Ice Cold (13 page)

Try as I may, I can’t think where she is. Something must have happened to her. The police officer on duty asked me if my wife might perhaps have harmed herself. I can’t imagine that. Yes, she took those quarrels to heart, but not all that much. My wife is a lively, happy, intelligent woman. She has a great many interests. She paints, and she likes sporting activities. Only last Whitsun we went mountain-walking in Lenggries. My wife loves the mountains. It was a wonderful weekend. We spent the night on the Kotalm in the mountain hut on the pastures there. It was one of our best mountain-walking expeditions ever.

Suicide, no, I’m sure it can’t be suicide. It simply wouldn’t be like her. Not in her nature. And what reason could she have had? None! Our marriage
is very happy and harmonious. She grew up in comfortable circumstances. She never had to spend a penny of her own salary. She was my in-laws’ only child, and they were both getting on a bit when she was born, they’d almost given up hope of a baby when she came along. So her parents looked after her very well, even spoiled her. She had a very happy, carefree childhood and youth. No, I don’t think she’s harmed herself in any way.

And our relationship has always been very harmonious. We’ve been very happy together ever since I met her a year and a half ago in the Pinakothek art gallery in Barer Strasse. We were both looking at the collection of paintings, that’s where I first saw her. I ran straight into her arms, literally. I wasn’t looking where I was going and almost knocked her down. I felt very embarrassed, and she laughed. Then I knew she was the girl for me. You don’t find a girl like that twice. I’d fallen in love at first sight. And then we married on May 7th, just three weeks ago.

Someone who enjoys life so much can’t kill herself, she couldn’t do anything to herself. She really has no reason. None at all. We were full of plans for the future: the salon, our apartment, we’d travel. We were planning to go to Italy. She’s always wanted to see Italy, and next winter we were
going to ski there and stay in a mountain hut, with friends. It’s all planned.

We’ve looked for her everywhere. I was so desperate, I even let my mother-in-law persuade me to go and see a clairvoyant with her. Marlis would laugh at me if she knew. But what am I to do? I clutch at every straw in sight. I’d never have thought I’d do a thing like consulting a clairvoyant. But a good friend of my mother-in-law’s set it up, and my mother-in-law and I both went for the consultation. I was supposed to take along some personal item belonging to my wife, so I took her favourite dress. She wore it for our engagement party. The medium put the dress on a small round table in a darkened room, wrote the date of my wife’s birth on a piece of paper and put the note on the dress. She had a little pendulum on a chain, and she began letting it swing over the objects. I felt like something out of the film Dr
Mabuse
. I saw that film with my wife, and I knew how funny she would find all this. At that moment I knew the whole thing was useless. Just nonsense. And for the first time I felt I’d never see Marlis again, I knew she was never coming back. I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t do that to my mother-in-law, couldn’t leave her alone with that woman. That’s the only reason I stayed. My mother-in-law
was hoping for so much from this consultation. I couldn’t disappoint her.

The clairvoyant said my wife had emigrated to South America and was living in a big white house there. But she feared for her life, because there was a dentist who meant her harm. You can see for yourself what nonsense the whole thing was. But I was so desperate, I was even prepared to let myself in for this rubbish. Now I don’t know what to do. A human being can’t simply vanish, can she, dissolving into thin air?

He had to go out. He couldn’t stand it at home any more. Aimlessly, he rode around the area. As always when he was cycling. How long had he been on the road? Hours, maybe. He had no idea. He was searching. He was restless.

She came cycling towards him. Blue and white dirndl dress. White shoes and socks. If he leaned a little way forward over his handlebars he could see under her skirt. It had slipped a little way up as the pedals went up and down. She had firm, sturdy legs. He loved legs like those. In his mind he passed his hand over them. His eyes carried on. Up her legs. Her thighs were rubbing together. He saw the soft, warm skin of them, damp with sweat. If he concentrated very hard, he thought he could even see her underwear, her knickers. White. White silk. Girls like this one wore white silk underclothes. Not that cheap, dingy
cotton jersey stuff. Silk underwear, the kind you could buy in the expensive lingerie shops. What would those underclothes feel like on the skin? Cool. Cool on the skin, smooth between the fingers. He realized that his thoughts were exciting him. The sight of those legs moving up and down, her thighs rubbing together. He imagined what it would be like to part them. To thrust against her resistance. He wanted to feel her resisting him. Wanted to feel her twisting and turning under him.

He slowed down. Didn’t want to pass her too soon. Wanted to enjoy the sight up till the last moment. Thought of the silk underclothes and the thighs rubbing together. And how he would push in between them.

He hoped she’d fight back. Brace herself against him with all her might. He wanted to smell her fear, taste her sweat. Heighten his excitement that way. He wanted to enjoy the moment, increase his pleasure.

He rode past her. She’d given him only a fleeting glance. Hadn’t really seen him. Had hardly noticed him.

He’d give her a little time. Lull her into a sense of security. He rode on a little way in the opposite direction from her, then turned and started cycling after her. Pursuing her. Like a huntsman on the track of his prey. Didn’t take his eyes off her. Once he was level with her again his chance had come. He grabbed her from the side. Pushed her off her bicycle. She was too surprised to defend herself, to make a sound, to scream. Next moment she was in control
of herself again. She began fighting back. Kicked out at him with her legs.

He had dropped full length on her, his weight pressing her down. He felt the body under him, her writhing body. He held her by the throat. He squeezed it, not too firmly, but firmly enough. Wanted to keep her from screaming. Wanted to see fear take hold of her, wanted to see her defend herself. He wanted her to fight back, he wanted her to try to get free, that was part of the game. His game. He wanted to enjoy the moment. He couldn’t enjoy it unless she fought back. One hand at her throat, he reached down to her legs with the other. Grasped at her crotch. Got hold of her vulva. Tried to pull her knickers down, roughly. Pressed a leg between hers and so forced them apart.

She never stopped fighting. That was good, he liked that. It excited him to feel her body under his, writhing like that, trying to turn away and shake him off. Oh, that was good, it was how he liked it.

‘Carry on like that, would you, slut? Give over and keep still or I’ll shoot you!’ he hissed in her ear. She didn’t keep still, she almost managed to escape. He pressed his thigh even harder between her legs, reached his free hand into his trouser pocket. Felt the cold metal of the revolver.

Took it out of his pocket. It felt good. Incredibly good. He held the gun to the back of her neck and pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out.

The writhing body under him went slack.

He felt her limbs relax. She had stopped moving. She was keeping still now.

He stood up. Took the girl by her legs and dragged her further into the undergrowth.

Even before he could touch her vulva he ejaculated.

He didn’t leave the dead girl alone, even then. Thrust his knife into her, cut out her vulva. The body was his now, he could do whatever he liked with it. Once she was dead, she belonged entirely to him. She was his possession. He was still as aroused as ever, his excitement increased when he had her vulva in his hands, the piece of flesh he had cut out of her. He smelled it. He licked it, chewed at it, put the vulva over his own penis. That way he could imagine penetrating her at last. Thrusting right inside her. Finally he put the piece of flesh over her face. ‘There, lick yourself, eat yourself, slut!’

Only later, much later, did he dig a hole in the woodland floor with his little knife. How long it took him he can’t remember. Only that it was almost dark by the time he had finished.

He tried to put the dead body in the grave.

Unsuccessfully. He hadn’t dug it deep enough.

He cut into her flesh again with his knife. Cut deep, to the joint. Cut through the sinews, twisted the bone at the joint, freed it. Freed it from the hip joint. The crack of the bones and sinews intoxicated him all over again.

He put the dead girl’s legs, now separated, on top of her torso and covered it all with earth, branches and leaves.

He removed all objects of any value she had on her. He found a few marks in her purse, and threw the empty purse heedlessly away. He took her bike on his shoulders. Wasn’t going to leave it at the scene of the crime. He was afraid the dead girl might be found sooner if he did. Sitting on his own bike, carrying hers on his back, he set off. Hours had passed, darkness had fallen. He was cycling without any lights, under cover of night, through villages whose names he didn’t know. He cycled half the night until he thought he had put enough distance between himself and the dead girl. He stopped beside a canal. Put the girl’s bicycle down. Tried to take it apart. He didn’t want anyone feeling interested in a wrecked bike. He took his time. Removed the wheels from the bike, separated the tyre and the inner tube. Cut both into small pieces with his knife. He dismantled even the spokes and the ball-bearings. With his whole weight he jumped on the framework of the bike as it lay on the ground. Once, twice. He can’t say how often.

He felt as if the bicycle were resisting, the way its owner had fought back earlier. That spurred him on, heightened his fury. When he left it, it would be no more use to anyone. No more use, like the body he had left on the woodland floor. He kept kicking it, stamping on the frame, jumping up and down on it. He picked it up and flung it to the ground. Picked it up again, flung it to the ground once
more. He felt the sweat running down his body. He never stopped working the bike over. In the end he picked up what was left of it and threw it into the canal.

He looked at his dirty, bloodstained hands. Bent down, washed them in the cold water. Felt how much good the water did his hands. How much good it did him. He undressed, jumped into the canal, dived down under the water, black in the night. Felt how cool it was all around him. Felt himself slowly calming down in the dark water, felt how pleased he was with himself, how happy he was.

Back home, he took off his dirty, bloodstained clothes. Lay down naked in bed. Closed his eyes. Saw the girl before him once more. Realized that the idea of what he had done was exciting him all over again. He reached for his penis. Rubbed it while he thought of the girl, going through it all once again, step by step, enjoying it to the very end. Until, tired and exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep.

K
athie is sitting in Soller’s on Saturday. At the same table as usual. She can see the whole inn from there. She never takes her eyes off the door all evening. Every time it opens, her heart seems to stop for a brief moment. Every time she thinks now the driver is coming through the doorway, and time after time she’s a little more disappointed. She’s been taking the photo out of her bag again and again that day. Holding it and looking at it again and again. As if the power of her gaze would be enough on its own to bring him here. She tenderly strokes his face with her fingers, the face in the photograph. The dark blond hair that he’s combed back from his face and over to one side. She presses it close to her, caresses it.

The driver is wearing an Alpine jacket in the photo. A dark Alpine jacket and plus-fours. He stands in front of St Corbinian’s Church with his cap in one hand. She shows the picture to Mitzi, then to Anna. Holds it close again, kisses it once more. Countless times. Waits for him all day.

The driver is waiting too. After all, he does want to see the girl again. He wants to touch her, kiss her, sleep with her.

Quite early, after breakfast, he went out with his wife to Waldperlach and his little property to spend all day there. Working in the garden, tidying up the beds ready for winter. The driver keeps glancing surreptitiously at his watch. His wife notices his restlessness. What’s wrong with him? she asks.

‘Oh, nothing in particular. Why would there be anything wrong with me?’ It’s just that today, he says, he forgot all about meeting the regulars at his club, the football club. He has to get there, he tells her, he’d feel very bad about letting the regulars down today of all days. To his surprise his wife says she’ll go with him, so they travel back from Waldperlach to Munich together.

Home in their apartment he snatches a moment to write to Kathie. A letter explaining why he can’t meet her today as they agreed. Makes up a story to account for it. He tells her not to worry, he’ll come to Soller’s as soon as he can. Maybe tomorrow.

He puts the letter in his jacket pocket. He’ll try to find a messenger boy to deliver it to Kathie.

The blond man has come to Soller’s, not the driver. He sits down at the table with Kathie. Asks if he can buy her something to eat. Kathie declines, hesitating. Because she still hopes the driver will turn up. Finally she lets the blond
man persuade her. After all, she’s been getting hungrier and hungrier as the evening goes on. And later, much later, she goes up to a room in Soller’s with the blond man. Where else can she go?

At the same time the driver is getting into bed at home beside his wife. His Alpine jacket is hanging ready in the wardrobe. With the letter to the girl in its pocket.

Early on Sunday morning, as soon as she gets up, Kathie goes to Giesing railway station. She’s in a hurry, doesn’t want to miss any of the trains. She stands right behind the memorial cross. From there she can see all the passengers, no one can get past her unnoticed. She is waiting for the driver to come along. She waits for every train coming into Giesing station from Perlach, hoping as each train draws in that he will get out of it. Hoping as she hoped yesterday when she never took her eyes off the door at Soller’s all evening. Every time a train comes into the station, she imagines him getting out of the carriage. Again and again. The driver. In her mind he’s wearing the Alpine jacket. She sees him get out, sees herself calling to him. He would turn to see her, recognize her. Hurry towards her, take her in his arms. She can feel him taking her in his arms. She just has to close her eyes to have him put his arms around her, she even thinks she feels his breath. And there really is a faint breath on her cheek, a draught of air.