Brenner and God

CHAPTER 11

Schrebergartens are a topic all their own, of course. Much has been said about them because it’s widely accepted that their trees and shrubs grow so well on account of a corpse being the best fertilizer. I don’t count myself among the people who say, more dead bodies in Schrebergartens than in cemeteries, but the particular burden of waste is greater in any case. Because at normal cemeteries they take the worst stuff out of the deceased, the batteries from their pacemakers, the artificial joints, the dentures, and the silicone parts, so that the groundwater doesn’t suffer too much. But Schrebergarten corpses are mostly buried hush-hush and in a hurry, batteries and all. Oddly enough, the plants don’t seem to mind-they thrive like blazes-but long term, the groundwater’s got to be paying for it.

It took Brenner roughly half an hour to find the right gate, but only half a minute to get into the cottage.

That he got in so easily wasn’t necessarily a bad sign yet, in case you’re thinking if the Schrebergarten cottage is this poorly secured, then no kidnapping victim’s going to be found here. I could tell you about one case after another where kidnapping victims were held in completely normal houses-no waterfalls, no spring gun, no anything. And no discussion anyway with a two-year-old child. There doesn’t have to be any high-security apparatus, because the only important thing’s that nobody comes up with the idea to look there.

Brenner was cautious of course, because when you’re a stranger in a Schrebergarten, you always fear for your life, no need to throw a kidnapping into the bargain. But not cautious in the sense that he would’ve wound himself around the doorframe with a Glock in both hands or danced a wide arc around a booby trap like he was at the world tango championship. First of all, he didn’t have a gun on him anyway, and besides, in a situation like this you only make everything worse by having a gun, because without a gun, worst case, you can always talk your way out of it somehow should you run right into the kidnapper’s arms.

Unfortunately, though, neither kidnapper nor Helena in the living room. Just a completely deserted living room. Never in his life did an abode appear quite so godforsaken. And it could have been stated without exaggeration that this godforsaken weekend hell depressed Brenner to death-if he wasn’t already in such a mood that it would’ve been a huge improvement for something to depress him to death.

And the kitchen, too, godforsaken. And the bathroom, godforsaken. And upstairs in the tiny attic, godforsaken. And that little bit of a cellar, also godforsaken. The word “godforsaken” engraved itself methodically into Brenner’s brain. You can see how the worm was nagging at him again-this time with the fear that it could be the good lord himself who was leaving him there to wallow until nine the next morning.

He set up camp in the tiny attic bedroom and looked through the blinds at the walkway below. There were still twelve hours until the handover at nine o’clock. Or better put, three hours. Not what you’re thinking, though, that the handover got moved up. No, Brenner was so utterly exhausted after this dreadful day and the sleepless night at the police station and the conversation with Knoll and the encounter with the South Tyrolean and the escape from the Lilliput Cafe and the trip out to Klosterneuburg, that he fell asleep thinking that he would in no way fall asleep here.

Now, what had he been looking for in Klosterneuburg tonight? You should know, when Bank Director Reinhard called Brenner that afternoon, he was calling about an appointment in Klosterneuburg, saying, “Would you fancy paying me a visit at eight o’clock in my domicile?”

Because “domicile” and “refuge,” that’s the kind of language Reinhard used, but the padded expressions suited his big persona. Besides the central bank and two or three restaurants, his domicile in Klosterneuburg and his refuge at the Imperial were the most important addresses for his driver. He slept nights at the domicile and days at the refuge. Because these days, when you lead an enterprise of 10,000 employees, you have to get every last drop out of your leisure time; otherwise you might as well pack it in.

At first Brenner was even glad to have something else to do that evening, because thirteen hours in a Schrebergarten cottage waiting for money to change hands isn’t that interesting. But then, as he was standing in front of the domicile with Reinhard, he asked himself what it was that he was looking for there. Reinhard acted as if the conversation had never been about the prospect of becoming his driver. He was only interested in having Brenner telling him in minute detail again about the kidnapping at the gas station.

He took Brenner to a pleasant little place in the garden and ordered drinks from the house by phone. And believe it or not, Congressman Stachl brought the drinks out. Because with tabloids and scandals everybody’s the same, the nobodies and the somebodies, they all want to know as firsthand as possible exactly what it was like. At least Reinhard let Brenner tell his story in peace, whereas the Congressman kept interrupting him. He wanted to understand very thoroughly. But his questions didn’t get him anywhere. Because naturally Brenner didn’t mention anything about Knoll or the planned handover in the Schrebergarten cottage. Congressman Stachl could have been a little friendlier instead of just glowering out from beneath his bushy eyebrows, as if nothing surrounding his city development project had happened in a long time that was as troublesome to him as this kidnapping.

Brenner sat there telling them exactly what they already knew until they got bored. Then the bank director accompanied him back to his Mondeo and gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder in farewell, i.e., things will look up again. And at the last second he reached into his jacket pocket and pressed an envelope into Brenner’s hand. “Perhaps this will be of some help to you.”

Brenner was still holding the envelope in his hand when he woke up in the Schrebergarten attic. Counting the envelope containing his last month’s pay that Natalie had brought him, this now made the second envelope of money in one day, and slowly it began to seem to Brenner that he really was the kidnapper, getting paid the ransom in installments.

Interesting, though: he not only still had the envelope in his hand upon waking up, but also the thought still in his mind that he could in no way fall asleep here. And this thought is the best proof of how the wakeful mind often doesn’t do its best thinking. Because, don’t fall asleep here, any bloody layman could have given him this advice-pivotal mistake, as it were-never fall asleep at the scene of the handover, where the gangster might show up early and kill you. But one thing you can’t forget: Brenner’s greatest strength was exactly that. The detective half-sleep. Because he wasn’t sleeping deeply of course, just half-sleeping. And with the other half he watched over the house and over himself, sleeping.

Now, you should know, the best thoughts of Brenner’s life always came to him while he was half asleep. It’s a great misconception that people have-the more awake, the more concentrated, the more rested, the better for their heads. Because just like a light that’s too bright can be bad for the eyes, so, too, can a mind that’s too awake be not at all good for the thoughts. And in truth a half-asleep person can always outmatch an awake person by a long shot, no discussion. Far too many thoughts get in the way of thinking with an awake person, but the good lord whispers directly into the mind of the sleeping person. Only you can’t fall asleep completely, or else you might not hear him.

Watch closely: while he was half asleep it occurred to Brenner that he had overlooked one little thing amid the onslaught of voicemails. Because place and time for the hand over of money had been made known to Knoll one day before the kidnapping!

So when shortly before nine an old man opened the garden gate, Brenner had been wide awake for a while. The old man didn’t have Helena with him, and he didn’t come off as a kidnapper, either, but nonetheless-to be feared. Because the typical Schrebergarten pensioner, without any kidnapping or murder thrown in, already fills the bill more than amply, i.e., overweight, limping, lawn-mowing, fence-painting, grilling, TV-watching, politicizing, groaning, weeding, car-washing, undershirt-wearing, opinion-expressing, hard-of-hearing crankiness personified.

But let’s not be unfair. Because the old man being hard of hearing, that alone was an enormous advantage for Brenner. Hard of hearing an advantage, and the heavy breathing an advantage, too. Because once he’d shuffled into the living room, the heavy breathing prevented the Schrebergartener from making any effort to go up to the attic. And his being hard of hearing resulted in Brenner being able to understand nearly every word from the attic when Knoll arrived at nine sharp with a briefcase of money and a stooge in tow.

“One million?” the hard-of-hearing pensioner barked.

“Go ahead and count it,” Knoll answered at a normal indoor volume, but Brenner understood him anyway because when someone says what you’re expecting him to say, then you understand him easier, even from a distance.

“What did you say?” the retiree asked, because he couldn’t understand Knoll even at close range. Possible that this rule about easier comprehension of what’s expected only applies to “from a distance” and not to “hard of hearing while at close range.”

“Go ahead and count it,” Knoll said as softly as he had before because that was his volume, he didn’t let the rules of the game get dictated by someone else, no, always nudging the others a little to where he wanted them.

The stooge said nothing because-silent stooge.

“One thousand, two thousand, three thousand,” the Schrebergartener began, and Brenner thought to himself, if he’s going to count to a million, I’m going back to sleep.

“Seventy-two thousand,” the Schrebergarten boss said, and then stopped. “And where are the six hundred and seventy-two euros?”

Knoll either said nothing or said “Kiss my ass” so quietly that neither Brenner nor the pensioner heard it.

“I still do business in schillings, I don’t do euros,” the old man bellowed. “And one million is still seventy-two thousand six hundred and seventy-two euros and not seventy-two thousand euros flat.”

“As long as you’re not front-ending me in old francs,” Knoll said, dry as dust, and in the tension of the moment Brenner had to be careful not to let out a laugh.

“Exact calculation, my friend,” the old dogmatist wheezed.

“If you were being so exact about everything,” Knoll said, and a few other words, too, that Brenner couldn’t make out, but Knoll’s bad mood he understood nevertheless.

“If I were going to be exact, it would come to seventy-two thousand six hundred and seventy-four euros and forty cents. Actually, forty-two cents, but the two you can have, and the forty I’ll give you, too. But six hundred seventy-two euros, that’s still nine thousand schillings, roughly calculated. To be exact…”

What was happening now Brenner couldn’t see from where he was, but I’ll put it this way: it took exactly as long as you’d need to pull an antediluvian pocket calculator out of your blue work pants and to type in 672? 13.76.

“… it comes to nine thousand two hundred and forty-six schillings, and those I can’t just let you have.”

Brenner understood Knoll excellently now because he was speaking loudly and clearly-and had suddenly switched to, let’s say, a more informal mode of address.

“Either you sign now or you find yourself another chump who’ll buy this barracks off you for five times its value. Do you think I came all this way with a notary so that I could haggle over eighty-three cents?”

“What’s ‘five times the value’ supposed to mean?” the Schrebergartener protested. “Supply and demand!”

Shameless people always believe that all people are as dumb as they themselves are shameless. And maybe the shamelessness of the hard-of-hearing house-seller infected Brenner a little, too, because by now he’d ventured far enough out to the tiny staircase that he could see the three heads below through the brittle railing above. Interesting, though. Knoll: bald. The notary: thinning mousy hair. And the pensioner, of all people: full head of white hair. And the notary was even fairly young. But mouse hair already! And the skin on Knoll’s crown was peeling a little. Brenner thought to himself, amazing that he doesn’t take better care of himself in the sun, and he thought about maybe bringing it up with him if a good opportunity arose.

The white-haired pensioner was finally signing now. Because it might have become clear to him that he shouldn’t wear out his patience with Knoll and the notary, and so before the buyer could change his mind, he’d put his three X’s down on the contract and left with the envelope of money.

It must have been an interesting sight that morning for the nosy neighbor of Knoll’s new premises. Forty-nine hours after the disappearance of Helena Kressdorf. First the pensioner limps out the door with a thick envelope and doesn’t even close the garden gate behind him. And shortly thereafter a taxi pulls up-because the outermost row of the Schrebergarten lets directly out onto the access road-and the notary with the briefcase climbs into the taxi, and right after the notary, Knoll comes out and gets in his Volvo, and half a minute later Brenner leaves the house. Caravan: understatement.

And if the neighbor had looked very closely, she might have even noticed that Brenner was following Knoll in his purple Mondeo-car chase, if you will. But she couldn’t possibly have guessed everything that Brenner had yet to face that day. Even with the most ironclad resolve, Brenner himself couldn’t have guessed. And to be perfectly honest: if he had guessed, he wouldn’t have driven one centimeter after Knoll. Because Brenner would have preferred to stay in the Schrebergarten cottage, prayed a few Our Fathers, and searched for a rope to hang himself with in peace.