Free Silence by Mechtild Borrmann Page A

wish to comment, I’ll publish the results of my research without your statement.”
    Again the answer came swiftly, and with a level of self-confidence that made Rita nervous.
    “You’re a naive little thing, you know. I strongly advise you to check your so-called facts very carefully. Other journalists before you have ruined their careers with libels. You can be sure I’ll sue you and win. I’ll be glad to give you that in writing.”
    And with that the line went dead.
    Rita slammed the receiver down, ran into the garden, and stamped her way across the orchard, snorting with fury. The woman was bluffing. There was no other explanation. She was a successful businesswoman, and of course she had had a lot of practice, but she, Rita, was not going to allow herself to be browbeaten. On the other hand, she had often had dealings with canny people who had threatened and abused her, but that had been different. Mende had not hesitated for a second: not the slightest hint of uncertainty. And how had she known who she was?
    Once she had regained her composure and headed back toward the terrace, she heard the telephone ringing inside the house.
    It was Robert Lubisch. “Frau Albers, the conference is over, and I’m about to leave. I must talk to you.”
    Rita rolled her eyes and thought for a moment. “All right,” she began. “Come and see me. I have some new information that might interest you.”

    Robert Lubisch had been distracted all day, and he found himself almost unable to follow the presentations. He kept going back to Rita Albers, and the question of what else she would uncover, or what else might happen. This word happen felt threatening, and the more he thought about it, the more the wordstretched out and howled in his head, rising and falling, like a siren.
    He had slept fitfully the previous night, tormented by bad dreams. He dreamed that he was in his parents’ house, walking from room to room. He was looking for something, but he didn’t know what. Nevertheless, there was this inner certainty that he was on the right path to identify it. His mother was sitting in the kitchen, her head in her bony hands, the bluish veins visible under her parchment skin. She was wearing a black knitted shawl, and when she lowered her hands, her face was astonishingly young. She said, “That’s his life’s work.” She appeared not to see him. She stood up, turned her back on him, and went over to the kitchen door. Her shawl unraveled from top to bottom as she stepped away from him. She kept on walking, without ever reaching the door. Bit by bit, his mother’s naked back was exposed, and he knew it was his fault, that he was standing on the yarn, incapable of lifting his foot.
    This had made him wake up with a start, the first time, and drink a glass of water. When he went back to sleep, he was walking about in the house again. Once more he was searching, but this time without confidence; instead, he was fearful, and driven by an inexplicable haste. He ran up the broad, curving staircase, two steps at a time, and was again the boy he had once been. He opened every door, and realized he was looking for his father. He found him in the study, sitting in his armchair. It was disproportionately large, and his father sat in it, small, with dangling feet. He had the cigar box in his lap and he said, almost inaudibly, “Come, I’ll show it to you.”
    Eventually he had sat up in bed, bathed in sweat. He had gotten up at four o’clock, afraid of further dreams.
    Later, as he listened to a colleague’s presentation in the conference room, he remembered an incident during his student days. He had been at home during vacation and had gone to a concert with his parents. His father, who seldom drank, had had some red wine at dinner. During the interval, he drank some sparkling wine, said hello to a large number of people, and introduced his son to them. “This is my son,” he said, “the future head of the Lubisch