Brenner and God

CHAPTER 9

Now why is Brenner back at the gas station? Are his pangs of guilt pulling him there? Does he want to take another look at the surveillance video? Or is he hoping that the gas station’s drunks will adopt him, i.e., third musketeer?

Pay attention. Brenner was thinking to himself, Milan will definitely know someone who can unlock Knoll’s phone for me, the sort of thing someone at a gas station knows. But no luck on that front, because instead of Milan there was another attendant behind the cash register. The two drunks were there, of course-should I say “again” or “still,” I don’t know, they might have lived there. In any case, they shot him a smirk but didn’t say a word.

Brenner asked the new guy about Milan. The guy didn’t want to say anything at first, but then he came out with it. Milan got fired. Picture this: he’d been keeping a case of beer up at the counter and selling it on the sly. And the whole thing got exposed in the police raid because the cops turned everything over and scrutinized it three times, of course, and what did they find? Just Milan’s backdoor beer. In other words, Milan: second Brenner-victim of the day.

The new attendant just looked irritated by the question of whether he could unlock a cell phone because after the incident with his predecessor, he thought the company had sent a hired goon into the shop to test him. Nevertheless, he sold the test-goon a nonalcoholic beer, was even particularly friendly about it. Brenner stationed himself right back at the counter and briefly contemplated whether the answer might lie in Milan’s dismissal. Maybe the case of beer was just a front and was actually a connection to the kidnapping because the attendant had seen something, and now was being made to keep his mouth shut due to the intrigue surrounding the case of beer.

Brenner was so captivated by this theory that he ordered an espresso and a second nonalcoholic beer.

So you see, contemplating nonsense: often very useful. Because without the contemplating he wouldn’t have stayed as long as he did at the gas station. And then he wouldn’t have been standing there with his second nonalcoholic beer when the woman from the surveillance video came in. He recognized her right away from her curls, which were so fiery red that, in all fairness, they had no business being at a gas station. She got a newspaper and a carton of milk, and asked for a pack of Marlboro Lights at the cash register. Interesting, though. She didn’t stress the “a” in “Marlboro,” but the middle instead, like this: “Marl boo ro.” Brenner tried to make eye contact with the witness, but paying and pocketing the change and turning around and traipsing out were a single fluid movement with her, as if she were still being fast-forwarded on the video, and she walked past Brenner without even noticing him.

“South Tyrol!” Brenner yelled out, when she was closer to the exit than the cash register. Or actually, it was more of a murmur-no, too loud for a murmur, but too quiet for a yell, more of a medium middling volume. From the moment she asked for a pack of Marl boo ros, he’d been coming up with ways to take his guess that she was South Tyrolean and turn it into a line. But unfortunately, the new gas station attendant was incredibly nimble. He gave her back her change so fast, and she’d put it away so fast, that Brenner didn’t have enough time to develop a good line.

As the woman walked past the drunks, with the milk and newspaper in one hand and the pack of Marl boo ros in the other, Brenner got morose. My God, he cursed to himself, silently, I used to be able to come up with a line in a tenth of a second, I didn’t even have to think about it. And now I have this trump in my hand, I can identify where she’s from based on her cigarette pronunciation, and can you believe what I come up with?

He knew from experience that in a situation like this you simply have to lean as far out the window as possible, put yourself in a dangerous situation, and then a good line will come swimming in on the adrenaline. Which is why-as the woman flew past the potato chip rack in the direction of the newspaper rack, and then past the newspaper rack in the direction of the impulse-item rack, and past the impulse-item rack in the direction of the door-he called out to her in a way that sounded like he was murmuring, but was indeed clear and unmistakably audible: “South Tyrol!”

And the line shall follow. That was the calculation, with the meal comes the appetite, it’s the conversation that brings people together, stick your nose in other people’s business and an irresistible line will follow. Calculated error, as it were. Because no line, near or far. The two-word line echoed through the gas station, enough to make Brenner sick. South Tyrol! Nothing embarrassing had happened to him in a while. Before, he would have at least said as she walked by: “Do they believe in love at first sight in South Tyrol-or were you planning to walk by a second time?” Or a thousand possibilities. But now, either on account of the pills or the nonalcoholic beer or quite simply from age, or a rusty brain, or withering hormones-in all events, no line.

Now, I don’t know whether you know that the South Tyroleans are the most beautiful women in the world. Well, I’ve never been to Australia, but otherwise I can personally vouch that worldwide the South Tyroleans come in first, and then there’s nothing for a while, because genetically it might just be the ideal mating: half Italian meets half Geierwally. Just so you understand what kind of pressure Brenner was under.

“That was a long time ago,” the back of the South Tyrolean said. But turn around, not a chance. She stamped on toward the exit, without missing a step, because that was the Italian half that fueled the arrogant stamping.

“Could I have a Marl boo ro?” Brenner yelled out fast, just as the automatic doors were opening before her.

And believe it or not, she turned around and walked right up to Brenner. “You have good ears,” she said, tearing open the pack and holding it out to him.

“It was the Marl boo ro,” Brenner explained proudly, as he waved a dismissive hand at the pack of cigarettes. “Since I don’t drink anymore, I don’t smoke anymore either.” And he pointed to the nonalcoholic label because he wanted to make himself a little interesting.

The South Tyrolean immediately took it upon herself to perform that twin feminine task, i.e., simultaneously rolling her eyes and twisting her mouth, arrogantly and in opposite directions.

Now before she turned away entirely, Brenner quickly added, “I need to ask you something important.”

And then, of course, whether she’d seen anything thirty-three hours earlier.

It really just wasn’t his day, though. Or the gas station just wasn’t his place, maybe something wasn’t right with the water. Because the woman was completely clueless. She didn’t even know what he was referring to.

“But surely you saw something on TV or in the newspaper about-”

“I don’t read the paper.”

When a thing like that gets said by somebody who’s just bought a newspaper, naturally you have to say: suspicious. There she was, standing in front of him with a carton of milk, a pack of Marl boo ros, and a newspaper, and explaining in her South Tyrolean accent: “The newspaper’s too depresshing for me.”

“So you just bought it because-”

My god, before he would have said, because of the love horoscope, because of the personal ads, anything, it doesn’t even matter, just some slight suggestion-not too much subtext, well, okay, just a little-because these days if you make a woman laugh, you’re already on the right path in the direction of, let’s say, philosophical conversations.

“-because of the TV lishtings,” the South Tyrolean claimed in her South Tyrolean accent. “Because the TV lishtings are always in the Friday paper. The news I throw away the minute I get home.”

“And you don’t watch TV, either,” Brenner said. “You just read the listings.”

You can see how he was already getting back into the swing a bit. Nothing compared to the old days, of course. Long gone are the days when he would have lay in wait for her by the recycling bins in front of her house-full throttle, as it were. Although, to be honest, he’d often idealized his past a little. Because in truth Brenner had never been full throttle-actually in reverse most of the time, or hand brake, broken starter, distributor out, wet spark plugs, that kind of thing. An irony of fate: Brenner owed his broad shoulders-which, in the eyes of women, lent him an energetic aura-to the endless push-starting of the stalled jalopy that was his life.

“Why wouldn’t I watch TV?” the South Tyrolean replied. Because she might have come up with something better, too, but I always say, milk drinkers for the most part aren’t that primed to return a stupid remark from a man with an even stupider remark. No, to be perfectly objective, like a South Tyrolean mountain peak asking itself, why wouldn’t I peer down into the valley below? she asked why she wouldn’t watch TV.

“Then you must have seen something on TV about the kidnapping that happened right in front of your house.”

“ Ma Dai, you’re not too shwift, are you,” she sighed. “That was a joke! The newspapers have been calling nonshtop since yeshterday, the police have been here twice, I can’t take one shtep without someone asking whether I saw anything! Jusht because yeshterday I accidentally happened to walk to the right of the gas pump instead of the left like I normally do after I shop.”

“Obviously suspicious.”

“Exactly. You know, it’s because that big clunker was shtanding in my way when I went to throw my empty bottles away. And because of that I show up on the damn shurveillance video.”

“So?”

“I’m going to tell you a secret. Even if you end up needing a pshychiatrisht because of it. Do you want to hear it?”

“I think I’ll manage.”

“I don’t like cars. I didn’t even see your fancy sleigh ride, even though you parked it so wide it was blocking my way. It wasn’t till the video that I saw that heap of yours. Even though I practically had to walk a kilometer around it. Otherwise, I never would have gone up there.”

“Up? Up where?” Brenner asked. “Everything’s flat at a gas station.”

“Up on the video.”

Brenner was awfully glad that she didn’t get the joke either. “It’s not my car. I’m just the chauffeur.”

The South Tyrolean looked at him as if that was no excuse, but then she said, “Oh yeah, that’s what they said on TV. You should have kept a closer eye on the kid.”

“And you didn’t see anything? No one leaving with a child?”

“You know, you’re actually the firsht to ask me that queshtion.”

“Alright already,” Brenner said under his breath.

But that must have been exactly what she was looking for, because now that Brenner had given up, she said: “You’re the only one of the whole idiotic slew who I’d like to help. There’s shomething about you I like. With your shtrange eyes. And your shirt’s untucked.”

Brenner tucked in his shirt, and the two drunks grinned stupidly. Their eyes were glazed from staring, and their heads were craned so far from eavesdropping that their ears were practically brushing against the ad for motor oil that was hanging from the ceiling.

“But I’m more the kind of person who keeps to hershelf,” the woman said. “I even have to take pills for depresshion.”

“And do they do anything?”

“Of course. If they didn’t, do you think I’d be capable of crossing the shtreet? But you know what I think’s a sham? I wouldn’t expect regular shoppers to wind up on security cameras here. I’m not saying anything about them monitoring the drivers-in case one takes off without paying, you have his lischense plate. That I can undershtand. An ordinary shopper, though, who only buys milk, doesn’t need to be taped doing it.”

“It happens automatically,” Brenner said. “If they’re taping the drivers and a shopper runs into the frame, then they’re automatically on it.”

“So now it’s shupposed to be my fault,” the South Tyrolean protested. And then she smiled because Brenner looked so dejected. “Don’t worry so much, the little one will turn up again. I can feel it. You can trusht me completely on that, I have a feeling for this sort of thing. The girl’s fine. Besides, the contractor has plenty of dough. It can’t be true that the kidnappers haven’t made contact.”

“On the one hand, you have a feeling; on the other hand, you make a logical argument.”

“And you? Only drinking nonalcoholic beer?”

Then she left.

That was something! Just said it and left. As the automatic doors opened for her, something new occurred to Brenner.

“South Tyrolean!” he yelled. This time with a note of urgency. To no avail, though. She didn’t turn around, and when he yelled his cell phone number out after her, she was already through the door and outside before he got to the last digit. He watched through the glass how she walked left around the gas pump, good figure and everything, Brenner thought to himself, if I had met her in my day, and he kept gazing after her as she crossed the street, with the newspaper and milk in her left hand and the pack of Marl boo ros in her right, and disappeared into the house opposite the gas station.