Lanceheim (17 page)

After having identified myself at the reception desk and been searched in a small room connected to the coatroom, they led me to the prisoner. Maximilian sat waiting on an uncomfortable Windsor-style chair in a cell with poor lighting that reeked of cigarette butts. I could not keep from smiling when I saw that he had made a headcloth from a pillowcase.

“Maximilian,” I exclaimed, sitting down across from him, on the other side of the rusty table that was the room's only furnishing, “I've been so worried.”

Maximilian looked at me and nodded absently.

“If you see the world through a soap bubble,” he said, “you don't see clearly. But one thing is certain: Sooner or later the bubble will burst.”

And I did not get more than that out of him. Maximilian had already confessed everything to the police; he had
accounted for what had happened during the fateful night, and omitted neither odors nor colors. When I read the interrogation report a few months later, I was surprised by the wealth of detail; it was not like him. But there was not a word about Duck Johnson.

Even when I met Maximilian in the jail that first time I had a hard time controlling my frustration. We sat there on either side of the table for another half hour, and I pressed him with questions that soon proceeded to theories and increasingly aggressive accusations. Not toward him, of course, but toward Duck. Finally Maximilian got up.

“Enough now, Wolf,” he said. “If you can't play hopscotch, it's pointless to blame the one who drew the squares.”

A police officer opened the door behind my back, and I was thereby forced to leave.

“We'll get you out of here,” I called in vain to Maximilian while the police officer escorted me along the claustrophobic corridor toward the exit. “We'll get you out, as soon as tomorrow.”

I found it absurd that the most good stuffed animal who has ever lived in Mollisan Town was accused of a crime. However honorably intended, my promise, however, proved as empty as the apartment on Leyergasse. During the month that led to the trial, we hired the best attorneys we could find, given our finances. All of them failed, because Maximilian did not cooperate. He made no credible account of how he had made his way into the bank or the vault, but worse yet, the attorneys could not get a single mitigating circumstance out of him. And when they pressed him harder, he replied with similes that these verbal acrobats of the law could neither understand nor use.

On one occasion, in deep dejection, Adam Chaffinch went to the jail himself to see him. Even for Adam, Maximilian would not place any guilt on Duck Johnson.

“The free will that leads your steps,” Maximilian is said
to have explained to Chaffinch in one of the small interrogation rooms with rusty tables, “is your own. And when your free will leads you astray because you are no more than a stuffed animal, always remember this: Have confidence. Magnus will lead you right again.”

For a deacon like Chaffinch, the citing of Magnus as an argument was easy to refute.

“The responsibility we have for our lives, as long as we live them in Mollisan Town,” replied Adam, “we cannot avoid by referring to Magnus. True, our faith rests in his paws, but our lives are still our own. He is going to forgive us and have mercy on us however we choose to use our will.”

When Maximilian heard these words, he smiled amiably, as when you hear a cub counting out loud for the first time. But he did not reply, and Adam Chaffinch too had to leave the jail with unfinished business. It was obvious that Maximilian did not intend to tell what had caused him to end up in the vault of the National Bank, much less disclose Duck Johnson's participation.

When the trial began—with a public defender because the attorneys we had hired had all withdrawn—Maximilian immediately declared himself guilty. And we understood that our only chance to exonerate him was to find Duck Johnson. During an intensive week of searching, we did all we could. I myself did not have time to be present at the court proceedings; I neither slept nor ate and spent every hour of the day following up what proved to be empty tips about where Duck might possibly be hiding.

The judge who took care of the case was named Hawk Pius, and he was a certifiably tough bird. His small, peering eyes stared straight at Maximilian during the entire trial. Because the question of guilt was established, it was mostly about the length of the sentence. This sounded ominous.
Even more disheartening was our pursuit of Duck; he had vanished without a trace.

On the fifth day of the proceedings came the sentence. It was conspicuously severe considering the facts that the defendant had no previous record, no damage had occurred, and no money had disappeared.

Maximilian was sentenced to fifteen years in prison.

I wept when I received the news. Adam Chaffinch shut himself up in the sacristy and remained there almost twenty-four hours. Even now the days that followed form a kind of vacuum in my life, an absurd existence of meaninglessness and confusion, a fog of guilt and curses.

Now I know that all of it had a meaning.

Now I know that in his absence, the myth of Maximilian would grow with a force that no living stuffed animal, not even himself, would have been able to live up to.

But this took time to realize, and the year that followed was the darkest in my life.

H
is name was Giraffe Heine.

Philip Mouse was waiting with Reuben Walrus outside a shabby restaurant on golden brown rue Ybry in south Yok. The Afternoon Weather was at a late stage, the temperature was falling fast, but the sky was still blue. It had been two days since Reuben had given the private detective the assignment, and he had already achieved some type of result.

“Is it here?” asked Reuben.

Philip Mouse nodded. The brim of his hat concealed the mouse's eyes.

“Just as sure as a female's mysteriousness,” said Mouse.

It was the surest thing he could think of.

“Shouldn't we go in?”

“Soon,” said Mouse, crushing the glowing cigarette butt with his heel.

Giraffe Heine had gone into the bar a good while ago, and what caused Philip to hold back his client, he himself was not sure of. Perhaps he feared that Reuben would be disappointed. After the rat had been in touch, Mouse had
worked up a certain expectancy. He had phoned Reuben and told him the good, and the bad, news. True, he did not know where Maximilian was, but he had every reason to believe that they would get hold of the giraffe.

 

During the past few
days Philip Mouse had received a number of tips about the giraffe. A few were anything but reliable; others bore consideration. It started with Annette Afghan telling the same story to Philip that she had told to Reuben. Then a hamster who maintained that he knew where Giraffe Heine usually bought wine said that he had not had cancer of the throat, as the afghan alleged; instead it was something about his nose.

From a yellow koala who claimed to know where Giraffe lived (which proved to be a lie or a misunderstanding), Philip found out that Maximilian had shown himself to Giraffe in a dream, and not at all in reality. Being in several places at the same time, said the koala, was a prerequisite for Maximilian. How else could he affect the lives of so many animals? The koala then hinted that he himself had seen Maximilian flash by in more than one dream. It was the koala who confirmed that the name of the giraffe was Heine.

A beautiful pelican by the name of Linda—or was it Lina—could relate that Giraffe Heine worked as a proofreader at a publisher that primarily published university dissertations. She was quite certain that Giraffe had never met Maximilian. It was actually the case that Giraffe had a brother who as a youth had lost one of his feet in an escalator. Maximilian had come down from the sky as an angel and conjured forth a new foot for the brother. (Of all the stories that Philip uncovered, this was the most ridiculous. On the other hand, the beautiful pelican was correct in that Giraffe Heine did work at the University Press.)

With every new tip, Mouse got a new version of what had happened. Soon he could see a pattern. Everyone he talked to begrudged the giraffe his experience, and tried to belittle or erase it. All were just as unconditionally possessed by Maximilian's divinity and power.

But the clues also led to skeptics. The receptionist at the University Press explained curtly to Philip that she did not know who Maximilian was, and did not intend to find out either. Neither Heine nor any other proofreader had a permanent position or employment at the publisher, she said, and she dismissed Philip as yet another in a series of religious fools who called to ask questions about the giraffe.

“There's nothing special about Heine,” she told him with irritation before he left. “And if he is supposed to have met some kind of shaman, then you can ask him why he always has a cold. Don't miracles work on the sniffles?”

Philip could not answer that question.

It was through Daisy and her unfathomable network of social workers all over Mollisan Town that the tip about the bar on golden brown rue Ybry turned up. A rat at the social services office in south Yok took Daisy's bait, and revealed that Giraffe Heine was one of his cases. There was no fixed address for the giraffe, but when the rat wanted to get hold of him, he would leave messages at the bar on rue Ybry, and most often he heard from Heine afterward.

It was this information that Philip Mouse gave Reuben Walrus on the third day. The composer had been disappointed at first when he realized that Mouse had not gotten any closer to the trail of Maximilian, but then he cheered up and asked whether they could drive down to Yok immediately and look for the giraffe.

“It's your money,” Mouse replied.

Walrus picked up Mouse in a taxi outside the detective's office, and in silence they traveled southward to Yok's bewilderingly narrow and incoherent blocks.

“I have a few receipts that are due,” Mouse took the opportunity to explain.

“Huh?”

“Extra expenses. Doing investigative work isn't free,” said Mouse.

Walrus nodded, and Mouse took that as agreement.

They were let out a few blocks from rue Ybry, because it would take the taxi driver an eternity to come back out on South Avenue if he drove up the whole way. Philip made sure to get out first to avoid paying. He led Reuben Walrus the few blocks up to the golden brown street, and after a short distance they found the bar.

At the very next moment they caught sight of Giraffe Heine.

At least it was a giraffe, and he was going into the restaurant.

It was almost a parody. Philip had not had any plan, hardly even any expectation. And then the giraffe was the first one they ran into. If Mouse had not been such a confirmed fatalist, it would have been hard to dismiss the thought that higher powers had a finger in the game.

“Now?” asked Reuben.

Mouse nodded. “Sure. I'll wait out here on the street. We don't want to scare him.”

It seemed wise.

Reuben took a deep breath, gathered his courage, and a minute later crossed the street and went into the bar.

It was the sort of place you would expect in a neighborhood like this.

At first Reuben could not see anything, the place was so submerged in deep darkness. Rock music roared out of cracked speakers, loud enough to conceal the silence. Then Reuben made out ten or so stuffed animals spread out at round tables in a surprisingly large room. Low red kerosene lamps stood flickering on the tables. Reuben went over to
the bar, where small lamps above the large mirror caused him to see himself ordering a beer.

Giraffe Heine was sitting alone at a table to the right of the bar. He was sipping a whiskey and soda and seemed deeply submerged in himself. Reuben put the money for the beer on the bar, taking the mug with him to the giraffe's table.

“May I join you, my friend?” he asked with the low voice that the murmur and music seemed to require.

And before he got an answer, he sat down.

The giraffe sat quietly. His gaze was clouded, and despite the fact that a stranger had just joined him, he seemed to have a hard time being involved in the moment.

“Who are you?” he finally forced out. “Are you from Social Services?”

“Reuben Walrus,” replied Reuben with exaggerated formality. “I've been looking for you for several days.”

“I don't have a cent.”

“I'm not interested in—”

“Ask anyone, you know? Not a cent,” and the giraffe let his hoof sweep across the room with a kind of leisureliness that did not appear to agree with his narrow, long limbs.

“What?” said Reuben.

He did not want to admit it, but if he did not concentrate on what the giraffe was saying, if he looked in a different direction, he had a hard time hearing.

“I don't have a cent,” repeated Heine.

“I'm here to talk about Maximilian,” said Reuben.

The giraffe reacted. His gaze cleared; the entire stuffed animal stiffened.

“Maximilian?” said Giraffe Heine. “Don't think, like, I've ever heard of him.”

There was something in the suspicious gaze and the immediate denial that convinced Reuben that Giraffe was lying.

“I wish you no harm,” said Reuben. “And you don't need to talk. I'm really not in pursuit of you—it's Maximilian I want to meet. But you seem to be the only one who has actually met him.”

“I haven't, like, met him, you know?” the giraffe persisted. “And even if I had, I know nothing, like, about him, you know? Where he is or how you get hold of him, and that.”

“Do you know anyone who knows?”

“No.”

“And you've never seen him again?”

“No.”

“But you must have been contacted by lots of animals like me, who wonder what happened and where Maximilian is staying.”

“Hundreds.”

“What?”

“There have been hundreds like you here, asking.”

Reuben pondered this.

“It's completely crazy,” sighed Giraffe Heine, sipping his whiskey and soda. “First the…impossible happens, you know? Then I can't go home without being jumped, you know? Stuffed animals who think I'm some sort of guru, and the kind that are pissed off and want to punch me in the mouth. It really sucks. It was better before I met him, you know? Better that stomach than those…”

The giraffe emptied his glass, and made a sign with his hoof to the bartender for another round.

“You're paying, you know?” he asked the walrus. “You all usually pay.”

Reuben nodded.

“Stomach?”

“He healed me,” nodded Giraffe.

“You were sick to your stomach,” asked Reuben, and hoped that his mustache concealed the smile that he couldn't
hold back. “That's what it was about? You had pain in your stomach?”

“It's nothing to laugh at,” said Giraffe. “It hurt like hell. Hurt like hell, every day, year out and year in. Colic, like, or whatever it's called.”

Reuben held up a fin, as if to ask for forgiveness for his little smile. But Giraffe felt offended.

“I spent half of my childhood at Lucretzia, in intensive care or up in gastronomy, you know? No one could help me, no one got, like, what it was.”

Reuben attempted an understanding nod. Lucretzia was the hospital in Tourquai; it had a reputation of being the worst in the city.

“And then he came,” declared Giraffe.

“What'd you say?”

“Yes, well, Maximilian came.”

“Did he come to the hospital?”

The giraffe stared at the walrus as if he were an idiot. The bartender brought over a large whiskey and soda, taking the empty glass with him.

“No, not to the hospital. I met him a year ago. The hospital was when I was little, you know?” said Heine, sipping the fresh drink.

“Of course.”

“I don't know why he came to me in particular,” said Heine.

“No. For that is a good question,” admitted Reuben.

“But can I tell about what happened?”

“That would be exciting.”

Giraffe prepared himself by taking a large gulp of whiskey.

“It was a dark night,” he said.

“Tell it like it was,” asked Reuben.

“It was dark, anyway,” said Heine morosely, “and I was on my way home, you know? And even if I've told this story
at least a hundred times, I can't remember where I'd been. But I was on my way home. And then there was a stabbing pain, you know? Like it usually is. A stabbing pain in the abdomen, hurt like hell.”

Giraffe pointed with his hoof toward his abdomen to make clear exactly where the pain had arisen. Reuben nodded.

“I fell apart, like,” continued Heine. “But before I fell to the sidewalk, there was someone who caught me. A chaffinch.”

“What did you say?”

“A chaffinch helped me.”

“Maximilian is a chaffinch?”

Reuben was astonished.

“No, no,” said Heine, “that's his helper, you know? A chaffinch, his name is Adam, he caught me and helped me to a…store, or something. That was where I met him.”

“A store?”

“Or something,” repeated Heine irritably. “I don't know. It was an entryway right nearby, you know? I think it was a store.”

“Excuse me, I was just wondering.”

“Do you want to hear, or what?”

“I really want to hear,” answered Reuben.

“We walked in there, I was completely doubled over, I was in so much pain, the chaffinch dragged me, like, across the threshold. It was completely dark, I couldn't see more than outlines, you know? But there was a chair in the middle of the room, and there they sat me down. It hurt so much that I was whimpering, the attacks are different, this was one of the worst. The chaffinch stood beside me, he said nothing.”

“And you just went along?” asked Reuben, frankly surprised. “A strange animal down here in Yok, who does not explain anything, takes you over his shoulders and you just follow along?”

“When I'm in pain, you know,” explained Heine, “then it's like everything else disappears, you know? What I'm telling you, that's how I remembered it afterward. But just then…then it just hurt like holy hell. And I was sitting there on the chair in the middle of the room and wasn't thinking about anything other than my belly, and then he spoke to me.”

“What did he say?” asked Reuben.

He surprised himself with the intensity of the question. Reuben realized that he really, really wanted to know what Maximilian had said.

“The first thing he said,” said Heine, “was that I was not in pain.”

“That you were not in pain?”

“And you know, it was like I wasn't in pain anymore, you know? At the same moment as he said it, it didn't hurt anymore. And when I sat up on the chair—I'd been, like, halfway lying down before—then he said that I would never be in pain again. And I have never been in pain again. Never. I tested it. Once I ate two kilos of plums and drank a bottle of rum. I shit like a cow, but it didn't hurt, you know? Then he said that I must never lose hope, and then I could go.”

“Go?”

“That's all. I never saw them again, neither the chaffinch nor Maximilian.”

“But…but how do you know that it was…Maximilian?”