Self's Murder by Bernhard Schlink Page A

needless to say, of no interest to my client. But what was his interest? And why had he hired me for a case that surely could not be of interest to him?
    The message on my answering machine sounded as if Welker had read my mind. “Hello, Herr Self. Can you drop by tomorrow? I haven’t heard from you in a while and would like an update. As things stand, time’s not on our side, and …” He covered the mouthpiece and there was a sound on the line like in the shell from the Timmendorf beach in which my mother had me listen to the sea when I was a little boy. In between I heard mumbled words that I couldn’t make out. Then Samarin came on the line: “We know that Herr Schuler came to see you, and that he left some money with you. You must help us see to it that his reputation isn’t ruined by this one foolish act. The money belongs back in the bank. Come by tomorrow at three.”
    I was tired of the game Welker and Samarin were playing. I didn’t call either of them. I decided to call Georg the following day in Strasbourg to see what he’d come up with. I also decided to call Nägelsbach on his last day at police headquarters. I had forgotten that I had been shadowed by a Fiesta.
     
     
     

— 14 —
     
Not empty-handed
     
     
    B ut the driver of the Fiesta had not forgotten me. At eight thirty the following morning he was at my front door, ringing the bell. He rang many times. Later he explained to me that he had been quite considerate; he had kept ringing even though he could have easily gotten the door open. The lock was a joke.
    When I opened, he stood there skulking like a salesman, his face both defiant and dispirited. He looked to be about fifty, not too tall and not too short, not fat and not thin, his cheeks covered in spider veins and his hair sparse. He was wearing pants of some dark synthetic fabric, light gray loafers, a light blue shirt with dark blue edging on the pocket, and an open parka. His parka was the same beige color as his car.
    “So it was you,” I said.
    “Me?”
    “Who was shadowing me yesterday.”
    He nodded. “That maneuver of yours near Schwetzingen wasn’t bad, but I knew where you were heading. You went off the autobahn just like that? Over the shoulder and onto a dirt road?” He spoke with magnanimous amiability. “What about the blue Mercedes? Did it follow you onto the dirt road?”
    I didn’t want to let on that I had no idea what he was talking about, but he saw that right away.
    “Are you telling me you didn’t notice him? As for me, you only noticed yesterday.”
    “I’d be happy enough not to notice you today, either. What do you want?”
    He looked hurt. “Why are you talking to me like that? I didn’t do anything to you. I just wanted—”
    “Well?”
    “You are … I am …”
    I waited.
    “You are my father.”
    I’m not the fastest person and never have been, and with the passing years I haven’t gotten any faster. More often than not my emotions are slow to react, and I might notice only at noon that someone had offended me in the morning, or I might realize in the evening that someone had said something nice to me at lunch that would have pleased me. I don’t have a son. And yet I didn’t burst out laughing or slam the door in his face, but invited him into my living room and had him sit on one sofa while I sat on the other.
    “You don’t believe me?” he said, and then nodded. “I see you don’t believe me. We don’t even exist for you.”
    “We? How many more children do I have?”
    “There’s no need to make fun of me.” He told me that he had seen his file after the fall of the Berlin Wall and had discovered that he had been adopted, and that his real mother was Klara Self from Berlin.
    “What file was this?”
    “My cadre file.”
    “Cadre …?”
    “I worked for the Stasi—the East German secret services—and am proud of it. I investigated serious crimes, and I’ll have you know that our total of solved cases was higher than