be noticed by the artists. Was she one of them? Someone who hung around in the shadows of the artists to be a part of their lives? To make the boredom of their own lives easier to bear?
“No,” Port said pensively. “No, she wasn’t one of those. On the contrary. She was someone who demanded attention.”
“How?”
“Hard to say. She had something . . . ambivalent about her, and she was pretty good-looking. Somehow . . . independent. Radiating freedom, as cheesy as it sounds. But lonely, always a little sad, and that’s a pretty irresistible combination.”
He laughed and bit into one of the croissants Franza had hurriedly picked up at a bakery.
Yes, she thought, I can imagine. Irresistible combination. For you, too?
She knitted her eyebrows and caught her thoughts drifting, imagining the girl and Port together. At disturbing places, doing disturbing things. Drinking tea, among other things.
“What did you say?”
He laughed and dipped the croissant into the jam. “Hey, what are you thinking about?” He leaned closer, and she could smell jungle, freshness, him.
“Here,” he said, “tastes good,” and stuffed the pastry in her mouth. The jam smeared all over her mouth, dripped, and she tasted apricot on croissant, followed by Port’s tongue. She swallowed, choked, and had to cough. He laughed quietly and said, “You made a mess, Frau Inspector!” but didn’t let go of her.
Shit, she thought. What’s going on here? What am I getting myself into?
“So,” Port said finally, leaning back. “The girl. I got talking to her once. She’d seen me onstage. She hated the production, but not me.” He smiled mischievously.
Franza nodded. Yes, she thought, I can imagine . She put the teacup back on the table. When I leave, she thought, I’ll go buy a coffeemaker.
Port was still grinning with the memory of his pampered vanity and stayed quiet for a while. Franza let him be. She knew from experience that it was better not to interrupt people when they paused, lost in memories. She knew he would continue soon. And so he did, after clearing his throat.
“During our conversation it became clear that she’d seen every single production of ours over the last year. She knew the parts and the plays well. She knew all about us actors, about the directors, the producers and—the most impressive part—she knew how to gauge us all very accurately. She had an eye for people and things.”
I believe that, Franza thought, but at once sensed her own pettiness and felt bad, very bad. She’s dead, for God’s sake. Put things back into perspective, you idiot!
“Did she have money?” she asked. “I mean, so many shows. That can’t be cheap.”
“Standing room. Dirt cheap. But of course you wouldn’t know that.”
He grinned and reached for her. She nodded. “Yes,” she said pointedly, “I know. You want to be admired.” He grinned.
“What else do you know about her?” she asked, taking refuge in her job.
He thought for a while and shook his head slowly. “Nothing, I’m afraid.”
“What did she do for work? A fellow actor, maybe? Since she knew so much about theater.”
“No. I don’t think so. Even though she was obsessed with theater, it wasn’t her line of work. I would’ve known.”
“Did she come alone?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t watching her all the time, after all. She was just a regular, not a complete stranger. You know what it’s like, someone walks past you every now and again and at some point you give each other a nod, sometimes you exchange a few words, but that’s all.”
“And you’re sure you can’t remember her name?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t really have anything to do with her. I’m not even sure I ever knew her name. So many people give you their names, and they all expect you to remember. Do you know how exhausting that is?”
“Think anyway!”
He narrowed his eyes a little and sipped his tea, which had now become cold. “No, I’m
“No,” Port said pensively. “No, she wasn’t one of those. On the contrary. She was someone who demanded attention.”
“How?”
“Hard to say. She had something . . . ambivalent about her, and she was pretty good-looking. Somehow . . . independent. Radiating freedom, as cheesy as it sounds. But lonely, always a little sad, and that’s a pretty irresistible combination.”
He laughed and bit into one of the croissants Franza had hurriedly picked up at a bakery.
Yes, she thought, I can imagine. Irresistible combination. For you, too?
She knitted her eyebrows and caught her thoughts drifting, imagining the girl and Port together. At disturbing places, doing disturbing things. Drinking tea, among other things.
“What did you say?”
He laughed and dipped the croissant into the jam. “Hey, what are you thinking about?” He leaned closer, and she could smell jungle, freshness, him.
“Here,” he said, “tastes good,” and stuffed the pastry in her mouth. The jam smeared all over her mouth, dripped, and she tasted apricot on croissant, followed by Port’s tongue. She swallowed, choked, and had to cough. He laughed quietly and said, “You made a mess, Frau Inspector!” but didn’t let go of her.
Shit, she thought. What’s going on here? What am I getting myself into?
“So,” Port said finally, leaning back. “The girl. I got talking to her once. She’d seen me onstage. She hated the production, but not me.” He smiled mischievously.
Franza nodded. Yes, she thought, I can imagine . She put the teacup back on the table. When I leave, she thought, I’ll go buy a coffeemaker.
Port was still grinning with the memory of his pampered vanity and stayed quiet for a while. Franza let him be. She knew from experience that it was better not to interrupt people when they paused, lost in memories. She knew he would continue soon. And so he did, after clearing his throat.
“During our conversation it became clear that she’d seen every single production of ours over the last year. She knew the parts and the plays well. She knew all about us actors, about the directors, the producers and—the most impressive part—she knew how to gauge us all very accurately. She had an eye for people and things.”
I believe that, Franza thought, but at once sensed her own pettiness and felt bad, very bad. She’s dead, for God’s sake. Put things back into perspective, you idiot!
“Did she have money?” she asked. “I mean, so many shows. That can’t be cheap.”
“Standing room. Dirt cheap. But of course you wouldn’t know that.”
He grinned and reached for her. She nodded. “Yes,” she said pointedly, “I know. You want to be admired.” He grinned.
“What else do you know about her?” she asked, taking refuge in her job.
He thought for a while and shook his head slowly. “Nothing, I’m afraid.”
“What did she do for work? A fellow actor, maybe? Since she knew so much about theater.”
“No. I don’t think so. Even though she was obsessed with theater, it wasn’t her line of work. I would’ve known.”
“Did she come alone?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t watching her all the time, after all. She was just a regular, not a complete stranger. You know what it’s like, someone walks past you every now and again and at some point you give each other a nod, sometimes you exchange a few words, but that’s all.”
“And you’re sure you can’t remember her name?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t really have anything to do with her. I’m not even sure I ever knew her name. So many people give you their names, and they all expect you to remember. Do you know how exhausting that is?”
“Think anyway!”
He narrowed his eyes a little and sipped his tea, which had now become cold. “No, I’m
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