I don’t know what was wrong with me. I remembered the text and melody of a hit by Peter Alexander from the 1960s: “I know your sorrows like the back of my hand.”

“I really tried hard,” he continued, staring in front of him. “But once again I didn’t understand the language. What Welker had in fact said-a thing you would have understood in a flash-was: ‘I need an idiot who doesn’t know what’s going on here. And Karl-Heinz Ulbrich is just such an idiot.’”

“When did you realize this?”

“Oh, weeks ago. Quite by chance. We’ve got a lot of small branches in the area, and I thought I ought to get to know them, so I went to visit them-each time a different one. One day I turned up at one, in the back of beyond, just five little houses, all boarded up as if nobody lived there, on a road to nowhere. The bank itself was in no better shape, and I wondered what it was doing there. Well, what could it be doing there? It was a place to accommodate money. It didn’t take me long to find that out. When I want to know something, I-”

“I know, when it comes to shadowing you’re an absolute ace.”

“I didn’t just shadow. I also sniffed around. Welker isn’t Mafia. His men are Russians and he works for Russians, that’s all. Before his men started working for him, they worked for that other fellow, the one he shot. And he doesn’t only work for Russians. He’s independent, makes a profit of four to six percent, which isn’t a lot, but then again that’s all that laundering brings in. Where you make money is when you launder large amounts. Then you really take it in. And what Vera Soboda and I realized is that laundering cash is only an extra. The actual business is the laundering of money on the books.”

“Did you go to the police?”

“No. If it all comes to light it will be the end of the Sorbian bank, and all my employees will be out on the street. I didn’t have to read too much in my financial textbooks to see that we have far too many employees. The only reason Welker doesn’t rock the boat is because he doesn’t want to make waves. And do you know what else I tell myself? In the old days, we never had anything like that happen. You fellows brought all this with you. So it’s your police who should be dealing with it.”

“I can assure you that we in Schwetzingen had as little money laundering in the old days as you did in Cottbus. Wasn’t it you who said that Chechens, Georgians, and Azerbaijanis-”

“Back in the East German days, the Chechens stayed in Chechnya and the Georgians in Georgia. It’s you people who mixed everything up.”

He had a fixed idea in his mind and would not let anyone shake it. There was a determined look on his face, even if his determination was one of inflexibility.

“So what now? Why are you here? From what I see, you’ve reconciled yourself to the fact that-”

“Reconciled myself?” He looked at me in disbelief. “You think that because I haven’t gone to the police I have bowed my head to all the derision, insults, humiliations, degradations…” He groped for other fitting expressions but couldn’t find any. “I intend to do something!”

“How long have you been in town?”

“A week. I took a leave of absence. I’ll do something that Welker won’t forget.”

“Oh, Herr Ulbrich. I don’t know what you have in mind, but won’t the Sorbian bank be ruined that way, too, with your employees all ending up on the street? Welker wasn’t out to deride or humiliate you, or any of the other things you just said. What he did was use you, just as he uses everyone else, regardless of whether they’re from East or West Germany. It’s nothing personal.”

“He said to me-”

“But he doesn’t speak your language. You yourself just said that you and we don’t speak the same language.”

He looked at me sadly, and with a shock I realized it was the same helpless, somewhat foolish look that Klara sometimes had. I also recognized Klara’s inflexible determination in his face.

“Don’t do anything, Herr Ulbrich. Go back and earn some money at the Sorbian bank for as long as you can-it isn’t going to last forever. Earn enough so you can open an office, in Cottbus or Dresden or Leipzig: Karl-Heinz Ulbrich, Private Investigator. And if you’re ever swamped with work, give me a call and I’ll come help you out.”

He smiled-a small, crooked smile despite his inflexible determination.

“Welker used you,” I continued. “So now use him. Use him to lay a foundation for what you want to do. Don’t get tangled up in settling scores where if you win, you’ll end up the loser.”

He was silent. Then he emptied his glass in a single draft. “That’s a good wine.” He leaned forward and sat there as if he didn’t know whether to remain sitting or get up.

“Why don’t we finish this bottle?” I asked.

“I think…” He got up. “I think I’d better go. Thank you for everything.”

16 A little joke

I finished the bottle on my own. So, Ulbrich wanted to do something that Welker wouldn’t forget. If he had designs on Welker’s life, he would have expressed himself differently. But what did he have in mind? And what could it be that Welker would never forget? Welker, who had such a knack for keeping the good things clear in his mind and forgetting the bad?

I thought about Schuler and Samarin. If Welker hadn’t forgotten them yet, he would soon enough. What had happened to them, what he had done to them, was bad. What would Ulbrich do that Welker wouldn’t forget? Kill him? The dead never forget.

I didn’t sleep well. I dreamed of Korten falling off the cliff, his coat fluttering. I dreamed of our final conversation, of my saying, “I have come to kill you.” And his mocking words: “To bring them back to life?” I dreamed of Schuler staggering toward me, and of Samarin in his straitjacket. Then everything got confused; Welker fell from the cliff, and Schuler said mockingly: “To bring me back to life?”

The following morning I called Welker. I had to talk to him.

“Are you planning an investment?” he asked cheerfully.

“I’m planning a deposit, an investment, a withdrawal-it depends on how you look at it.”

Two new batteries, and my old voice recorder was working again. You can get smaller ones today that record better and longer and that look more elegant. But my old recorder did the job. My old corduroy jacket did the job, too. It has a hole behind the lapel and one in the breast of the jacket so that the wire, hidden from view, can pass from the recorder in the inside pocket to the microphone in the lapel. Whenever I take my handkerchief out of my inside pocket to wipe the sweat off my forehead or blow my nose, I can turn the recorder on or off.

At ten o’clock I was sitting in Welker’s office.

“As you see,” he said, his hand sweeping through the air, “nothing has changed since your last visit. I wanted to renovate the place, refurbish everything and make it all more attractive. But I just can’t get to it.”

I looked around. It was true that nothing had changed. Only the leaves of the chestnut trees I could see through the window had begun to turn.

“As you know,” I said, “Herr Schuler came to see me before his Isetta crashed into the tree and he died. It wasn’t only the money he brought me. He also brought me what he had found out about Laban and Samarin.”

Welker didn’t say anything.

“He told you what he had found the evening you and Samarin went to see him, when Samarin happened to step out for a moment.”

Again Welker didn’t say anything. He who says nothing says nothing wrong.

“Later, when you were outside, you saw that Schuler was taking a blood-pressure medication that one mustn’t stop taking abruptly. You know a thing or two about such matters. Then you looked through Schuler’s arsenal of medicines to find some pills that looked similar to his blood-pressure medication, and you found some. You switched the pills, just like that. Perhaps it would kill Schuler-which would be great. Perhaps it would only confuse him, indefinitely, for a long time, or perhaps just for a short period-not bad, either. Perhaps he would notice. But even then you wouldn’t be taking a risk by switching the pills: Schuler would have blamed himself or his niece, but he never would have thought of suspecting you.”