"Self’s Murder" - читать интересную книгу автора (Schlink Bernhard)

2 In a ditch

It all began one Sunday in February. I was heading back home to Mannheim from Beerfelden with my girlfriend, Brigitte, and her son, Manuel. Brigitte had a friend who had moved to Beerfelden from Viernheim and had invited us for a coffee-and-cake housewarming. Their children got on well together and the women talked and talked. By the time we got into the car it was already dark.

We had barely set out when it began to snow-large, heavy, wet flakes. The narrow road uphill through the woods was desolate. There was no car in front or behind, nor any coming in our direction. The snowflakes got thicker. The car swerved in the curves, the wheels skidded where the road was steep, and visibility was just enough for me to keep the car on the road. Manu, who had been chattering away, fell silent, and Brigitte kept her hands folded in her lap. Only her dog, Nonni, was asleep as if nothing was going on. The heater hadn’t really kicked in, but my forehead was covered in pearls of sweat.

“Shouldn’t we stop and wait for the-”

“It could snow for hours, Brigitte. And once we get snowed in, we’ll be stuck.”

I saw the car in the ditch only because the driver had left his headlights on, and they shone across the road like a barrier. I stopped.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Brigitte asked.

“I’ll deal with it.”

I got out, pulled up the collar of my jacket, and trudged through the snow. A Mercedes had strayed onto a side road and in attempting to get back onto the main road had gotten stuck in a ditch. I heard music-piano and orchestra-and through the fogged-over windows saw two men in the lighted interior, one in the driver’s seat, the other diagonally behind him in the backseat. Like a steamship run aground, I thought, or an airplane after an emergency landing: the music plays on as if nothing has happened, but the journey has come to an end. I tapped on the driver’s window and he lowered it a chink.

“Need help?”

Before the driver could answer the other man leaned over and opened the back door. “Thank God! Get in,” he said, leaning back and motioning with his hand. Heat streamed from the interior, along with the aroma of leather and smoke. The music was so loud that the man had to raise his voice. He turned to the driver: “Turn it down, please!”

I got in. The driver took his time. He slowly reached over to the radio, fumbled for the knob, and turned it, and the music grew softer. His boss waited with a frown until it fell silent.

“We can’t get out of here, and the phone isn’t working. I have a feeling this is the back of beyond.” He laughed bitterly, as if getting stuck were not only a mishap but some personal slight.

“Can we give you a lift?”

“Could you help push the car? If we can manage to get out of this ditch we’ll be all right. There’s nothing wrong with the car.”

I looked at the driver, expecting him to say something. After all, he was responsible for this mess. But he didn’t say anything. In the rearview mirror I could see his eyes fixed on me.

The boss saw my questioning look. “Why don’t I get in the driver’s seat, and you and Gregor push? What we need…”

“No.” The driver turned around. A mature face and a low, hoarse voice. “I’ll stay here, and you do the pushing.” I heard an accent, but I couldn’t quite place it.

The boss was the younger of the two, but looking at his delicate hands and slender build, I couldn’t make rhyme or reason of the driver’s suggestion. However, the boss did not contradict him. We got out. The driver stepped on the gas and we pushed against the car, the spinning wheels whirring and flinging out snow, pine needles, leaves, and mud. We went on pushing, it went on snowing, and our hair got wet, our hands and ears numb. Brigitte and Manu came over. I had them sit on the car’s trunk, and when I got on it, too, the wheels made contact and the car lurched out of the ditch with a jolt.

“Get home safely!” I called out after them, and we headed back to our car.

“Wait a minute!” The boss came running after us. “Who should I thank for rescuing us?”

I found a card in my jacket pocket and handed it to him. “‘Gerhard Self.’”

He blew the flakes off the card and read aloud: “‘Private investigator.’ You are… You are a detective? Then I have a job for you. Can you drop by my office?” He rummaged around in his pockets for a card but didn’t find one. “My name is Welker, and it’s the bank at the Schlossplatz in Schwetzingen. Will you remember that?”