Free Self's deception by Bernhard Schlink Page B

matriculation party, all the way to university. Why are girls so eager to keep photo albums? They also like showing them, and therein lies a hidden mystery, a matriarchal magic. When I was a young man I always viewed the invitation “Would you like to see my pictures?” as a signal to flee. With my wife, Klara, I either didn't pick up this signal or felt that I couldn't keep fleeing forever and had to stand my ground.
    I descended the winding staircase without aim or plan, sauntered through the large living room, and stopped in front of a shelf unit filled with videos. Frau Salger was snoring outside on the terrace. For a moment I was tempted to steal The Wild Bunch , a Peckinpah movie I love that can't be found anywhere on video. It was six thirty and it began to rain.
    I went out onto the terrace, rolled up the awning, and sat down across from Frau Salger again. The rain was light. It gathered in the hollows of her eyes and ran down her cheeks like tears. Waving her right hand erratically, she tried to shoo away the drops. It didn't work, and she opened her eyes. “What's going on?” Her look was vacant, reeled, and then fled back behind her closed lids. “Why am I wet? It's not supposed to rain over here.”
    “Frau Salger, when did you last see your daughter?”
    “My daughter?” Her voice became whiny again. “I don't have a daughter anymore.”
    “Since when don't you have a daughter?”
    “Go ask her father that.”
    “Where can I find your husband?”
    She looked at me slyly through narrowed eyes. “You're trying to con me, aren't you? I don't have a husband anymore either.”
    I made a new attempt. “Would you like to have your daughter back?” When she didn't answer I became more generous. “Would you like to have your daughter and your husband back?”
    She looked at me and for an instant her eyes were awake and clear before they became rigid and stared through me. “My husband's dead.”
    “But your daughter is alive, Frau Salger, and needs help. Doesn't that interest you?”
    “It's been ages since my daughter needed any help. What she needed was a good spanking. But my prick of a husband…my limp prick of a husband…my …”
    “How long has it been since you've heard from Leo?”
    “Leave me alone. Everyone's left me all alone. First he went, then she did. Why don't you go, too?”
    The rain had become heavy, and our hair stuck to our heads. I tried again.
    “When did she go?”
    “Right after he went. And that's just what the other guy had been waiting for. I guess she wanted to …”
    “What?”
    She didn't answer. She'd fallen asleep in midsentence. I gave up, rolled the awning back down, and listened for a while to her snoring and the rain rustling on the sailcloth. I left her the TV set.

20
Stopping up holes
    “If you want some insider information about the comings and goings of the Bonn political scene, then go talk to Breuer. He's your age, has been living in Bonn since 1948, writes for various small newspapers, and used to do Interfactional , a TV show with politicians about the first to cross party lines. He brought together backbenchers from all the parties and talked politics with them as if they were interested in politics or knew anything about it. We all had a good laugh, but the party leaders saw to it that the show was canceled. Breuer's a clever and funny guy.” I got this lead from Tietzke, an old Mannheim friend who used to write for the Heidelberger Tageblatt and was now at the Rhein-Neckar-Zeitung . I gave Breuer a call. He agreed to meet me early in the morning the following day.
    So I stayed over in Bonn. I found a quiet hotel behind the trees and the pond around Poppelsdorf Castle. From there it wasn't too far to Breuer's office. Before going to bed I called Brigitte. The strange sounds of a strange city, the strange room, the strange bed—I did feel homesick.
    The following morning Breuer greeted me with bubbling loquacity. “The name's Self, right?