Authors: Thomas Glavinic
Eva asked Heinrich what was so interesting about the next table, and why he had to stare at it with his back to us. He replied that seated there was the deputy mayor, the local police chief’s best friend, who was outlining the situation with the aid of a map. Without a by-your-leave, he pulled up his chair to the next table and asked exactly where the killer was being sought. So as not to miss anything, I went and stood behind him.
When the deputy mayor took a pencil and proceeded to draw on the map, even my partner and Eva rose from their chairs—the cushions were covered in some cheap, pink-floral material—and came to watch.
The deputy mayor said, “There, you see? That’s where we’re looking. The whole area is cordoned off, and we’re closing in.”
Heinrich asked if that meant they had a suspect who was presumed to be inside the circle he’d drawn.
“Yes,” the deputy mayor replied, “that’s right.”
Eva exclaimed that her home was plumb in the middle of that circle, and she didn’t like the sound of it at all.
My partner called for the check. The waitress, who happened to be serving a table nearby, took a big, black wallet from her apron. My partner inquired whether the Stubenrauchs would mind if we invited them to lunch at an inn. We had given them a great deal of work this weekend, she said, and would like to show our appreciation. Eva dismissed this proposal. My partner pointed out that we would have to eat anyway and that preparing a meal (cooking) would take up a lot of time that could be put to better use.
Eva looked at Heinrich, who said we could certainly eat out, but there was no question of our inviting them; they would invite
us, being their guests. My partner and I fiercely disputed this, and we eventually prevailed on the Stubenrauchs to let us play host. Heinrich said he knew of a fairly secluded inn about halfway between Frauenkirchen and their house—one that ought to be unaffected by the turbulence prevailing in the victims’ hometown. My partner welcomed this suggestion, and we walked back to the car.
On the way, Heinrich pointed out with a touch of pride that his good relations with a local bigwig (the deputy mayor) had secured us some important information about the manhunt. Eva said he was a hell of a fellow, and we all chuckled.
As soon as we had taken our places in the car and fastened our safety belts, we wound the side windows down because the heat inside the car generated by continuous solar radiation far exceeded the limits of what was tolerable.
Heinrich chauffeured us to the inn of his choice without occasioning my partner any further discomfort.
The parking lot was choked with cars. Whew, said my partner, it’s a popular place. Since two more cars had pulled up behind us and their occupants were getting out, we hurried to the terrace of the inn for fear of losing a vacant table to people who had gotten there after us. There were no free tables at all, however. Eva suggested going in search of another inn. Heinrich swore that his hunger had attained an intensity that precluded another change of location, so we sat down inside the restaurant. My partner expressed her satisfaction that the windows, at least, were open, which created a pleasant through draft.
A loud, monotonous voice was issuing from an adjacent room. Heinrich went to investigate. Returning, he reported that the pope was on television. He was delivering his
Urbi et Orbi
while the occupants of the next room slurped their food and crossed themselves.
After we had ordered (four clear soups with strips of pancake, beef goulash for Heinrich, grilled Swiss for Eva, veal escalope with cream for my partner, and egg dumplings for me, plus four mixed salads with pumpkinseed oil), my partner confessed to feeling uneasy about the thought of returning to the Stubenrauchs’ house after the meal; the circle the deputy mayor had drawn had made her nervous. Heinrich: Didn’t she realize that, if the killer was suspected of being there, the place would be swarming with police?
Eva endorsed this view; she also felt uneasy, she said, but we could rely on the forces of law and order.
During the meal, Eva skillfully contrived to speak of general topics (our jobs, our next vacation, visits to the dentist, a Spanish course at the adult education center), and the conversation that developed was lively and varied. It was 12:31 when Eva finished her meal—the last of us to do so. Heinrich mooted the possibility of ordering a dessert.
Before we could debate this question, something out of the ordinary occurred in the adjoining room. A commotion broke out. The waitresses stopped work and everyone crowded next door. Heinrich had just stood up for a better look when a loud, agitated voice suddenly rang out. Accompanied by the
flap-flap-flap
of a helicopter, it was clearly issuing from a television set. Heinrich beckoned and called to us to come at once. In company with the last people to leave their tables, we streamed into the room next door, which was now jam-packed.
Straight ahead, standing on top of a tall closet, was a big television set of approximately fifteen years’ vintage. It was showing a view of some countryside taken from a helicopter (the sound and speed of travel made it unlikely that it was an ordinary airplane). People in the room were calling out place names they recognized. In a voice breaking with emotion, the reporter stated that the red VW Golf now being pursued by police cars belonged to a man
suspected of being the camera killer, who was trying to evade arrest. “Perhaps, ladies and gentlemen, we shall very soon witness the capture of the world’s vilest criminal—let us hope so. The whole country, nay, half of the world, is behind the brave men in uniform who are even now risking their lives at 100 mph on this road in West Styria.”
Everyone in the room was yelling wildly: “They’ve nabbed the swine,” “The bastard’s going to be caught,” “String him up,” etc. The reporter referred to a roadblock that came into view soon afterward.
This is incredible, Heinrich shouted, just look.
And my partner pinched me on the arm.
A man beside me—someone I’d never seen before—turned to me and said they ought to shoot the camera killer on the spot, not let him get out of the car. A few bullets through the driver’s door and he would have had it. Self-defense—something had glinted inside the car and they’d thought it was a gun. Bang-bang—simple as that. He toasted me with his beer mug.
The fugitive’s car came to a stop with squad cars behind and beside it. Uproar in the room. One or two more thoughtful souls called for quiet.
The policemen jumped out of their cars and aimed their weapons at the figure seated in the sedan. After a while, the man got out with his hands up. Just as he was being handcuffed, the camera zoomed in as close as possible to the scene of the action. We could almost distinguish the man’s features. The angry yelling in the inn reached its climax. After some minutes’ noisy expressions of satisfaction, the helicopter reporter could be heard once more.
A little while later, a police chief appeared on the screen. He was asked by jostling, shoving journalists if that was the murderer. Had he been caught? The police chief replied that the young man was only one suspect among several. He had rendered himself
exceptionally suspicious by dropping out of sight on the night of Holy Thursday, and the police had finally run him to earth at a remote country inn. All further questions would be answered at a press conference scheduled for 3:00 p.m.
At that moment, the proprietress turned off the television and called to everyone to go on with their meals. This injunction was greeted with universal hilarity. The crowd gradually dispersed.
As my partner and I slowly returned to our table, step by step, we were engaged in conversation by total strangers. Was he from around here? Had he murdered more than once? Shouldn’t he have been killed on the spot? Would we take part in the referendum? And so on.
Back at the table, Heinrich said it was great. Yesterday they’d televised the service in St. Stephen’s Cathedral, but today they’d cut off the pope in mid-benediction. The seculars had obviously won the power struggle at Austrian Broadcasting.
Eva cast her eyes up to heaven. She said she was very happy at the outcome of this business and trusted that all future conversations and their guests’ last day (i.e., tomorrow) would be unspoiled by the subject of murder. My partner fervently agreed.
Heinrich, extracting a toothpick from its wrapper, which bore the printed inscription
Holz-Berger
, said he wasn’t sure they’d gotten the right man. Eva rolled her eyes again and told him to stop it; he would find out soon enough.
Heinrich grinned and asked my partner if she was now prepared to be the first to enter the Stubenrauchs’ house, possibly even on her own, and check it for the presence of some stranger who might be equipped with a video camera. Eva vigorously reprimanded him. It was time he stopped these silly games, she said; the matter was settled. Heinrich gleefully apologized. My partner brushed this aside. She wasn’t going to drive herself insane anymore and was quite prepared to enter the house on her own.
Grinning, Heinrich told me in an undertone, but loudly enough for the others to hear, that the threat of the camera killer might have been dispelled, but there was still the maddened farmer roaming the countryside with his rifle and firing at anything that moved. This remark was greeted with amusement.
My partner asked for the check and I got out my wallet. The proprietress took the money in person. While doing so, she struck up a conversation about the captured murderer. It was awful, she said; they had just announced that he was a twenty-four-year-old from the locality—the cook had heard it on the radio in the kitchen. Heinrich asked if there was any doubt about the young man’s guilt. The proprietress shrugged her shoulders, which were swathed in a black silk shawl adorned with a floral pattern, and said they wouldn’t have arrested him otherwise.
My partner praised the quality of the dishes we had consumed and inquired if the restaurant used organically grown meat and vegetables. This the proprietress confirmed, substantiating her assurance by citing various names that meant nothing to us (Herbert Stadler, possibly a farmer, and Karl Gnam, a butcher). My partner commended this policy, and the proprietress regarded her with approval from then on. One could see and hear that my partner was a townswoman, she said, and city folk sometimes failed to appreciate natural products, though this situation was improving.
Last of all, she turned to the Stubenrauchs. She knew of them, she said, and they were well spoken of even though they hadn’t lived in the district for long. Heinrich said he was interested to hear that; he’d had no idea they were a topic of conversation. Well, yes, said the proprietress, you know how people talk. The Stubenrauchs fitted in well locally, she went on. Johann Fleck, the mayor, with whom she was sure they were already acquainted, was someone you could always turn to in an emergency.
Heinrich laughed. If the camera killer showed up at their home, he said, he would be sure to notify Herr Fleck. Eva punched him in the ribs.
They’ve caught him anyway, the proprietress muttered.
Once my partner had finished her drink, we left the inn accompanied by good-byes all around. Several well-dressed children with smart haircuts were playing in the parking lot. Heinrich, who had gone on ahead, flapped his arms again. This resulted in a temperamental outburst on Eva’s part. She declared that she wouldn’t stand for any more of his cynicism. My partner backed her up. Eva said she meant it, and he should think before he spoke; he had made her look a fool at the inn with his talk of notifying the mayor about the murderer. Heinrich laughingly put his hands above his head as if defending himself from an assailant. Eva again said she meant it.
We got into the car. Heinrich was once more seated at the wheel with me in the passenger seat and the womenfolk accommodated in the back. Heinrich drove off. He said he proposed to make a short detour to enable us—meaning my partner and me—to savor the beauties of the surrounding countryside. He apologized for flapping his arms. Perhaps it was his way of coming to terms with what he’d seen, heard, and experienced. He was no psychologist, but he knew that many people dealt with such matters contemplatively, whereas others, of whom he was clearly one, adopted an aggressive approach. From behind us, Eva called out that this aggressive approach contained the seeds of another problem—namely, the danger of hurting the feelings of other, less coarse-grained individuals.
Heinrich said he was aware of this and apologized yet again; he would try to behave more acceptably in the future. He turned on the radio. Various people from the victims’ hometown were being interviewed, among them someone who claimed to know
the person who had been captured in the course of the manhunt. The man under arrest certainly wasn’t the guilty party, he said; that was out of the question. All else apart, he had no idea how to operate a video camera.
Heinrich professed himself surprised by the fact that, in the aftermath of a crime, friends and neighbors, etc., invariably expressed astonishment that the person in question had committed an atrocity, as if it were possible to see inside someone’s head or stake one’s life on their innocence. It really was strange, said Eva.
Heinrich said that none of us differed from the man on the radio in this respect. He felt convinced, for example, that none of us would believe him, Heinrich, capable of a flagrant breach of the law, and if he were arrested overnight for murder, it would be our voices that issued from the radio, churning out the I-just-can’t-believe-its and he-couldn’t-possibly-have-done-its.
My partner objected that he hadn’t committed murder—that was the difference. If he were arrested tomorrow and she were speaking on the radio, her statement that Heinrich was incapable of murder would be true because he genuinely hadn’t committed one.
How could she be so sure? Heinrich retorted with a grin.
He was starting again, Eva exclaimed, and he’d promised to curb his tasteless witticisms.
Heinrich said he was only joking, but the underlying circumstances were serious and worthy of discussion. How did my partner know he wasn’t a murderer? he demanded. It was just the same with the man’s friend on the radio. Eva started to protest, but my partner interjected that Heinrich was right; one could never tell.