Deadly Communion

25

RHEINHARDT WAS SEATED NEXT to his wife Else, and further down the park bench his eldest daughter, Therese, was reading a book. His younger daughter, Mitzi, was deliberating with another girl whether or not to get on the merry-go-round (which had been commandeered by two boys wearing short trousers and flat caps). A group of mothers, dressed rather too finely for the occasion, were conversing in the shade of a tree, while two nursemaids rocked perambulators in order to keep the tiny occupants asleep.

‘I was speaking to Frau Gaul this morning,’ said Else. ‘She went to the opera on Saturday to see Pagliacci. She said it was wonderful.’

Since the discovery of Adele Zeiler’s body in the Volksgarten, Rheinhardt had had few opportunities to spend time with his family. The normality of sitting in the park with his wife and daughters was like a spiritual emollient.

‘Would you like to go?’

‘Yes,’ Else replied, somewhat surprised by her husband’s response. He was always so busy that it had not occurred to her that he might act on Frau Gaul’s recommendation.

‘Then we shall go.’ Rheinhardt paused for a moment before adding, ‘In fact, we’ll all go — and to blazes with the expense. Would you like to see Pagliacci, Therese?’

His daughter looked up from her book, making heroic efforts to hide her excitement. In actuality she had not been reading at all, only pretending to do so while listening to her parents’ conversation.

‘Yes, father, very much.’

Therese’s composure reminded Rheinhardt that his daughter was on the cusp of adulthood. Once the transition was complete, the child whose hair he had kissed and whose little hand had gripped his forefinger so tightly in front of the lion’s cage at the zoo would be gone. It was a loss that he accepted philosophically, but to which a part of him would never be fully reconciled.

‘Good,’ he said decisively. ‘I’ll get some tickets this evening.’

Rheinhardt felt his wife’s hand covering his own. She squeezed his fingers together and by means of this subtle gesture communicated more gratitude and affection than could ever be expressed using words. The fact that something so consequential could pass between them in a public place, without notice, was further evidence — as far as Rheinhardt was concerned — of the miraculous nature of his marriage.

‘Is it a very long opera?’ asked Therese, craning forward in readiness for her father’s answer.

‘No, my dear,’ Rheinhardt replied. ‘It is very short.’

Therese gave a curt nod signalling her approval and applied herself once again to the task of simulated reading.

On the other side of the children’s enclosure, through the wooden struts and bars of a climbing frame, Rheinhardt noticed a man seated on his own. He was middle-aged, wore a long coat, and sported a shaggy moustache. He was looking at Mitzi and her play-friend, who were now enjoying the reciprocal motion of the see-saw.

Else had started to ponder the logistics of going to the opera, a string of considerations, not obviously connected. Rheinhardt was listening, but his attention kept on returning to the man opposite. Why, he wondered, was the man looking so intently in the direction of his daughter?

‘Who is that girl? Mitzi’s play-friend?’

Mention of her sister made Therese look up from her book.

‘Her name is Eva,’ Else replied, puzzled.

‘And who is she with?’

‘Her mother, Frau Kubauer. She’s over there, wearing the yellow dress.’ Else pointed out one of the women standing under the tree. At that moment, Frau Kubauer happened to look in their direction and Else was obliged to turn her indicating gesture into a polite wave. The woman in the yellow dress waved back. Rheinhardt raised his hat respectfully.

Else angled her head and awaited an explanation for her husband’s inquiry; however, he remained silent. With an indifferent shrug of her shoulders she returned to her original theme.

Rheinhardt had stopped listening. He was working out which children were accompanied by which adults. It became evident that the man sitting opposite was alone. Rheinhardt studied the cast of his face.

Rainmayr’s studio.

Images.

Two young girls, with skirts hoisted, proudly displayed their pudenda; a pair of disembodied skinny legs in loose stockings and garters …

Mitzi and her friend had abandoned the see-saw and were running towards the climbing frame. They began their ascent and as they did so the man’s eyes narrowed: he was looking at their ankles — their shoes — and as they ascended, he seemed to slide lower down in his seat. His tongue moistened his lips. His right hand — thrust into the deep pocket of his coat — was conspicuously active.

‘Excuse me a moment,’ said Rheinhardt to his wife.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I want to be closer to Mitzi.’

‘She’s perfectly safe. She won’t fall.’

‘Even so …’

Rheinhardt crossed the play area.

‘Be careful, Mitzi,’ he said as he passed the climbing frame. His daughter smiled.

‘I won’t slip.’

‘Yes. Well. Make sure you don’t.’

He continued walking towards the man, whose face showed a flicker of apprehension as the inspector approached.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Rheinhardt.

The man mumbled a return courtesy.

Rheinhardt sat down next to him and scanned the enclosure. Else was talking to Therese, but unfortunately Rheinhardt had not fooled her. She had detected something odd in his manner and was stealing glances at him through the wooden cage of the climbing frame.

‘Sir?’ said Rheinhardt.

The man turned.

Rheinhardt grabbed the man’s necktie and twisted it tightly. The man’s eyes bulged and he began to make choking noises.

‘I know what you are,’ said Rheinhardt steadily. ‘And I know what you are doing.’ The man’s tongue protruded between his teeth and his face became contorted. ‘You will leave at once and never come back. Do you understand? Never. If I catch you here again, I give you my word, you will regret it.’

Rheinhardt released the man’s tie. He coughed and loosened the knot, then got up and ran towards the gate, looking back anxiously over his shoulder. Rheinhardt sauntered back to Else and Therese.

‘What happened?’ asked Else, her eyebrows raised.

‘I noticed that gentleman’s tie was crooked,’ Rheinhardt pointed towards the flapping coat-tails receding beyond the fence, ‘and performed the small service of straightening it for him.’

‘What gentleman?’ asked Therese.

‘That one over there.’ Therese peered through the trees. ‘He had to leave in a hurry — he had a train to catch.’

Else’s expression was troubled.

As she started to speak, Rheinhardt touched her lips with an outstretched finger, tacitly banning further inquiry.

‘Now, is anyone hungry?’ he asked. ‘I think we should find a bakery.’ He brought his hands together to make a funnel and used it to amplify his voice: ‘Mitzi! Would you like a strudel?’