18 Not God

Brigitte came at eleven. “Where are your friends? You didn’t have a fight, did you?” She sat down on the arm of my chair and laid her hand on my shoulder.

“Yes and no.”

We had parted amicably enough, but our conviviality had suffered a bump, and we had all been a little awkward when saying our good-byes. I told Brigitte what I had reported to my friends, what I had hoped for, and how they had reacted.

“Oh, Gerhard. I see their point and I also see yours, but they… Why don’t you go to the police and at least get Welker on money laundering?”

“He’s got two lives on his conscience.”

“What about his wife?”

“We’ll never know that for sure. Everything points to the fact that she really had an accident and that he wasn’t the one who-”

“That’s not what I meant. I’m quite aware that he ought to be convicted for murder. But there’s not enough to convict him on. It’s not as if he’s the only criminal running around free when he ought to be in prison. Do you want to hunt them all down?”

“They’re nothing to me, but Welker-”

“What’s Welker to you? Tell me. Your paths crossed, and that was that. I’d understand if there’d at least been a personal connection between you.”

“Quite the opposite: if there was something personal, then I really wouldn’t have the right to…” I fell silent. Years ago, in Trefeuntec, I’d taken justice into my own hands. Was I now trying to prove to myself that I had done that on principle, and that I was not out to settle a personal score, either then or now?

Brigitte shook her head. “You’re not God.”

“No, Brigitte, I’m not God. I just can’t come to terms with the fact that Welker killed Schuler and Samarin, that he’s wealthy and content, and that’s all there is to it.”

She looked at me sadly, concerned. She took my head in her hands and kissed me on the lips. She held my head and said, “Manu is waiting for me; I’ve got to go. Forget Welker.”

She saw in my eyes how my powerlessness was tormenting me.

“Is it so bad? Is it so bad because you think you’re old if you don’t do anything?” I didn’t reply. She searched my eyes for an answer. “Forget Welker. Only if… only if it’ll kill you if you don’t do anything. But in that case be careful, do you hear? I don’t give a damn about Welker, whether he’s alive or dead, doing well or badly. But I do give a damn about you.”

She left and I went out on the balcony and smoked, looking into the night. Yes, Brigitte was right. My powerlessness was tormenting me because my age made me feel it. It seared my memory how often I had realized after the fact that I’d been too slow. It seared my guilt at Schuler’s death into my mind. It forever sealed that neither as a public prosecutor nor as a private detective had I left behind anything I could be truly proud of. It consumed me like a rage, a fear, a pain, an insult. I had to do something if I didn’t want it to devour me entirely.

Before I went to bed I took from a drawer the revolver that had been there for years. I hadn’t had a weapon for many years, and hadn’t planned on having this one, either, but once I got this revolver I couldn’t throw it away. A client had given it to me to look after and failed to retrieve it. I put it on the kitchen table and eyed it: black, handy, deadly. I picked it up, weighed it in my hand, and put it back on the table. Should I put it under my pillow to get closer to it?

19 With siren and flashing blue lights

It was still dark when I woke up, and I knew something was wrong. Something in my chest wasn’t right and was filling the space in which I breathe and in which my heart expands when it beats. It wasn’t a pain, but it was present: restricting, persistent, dangerous.

All of a sudden my forehead and palms were covered in sweat. I was frightened-I felt as if whatever wasn’t right in my chest was fear, a tough, fluid, corroding mass of fear.

I got up, walked a few steps, opened the window and then the door to the balcony, and took a deep breath. But whatever wasn’t right in my chest didn’t go away. It grew. It turned into a pressure, and my fear turned into panic.

The pressure abated and I calmed down. Hadn’t my last heart attack sent a numbness along my left arm? I felt nothing in my left arm. At that moment I decided that in the future I would live a healthier life, not smoke anymore, not drink anymore, and get some exercise. If Philipp went for the gold, couldn’t I at least go for the bronze? I was immersed in pleasant and positive thoughts. Until the pressure returned and I again broke out in a sweat. I was gripped by panic when the pressure remained and increased, in a slow ebbing and flowing. I sat down on my bed, hugged my chest with both arms, rocked back and forth, and heard myself whimpering softly.

But the pressure had been only a forerunner of pain. It, too, came in waves, sometimes slow, sometimes fast: there was no regular rhythm I could count on. The first onslaught was like an electric shock that made my chest seize up. It electrified my brain, and with full clarity I realized I had to do something. If I didn’t I would die. It was just after five in the morning.

I called the emergency service and twenty minutes later two paramedics from the Red Cross arrived with a stretcher-twenty minutes in which the pain cut through me like waves. Like labor pains-at least what I imagined labor pains to be-and whenever the pain kicked in, I took a deep breath. The paramedics made a few soothing remarks, got me onto the stretcher, and hooked me up to a drip from which a blood thinner flowed. They carried me down the five floors and put me in the ambulance. They turned on the flashing blue lights; through the window I could see them flaring over the wall of the building. Then they turned on the siren and drove off. They didn’t drive fast. The drip and the plastic tube swung gently.

Was there also a tranquilizer in the drip? The pain didn’t subside, but in its peaks and valleys my impressions became blurred and my fear disappeared into a whimpering resignation.

In the emergency room a lady doctor put stronger medications into my drip. These were supposed to dissolve the clot in my heart. I choked on gall and wondered why my gallbladder didn’t like my thinning blood. The nurse didn’t wonder; she reached for a kidney-shaped pan and held it under my chin.

After a while I was sent to intensive care. Corridor ceilings, swinging doors, elevators, doctors in green, nurses in white, patients and visitors. In a daze I took it all in, as if I were rolling on a silent train through a perplexing and seething swarm. At one point we went through a long corridor that was empty except for a patient in pajamas and dressing gown who followed me with his eyes, bored and without curiosity or pity. At times I managed to gag into the kidney-shaped pan that lay next to my head, at times I missed. It stank repulsively.

The pain had settled into my chest as if it had sized me up when it had first arrived in rising and ebbing waves and now knew that it was the sole proprietor. The pain had become even, an even pulling, a pulling into and out of my chest. After a few hours in intensive care it subsided, as did the vomiting. I was only exhausted, so exhausted that I thought it possible simply to fade out.