The Safety Net (24 page)

Not that he objected to cleanliness, of course, that was a good, a pleasant thing, or to the flower beds outside the houses, the attractively painted old wagon wheels, the wheelbarrows planted with flowers—but silence and cleanliness within the farm walls seemed like a silence of the grave. Everything was as well tended as the graves in the little cemetery—that was it, a silence of the grave, and in the midst of this silence the son of farmer Schmergen suddenly strung himself up in the stable, for no discernible reason: nothing was ever discovered, no girl, no woman, no trouble in the army—a nice, quiet boy, well liked and a good dancer—never had any problems, never hinted at any—no motive was ever discovered—and yet on a Sunday afternoon, in the quietest hour, he strung himself up in the stable behind the farmhouse: in the silence of the grave and out of a clear blue sky. And then farmer Halster suddenly killed his wife: a giant of a fellow with a big, well-organized, financially sound farm, and in the interminably long wall a little shrine to the Madonna where there were always fresh flowers and lighted candles—affluent, respected, a taciturn man who treated his employees so well that he had almost become a legend. The Halsters had been on this farm for three hundred years, and the number of priests and lawyers, teachers and civil servants, who had gone out in the world from this family, to Cologne and to Australia, was almost beyond computation. There was no war in which a few Halsters hadn’t given their lives, including the Napoleonic and earlier wars—an extended clan, almost a dynasty. And his wife, a handsome creature, almost a beauty, dark-haired, known to be “prudent”—and he shot her dead between his morning pint and dinner. Granted,
there were rumors that she had been “depraved,” but that was never properly explained, there was merely talk about their childlessness—but to “Why? Why?” there was no answer. Tragedy, sensation, horror—and even before the news got around the village Halster had driven over to Blückhoven and given himself up to the police—from this quiet, clean village where no wisp of straw was to be found on the street, a pretty village with its ordinary churchgoers, the morning pint, the annual rifle competitions and village fair—and in the evening at Hermes’s that extra half liter with a titch on top.

A scarifying vision: thinking five or ten years ahead—fear of the loss of permanence, and fear of permanence: gardening, carrots, onions, renewing the wood supply, over and over again: for years, perhaps decades—to reach the age of forty, perhaps fifty, in Hubreichen.…

Holger was feeling the cold today, he put first his left, then his right hand into Father’s coat pocket: “It looks as if we’ll soon have to get our gloves out of the drawer”; and the milk pitcher had to be switched from left to right. He promised the boy they would roast some chestnuts, they were best for warming the hands, and of course there would be baked apples with custard sauce and playing with him in the evening—building houses—why did children love to build houses, why did they love to sit with their parents beside the warm stove, listening to stories, to songs? Today it was young Hermes who poured the milk, he was pleasant, curious, gave an extra-generous titch, almost like his mother—talked about his children, none of whom wanted to take over the farm: Rolf consoled him: “That’ll change, things will change, before your children are old enough to decide. The day will come when they’ll be fighting each other for the farm.” That made young Hermes laugh: “I hope you’re right!”

“Just wait and see.…”

“If I knew you’d still be here then, I’d make a bet: three months’ free milk, if you’re right.”

“In another five years your Konrad will be eighteen, and probably I won’t be here anymore.…”

“I wish you’d stay.” That was spoken so forthrightly that they were both embarrassed. Holger squeezed his hand, as much as to say: Yes, stay.

“That doesn’t depend only on me,” said Rolf.

“On us? I mean, on the village?”

“I have a profession,” said Rolf, “I’m a qualified banking expert, what’s more, with some practical experience—but I don’t think they’re about to entrust me with the local branch here.” They could both laugh again, and Hermes said: “My sister, maybe she’ll want to take over the farm—my sister.”

Rolf thanked him, picked up the milk, and shook hands with young Hermes before leaving. Damn it, was he turning into a creature of impulse or even an opportunist? Of course the people in the village also had sons and daughters who went to university and sometimes turned up at weekends, smartly dressed, with their little cars, refused to go to church, with leftist airs, sexual freedom and all that; sometimes they had even come to them, grumbling and grousing, talked about Mao and treated him with a certain awe because he had been in the slammer. But he didn’t care for people trying to get chummy with him, he regarded the slammer as neither a distinction nor fun, and for Katharina’s sensitive Communist heart they spoke too openly, and their comments on sexual problems were more obscene than enlightened. They had tried to get chummy, clumsily, and then had stayed away, suddenly, they must have become scared of associating with them—for the last couple of years that had no longer been advisable, and only the one boy remained, Schmergen the farmer’s son, whom his brother’s suicide had at first shattered, then made thoughtful. He came and talked about Cuba, wanted to learn Spanish, and they found him a Chilean woman—Dolores—who gave him lessons; he still came sometimes, Heinrich Schmergen, sat quietly beside the stove, rolling cigarettes, smiling, and didn’t leave even when old friends came, reliable, disillusioned friends, out of work, banned from their
professions, discussing the difference between guarded and watched, and it pained him to detect from their faint, very faint undertones that, in the last analysis, in spite of slammer and surveillance, they regarded him as privileged.

That pained him the most, was worse than if his windows had been smashed, for it applied not only to his background but also to Veronica and Beverloh, who somehow, even if they were completely repudiated and loathed, were still regarded as belonging to the aristocracy. After all, he had been married to one of them, and the other had been his friend—and he could sometimes sense, although he couldn’t prove it, that they didn’t quite accept him. And he felt something of the same sort with Holzpuke, “in charge of security,” who looked for more in him than he would ever be able to yield. Shaking his head, Holzpuke kept looking for motives, found none, questioned him about possible motives, was still poking around in the psychology that yielded nothing, nothing: no one had ever “injured” Heinrich Beverloh, no one had done or wished him harm, he had been sponsored, praised, given every possible encouragement, that “towering intellect straight from the people,” not exactly a working-class child but almost, considering that his father had started out as a mailman, that is, at a working-class level: he had pushed the parcel cart by hand from house to house, had laboriously and diligently worked his way up to the status of clerk, and had retired with a civil servant’s pension.

Yet in those days it had still been possible, without bending the truth too much, to sell Heinrich as a child of the working class, highly talented, bordering on genius, even with a sense of humor, likable, with a Christian upbringing, humanistically inclined and educated, and it may have hung only by the merest thread—probably Sabine’s childish notion of entering untouched upon the married state—whether they would become brothers-in-law, and instead of Veronica it would have been Sabine who would be living with him somewhere—where?—faithful unto death, including this madness, this murderous, mythical logic that he was constantly trying to explain to Holzpuke, and to
himself by discussing it with Holzpuke. When he recalled their time in New York, their conversations there, the frenzy, the horrified frenzy that had seized Heinrich when he discovered the “international continent of money,” that ocean no one can cross, those mountains no one can climb—that immensity—it sometimes seemed that Beverloh reached the point of deciding to reverse his intelligence and insight. It wasn’t envy, not that, no more so than Saint George or Siegfried killing the dragon out of envy. Indeed, perhaps his motives might be better understood by comparison with the Nibelung saga than by any sort of envy- or hate-philosophy or by something as stupid as resentment. As a banker and stock-exchange operator, Heinrich could have earned more money than he could ever spend, and that was probably his whole motivation: that rampant, rampaging immensity that no one needed, that benefited no one, merely breeding and inbreeding in an obscene incest, that many-headed hydra, he would try to chop off all those heads, not sparing Father either, of course—they had better watch out for him—that was no longer encompassed by the word “capitalism,” it was something more, something mythical. They shouldn’t count on memories of younger days, gratitude, outings, dances, discussions, games, and carefree parties in lamplit gardens; and next to Father, if he (Holzpuke) wished to know, the person most at risk was his sister, Sabine Fischer. That was the virgin whom he, Beverloh, wanted to snatch away from the dragon. He didn’t consider Fischer himself to be at risk at all; in all probability they merely considered him a “conceited young puppy” whom they would not deign to honor with an assassination or kidnapping. But of course they would kidnap the child, Kit, as well, though only in order to spare Sabine suffering.

“Yes, you heard me correctly: in order to spare her suffering. They like her, you see, he does and so does Veronica, my former wife. Of course I can’t give you any advice, nor can I guarantee that my advice and my prognoses are accurate—I am trying to get at the motivation, that’s all. And I’m reasonably
sure that you can save yourself the trouble of keeping my friends under surveillance.”

“And how about yourself?”

“In objective terms, since we have a phone and there is a chance of connections being established: keep up the surveillance, of myself at any rate, but not for Katharina, my wife; she will never, never take that route, never.”

“And you?”

“In all probability, bordering on certainty: never—but mind you, I said
bordering
on certainty—there might remain the fine line of the border itself—there remains a residue, a minute vestige, that prevents me from guaranteeing for myself.”

And at that point Holzpuke sighed and said: “What a pity you wouldn’t consider joining the police,” laughed and added, “and probably wouldn’t be accepted either—or would you?”

“If your ‘would you?’ refers to my considering joining the police, the answer is: no. Whether or not I’d be accepted, I can’t judge. Most likely not, the police protects many things that are worth protecting, but it also protects the dragon that I was trying to describe to you. Keep an eye on me, I’d prefer that, but spare my wife if you can.”

“We must keep an eye on your wife too, a protective eye, if you like, she’s a potential contact, I’m sure you’re aware of that—and we have to protect your little boy, too. How interesting—you say ‘money’ and not ‘capitalism.’ ”

“I do say capitalism—but those people always say money.”

“And your first wife?”

“She’s a Socialist—I imagine she’d be happy to get out right now, but she has one terrible trait, the same as my sister, Mrs. Fischer: she’s faithful.”

“Faithful unto death?”

“Perhaps.”

“Unto the death of others?”

He didn’t know how to answer this, became embarrassed, and said: “She has a child—and she could be put away for life.”

“One more thing: did you
have
to call your second son Holger too?”

“It’s a fine old noble Nordic name. My first son is called Holger Tolm, my second Holger Schröter. Is it a crime to call two sons Holger?”

“No, only I find your reference to the origin of that truly fine name—well, not quite up to the standard of our discussion. No, it’s not a crime to call two sons Holger if they have different last names. I enjoy talking to you, you always bring me a little closer to this wretched business which I know you yourself condemn. But I’d like to know—I won’t pin you down—do you also guarantee for your friends, for their wives, their girlfriends—I mean the people you visit and who sometimes visit you?”

“I guarantee that not a single one of their theoretical or practical utterances puts them even remotely in the proximity of those you are looking for and pursuing; I guarantee that not one of them, even secretly, has ever referred to the police as ‘the fuzz.’ But guarantee? Whom would you guarantee one hundred percent?

Every single one of your men, that he wouldn’t ever crack up, lose his nerve—quite understandably? And don’t forget that my friends, their wives and girlfriends, including myself and my wife, would like to work, as teachers, mechanics, and I’m a pretty good authority on banking, I really am—and our friend Clara is one of the best teachers I’ve ever known.…”

“Look, I’ve nothing to do with the protection of the Constitution or with the Ministry of Education.…”

“I know that, and you know I’m not blaming you for anything, but just remember what can happen to people who aren’t allowed to practice their profession—we can’t go on growing tomatoes forever.”

“Is there anything particular I could do for you?”

“My son, the first Holger—do you know anything at all about him?”

“No more than what your former wife sometimes tells
your sister over the phone.”

“And if you did know anything more …?”

“I wouldn’t be allowed to tell you, nor would I—and you know that—for your son’s sake as well as for yours, and not only because this is a matter for the police. We’re pinning our hopes on the phone—just as you are. Let me ask you one more question, an abstract, theoretical one, maybe also a logistical one: which mode of transport would you use if, as one of those people and theoretically familiar with the logistics, you wanted to approach our area?”

“Plane, car, rail—I’d exclude all those, and there would only be one thing left—and that seems to me obvious, or rather, logical: a bicycle.”

“A bit slow—and why not a motorcycle?”

“Motorcycles have a bad reputation—and as for ‘slow,’ that’s of no importance, it’s merely a matter of planning, of preparation, of deployment. And now you will say, Why not on foot, then? In my opinion, on foot is too conspicuous—a pedestrian is always taken for a potential hitchhiker, and that’s dangerous, while bicycling is fashionable and makes one independent. So my guess would be a bicycle. Let me add one comment: Beverloh learned to calculate when he was a banker, and ballistics when he was in the army—he was with the artillery.”