Entwined

Chapter 11

Dr. Franks started with simple questions: what she liked to eat, drink. She answered coherently and directly. Then he referred to the doctors she had visited and asked for her reactions to the tests. Again she answered directly, speaking about the last diagnosis with sarcasm. Franks asked if she often felt afraid.

"Yes, I am afraid."

"Do you know what you are afraid of?"

"No."

"How does the fear begin?"

"As if someone I am frightened of were entering the room."

Franks changed the subject. He did not want to push Vebekka too far on their first session. He asked whether she liked to travel, what cases and clothes she liked to take with her. He was given a long list of favorite items from her wardrobe. She continued for ten minutes, and he saw that she was relaxed again, her hands resting on the top of the blanket.

The baron looked at Helen, raised his eyebrows, and sighed. He could see no point in the session whatsoever.

"Wait... just wait," Helen whispered.

"Now tell me about the cases, Vebekka."

She described her various suitcases, how she liked to pack everything with tissue paper. Franks asked her about her vanity cases, and she calmly listed her jewelry, her makeup, the photographs of her children, and her medicine.

"Do you feel these cases, or boxes, have also another meaning, the fact that you separate everything into compartments?" He received no reply. "Do you have similar boxes inside you?" he persisted. "For example, shall we say the makeup box is your head? Do you think that way at all?"

She hesitated, and then smiled. "Yes, yes, I do."

"Can you explain this to me?"

"I have many compartments inside me."

"Do they all have keys?"

"Oh yes!" She seemed pleased.

"Will you unlock them for me? Tell me what is inside. Can you do that?"

She sighed and shifted position.

"Well, there's the first compartment that holds my special makeup, makeup I use only on rare occasions."

"Tell me about the second."

"My children. I have their letters, their photographs, things I treasure. I have Sasha's first baby tooth and I have..."

"Tell me about the third box. What's in there?"

"My jewelry, all the pieces I am most fond of, the most precious pieces. There is an emerald and diamond clip and a bluebird made of sapphires and—"

"Go to the next box. Open the next box."

"Sleeping tablets, pills. I have them all listed."

"You make a lot of lists?"

"Yes, yes, lots of lists."

"Go to the next... open the next box."

Vebekka's hand clenched.

"Go to the next box."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's private."

"Please, open it. Or does it frighten you to open it?"

"No, it's... just personal, that's all."

Franks waited; she was breathing very deeply. "Open it, Vebekka, and tell me what is inside."

"Rebecca."

Franks looked to the two-way mirror, and then turned to Vebekka.

"Rebecca?" he asked softly.

"Yessssssssss, she's in there."

"Do you have any more boxes?"

Vebekka was more agitated now, chewing her lips.

"Go to the next box, Vebekka... tell me about the next box."

"No... it is not a box."

"What is it?"

"Locked, it is locked, I can't open it."

"Try... why don't you describe it to me?"

"It's hard, black, it's chained, I don't have the key." She began to twist her hands. "Rebecca won't open it."

Franks talked to her softly, saying he was there to help her and whatever was in the box, he would deal with — all she had to do was open it.

"It's not a box."

"Whatever is there, we'll leave it for a while. No need to be upset, if you don't want to open it then we won't... but tell me about Rebecca, who is Rebecca?"

Her breath hissed, she seemed exasperated. "She guards it, she protects it, so nobody can open it, nobody must know."

"Know what?"

Franks could feel her strength, it astonished him. She was fighting his control. She began breathing rapidly, her eyelids fluttering, she was trying to surface, trying to come out of the hypnosis. Franks changed the subject.

"Vebekka, tell me about Sasha."

Vebekka relaxed and began to tell Franks about her daughter, that she liked to ride, had a pony. She described Sasha's bedroom, and her clothes, giving Franks a clear picture of the little girl.

"Tell me about Sasha's toys? Her dolls?"

Vebekka described the different dolls, where they had been bought. How many were for birthdays, for Christmas.

"Why did you destroy Sasha's dolls, Vebekka?"

"I did not."

"I think you did... you took all Sasha's dolls, you took their pretty frocks off, and you stacked them up like a funeral pyre, didn't you? You set fire to them, you burned them..."

"No... She did that!"

"Who? Who burned the dolls, Vebekka?"

She tugged at the blanket, her body twisted. "Rebecca."

"Who is Rebecca?"

Vebekka vomited, her whole body heaved and she leaned over the couch. Franks fetched a bowl and a towel. He rang for assistance, and Maja entered. She went to Vebekka's side as Franks put down the bowl.

"I am so sorry." Vebekka turned to face him, and then she looked away.

Franks checked her pulse, helped her to lie back on the cushions. He drew up his chair. She smiled and whispered again she was so sorry, then she closed her eyes.

Franks touched Maja's shoulder, whispered for her to clean up the room, and he slipped out. He joined the baron and Helen Masters.

"First... I must tell you I have never experienced this before, someone able to move into the waking cycle on their own. She provoked the vomit attack; her will is quite extraordinary, I had quite a hard time hypnotizing her... usually it's a matter of seconds, but she took much longer, did you notice, Helen?"

Helen looked at the baron, and then asked if she could speak to him privately. Franks seemed slightly taken aback, and then said by all means, he would wait in the corridor. Helen turned to the baron and said that, considering what Vebekka had related during the session, she felt they should tell Franks about the photograph.

Helen went to Franks, told him about the photograph, and gave him the black-and-white snapshot. He studied it, turned it over to read the inscription, then asked if Vebekka was aware of its existence. Helen was sure she was not. The baron came out into the corridor. Franks looked to the baron. "I must ask if you are sure your wife has had no hypnotherapy treatment before..."

"None that I know of."

"I ask because I feel that she is very aware, and I did not take her too deeply. But now, now I would like to try."

The baron gave a shrug of his shoulders. "You are the doctor, I will go along with whatever you suggest."

Franks returned to Vebekka. Helen and the baron took their seats in the viewing room once more. She whispered: "He was trying to find out if this is a case of a multipersonality. He took her via the boxes through various internal protective layers."

He sat tight-lipped, irritated when Helen added softly, "I was right, Vebekka is Rebecca!"

Vebekka sipped the iced water, resting back on the cushions, and Franks checked her pulse again. She was very hot; he removed the blanket. Returning to his seat he paused a moment, before he began to hypnotize her again.

"Longing, repeat the word to me, Vebekka."

She did, but it was hardly audible, and she did not resist him.

"So you feel a longing... yes?... Listen to me, Vebekka. Just listen to my voice, don't fight my voice, just listen... You feel very relaxed, you feel calm and relaxed. You know no harm will come to you, and the feeling of longing... longing..."

She was under again. This time her eyes were closed, and she breathed very deeply, as if sleeping. Franks waited a few moments before he asked if he could speak to Rebecca, would Vebekka allow him to speak to her? She sighed.

"You don't understand!" She sounded irritated, as if he had asked her something stupid.

"Then help me, let me talk to Rebecca."

"I am Rebecca," she snapped.

"I'm sorry, you were right, I didn't understand."

"Oh that's all right, you wouldn't like her anyway. She's not very nice, she has very bad moods, very dark moods and a very bad temper. She is ugly and fat, always eating, always wanting sweet things. Rebecca is not nice."

"But you said you are Rebecca?"

Again there was the irritable sigh, as if his incomprehension of what she was telling him annoyed her. Her voice became angry. I was Rebecca, but I didn't like her. Don't you understand? I am Vebekka, I am not Rebecca anymore."

"I see, so which of you would you say was the strongest? Rebecca or Vebekka?"

She hesitated, then gave a strange sly smile. "Rebecca was, but not anymore."

Vebekka went on in a low unemotional voice, describing how she had made the decision to shut away Rebecca because she did not like her. She left home, left her parents and went to live in New York. Nobody knew Rebecca there, so it was very easy; she created a new person, someone she liked. She lost weight, became slim, and joined a modeling agency as Vebekka.

"How did Rebecca feel about this?"

"Oh, she couldn't do anything about it. I locked her up, you see, I shut her away."

Franks began to try to pinpoint dates and times, discovering that the change of name or personality occurred when Vebekka was seventeen. Subsequently, she did not want any connection with her old self, and as she became successful in her career, she started to travel on assignments, eventually securing work in Paris.

"When did Rebecca start to come back?"

Vebekka turned on the sofa, wriggled her body, her face puckered in a frown. "She started to get out. You see, she wouldn't stay locked up."

"I understand, but when did she become difficult to control?"

She held her hands protectively over her stomach. "My baby... she said there wasn't enough room inside me, not enough room for the two of us, she kept on trying to get out, but I fought her, she said terrible things, terrible things about the baby, she said it would be deformed, it would be deformed..."

Franks spent over an hour with her, and then decided he needed a break. He did not wake her because he wanted her to rest. He tucked the blanket around her, checked her pulse, and told her she would sleep for a while.

Helen poured a black coffee for the doctor. He sipped it, sighing with pleasure.

"Let me explain something to you, Baron. What you have heard may seem extraordinary to you, but it is quite common. At some time or other everyone's mind undergoes something akin to a split.

The easiest way to understand this is by way of an example: Let's say you've had a near-miss car accident — a voice will begin calming you, talking your fear down, telling you it's over, that everything is fine, that it was a narrow miss, et cetera, et cetera... Your wife created Vebekka because Rebecca was as she described, moody, bad tempered, fat. In other words, she was someone she did not like, did not want to be associated with. We do not know as yet the reasons for Rebecca's moods, or why she needed to split her personality. All we know is that for Vebekka to be able to survive, to live normally, she had to lock Rebecca away. There will be a reason, it will surface, but it will take time. I will begin taking her back to her childhood, perhaps something occurred with her parents that instigated this dual personality."

The baron drained his coffee cup. "You mean she could have been mistreated?"

"Quite possibly. Often the safety barrier is created to shield the memory of sexual abuse. We shall find it out, but as you can see, it is a slow process, a step-by-step process to get at the truth."

Helen was excited. "If Rebecca began to resurface during her pregnancies, this ties in with what Louis has said, that her breakdowns began when she was three to four months pregnant."

Franks nodded. "We shall see..."

Helen looked to the baron, then told Franks about the meeting with Vebekka's mother's sister, and that she was sure that Vebekka was adopted.

Franks shook his hand. "You must keep me informed, I have asked you to report any information, since everything could be of value. Did you receive the newspapers — the ones I asked for?"

"Not yet," said Louis.

"Please try and contact whomever you have working for you in New York to send you copies. And now I would like to be alone for a while. Do go out and have some lunch; when you return, you may go straight into the viewing room."

Franks walked out, and went to lie down in his office. But he did not sleep. He replayed slowly in his mind his exchanges with Vebekka. He was sure this was a case of severe child abuse, that had taken place over a period of years. What amazed him was that none of the many therapists and doctors who had seen Vebekka had diagnosed such a common trauma. However, he felt that there were more layers to be uncovered, he sensed that it was about something deeper — if not, he hated to admit it to himself, but he would be disappointed.

Vebekka slept deeply, totally relaxed. Maja checked her pulse, and drew the blanket closer around her. She emptied the ash trays from the viewing room, and then went to have a quick lunch, peeking into Franks's office to tell him she was leaving. He was fast asleep on his couch.

Grimaldi slept like a dead man. Ruda had opened the trailer windows, thrown out the empty bottles, but he had not stirred. She prepared for the afternoon's rehearsal. In the evening there would be the dress rehearsal: in full costume, lights, ringmaster, and all. She still needed more time to get the cats used to the new plinths. She took out her costume, and got the ironing board ready to iron the jacket. She opened the blinds and looked skyward. The sun was still trying to break through, but more rain clouds had gathered. She crossed her fingers, hoping the forecasted storm would hold off, and then she left to feed the cats.

Grimaldi heard the door close, as if from some great distance. Slowly he opened his eyes, and moaned as the light blinded him. He lifted his head and fell back with a groan. His body ached, his head throbbed, even his teeth hurt. He let his jaw hang loose; his tongue was dry and rough. One hand gripped the edge of the bunk seat and inch by inch he drew himself into a sitting position. The room spun around and around; his heart hammered in his chest. He needed another drink. He looked around bleary-eyed, but could not see a bottle within reach.

He got to his knees, and then pushed himself upright. He fumbled in a cupboard for a bottle, knocking over glasses, sauces, cans of food. He began to retch uncontrollably and staggered into the shower. Turning on the cold water he slumped again onto his knees, and let the cold water drench him.

Grimaldi peeled off his soaking shirt and pants. He had such a pounding headache that he was seeing tiny white sparks shooting, dancing in front of his eyes. He moaned and swore, but now he eased off his pants and propped himself up under the shower, turning on the hot water. He began to feel the life coming back into his limbs, his chest, but his headache felt as though unseen hands were pressing his ears together. He could not remember how he had got into such a state and did not begin to piece it together until he sat down hunched up in a towel with a mug of black coffee. He hung his head and sobbed, but the movement made his head scream, so he gulped more and more coffee and a handful of aspirin. The pills stuck in his gut and he burped loudly. Weaving unsteadily to the sink, he looked at himself. His eyes were bloodshot; his face yellowish, unshaven. "Dear God, why do I do this to myself? Why?"

He began to shave, fragmented memories of the previous evening making him feel disgusted. Poor little Tina, he had to talk to her... and then he saw Ruda's face smiling at him, and saw Tina huddled half-naked against the wall, and he bowed his head with shame. He remembered now he had left her in the club, so aptly named the Slaughterhouse. In fact, he had led her like a lamb to the slaughter.

He got himself dressed, and the effort exhausted him. He sat morosely trying to find the strength to get himself out of the trailer and across to Tina's. He put on a pair of dark glasses, and, still unsteady, he crossed the trailer park, knocked on Tina's door and waited. He knocked again. A voice inside yelled for whoever it was to wait. Tina's girlfriend opened up, she was wearing jodhpurs and pulling on a sweater over a grubby bra. She looked at Grimaldi and tugged her sweater down.

"What do you want?"

"Tina in?"

"You must be joking..."

"Where is she?"

The girl went back into the trailer, and came out again carrying a rain cape. She slung it around her shoulders while he stood there like a dumb animal. The girl looked at him with disgust. "She's gone, packed her bags and gone, you bastard!"

He tried to reach for her arm, to stop her from leaving. "I don't understand, what do you mean she's gone?"

"Ask your wife, shithead, ask your bloody wife!"

"Gone where?"

"Home. She's gone back to the States."

"Did she leave a letter?"

"What you want? A forwarding address? Dickhead! She's gone — left, understand? You'll never see her again."

His mind reeled, and he leaned against the side of the old trailer. The girl sauntered off, calling out to two guys leading a couple of horses through to the ring.

Grimaldi walked a few paces and then stopped. He turned back to the trailer, sure the girl was lying.

"Tina?... Tina?!"

He kicked at the set of steps in a fury. He felt impotent, angry, unable to believe she would go away, leave him without a word. He turned toward the big tent and began to weave his way toward it, cursing loudly, striking out at the sides of trailers as he passed.

Mike ran into the meat truck looking for Ruda. He was told she was feeding the cats. Mike took off, calling her name, dodging animals as they were being led into the ring.

Ruda was coming out of Sasha's cage and wheeling the feed trolley on to the next cage. Mike shouted for her; she turned to look in his direction. She entered the next cage and put down the food, talking softly to the tigers as they approached her. She rubbed their heads, tossing chunks of meat to them. Mike was still calling her. She let herself out, bolted the cage, maneuvering the trolley. "I'm here, Mike!"

He ran toward her, his face flushed. "It's the boss, he's screaming and yelling over at the main ring, you'd better get him. Mr. Schmidt is walking around, and a party of school kids has just arrived."

Ruda muttered, "I have to finish the feed."

"He looks kind of crazy, Ruda, he's breaking up chairs. No one can get near him."

Ruda picked up Mamon's big bowl and unbolted his cage. She stepped inside. "Be right with you... Ma'angel... come on, dinner time, come on baby."

Mike leaned against the bars. "He's thrown a punch at Willy Noakes, kicked a hole in his trailer."

Ruda's attention wavered from Mamon to Mike, and the big cat snarled, swiping a paw at her, demanding her full attention.

"Get back... No... don't you dare! Here — eat."

She tossed another hunk of meat, and Mamon caught it in his jaw, then lowered his head to rip it apart.

"Rudaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa... Ruda!" Grimaldi bellowed.

Mike turned, startled. Grimaldi was heading toward them, carrying a pitchfork, dragging it along the cage bars. "Ruda!"

Ruda moved further into the cage. She faced Mamon, and tossed out more meat. She rested her back on the bars, turning to her right. She could see Grimaldi staggering along with the huge pitchfork.

"Mike, get him away from the cages!"

Mike, terrified of the big man, stuttered out to him to keep back.

"You want to make me?"

Grimaldi shoved the boy aside and came to Mamon's cage. "She's gone, she's left me, she's gone!"

Ruda threw another chunk of meat, but Mamon lowered onto his haunches, no longer interested in eating. He let out a low, rumbling growl. Ruda was trapped in the small cage; the exit door was behind Mamon. "Good boy, back... back off... GET BACK!"

Grimaldi banged the bar. "What did you do to her? You bitch! What have you done?"

Mamon hurled himself against the bars, trying to slice through with his paws, snarling and snapping at Grimaldi. Ruda went around him and out of the trapdoor. She bolted it shut and ran to the front of the cage. "Get away from the cages... Get away from the cages!"

Grimaldi vented all his pent-up anger at the snarling and snapping lion. He pushed the pitchfork through the bars and caught him on the rump: The cat went crazy, lunging at the bars and roaring with rage.

Ruda struggled with her husband, trying to jerk the pitchfork out of his hands. They fought like two men, pushing and shoving each other.

"Let go, Luis, let it go...!"

"She's gone, she's left me. You did it! You did this to me!"

Ruda brought up her knee and slammed it into his groin. He gasped with pain, let go the fork, and doubled up in agony. She took the fork and pointed the sharp iron prongs at Grimaldi's chest. "Get back... Get out of here!"

He tried to grab at one of the prongs with his bare hand, but Ruda yanked it free — as she did, the prong sliced into his palm. He stumbled back, blood streaming from his hand.

Ruda tossed the fork to Mike and shoved Grimaldi with her hands. "Get out... go on, go back to the trailer — back, get back."

He stared at her, yet moved back a couple of steps. "I'm not one of your lions, one of your cats... You pushed too far this time, you pushed too far!"

Grimaldi turned on his heels and stumbled away. Ruda turned on Mike.

"What the fuck are you gaping at? Get that fork back onto the truck, and bring the feed trays — go on!"

Not until she had fed every cat did she take off for her trailer, but halfway there she was stopped by the administrator. Mr. Kelm asked that she go over to the offices immediately. The chairman wished to speak to her. Ruda followed, the sweat still dripping off her.

The big man was standing, his coat draped over his shoulders, his silver-topped cane propped against a large oval table. As Ruda walked in, he snatched the cane and brought it down with a crash on the highly polished table.

"We pride ourselves... understand me, Mrs. Grimaldi... we take pride in ourselves... in the fact that everyone working here is the best. The best in the world! We have millions riding on this show, millions in advertising — we have school groups coming through... I want every child to go home and say they want to come to the show, that's parents, sisters, brothers. And today those children witnessed a brawl — a brawl! — involving one of my top acts... Now, if you and your husband have domestic problems, sort them out in private — not in a disgusting public display. You may be a top act, Mrs. Grimaldi, but I will not have the name of this circus damaged, even if it means ending your and your husband's contract. Do I make myself clear?"

Ruda nodded, furious at being spoken to like a child. She turned as if to leave.

"Every act is replaceable, Mrs. Grimaldi — remember that!"

She faced him. "Not every act. You show me one cat trainer, one act on a par with mine..."

"Yours?"

"Yes, mine, my husband no longer works in the ring."

"I see... If your husband has a problem — get rid of it! Do I make myself clear?"

She nodded, and glared at him. He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. She turned and walked out, carefully closing the door behind her.

Schmidt turned to Kelm. "That woman is trouble! Any more problems and they both leave. We can hire the lion act from the Moscow Circus. Keep your eyes on the pair of them and let me know what's going on!"

Ruda tore back to the trailer in a rage, only to find Grimaldi, his hand wrapped in a towel, clumsily loading one of his rifles. As soon as she saw what he was doing, she slammed the door shut and locked it. "Put that away. Luis, put it away!"

He turned, sneering, cocked the gun and released the safety catch. He then pressed the barrel to his neck. "I was going to shoot that beast, that crazy fucking animal. Then I decided I should kill you... now, I think I'll blow my own head off, because that's what you want, isn't it?... Isn't it?"

She sat on the bunk, forcing herself to stay calm. "If that's what you think, then do it — go on, shoot."

He wavered, but did not put down the gun.

"Why do you think I want you dead?" she snapped.

"Give me one good reason you don't?"

She shrugged. "That might be tough, but if pressed I'd have to admit that maybe I need you."

He lowered the gun. "You haven't needed me for ten years."

She watched the gun being lowered, with relief. She couldn't deal with one more scene, not after that lecture. "I don't need you for the act, that's true... but maybe I need you."

He slumped down, the gun loose in his hand. "Bullshit, you don't need anyone, you never have — unless you want something, then you pretend to need."

Ruda stared at him. "Why don't you give me that gun and stop playing around? Come on, give it to me."

He cocked his head to one side, asked why she had done it.

"Why did I do what?"

"Make Tina go away."

She laughed, shaking her head. "I made her?... I made her? You don't think maybe you had something to do with it?"

"I loved her, I loved her."

"You left her, without money, without anything. Left her in the middle of the shittiest place in Berlin, and now you tell me — you loved her? The only thing you love is booze, she came here crying her heart out, all I did was comfort her!"

"Comfort? You filthy whore!" He lurched to his feet. "I saw you together, I saw what you were doing to my little girl!"

"She wasn't your little girl, and don't think for two seconds that baby was yours — she told me it wasn't. She came here asking for money, threatened to tell that fat slob Schmidt about you, about you screwing all the young kids, and you know what he just told me? He told me that if you play around with any more teenagers then you and I will be out, contract or no contract."

"I don't believe you."

"Ask him, go ask him. Kelm was there, he heard, I just got a lecture from the fat-assed bastard. Tina was a little tramp. I am telling you the truth, the baby was not yours — she admitted it to me."

Grimaldi leaned back, closing his eyes. "I don't believe it."

Ruda moved quickly, grabbed the gun from him, and put the safety catch on. He made no effort to stop her. He held his face in his hands, saying over and over she was lying to him, then he looked up. "I could have had a life with her, I could have started again."

"Doing what? Changing someone else's brat's diapers?"

"I could have been happy with her."

Ruda sighed. "And what would you have lived on? You know I would never have parted with the act. I tell you something, you would have had to shoot me to get them. This was just a fantasy on your part."

He got up and poured himself a glass of water. "I talked to Lazars, spent hours talking to him. We argued and yelled a lot, but he's changed, too, he's changed."

"I don't follow, can I have a drink?"

He handed her a glass of water, and then stared at the posters. "I tell you the circus, as we know it, it won't last, it can't last. You remember Ivan the Russian? He spent fifteen years training his tigers, he's been in the circus business since he was six years old, but he couldn't afford to keep them out of season. He shot the poor bastards, all twenty-four of them, so nobody else would have them... said they were of no use to anyone, and he wouldn't let a zoo have them, didn't think it was fair. He told Lazars he shot them because he loved them. Now what crazy mind is that?"

Suddenly he laughed his old rumble laugh, leaning back, his eyes closed. "Maybe I should shoot myself, can't be put out to pasture, can't get any other work."

Ruda's heart was hammering. She had never heard him talk this way, ever. She sat next to him, close to him. "Don't... don't talk like this."

"It's the truth, I've known it for a while. I see them cramped in their cages. I keep on telling myself that it was different when I was working the rings, that it was better, but I know it wasn't, if anything it was worse. You, we, are living on borrowed time, because the day will come soon when all wild animals will be barred from being used as cheap entertainment."

"No, no, I don't believe it. I love them, I care for them, I love every single one of them."

Grimaldi cocked his head, gave a slow sad smile. "No, you don't. You love to dominate, you like the danger, the adrenaline, but you don't love them."

"I do, you know I do..."

"Caged, locked up twenty-four hours a day, you call that love?" He stretched out his long legs, resting his elbows behind his head. "You know this little Boris, Lazars' little chimp? Well he got her from a troupe of Italians; spent his savings on her. Boris was too young to work in the ring, she was being trained. Lazars sat in on one of the training sessions, kept on watching the Italian rubbing the chimp's head... he thought it was with affection. But the little baby was very upset. After the rehearsal Lazars checked her over, Boris's head was bleeding. This so-called trainer, he'd got a nail sharpened to a point like a fucking razor — he wasn't patting her, he was sticking his nail into her head..."

Ruda stared at her boots. "Lazars was always a second-stringer, a soft touch. You shouldn't listen to his bullshit."

"I haven't before... I just think what he's saying may be true, that acts like ours have a short time to go."

Ruda sprang to her feet. "I won't listen anymore... I've got to go and get ready to rehearse."

"Yeah, make them jump through hoops of fire — great, they love it... get their manes singed, they fucking love it."

Ruda paused at the door. "Will you give me a hand in the ring? They're still nervous about the plinths."

He looked up at her. "You don't need me, Ruda."

"What are you going to do?"

He turned away, unable to look at her. Unexpectedly, the big man's helplessness touched her. She hesitated, then went and slipped her arms around him. "You're hung over, go and lie down. I'll come by later and cook up a big dinner, okay? Luis?"

He patted her head. "Worried I'll run off, go after Tina?" She wriggled away from him, but he pulled her close. "You are, aren't you? Is it me you want?"

She tried to get away from him, but he wouldn't let her go. "Is it me?"

She eased away from him, her face flushed red. "I guess I'd miss you, I've got used to you being around."

He watched her reach for the door, unlock it. He gave a hopeless smile, he knew she didn't really want him but she didn't want anyone else to have him. The door closed behind her and he sat down, once again staring at the posters and photographs on the wall.

The forensic laboratory had made a plaster cast of the heel taken from the Grimaldi boots. They were good impressions, very clear; but the print off the carpet was not. Even so, they were reasonably sure the impression had been made by the same boots. Torsen asked whether it could be used as a piece of evidence, whether it would stand up in court. He was told that it could not, since the print taken from the victim's hotel room was only of a section of the heel.

"But you think it was from the same boot?"

"Yes I do, but that is just my personal opinion." Torsen sighed; it had been a long, fruitless day. The second disappointment was that the sawdust taken from the victim's hotel room matched the fifteen samples taken from the circus, all from different cages. The sawdust was also discovered to be similar to samples brought in from the Berlin zoo, the Tiergarten.

Torsen's next inquiry was at the bus station. The night duty staff had still to be questioned regarding bus passengers the night Kellerman was killed. The three drivers could not remember any male passenger fitting the inspector's description; two could not recall anyone getting off from a bus at or near the Grand Hotel; the third driver could only recall a female passenger who had picked up the bus from the depot and gotten off at the stop close to the Grand Hotel; but he could recall little else about her except her long, dark hair. He remembered that it had been a particularly unpleasant journey, the vehicle was mostly filled with Polish women and children who had been greatly disturbed by a group of young punks hurling bricks at the bus, shouting Nazi slogans. The driver spent considerable time berating the police, saying they should provide buses, drivers, and passengers with better security.

Torsen returned to the station, heated up a bowl of soup in the microwave and looked over his notes. He had a motive — the man was disliked by everyone he seemed to have been in contact with, possibly owed money to whoever killed him. But from there on it went downhill; no one person had seen a man fitting the description of the potential suspect.

The inspector sipped his soup... it was scorchingly hot, and he burned his lip. He almost knocked it over when his phone rang. It was Freda, she would be off duty at five, and wondered if she could see him, or if he could come to the hospital. His father had written a note which he had made Freda promise to deliver. Torsen suspected it was a ploy to get him to see Freda. He stuttered that he would try to pass by the hospital. He inquired about his father's health, and Freda laughed and said he was making snowflakes again. He did not find amusing the vision of his father plucking the bits of tissue, licking them, sticking them on the end of his nose and blowing them off again. He said that he would come by when he had a chance, but that he was very busy investigating a homicide.

"I know, his letter has something to do with it. Would you like me to read it to you? It will save you a journey."

Torsen fumbled for his notebook.

"Are you ready? Shall I read it?"

"Yes, yes, please go ahead."

Freda coughed, and then said: " 'One' — it's very much a scrawl — 'no coincidences.' Does that mean anything to you?"

Torsen muttered that it did, and asked her to continue.

" 'Two' — and this is very hard to decipher, it looks like 'Wise man,' or 'wizard' — does that make sense?"

"Yes, yes, it does, please continue."

"It's a name, I think... Dieter? Yes?"

"Yes, yes, that was my uncle, is that all?"

Freda said she was trying to puzzle out the next few words. "Ah, I think it says... 'Rudi'... 'R-U-D-I'... Yes, it's Rudi and then there's a J. I think the name is Polish, Jeczawitz. Yes, I am sure it's Rudi Jeczawitz. Would you like me to spell it for you?"

Torsen jotted down the name, thanked Freda, and apologized for his brusqueness. She laughed and said no matter. She put down the receiver before he could pluck up the courage to ask to see her. He swiveled around in his desk chair to look at the photograph of his father, murmured a "Thank you!" and finished his soup. He had to think carefully how to track down the Jeczawitz records. He would have to go cap in hand to the West Berlin Police with some story in order to get this information.

Torsen and Rieckert crossed the old border and drew up outside a new building housing a section of the West Berlin Police. The office was a hive of activity, the reception area alone busier than the entire station the pair had left. They were directed toward the records bureau through a long corridor. Outside the department was a counter at which a stern-faced woman heard Torsen's request for the records of a Rudi Jeczawitz. She checked his identification and handed him a formal request sheet to fill in.

They did not have to wait long. The station was fully computerized and the gray-haired woman returned with three sheets of paper clipped together.

They hurried back to their patrol car, Torsen skimming the pages as they walked. He got into the car, and continued to read. Rieckert waited patiently, having no idea why they had come to the station in the first place.

"Where next?"

Torsen lowered the paper. "Better head back to the station. I have to speak to the Leitender Direktor."

"He's still on holiday!"

"I have to speak to him... just drive."

Rieckert drove to their station, darting glances at Torsen who read, muttering to himself. His cheeks were flushed. The car had hardly drawn to a halt before he was out and running up the steps.

The records gave details of the dead man. The corpse had been found in a derelict building used for many years by vagrants, and considered "unsafe." His body had been squashed inside a small kitchen cabinet, not, as Torsen had thought, under floorboards. The body, because of the freezing temperatures, had been remarkably well preserved, yet Torsen was sure his father had described the body as badly decomposed. It was found almost intact, apart from deep lacerations to the left wrist and forearm. The skin had been hacked off with a crude knife with a serrated edge, but no weapon had been found. The victim was naked, apart from the cloak in which he was wrapped.

The police had been unable to identify the body for a considerable time, until a newspaper article requesting information on the identity of the deceased gave a clear description of the strange cloak found wrapped around him. A club owner had come forward, identified the dead man as seventy-five-year-old Rudi Jeczawitz, a one-time magician who had performed in his clubs. The man was an alcoholic, known to deal in forged documents. He had also been a procurer of very young girls, and shortly after the war had run a prostitution ring. The drinking destroyed him, and at the end he worked for little more than free drinks, using his wife as part of the act. His wife, a known prostitute, had disappeared; she had not been seen after the murder. It was supposed that she too may possibly have been murdered. No one was ever charged with Rudi Jeczawitz's murder; his case remained on file. A few more details were given; informants had said that he had been at Birkenau. He had survived by entertaining the guards with his magic act.

Torsen's heart pounded as he read and reread the name of Jeczawitz's wife: Ruda. Coincidence number one. Number two: Rudi, like Tommy Kellerman, had been involved with forged documents. And then there was the third: All three were survivors of concentration camps. He paused, the fourth: Both men had been tattooed, and both had had their tattoo slashed from their arms.

Torsen jotted down a list. He had to find out if they had been legally married, find out Ruda Jeczawitz's maiden name, see whether there still was anyone alive who had known the magician and could describe him. But most important he had to know whether Ruda Kellerman was Ruda Jeczawitz...

Torsen was sweating, his lists grew longer. Next he wrote "boots"; he had supposed the boots had belonged to a man because of their size, had even asked Mrs. Grimaldi if they were her husband's boots. But what if they were her boots? Torsen let out a small whoop. He thumbed through his book until he found the page he was looking for. One of the bus drivers was sure no male passenger had gotten off his bus the night of Kellerman's murder, only a woman, described as... he stared at his scrawl, momentarily unable to read it, then he snapped the book closed. He knew he had to go back and interview the guy; all he had written down was: "female, dark-haired."

He grabbed his coat, shouted for Rieckert, his voice echoing in the empty building. He stormed through the empty offices and burst into the switchboard operator's cubbyhole.

"Where in God's name is everybody?"

She looked up at him in astonishment. "Tea break! They have gone across the street to the café for their tea break! It is four o'clock, sir!"