Lanceheim (14 page)

T
here is always a female, thought Philip Mouse laconically. Life functions approximately as it was once intended, after a long day comes a long night, the bad animals are more numerous than the good, and whiskey tastes better without ice. Then comes the female—in Mouse's case a luscious puma who knew how to moisten her whiskers and put force behind her uppercut—and everything turns to chaos.

Philip pushed his hat up on his head and stroked his chin thoughtfully. It was still tender after the puma's stern reprimand the night before.

Why couldn't he stop thinking about her? Wasn't she simply yet another in a long series of females?

He got the ace of spades, but didn't know where he should place it.

Through the door's frosted glass pane Philip Mouse could see the contour of Daisy's backside as she bent over looking for something in the cabinet next to the desk. Her behind was as big as a beach ball, today draped in a tight red skirt. It would burst if she bent over a few more centimeters.

Philip Mouse sighed involuntarily.

He was sitting in the office beyond Daisy's. He had his shoes on the table and was leaning back in the worn black swivel armchair. The wooden shades in the windows out toward the street were half pulled down, and the room was in a striking semi-darkness. On the ceiling above the desk an old fan revolved slowly, acquired in an antique store not far from North Avenue. Over the back of his chair Philip had hung his wrinkled jacket, and over the jacket hung his empty holster. The pistol was in the middle of the mess on the desk, a .22-caliber automatic weapon he had bought from a rabbit at the Garbage Dump. It was impossible to trace.

The conspicuous disorder of the office was false evidence of work. During the morning, Philip had tried to play a new game of solitaire, but still after a few hours he did not understand how it was supposed to work out. As usual he wondered fleetingly how Daisy could keep herself occupied. He had not paid her in over six months, and therefore he assumed that she had found a side job to devote herself to. He did not intend to ask. It was beneath his dignity. Philip Mouse was one of Mollisan Town's few private detectives, and he intended to act like one. There was a code of honor.

Daisy found what she was looking for and sat down again behind her desk. She sat so that Philip could not see her through the glass in the door. In the inside pocket of the jacket he found a lumpy pack of cigarettes. He took one out, tore off the filter, and lit it with an old gasoline lighter he had inherited from his father.

Jack of clubs. He put it in the pile to the left.

She would probably call this evening, the puma. They usually called. Reflexively he grazed his chin again. A hot temperament, he thought, smiling to himself. It boded well.

 

When there was a
knock on the door to private detective Philip Mouse's office, the weather was just before lunchtime. Daisy had already taken hers out. She set it on the desk, opened the lid, and with a fork in her hoof started eating directly from the box. Same food every day, saffron-scented couscous with broccoli and ham.

Philip had ten cards left in his hand, and had just decided that this was the last round; then he too would have lunch. He usually had a cup of black coffee and smoked a few cigarettes in the shadow of Zeke's sidewalk café while he read the sports page. The Yok Giants were Philip's team; most likely they would have another miserable season.

There was a second knock. With the fork in her hand, Daisy went and opened the door. Philip hardly looked up from the piles of cards. Nine times out of ten the knocking meant that the landlord wanted to let them know about a power outage or elevator repairs. Sometimes he spoke threateningly about the rent.

“We don't want any,” Daisy's determined voice was heard.

“I…I'm looking for Philip Mouse,” replied a dark voice from out in the corridor.

Philip's office was the only one on the third floor; the remaining doors led to ordinary apartments.

“Is it about the car?” asked Daisy. “I called last week to say that there must have been a mistake at the bank. The money went from here the—”

By the fact that Daisy fell silent Philip understood that it was not someone who was sent to repossess the car.

“I…I have a little problem that I would like help with,” said the dark voice.

A few moments of silence followed, until Daisy realized that this actually was a client standing out in the hall.

“Absolutely,” she said with a spark of recognition. “Problems exist to be solved.”

And with a generous gesture she invited in Reuben Walrus.

Walrus nodded, preoccupied, and stepped into the office. He looked around. The room was empty. There was an odor of saffron. Without performing the scene that Mouse preferred that Daisy would play—she should ask the client to sit down a few minutes on the hard Windsor chair at the side of the door—she went right into his office.

“Here you go,” she said to Reuben with a hint of sarcasm. “Philip Mouse, private detective.”

Philip adjusted his hat and got up. Across the threshold came a walrus that he knew he recognized, but whom he could not immediately place. Due to the mustaches, walruses looked old even when they were young, and it was easy to be mistaken.

“It's a female,” said Philip Mouse.

With a gesture he invited the walrus to take a seat in the chair in front of the desk, at the same time as he himself sat down again.

“It's always a female,” he added.

Reuben concealed his smile, but sat obediently.

“No, not today,” he replied, so as not to embarrass the mouse.

“If she isn't the question, she's the answer,” said Philip.

“Mm?”

“Tell me why you've come to see me, Mr. Walrus,” said Philip Mouse, taking a chance that Walrus was his surname and not his first name.

“Yes, well,” replied Reuben uncertainly, thinking that this was going too fast; it lacked any sort of introduction. “Well, I don't know…do you know about Maximilian?”

Philip thought. This rang no bells. On the other hand, he remembered who the walrus was. Even if Philip Mouse did
not listen to classical music, it was interesting that someone like Walrus sought out a private detective. Famous stuffed animals were usually afraid of such things. But when they did…they had very good reasons.

“Maximilian? Is this a composer colleague?”

“Ahem, no. Maximilian is…yes, to tell the truth, I don't really know what he is. That is, what kind of animal he is…yes, perhaps I should say that I don't even know if he exists. At all. Perhaps this sounds strange, but—”

“Only the normal appears strange,” said Philip Mouse, letting his hat sink toward his eyebrows. “And why are you looking for…Maximilian?”

“Yes…,” said Reuben hesitantly, “I don't know if that really affects the matter. Or…I am certain that it has no significance—”

“Before we get to the more specific details,” interrupted Philip Mouse, “perhaps we should talk about the essentials? You've sought me out because you want me to find Maximilian?”

“Yes, that's right,” said Reuben.

“Good. I get five thousand a week, plus expenses. And as expenses I count all costs I consider necessary to solve…to find the animal in question.”

“Per week?”

“Five thousand a week,” answered Philip Mouse, who had a policy of never negotiating on the price. “Obviously I deduct for weeks with official holidays, and it can happen that in stubborn investigations, where the only talent required is patience, I'm prepared to discuss various types of discounts, but taken as a whole then—”

“No,” interrupted Reuben, “it's not the price. I…I don't have weeks. Either I get hold of Maximilian now, or else it doesn't matter.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Philip nodded in corroboration and poked a cigarette out of the crumpled pack. He lit it and blew the smoke at the ceiling.

“And how soon is ‘now'?” he asked.

Reuben shrugged his shoulders. “A few days.”

Philip Mouse considered this. He seldom had anything against assignments that dragged out in time. During longer periods of inactivity, which could affect even the best, he unwillingly even took on cases of adultery. This was a matter of pursuing married men and wives to uncover their extramarital relationships. The advantage of this type of work was that deep down the employer did not want to unmask his beloved other. Therefore weeks were added to weeks, sometimes months, before sufficiently incontrovertible evidence could be presented, all while the meter was running.

An assignment of a few days was something quite different.

“I'll pay…,” said Reuben, considering what he thought was reasonable, “five thousand for three days. If you think you can find him.”

“There are no leads?”

“I can give you the names of stuffed animals who have told me about him,” said Reuben. “As long as you don't say that it was me who gave you their names.”

“And more than that?”

Reuben thought. “Nothing else.”

“That's good,” said Mouse. “It's a challenge, like life itself. I'll take the assignment.”

He got up and held out his paw across the table. Reuben also got up, astonished at the conversation's unexpected development, and tried to reach Mouse with his short fin. He didn't succeed completely, and they both smiled apologetically at the mishap.

“It's a deal then,” said Reuben.

“Three days. You can give the names to my secretary,
then I'll get started this afternoon. And, Mr. Walrus, I always work against an advance. In this case I think that half the total amount is reasonable. Daisy will take care of that detail too.”

“Unfortunately I don't have that much cash on me,” said the surprised Reuben Walrus.

“We take credit cards.”

“I don't have a credit card on me either.”

“How much do you have on you?”

Reuben took out his wallet from his inside pocket and looked. He had six hundreds and two fifties.

“Good,” said Mouse. “The advance is set at seven hundred. You'll get a receipt from Daisy.”

And with that Reuben left Philip Mouse's office.

 

The gentle breeze had
just picked up when Reuben Walrus came out onto baby blue Knaackstrasse again. He began slowly walking toward mint green Eastern Avenue, and could ascertain that the buzz in his ear was a reality. The sun beat down from the blue sky, and the streets were again empty after the lunch hour. He saw a pedestrian or two, but in these anonymous blocks in south Lanceheim there were seldom animals on the street.

After lunch with Tortoise yesterday and the subsequent afternoon rehearsals, Reuben had devoted the evening to looking for Maximilian. He had called a usually well-informed journalist that he knew, and he had called the deacon in his own parish in Lanceheim. Neither of them had anything to relate, and both dismissed the Maximilian phenomenon as superstition.

During the night the buzz in his ears had returned. Reuben seemed to notice signs of worsening all the time, but in the darkness it was difficult to be strong. When the buzzing returned this morning, he called Margot Swan,
who confirmed that the course of Drexler's syndrome might very well include buzzing.

It was then that he decided to hire a private detective.

He came down on Eastern Avenue and walked under the great oaks in the avenue that separated the western and eastern traffic.

It was pathetic, he thought.

Hiring a private detective who was obviously not reliable. Asking him to hunt out a ghost character who probably did not exist, with the intention of then convincing this ghost to perform a miracle that defied all medical expertise.

I don't even believe in Magnus, thought Reuben Walrus.

At least I didn't.

A taxi came by going in the right direction, and Reuben took a few steps out into the street and waved the car to the curb.

Fox would laugh some sense into me, he thought gloomily as he sat in the backseat and gave the address. I should tell her, hear how it sounded out loud, and then she would laugh and bring me back to reality.

When the car drove away, Reuben's gaze settled unintentionally on a character standing under one of the oaks in the middle of the avenue. He did not see him long enough to recognize him, but long enough to know that this particular animal, with his stiff posture and purple beak, had just been in the Radio Building.

Was he being followed?

But in the following moment the thought went away, as so many thoughts do.

L
et me tell you about Adam Chaffinch.

Adam Chaffinch grew up in Kerkeling Parish in east Lanceheim. From an early age his individuality was apparent, and this was not simply part of his desire to be different. In school he hardly distinguished himself—he was blandly average, one of those no one remembered later. Nor was there a clear-cut role for him at home. Adam was the second to youngest cub in a group of four siblings. His father was absent for the most part, and when he did join them for meals he was absorbed in himself and seldom said a word. While he was growing up, Adam knew neither what kind of work his father did nor where he spent his time, and when he no longer showed up for dinner one day, they realized that the Chauffeurs had taken him. Adam was then fourteen years old.

Adam Chaffinch's mother was an industrious gnu who worked for a cleaning service that specialized in the offices in the skyscrapers of Tourquai. She left early each morning, before anyone else in the family had awakened, and returned home with food for dinner, which she prepared as
soon as she came inside the door. After doing the dishes—she refused to let the cubs do dishes because the china was her only inheritance—she remained dutifully awake and listened to the cubs, who drowned each other out telling her what they had done or not done during the day, but Adam seldom got a word out before his mother raised her hand, silenced her group of cubs, and went to bed.

Adam Chaffinch therefore created his identity outside the home. From an early age he had the power of attraction; he was an animal that other animals wanted to be with. This did not mean that he was inventive or charming; he had neither money nor looks. Yet his classmates were drawn to him. With his intuitive, serious manner, he made them feel chosen and important.

Adam Chaffinch never showed off. On the contrary, part of his attractiveness was his unflinching integrity. If anything, he might seem blunt. When he expressed an opinion, he always did it definitely, even aggressively. He did not suck up to anyone. He was most often dressed in a wrinkled brown jacket and a white shirt that would never stay in place inside his belt. His short beak was seldom polished, he held his gray-speckled head bowed forward, and his intense way of speaking was in such sharp contrast to his physical image that it was almost comical. And whether he was sitting in discussion groups talking modern philosophy or jogging on the outdoor track, he remained himself.

The reason for his many, sometimes opposing, interests was not that he longed for participation; Adam Chaffinch was and remained a seeker in the literal sense of the word.

 

It was only in
the third year of high school that Adam let himself be lured by the church's youth group. This transformed his life. By this stage he had acquired a broad experience of societies; he had sat in many worn-out armchairs,
drinking coffee and eating soft ginger snaps and listening to jargon that was always similar and with the same intent: to create a “we” that could be placed in relationship to a “them.”

The church's youth group was different.

There had been a caring atmosphere that Adam had never experienced before. Even the conversation was different. Instead of focusing on obscure details, as in other discussion groups, the youth of the church were willing to see the larger perspective. This appealed to Adam Chaffinch more than he could explain, because he was neither saved nor a believer. His former lack of faith increased the attention given to him. The others were eager to convince him, and perhaps he too wanted to be convinced. Before Christmas, Adam had already decided to apply to the theology department at the university after high school.

The department was in one of the medieval buildings on emerald green Via Westphal, and in connection with the roll call for the new theologians, the prodeacon of that part of the city held an introductory lecture in accordance with tradition. Then as now it was Eagle Rothman who ruled over Lanceheim's parishes and churches, and Rothman took immediate notice of Adam Chaffinch. When it was time to assign mentors, all-deacons or deacons who would guide and support the students during the five years of theology studies, Rothman made sure to assign himself to Chaffinch. The fact that one of the four prodeacons in Mollisan Town made himself available was unusual, if not unique. Adam and Rothman met once a month in Rothman's office in the church in Obersdorf Parish in central Lanceheim, not far from the Star.

Despite previous doubtful achievements as a student, Chaffinch easily navigated past the rocks of exams and the shoals of orals during the years that followed. Theology fascinated him, and that was all the help he needed.
From the beginning it was just as clear that faith remained Adam Chaffinch's stumbling block. This reluctance was not so much about Magnus and the creation story—the department proved to be open to interpretations and adopted a tolerant attitude within given frameworks—as about the reasoning around Malitte and the occurrence of evil in Mollisan Town. In his striving for justice and balance, Magnus had created Malitte, the lord of evil. At the same time the modern church judged every stuffed animal that was enticed by the servants of evil, judged them harshly and mercilessly, forgetful of the balance that even Magnus accepted. The conversations between Adam Chaffinch and Rothman most often revolved around this: that the Proclamations, and the church that spread the interpretations, would sooner emphasize a bad example than a good one.

 

Adam Chaffinch was initiated
three days before his twenty-third birthday. One month later he was appointed a deacon in Kerkeling Parish. This was a sensation. The usual arrangement was that the initiated theological students took jobs as all-deacons in one of the city's twenty-three parishes. It might then be anywhere from five to fifteen years before a deacon position became open; these were the rules of the game, and no one protested. Adam Chaffinch was not only the youngest deacon in Mollisan Town when he took over Kerkeling Parish, but one of the youngest deacons in history.

It went so fast that Adam himself had difficulty understanding it. The first time he opened the door to his own church was an experience he never forgot—seeing clouds of dust floating through the air of the massive space inside in streams of light that fell in through the high windows, and on the other side, so far away, the gilded magnificence of the altar. All this was his to administer, to use. It felt absurd.

During the first service that Adam Chaffinch held in Kerkeling, however, not many recognized the searching, doubting theologian from his student days. There was only one way for a young stuffed animal to atone for the responsibility, the attention, and the good fortune that had fallen, apparently undeserved, to Chaffinch: through anxiety and guilt. In an insane attempt to put doubt behind him, the young deacon made himself hard and unmerciful. It was a doomsday voice that was heard in the church, a cold and unforgiving deacon who was not prepared to forgive sinners who did not feel guilt themselves; who was not prepared to turn a blind eye.

The entire first year continued in the same manner. The congregation came dutifully and listened on Sundays, terrified yet uplifted. There was still a force of attraction in this furious deacon who was appointed to tend their souls. Only when he went on the attack one Sunday against Rothman, who was perceived as the most liberal of the four prodeacons at that time, did Chaffinch go too far. He received a reprimand, and it was almost as if he had expected it. After that he became more careful, but the reputation of the “angry deacon in Kerkeling” continued to grow.

 

When Adam Chaffinch met
Maximilian in Sagrada Bastante, there was an energy about the cub that Chaffinch had never run across before. The similes that Maximilian used fascinated the deacon. It was easier for Adam than for most to interpret them—or rather, no one else devoted so much time to them.

Adam offered Maximilian—as you already know—a place at Kerkeling High School, and when Adam realized that I was part of the package, as it were, he appointed me as Recorder. This made a virtue of necessity, or perhaps better, granted a title to something I had nonetheless al
ready decided to do. In addition, becoming the Recorder gave me more than an alibi: I was paid for my efforts. Don't ask me how he had the means; a deacon's salary is not a kebab from which to slice juicy pieces of meat.

Then came the day when Rothman challenged Maximilian and Chaffinch in the church. After that, everything changed. The prodeacon knew that Maximilian was enrolled in the church's high school, and demanded that he be expelled immediately. There was nothing Chaffinch could do to prevent this, and Maximilian was forced to quit a few weeks before final examinations in the second tier. I had moved, but Maximilian was still living in the church's building on bark brown Leyergasse—I suspect that Adam arranged the matter simply by not raising the issue—and fortunately we were able to get Maximilian to understand that he would have to at least temporarily abstain from his sessions with the sick and handicapped stuffed animals. He suffered. He could help all the tragic stuffed animals he saw on the streets and squares, but he was forced to refrain.

Adam's frustration grew as well. With Maximilian in the school, the deacon had him close at hand, and now there was no longer a natural meeting place. Therefore Adam started something that would now come to have great significance for all of our lives: the Seminars on Faith, Hope, and Love. I realize that I do not need to say it, but I will say it nonetheless: This was my idea completely, even if I have heard differently over the years.

Two times a week, usually Tuesdays and Thursdays, we invited five or six stuffed animals to the apartment at Leyergasse. We were meticulous about who was allowed to come, and new participants were allowed only if they were recommended by two existing attendees. After half a year the interest in the seminars was so great that we could set up a little waiting list, and then it was easier to more systemati
cally see to it that a mixture of new and old guests created an exciting dynamic.

It went like this. About half an hour after the Afternoon Rain, we gathered in the living room on Leyergasse. In most cases Maximilian himself was present, but we managed even when he decided not to take part. I do not know if it has been clear before, but to an outsider, Maximilian could appear to be very capricious. I, who saw him practically speaking twenty-four hours a day, knew that these “whims” occurred regularly and that the “caprices” were habits. But I readily admit that his respect for normal forms of social interaction was slight.

Adam Chaffinch led the meetings, with a starting point in one of the similes or parables that Maximilian had given us. We sat in the living room. I read out loud from the Book of Similes, and then the discussion started. It depended of course on the mix of stuffed animals, but it was seldom that everyone felt they had had their say when we dispersed at the time of the Evening Weather.

For my part, it was only in retrospect that I took a position on the viewpoints that were knocked around in the room; during the seminar itself, all my concentration was on keeping the minutes, a record that I appended on an ongoing basis to the steadily increasing Book of Similes. Only when reading and reflecting on my notes could I fully see Adam Chaffinch's significance and greatness. Without taking up too much room, without inhibiting the associations or lowering the level of thought, he guided the conversation in the direction he wanted. It sounds manipulative as I am writing this, and perhaps it was, but it was also necessary. Without Adam, the seminars would never have felt equally important or exhaustive. Direction was required with the openness that Maximilian created with his similes in order to bring home the point; this was Adam's role.

 

On the private front,
I made several attempts during this period to repair my relationship with my parents. After I had abandoned my legal studies, I seemed to detect disappointment, not to say sorrow, in their eyes when they looked at me. I only went out to Das Vorschutz occasionally, and therefore I was very happy when Father unexpectedly got in touch and asked me to come out and have dinner over the weekend. I could not recall when something like that had last happened.

Expectant and light of heart, I knocked on the door the following Saturday, but as soon as I stepped across the threshold I sensed unease.

“Where is Mother?” I asked.

Father did not answer, but instead led me into the kitchen. There the table was set for two, and judging by the folding of the napkins, it was Mother who had arranged this for us. Now I am sure that she was on the upper floor, but just then I did not think to ask.

“Isn't Mother going to be here?” I said.

“We have something to talk about, my son,” said Father in his gloomiest and darkest voice, the one he only used on special occasions.

I sat down at the table. Although I feverishly attempted to think of what I had done that might be the cause of this seriousness, my lost career as an attorney was the only thing I could think of.

“Mother has heard talk about your…love life,” said Father.

It was as though the air in the room ran out in a single breath. I was completely unprepared.

“We have not brought you up to be a…a…Mother has heard that you have various…friends?”

“Various friends?”

Of course I knew what he was saying.

“Mother has heard that…well…that you've lived with three different females the last few months. That can't be right? No one in our family has ever moved in together before they were engaged. You know that. This is not how we brought you up,” said Father, who found it difficult to accuse me of something he thought was absurd.

“I'm not living with anyone right now,” I replied honorably. “But Father, I would like to tell you what Maximilian has to say about love. And about living together.”