In Free Fall(70)

The laugh comes down the line again.

“To ask how you are.”

This is not an unusual request, but it surprises Schilf. Julia is ten years older than Rita Skura, but to him she stands just as clearly on the other side of the divide between young and old as Rita does. She is part of a new informal generation, a generation that treats everyone like a good friend. With someone uncomplicated like her, Schilf, with his respect for the infinite complexity of things, can relax and feel like a relic from a bygone age. A person like Julia, who can barge her way into a stranger’s life with the words “Don’t have a job, don’t have any family, and I don’t like the benefit reforms,” is perfectly capable of ringing just to ask how he is.

“Good,” Schilf says, which is true and false at the same time, and therefore needs elaboration. “I’ve found the murderer. Now I’ve got to protect him from the police.”

“I thought you worked for the police.”

“That doesn’t make things any easier.”

“Have you fallen in love with the murderer?”

Now it is Schilf’s turn to laugh. He wishes he could see life through Julia’s eyes, just for once. It must be like a building with a very straightforward design. Not your everyday detached house—that would be too boring; but perhaps a circus tent with an entrance, an exit, benches to sit on, and a roof. The detective can practically smell the sweet scent of the sawdust.

“Not exactly,” Schilf says. “For me, the murderer is a great man, the kind of person we owe something to. I owe him a thorough investigation of this case. Anything else would destroy him.”

“But it’s your job to destroy the lives of murderers.”

“There are subtle differences.”

“The good policeman saves the poor criminal! Sounds romantic.”

The length of the telephone cable and the size of the apartment allow Schilf to reach the balcony door. The balcony is so small that there is barely room to stand. People only ever want to save themselves, the detective thinks. The difference lies in what they want to save themselves from.

“I would do everything I can to help this man,” Schilf says, “whether you believe it or not.”

“I believe you,” Julia says tenderly. She has interpreted his long silence correctly. “I believe everything you tell me. I have to, for structural reasons.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you understand?”

“No.”

“I love you.”

The detective shakes his head involuntarily. There it is again, the notion that his life is completely out of control. The distant throbbing of a headache announces itself. Schilf suddenly thinks about Maike and realizes at the same time that he has skipped lunch and slept through dinner. He lights a cigarillo and inhales. The nicotine sets free a couple of endorphins somewhere in his body—he feels a slight dizziness and a gentle release. That’s what dying must be like, smoking a cigarillo on an empty stomach.

“So you’ll be staying a few more days,” Julia says.

“Looks like it.”

“Great. I’ll come to visit.”

“I’m not free tomorrow,” the detective says quickly. “I have to do something.”

“The day after tomorrow, then.”

A group of young people are walking in the street below, and their voices carry up to Schilf. Young men, rendered soft and bloated by the love of their mothers, and young women who have made up their eyelashes like spiders’ legs. They slap each other’s backs, tug each other along, lean over parked cars, staring into the dark interior. They seem aimless, incidental, a mere episode in history. At the sight of them, Schilf finds it hard to believe what human beings can achieve on this earth when they join forces. The females are still wearing shoes that are impossible to walk in.

“What would you say,” he asks his girlfriend, “if I had to go on a journey sometime soon? On my own?”

“Schilf,” Julia says, with an earnestness that takes the detective by surprise, “you haven’t asked me about my past. I won’t ask about your future. That’s what they call a deal.”

“OK,” Schilf says, using a word he detests, but which suits her “deal.” Perhaps life would be a circus tent, thinks the detective, if people had the right concepts. Concepts like rubber gloves, so you could touch things without getting your hands dirty. Julia has a lot of such concepts.

“OK,” he says again. “See you the day after tomorrow, then.”

They send kisses through their telephones, but Schilf purses his lips clumsily and makes smacking noises that are far too loud. He puts the receiver down on the windowsill and finishes smoking his cigarillo. The monotonous beep of the busy signal blends with the darkness. His inner observer has not said a word during the entire conversation with Julia. A wave of exhaustion that the detective cannot explain sweeps over him, and he decides to go back to bed.