Fatal Lies

71

An observer unaccustomed to life at Saint Florian's might have described the prevailing mood of the school as subdued. Drexler, however, knew otherwise. He could read the signs like a haruspex: signs that were no less vivid or portentous, as far as he was concerned, than the hot entrails of a freshly slaughtered goat-the whispering, the sidelong glances, the sudden silences, the pursed lips of the masters, the canceled classes. The school was not subdued at all, but seething with nervous excitement.

Drexler was sitting on his own in the dining room, toying with his bruckfleisch — a stew consisting largely of innards, blood, and sweetbreads. A pallid piece of offal surfaced among the slices of heart, liver, and spleen, making him feel slightly nauseous. He was thinking about what had happened that morning. He had been standing in the washroom, waiting his turn to use one of the tin sinks.

A line of hunched white backs-goose-pimpled and shivering-the relentless hammering of the old pipes…

Drexler had rushed over to claim a vacant basin. While he was splashing tepid water onto his face, he overheard the two boys next to him speaking in hushed tones.

“Murdered… in the lodges… there for a whole day before they found him.”

“What did you say?” Drexler had asked.

The boy next to him had been about to reply, but was silenced by a prefect who struck his calves with a riding crop (carried especially for this purpose).

“Shut up,” the prefect had shouted. “You're worse than a bunch of fishwives!”

By midmorning Drexler had been able to establish that there hadn't been a murder at all but a suicide-and that the dead master was Herr Sommer.

This news saddened Drexler, as he had been rather fond of Herr Sommer. When, in the previous year, Drexler had been experiencing difficulties understanding algebra, Herr Sommer had invited him to his rooms and given him extra tuition. Away from the classroom the mathematics master was much more relaxed-much more amusing. He had once told Drexler an extremely risque joke about a priest and a choirboy. “Our secret,” he had said confidentially. Toward the end of that year, Sommer's invitations became less frequent. He seemed to have found a new favorite-Thomas Zelenka. Drexler hadn't minded very much. In truth, he had begun to find Herr Sommer's company less diverting-especially after he'd made the acquaintance of Snjezana.

Drexler tried to swallow a kidney but didn't have the stomach for it. He pushed it back onto the spoon with his tongue and decided he wasn't hungry.

Everything was beginning to unravel.

Zelenka, Becker, Sommer…

Even Wolf hadn't been himself lately. He had been summoned to the headmaster's office on Thursday and had refused to say why.

“Did he ask about Perger?”

“Just forget Perger, will you!” Wolf had replied angrily, “He ran away, for God's sake! And no one gives a shit where he's gone!”

Drexler was no longer sure whether he could trust Wolf. Greater leniency was shown in courts of law to criminals who confessed their misdeeds and showed remorse. Was that what Wolf was up to?

Before Drexler left the dining hall he went over to another boy and said: “I'm not feeling well. If Osterhagen asks where I am, tell him I've gone to the infirmary.”

It was not difficult to leave the school unnoticed at that time of day and soon he was walking eastward, cross-country toward Vienna. He gave Aufkirchen a wide berth, but could still see the onion dome and spire of the Romanesque church. For a moment he was tempted to change direction. Snjezana would probably be lying on her bed, smoking, and reading one of her novels. He could see her one last time. What harm would it do?

“No,” Drexler said out loud, lengthening his stride. “I must get this over with.”

He continued walking for more than an hour and eventually came to a tiny hamlet-no more than a cluster of ramshackle dwellings huddled together on a rough track. Drexler followed the path around the base of a hillock, and in due course it took him to a much wider road. He paused in order to get his bearings.

A low, weak sun hovered above the horizon. It was suspended in the sky like a communion wafer: a perfect, lustreless white circle. All around, crows were either taking off or landing, and the air reverberated with their raucous laughter.

Drexler stepped onto the road and continued his descent. Soon he came to another village. He had been to this place several times before but had never stayed very long. Although larger than Aufkir chen, it offered little in the way of entertainment. The inn was fairly respectable and a frequent destination for well-heeled patrons. His parents had taken rooms there once when they'd visited the school.

Opposite the inn was an impressive baroque church, painted bright yellow, and next to this was the police station. It was not a very auspicious building. Indeed, it might have been described more accurately as an outpost-or guardhouse.

When Drexler opened the door, he was struck by the modesty of the interior: roughcast walls, a single paraffin lamp, and a battered table-behind which sat a big-boned constable with orange hair. He was staring glumly at a silent telephone.

Drexler s appearance seemed to raise his spirits.

“Hello,” he said cheerfully. “Are you from the school?”

“Yes,” Drexler replied.

“You've come a fair way-lost, are you?”

“No. I've come to report something.”

“What's that, then?”

“A murder.”

The constable's expression changed. “A murder?”

“Yes,” said Drexler. “I shot a boy called Perger. I want to confess… I want to make a statement.”