Hour of the Wolf

THREE
13

Erich Van Veeteren was buried after a simple ceremony on Monday, 30 November. The service took place in a side chapel of the Keymer Church, and in accordance with the wishes of his closest relatives — especially his mother — only a small circle of mourners were present.

Renate had also chosen both the officiating clergyman and the hymns — in accordance with some sort of obscure principles she claimed were important for Erich, but which Van Veeteren had difficulty in believing. Besides, it didn’t really matter as far as he was concerned: if Erich had felt the need for spirituality, it was hardly likely he would have found it within the realm of these high-church ceremonies and under these menacing spires reaching heavenwards, he was convinced of that.

The vicar seemed comparatively young and comparatively lively, and while he spoke and proceeded through the rituals in a broad accent revealing his origins in the offshore islands, Van Veeteren spent most of the time with his eyes closed and his hands clasped in his lap. On his right was his ex-wife, whose presence he found difficult to tolerate even in these circumstances; on his left sat his daughter, whom he loved above everything else on this earth.

Directly in front was the coffin holding the mortal remains of his son.

It was difficult to look at it: perhaps that’s why he kept his eyes closed.

Kept his eyes closed and thought of Erich when he was still alive instead. Or rather, allowed the thoughts to flow freely: and it seemed that his memory picked out images completely at random. Some incidents and memories from Erich’s childhood: reading him stories on a windy beach, he wasn’t at all sure which; visits to the dentist, visits to the skating rink and Wegelen Zoo.

Some from the difficult period much later on: the years when he was a drug addict, the times in prison. The suicide attempt, the long, sleepless nights at the hospital.

Some from their last meeting. Perhaps these were the most important and frequent of all. As these more recent images rolled past, he was also uncomfortably aware of his own egotistical motives — his compulsion to derive something positive from that meeting; but if it is true that every new day carries with it the sum of all the preceding ones, he thought, perhaps he could be excused.

Today, at least. Here, at least, in front of the coffin. He had sat with Erich at the kitchen table at Klagenburg on that final occasion. Erich had come to return an electric drill he’d borrowed, and they had sat down to drink coffee and discuss things in general, he couldn’t recall precisely what. But it had nothing to do with his addiction to this and that, nothing to do with his ability (or inability) to take responsibility for his own life, or with social morality versus private morality. Nothing at all to do with those difficult topics, which had been discussed before at enormous length.

It was just chat, he told himself. Nothing to do with matters of guilt. A conversation between two people, it could have been anybody at all; and it was precisely that, the simplicity and insignificance of what they discussed, which provided the positive outcome of the situation.

Something positive among all the negatives. A faint light in the eternal darkness. He recalled yet again Gortiakov’s walk through the pond carrying a candle in Nostalghia. He did that often. Tarkovsky’s Nostalghia… And now, as he sat there in that ancient cathedral, in front of his son’s coffin, with his eyes closed, with the vicar’s measured litany floating up to the Gothic arches above them, it was as if… as if he had achieved a sort of kinship. Perhaps that was too much to expect; but nevertheless a kinship with so many weighty things. With Erich; with his own incomprehensible father who had died long before Van Veeteren had the slightest chance of getting to understand and become reconciled with him; with suffering and with art and with creativity — all possible kinds of creativity — and eventually also with a belief in something beyond this world of ours, and in the visions and ambitions of those who had built the church in which they were sitting… With life and death, and the never-ending passage of time. With his daughter Jess, who was leaning heavily on him, and occasionally seemed to be convulsed by a shudder. Kinship.

It works, he thought. The ritual works. The forms overcome doubts. We have learned over the centuries to weave meaning around emptiness and pain. A meaning and a pattern. We have been practising that for a very long time.

The spell was not broken until he processed past the coffin with Jess clinging to his arm — not until he had turned his back on it all and started to leave the chancel. Then he was hit by an ice-cold stab of despair instead; he almost stumbled, and had to cling on to his daughter in order not to fall. He was supporting her, she was supporting him. It seemed a vast distance to Renate on Jess’s other side, and he wondered why he found it necessary to keep her so far away. Why?

And once they were outside the heavy church door, standing in the drizzle, his only thought was: Who killed him? I want to know who it was that killed my son.

Who blew out the flame.

‘I haven’t finished sorting stuff out yet,’ said Marlene Frey. ‘Separating his things from mine, that is. I don’t know what is the usual thing to do in these circumstances. Is there anything you’d like to have?’

Van Veeteren shook his head.

‘Of course not. You lived together. Erich’s things are yours now, naturally.’

They were sitting at a table in Adenaar’s. Marlene Frey was drinking tea, he had a glass of wine. She wasn’t even smoking. He didn’t know why that surprised him, but it did. Erich had started smoking when he was fifteen… probably earlier than that, but it was on his fifteenth birthday that he’d caught him at it.

‘Please feel free to come and have a look a couple of days from now, in any case,’ she said. ‘There might be something you’d like as a souvenir.’

‘Photographs?’ it occurred to him. ‘Do you have any photos? I don’t think I have a single one of Erich from the last ten years.’

She smiled fleetingly.

‘Of course. There are some. A few, at least.’

He nodded, and eyed her guiltily.

‘I apologize for not having called round to see you yet. I have.. There’s been so much to do.’

‘It’s never too late,’ she said. ‘Call in when you have time, and I’ll give you a few pictures. I’m at home in the evenings. Usually, that is — maybe it would be an idea to ring first. We don’t need to make a big thing of it.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘We don’t.’

She took a drink of her tea, and he sipped his wine as a sort of half-hearted gesture of agreement. Stole a glance at her and decided that she was good-looking. Pale and tired, of course, but with clean-cut features and eyes that met his without deviating as much as a centimetre. He wondered what she had been through in her life. Had she had the same kind of experiences as Erich? It didn’t seem so: the tribulations always seemed to leave deeper traces on women. She’d been through her fair share, of course, he could see that: but there was nothing in her demeanour that suggested a lack of strength.

Strength to see her through life. Yes, he could see that she had that.

It’s disgraceful, he thought. Disgraceful that I haven’t met her until now. In circumstances like these. Obviously, I ought…

But then the Erich-is-dead constellation took possession of him with such force that he almost fainted. He gulped down his wine and took out his cigarette-rolling machine.

‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

She smiled briefly again.

‘Erich smoked.’

They sat in silence while he rolled, then lit up.

‘I ought to give it up,’ he said. ‘Using this thing helps to cut down at least.’

Why the hell am I sitting here, he thought, going on about smoking? What difference does it make if the father of a dead son smokes too much?

She suddenly placed her hand on his arm. His heart missed a beat and he almost choked on his cigarette. She observed his reaction, no doubt, but did nothing to pretend it was an accident. Nothing to gloss over it. Simply left her hand where it was while looking hard at him with probing, slightly quivering eyes.

‘I think I could get to like you,’ she said. ‘It’s a pity things turned out as they did.’

Turned out as they did? he thought. A pity? Talk about understatement…

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t have more contact with Erich. Naturally, it ought to-’

‘It’s not your fault,’ she said, interrupting him. ‘He was a bit.. Well, how should one describe it?’ She shrugged. ‘But I loved him. We had good times together, it was as if being together made us grow up, as it were. And then of course there was that special thing.’

He had forgotten all about that.

‘Er, yes,’ he said. ‘What special thing?’

She let go of his arm and gazed down at her cup for a few seconds. Stirred it slowly with her spoon.

‘I don’t know how you’re going to take this, but the fact is that I’m expecting a child. I’m pregnant, in the third month. Well, that’s how things stand.’

‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, and now the smoke really did spark off a coughing fit.

Early on Tuesday morning he drove Jess out to Sechshafen. He had told both her and Renate about the conversation with Marlene Frey: Jess had phoned her on the Monday evening and arranged to meet her the next time she came to Maardam. With a bit of luck around New Year.

The intention had been that Renate should also accompany them to the airport, but apparently she had woken up with a temperature and what seemed to be tonsillitis. Van Veeteren thanked God for the bacilli, and suspected that Jess didn’t have anything against them either.

She held his hand that morning as well as they crawled through the fog enveloping Landsmoor and Weill: it was a warm hand, and occasionally gave his a hard squeeze. He was aware that the squeezes were indications of daughterly love, and the familiar old anxiety that goes with parting. Stronger than ever on a day like this, of course. Separation from her roots in this flat, north European landscape. From Erich. Perhaps also from him.

‘It’s hard to say goodbye,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s hard.’

‘You never get used to it. But I suppose there’s a point to that as well.’

Parting is a little death, he almost added, but he managed to keep that thought to himself.

‘I don’t like airports,’ she said. ‘I’m always a bit frightened when I’m going to travel somewhere. Erich was the same.’

He nodded. He hadn’t known that, in fact. He wondered how much there was he didn’t know about his children. How much he had missed over the years, and how much could still be repaired or discovered.

‘But I didn’t know him all that well,’ she said after a while. ‘I hope I’ll grow to like Marlene — it feels as if through her he’s left traces of himself behind. I hope to goodness all goes well. It would be awful if…’

She didn’t complete the sentence. After a while he noticed that she had started crying, and he gave her hand a long squeeze.

‘It feels better now, at least,’ she said when it had passed. ‘Better than when I came. I’ll never get used to it, but I occasionally feel almost calm now. Or maybe one just feels numb after all the crying. What do you think?’

He muttered something in response. No, he thought. Nothing goes away, it all just gets worse as time passes. Worse every day as you grow older.

As they began to approach the airport she let go of his hand. Took out a paper handkerchief and dried her eyes.

‘Why did you really pack up being a police officer?’

The question came out of the blue, and for a moment he felt on the spot.

‘I don’t really know,’ he said. ‘I’d just had enough… I suppose that’s the simplest explanation. I felt that quite clearly, I didn’t have to think deeply about it.’

‘I understand,’ she said. ‘I suppose there’s quite a lot one doesn’t need to think deeply about.’

She paused, but he could hear that she had more on her mind. Had a good idea of what it was as well — and after a minute she started again.

‘It’s odd, but I’ve started to think about something I didn’t think at first would worry me at all… In the beginning, when I first heard that Erich was dead.’

‘What exactly?’ he asked.

‘The murderer,’ she said. ‘The one who did it. I want to know who it was, and why he did it. I want to know that more and more. Do you think that’s odd? I mean, Erich’s gone, no matter what…’

He turned his head to look at her.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it’s odd at all. I think it’s one of the most natural reactions you could possibly imagine. There’s a reason why I packed up being a police officer, but there was a reason why I started as well.’

She looked at him and nodded slowly.

‘I think I understand. And you still think that?’

‘Yes, I still think that.’

She paused before her next question.

‘How’s it going? For the police, I mean. Do you know anything? Are they in touch with you?’

He shrugged.

‘I don’t know much. I’ve asked about it, but I don’t want to poke my nose in too far. When they get anywhere they’ll let me know, of course. Perhaps I’ll give Reinhart a ring and ask how they’re getting on.’

They arrived. He turned into the multi-storey car park, up the narrow ramp, and pulled up in front of a grey concrete wall.

‘Do that,’ she said. ‘Find out how far they’ve got. I want to know who killed my brother.’

He nodded, and they got out of the car. Twenty minutes later he watched her walk off between two uniformed airline staff and disappear into the security-check area.

Yes indeed, he thought. When all’s said and done, that’s the big question that still needs to be answered.

Who?