Self's Murder by Bernhard Schlink Read Free Book Online Page B

staggering toward me, his right hand still waving, his left hand pressed to his stomach. I could see that his left hand was holding the handle of a black attaché case that was knocking against his legs. I took a few steps toward him and he bumped into me. I got a whiff of his bad smell and heard him whisper “Take this!” and “Go!” He shoved the case toward me and I took it. He steadied himself on me with the hand that had just given me the case and righted himself. He hurried over to his car, got in, closed the door, and drove off.
    He swerved in a crooked line from the sidewalk to the right lane, and then from the right lane into the left. He steered toward the steel bollards bordering the traffic island in the middle of the Augustaanlage, scraped one, scraped the next, scraped the traffic light at Mollstrasse, and picked up speed without paying any attention to the light, which had turned red, to the cars that had just started entering from Mollstrasse, or to the children who had begun crossing the Augustaanlage. At first it looked as if he would crash into the lights or the tree at the edge of the island on the other side of Mollstrasse. But he rolled over the curb, missed the lights, and grazed the tree lightly, and yet the curb and the tree tilted the Isetta enough to capsize it, sending it sliding on its side over the grass until it crashed into another tree.
    It was a loud crash, and at the same moment, in the opposite lane, into which the Isetta had almost careened, brakes screeched and drivers he had cut off blew their horns. A child over whose feet he’d almost skidded began to bawl. All hell broke loose. My Turkish neighbor came hurrying out of his store, took the attaché case from me, and said: “Go see if he’s all right. I’ll call the police and an ambulance.” I hurried over, but I’m not as quick as I used to be, and by the time I got to the Isetta a crowd of onlookers had already gathered. I pushed my way forward. The tree had crushed the door and was lodged between the roof and floor of the car. I looked down through the side window: the car was full of glass and blood, the crushed door had pinned Schuler back into the seat, and the wheel was jammed into his chest. He was dead.
    The police and ambulance arrived and, as they could not pry the Isetta loose from the tree, the fire department was brought in. The police made no sign of taking a statement from me, and I did not come forward to present myself as a witness. I headed back to my office, the front door of which I’d left open. From a distance I saw someone leave my office. I couldn’t imagine what he’d be doing there, or what he might be looking for. Nothing was missing.
    My Turkish neighbor’s store experienced a mini-boom. The onlookers were watching the goings-on surrounding the Isetta, offering expert commentary, and buying candy, chocolate, and granola bars.
    It was only when everything was over and things had calmed down that I remembered Schuler’s attaché case. I picked it up from the Turk, placed it on my desk, and eyed it. Black matte faux leather, a gold-colored combination lock—an ugly, run-of-the-mill attaché case. From my desk I took out the bottle of Sambuca and the box of coffee beans I kept there, poured myself a drink, and dropped three beans into the glass. I found a package of Sweet Aftons in the filing cabinet and lit both—the Sambuca and the cigarette—and watched the blue flames and blue smoke.
    I thought of Schuler. I’d have liked to hear him once again tell his tales: why Lieutenant Welker and the Prussian had gotten into an argument, what had been the fate of the young Weller girl after her beloved had met his death, much like Romeo—except that in this case the families were not hostile to each other, but too friendly. I would have liked to have known when Bertram and Stephanie had fallen in love. I blew out the flame and drank. I wished Schuler could have recovered his sense of taste and smell