
in the morning was stretching him to about eight feet. And Brenner had never been the tallest, so you couldn’t say,
eight feet doesn’t mean a whole lot because your average medieval rack in the rec room could manage that
. The phone call was pulling his head in the Yugo-disco’s direction, but sleep was pulling his feet in the opposite direction.

And so you see how a person’s mind can get a little dull when it’s stretched too far, because—with the South Tyrolean in his right arm and the cell phone in his left hand and the child’s snoring in his right ear and weariness in his bones and medicated sleep in his veins—Brenner couldn’t understand what Milan could possibly mean.

“What does that mean, ‘she’ll be back there in no time?’ ” he murmured into his sweaty pillow.

And Milan said, “If she keeps on like this, she’ll be pregnant again in no time.”

“Aha,” Brenner said, excitement tugging on his hair and the sleeping pill tugging on his leaden toes.

“But nothing to worry about,” Milan said.

“Nothing for you to worry about, or nothing for her to worry about?” Brenner asked.

“Nothing to worry about. Because in three months she’ll be fourteen,” Milan said. “Then an abortion won’t be a problem anymore.”

“Right,” said Brenner.

“Or at least it won’t be a problem for her boyfriends.”

Okay, that last bit wasn’t on the phone anymore. The excitement had yanked him so hard and the sleeping pill, thank god, had surrendered—otherwise Brenner would’ve been torn down the middle, like that fabled child whose two
mothers pulled for so long that the child broke in half, and ever since there’s been man and woman—in other words, the eternal struggle over surrender. Brenner didn’t break in half, though. Instead, he sprang out of bed at four thirty in the morning and sped over to the Yugo-disco so he could talk with the girl.

He didn’t have to speed at all, though, because Sunny was still dancing like a wind-up toy when he got there. There was nothing left for Brenner to do now except for what men do best at a disco, i.e., drink beer and gawk.

“So what’s her real name? Where did you find her?” Brenner asked.

When someone asks two questions at once, there’s always a third in the throat. Because you have to wonder,
what’s behind it, why did he ask two questions at the same time?
Well, I’ll tell you two things. First, Brenner was far too tired to go breaking his head over old police academy wisdom. And second, it was about to get much worse, because Milan answered with yet another question now.

“Do you like lasagna?”

“Lasagna? Do they have that here?”

“No, that’s her name. If you drop the ‘la.’ ”

“Sagna? Why can’t you just say it normally? Simple: ‘Her name is Sanja,’ ” Brenner suggested.

“If I say Sanja in this noise, you’ll hear Tanja,” Milan yelled in his ear. “But if I say lasagna without the ‘la,’ then right away you understand Sanja.”

Milan looked stern yet sly, like one of those natural healers who condemns you to death for coffee or alcohol or enjoying life.

“Not bad,” Brenner answered. “So where did you find her?”

“Here,” Milan said.

“Where?”

“There!” Milan yelled and pointed with his index finger to somewhere vaguely in front of his feet. It was so loud now and the music was so good that even Brenner’s foot began to tap a little.

“There?” Brenner yelled back. “Like ‘over there’ without the ‘over’?”