When they came down for breakfast they found Markus sitting alone with his grandpa, waiting for them. Tobias was nowhere to be seen and neither was the coffee he had promised. When Cordula wanted to go to the kitchen her husband stopped her with a gesture.
‘Let him be,’ Albert said, meaning Tobias who he presumed was there. ‘You won, but don’t rub it in, please.’
The atmosphere was strained after that and Cordula finished breakfast as soon as possible, impatient to get out of the house.
As she took the last bite of her bread roll, Tobias reappeared from the kitchen. The radio was on and he emerged with a pot of freshly brewed coffee and a sheepish smile that was all his own.
‘Come on, Markus, we’re going now. It’s the early bird that catches the juiciest worms,’ Cordula said.
‘You’re off already? I just made you some coffee, Cordula, the way you like it. As hot as love and as black as the night,’ Tobias said.
He looked disappointed.
‘Go on, then. I’ll have a quick cup for the road,’ Albert said.
‘Don’t. You wouldn’t like it like this. I made this for your wife especially,’ Tobias said, sitting down and pouring a cup for himself. ‘Mmmm. Strong but good. Maybe a bit strong for you, Cordula. I’m sorry, I should have known better.’
Albert knew his wife, knew under normal circumstances she would be piqued by what Tobias had said. On that day she just got up without a word. A minute later they left the house.
*
While they waited in the car for Cordula, who had gone back into the house to fetch something or other, Albert said a short prayer for the benefit of Markus. It was an entreaty they always tried to remember to say at the beginning of each journey, short or long.
‘Lord, please watch over us on our way. Amen.’
Whenever they didn’t forget — which was most of the time — they would end each trip with an even shorter prayer to thank the Lord for not running into any difficulties along the way.
Cordula reappeared carrying a basket.
On Thursday December 28, 1978, they wouldn’t keep that tradition, but not for want of remembering.
Chapter Three
Dagmar heard unfamiliar footsteps on the concrete staircase outside her studio flat. Somebody was coming up to see her, but it wasn’t him. A glance at her alarm clock confirmed that it was still too early; he wouldn’t be able to get away without arousing suspicion at this time of the evening. She had no rational right to feel disappointed, but there it was. It just so happened that she had been ready for him and keen with time to spare. Never mind. She quickly pulled a pair of blue jeans and a t-shirt over her negligee. As it stood now she knew she mustn’t arouse suspicion – advice that was easier to give than to heed in this small town where life followed simple rules. If you were branded with so much as a smudge of a reputation or a label, it stuck, was neigh impossible to shake off again, especially if you were a Catholic. Once a slut, always a slut. Dagmar appreciated the distinction between being promiscuous and being, well, horny. The latter was biological, a survival mechanism of practically every living species on earth; the former was unforgivable in Eschershausen unless you were a man.
There were nights when Dagmar wanted to be left alone, without male companionship at least, but tonight wasn’t one of them. She had been horny for a long time – not constantly horny, that would have made her a nymphomaniac, but frequently horny nevertheless, hornier than her friends. Hornier than anybody she knew, in fact, boys included. But she had never been promiscuous, had said ‘nay’ a hell of a lot more often than ‘yay’, and had been stringently selective about the men she chose to go to bed with, even if not all her choices had been wise.
She let her eyes wander around the room once more before she opened the door. Just as well. The red candle in the window, her ‘all clear’ for the man she was waiting for, had to go. This accomplished, she made one mistake. She failed to change the LP for something more modern, something less sultry. Sarah Vaughn’s raspy voice crooned about broken promises and love for sale.
Dagmar peeked outside and discovered Anika, once her best friend, smoothing a cigarette and chewing gum at the top of the stairs. Anika was sporting a trendy-trashy wavy perm, new-New Romantic, and too much make up for a Tuesday night. Or for any night.
A few years earlier Anika and Dagmar had hung out together at lot on the Hüschebrink near the entrance to the graveyard, and Dagmar had never explained why she had stopped going.
‘Hello, sister – you all right, babes? I saw the light in your window,’ Anika said between attempting to catch her breath and taking a puff from her cigarette. She spat out the gum. ‘Yuck, they should do flavours that mix better with Marlboro, don’t you think?’
‘Come in,’ Dagmar said and moved aside.
Right then she wasn’t in the mood for any company but his. What’s more, Anika had the annoying habit of outstaying her welcome. Still, Dagmar didn’t want to give the landlords any excuse to eavesdrop on their conversation. When she closed the door behind Anika she inhaled, albeit involuntarily, the intense chemical mist that surrounded her former pal. Anika’s taste in hairspray wasn’t much better than her taste in men. She valued quantity over quality. More was always better.
‘Babes, you waiting for someone or something?’ Anika said, taking in the atmosphere and noticing the smell of candle wax. ‘What’s that tune you’re playing – Zarah Leander? You want to get with the times a bit. Trio, Nena, Markus.’
Dagmar decided to ignore the questions. Anika talked a lot and rarely remembered what she said from one second to the next.
‘I’m joking, babes. Who would you be waiting for, right? I hear you’re living a real nun’s life these days. You don’t hang with us anymore, with the cool crew… But all that’s going to change, babes, that’s why I came,’ Anika said.
Dagmar relaxed. Anika hadn’t noticed anything – not the negligee under Dagmar’s t-shirt, not even the tub of lubricant next to the bed.
‘See, me and Carsten, we’re off to Holzminden tonight. You remember Carsten, right? Well, he’s got this really bodacious friend over, the one with the wild tattoo. We were kind of thinking you’d want to join us, babes, on like a double date. What do you think?’ Anika said.
Dagmar didn’t think Carsten was particularly bodacious, especially not when he was drunk and trying to stick his tongue into her ear. His mullet didn’t help and neither did his flimsy excuse for a moustache. Back in school he used to shave the skin above his upper lip three times a day, sometimes more, because somebody had told him when he was twelve that shaving would stimulate his follicle growth. He’d often come to school with shaving cuts, but as a method for growing a bushy beard it had failed miserably. Now he wore his moustache, such as it was, in long wisps of blond hair, the strands of which could be counted on two hands. As far as the friend with the tattoo was concerned, he had to be Volker, a guy from the next village who showed off a headless, big-breasted torso on his bulging right bicep each time he inhaled a lung full of glue fumes from a paper bag. Even on their best behaviour Volker and Carsten were no match for the man Dagmar was waiting for.
‘It’s sweet of you to think of me, but I can’t tonight. I’m…indisposed, and besides’
‘You’re on the rag, really? That sucks, babes, like Dracula. Unlike the count, I don’t think Volker digs blood. He says he doesn’t mind but he almost fainted when I chucked my tampon at Carsten the other day, just for a laugh. It wasn’t even used but you should’ve seen his face,’ Anika said.
‘Why don’t you ask Regula? She might be up for it,’ Dagmar said.
‘No dice, babes, I already asked. And Beate and Ursula and Heike. No joy with that square bunch, if you know what I mean,’ Anika said.
Two