The Bone Man Read online

  But as old man Löschenkohl held the door open to Brenner’s room in the staff’s quarters above the restaurant, believe it or not, Brenner was struck by the exact same bestial stench. Maybe it’d been the musty socks and sweaty waiter’s shirts back in Hallein, and less so the decomposing, Brenner thought, and threw open the window.

  As he craned his neck out the window, he heard a squealing sound like a cement mixer, so loud that he whipped right back around and said to old man Löschenkohl: “That walk-in freezer of yours makes quite a racket.”

  “The freezer’s on the other side of the house, in the addition. The most state-of-the-art walk-in freezer in all of Styria. Million-dollar investment. The interest on it just about eats me up. But you won’t hear a peep out of it, because the whole thing’s a computer, amazing.”

  Brenner didn’t say anything to this, which made it all the easier to hear the squealing.

  “What you’re hearing is the bone-grinder. You’re apt to hear it a bit. But what’s worse are the birds in the morning.”

  “I believe it.”

  “Now that it’s spring they’re making an awful racket. That’s something I can’t do anything about. But if you’ll be needing anything else,” Löschenkohl said.

  “No, I don’t need anything.”

  Brenner was glad when the old man finally disappeared. He positioned himself at the window and took a moment to think in peace. He had two options. Either window closed and the stench. Or window open and the piercing squeal of the bone-grinder.

  Or a third possibility, of course—up and out of there.

  These days, though, if you want to skip out, you’ve got to do it right away. On the spot immediately. Because habit is a dog, and the next day something will come up, and the day after that you’ve already gotten a little used to it. And Brenner knew all about that. But the chicken had settled so heavily in his stomach that he decided: I’ll take a walk to digest. And, of course, the walk calmed him right back down.

  Maybe it was the warmth of the springtime sun, or maybe the idyllic country road, where a car would only drive by every five minutes. Or maybe it was just the green hills, because green’s supposed to soothe the nerves, or so it’s said. Maybe in the precincts where the police have green uniforms, the officers are less aggressive than in the places where they have other uniforms. And the people are more peaceable when they have green police officers. Whether the police suffer less abuse, you see—now, that’d be interesting.

  Brenner couldn’t have cared less. He hadn’t worn a uniform in fifteen years. And it’d been a year since he’d even been a cop at all. So, he’s walking through the Styrian vineyards now and thinking to himself: here’s a place where you can really walk, and what would be the harm if I were to stay a few days.

  It wasn’t quite as isolated as it had first seemed. Because he’d been hearing some kind of din for the longest time now. At first he thought: imagination. Because it sounded almost like there was a soccer stadium just beyond the hills of the vineyard, like a hurricane of thousands of sports fans. And what can I say, beyond the hills there truly was a soccer stadium, and indeed, a few thousand spectators on wooden bleachers—so many that you might think they’d collapse any second now, and the entire town of Klöch, wiped out in an instant.

  It was only when Brenner read the poster by the ticket stand that he understood how a team from a backwater like Klöch could have so many fans.

  Because, needless to say, a Cup’s a Cup. And the team from Klöch had drawn a Division II team from Oberwart—and Klöch usually plays five classes lower. So the Cup’s the big chance for the little ones, every minor-league team believes it—today we’re going to toss Goliath right out of that Cup. Practically biblical wrath.

  Now, these games tend to be a little on the brutal side, of course. Because when the little ones catch a whiff of a chance, well, no telling what they’ll do. This applies not just to soccer. It’s often true for small countries, too, that they enjoy getting a little bloodthirsty if the opportunity’s convenient. Now, I don’t mean Austrians specifically—more of a general consideration.

  And the Klöch soccer field was a bit of a madhouse now, because, right before the end of the game—and just as Brenner got there—still zero to zero. Two, three Klöch players were lying on the grass with leg cramps because—way out of their league, of course. Up, up and the game’s back on! And the stars of the Oberwart team, one shot after another at Klöch’s goal. But the goalkeeper—you wouldn’t believe it. I’ll just say: magician. And even that’s an understatement.

  Then, a foul called on a Klöch defender—and you could just hear the bones cracking. When the referee suspended the Klöch defender, the crowd was about ready to hang the ref. But police on the ground—thank god, you’ve got to admit—and the dog handlers were immediately deployed. The crowd was scared shitless by the sight of the German shepherds—and so the referee wouldn’t be hanged after all.

  After the extra time, the score still stood at zero to zero. So, needless to say, penalty kicks. The Oberwart team had a former striker from the national team playing for them, so he took the first penalty kick, of course. Right at the crossbar. Doesn’t get more beautiful than that. But Klöch’s goalkeeper—even more beautiful—he swatted the ball right out.

  Why should I draw it out? The Klöch underdogs converted every penalty kick and threw Oberwart out of the Cup. Needless to say, a euphoria like that is infectious. And so it was that Brenner found himself in a completely different mood on the way home than he’d been on the way there. And you’d like to think that a person digests better under euphoric conditions. But when he arrived back at Löschenkohl’s around seven, the chicken was still lodged in Brenner’s stomach and he didn’t have an appetite.

  Nevertheless, Brenner went into the bar. Not because he wanted something to eat but because he thought, it’s about time I met the manager. On the phone yesterday she’d been in such a hurry—she’d nearly started crying before Brenner promised her he’d come. And now she was making herself scarce. But that’s how managers are, Brenner thought, it’s the same the world over.

  It was peak business in the dining room just now—Friday night, a dreadful horde of people dining out. I don’t want to bother the manager if she’s working, Brenner thought, and he took a seat at a table with a few drunken soccer fans because there was nowhere else to sit.

  “Fried chicken?”

  It was the same waitress as earlier that afternoon. She recognized Brenner right away and took his order ahead of the others who’d been waiting much longer.

  “No, thanks,” Brenner said.

  “Or a pork knuckle? We’ve got good pork knuckles.”

  “For god’s sake, no.”

  “Or spare ribs with french fries?”

  “Just a beer,” Brenner said, and he must have looked pitiful because the waitress gave him an encouraging look and then brought him his beer right away—before she even took the others’ orders. She was wearing a red leather skirt, tight as a sausage casing. But, the epitome of friendliness, Brenner thought, and downed half his beer on the spot.

  By about nine, business had slowed down, and as the waitress placed his third beer in front of him, Brenner asked her, “Is the manager around?”

  “I haven’t seen the manager at all today.”

  “When does she come in, then?”

  “She must’ve already been in.”

  But the manager didn’t show up after his third beer, either, so he ended up eating a schnitzel. No appetite at all, but Brenner’s the kind of person who can’t go to sleep unless he’s had dinner. Sheer force of habit, but that’s people for you. For every person who can’t sleep on a full stomach, there’s another who can’t sleep unless it’s on a full stomach.

  So, down the hatch with the schnitzel, and another beer, too, and by ten Brenner was already back upstairs in the staff’s quarters, lying in his bed. Or maybe hammock would be a better word for it. But he was so tired now that nothin
g could’ve disturbed him, not even the incessant squeal of the bone-grinder.

  And let’s be honest, people make an unbelievable fuss about sleep these days. It’s got to be the best bed, everything organic, and absolute quiet, of course—the room gone through with a divining rod to see that the plumbing’s rerouted wholesale—just because people need to park their asses somewhere. Needless to say, no one could’ve dreamed of how soundly Brenner was sleeping tonight, what with half the Grill in his stomach.

  But the deeper you sleep, the harder it is to wake up. That’s the other side to this story.

  When the waitress cleared Brenner’s breakfast dishes the next morning, he had drunk his black coffee, but the rest he’d left. Butter and jam, all sealed up in their plastic capsules like you get everywhere today—might as well be landing on the moon. But it wasn’t the shrink-wrapped portions that bothered Brenner. No, he was just a grouch in the morning—the very model of one, in fact.

  The waitress, on the other hand, radiated an unusual cheerfulness: “Didn’t touch anything, eh? Would you have preferred cheese?”

  “No, no, it’s fine.”

  “Or cold cuts?

  “Cold cuts?”

  “Assorted sliced meats.”

  Brenner knew what cold cuts were, of course. But the very word reminded him of the bones, i.e. the whole story of why he was sitting here at all, and grumpily, he asked the waitress: “What’s with the manager?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what’s with the manager’?”

  “Where is she?”

  “The manager? She hasn’t come in yet.” The waitress smiled and tiptoed back to the kitchen with the breakfast dishes.

  It would’ve been fine by Brenner to just read the newspaper in peace. Because it’s always interesting to read the local news when you’re in a new place—because you get to read about problems that don’t concern you at all. And to be perfectly frank, there’s nothing more relaxing than that. Klöch’s victory in the Cup took up half the paper. And on the front page, a photo of the goalkeeper being paraded like royalty around the field. More than 3,500 spectators had been in attendance—and that’s in a town of only a thousand inhabitants.

  There wasn’t much else interesting in the paper, so Brenner was deliberating: should I do the crossword puzzle now? Because that had been a habit ever since his days as a traffic cop. A cop was often happy to work the night shift if it meant he could do the crossword.

  But it’s not without its perils, either, doing a crossword like that. A colleague of Brenner’s got caught once after he’d completed an entire crossword puzzle book in one night. Not what you’re thinking, though, he was just that good at crosswords. No, he’d written the same word over and over again. Namely: “depressed.” What with the horizontal and vertical lines, though, it didn’t always work out so well. Needless to say, early retirement at thirty-two. But, you see, you’d like to think the kind of danger that a cop has to face involves a shot getting fired or a car chase. You forget about the crossword, though.

  Now, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that Brenner was an intuitive person. At work, he’d often wished he was: gut-feeling, and voilà, your perpetrator. But that wasn’t one of his talents. Just like he wasn’t particularly musical. Not especially gifted with languages, either. And even less so with math. He instinctively had no outstanding talent. If it’s true, why shouldn’t a man admit it? But, for once, his instincts were telling him something, and he did not solve the crossword.

  Instead, he just watched the waitress roll the silverware into napkins and marveled at how anyone could be so cheerful at this hour of the morning. And men are all a little, you know, with things like this—let’s be perfectly honest here. And so, naturally Brenner was thinking: the waitress must’ve found herself a good lover to be that cheerful.

  One thing you can’t forget, though. The waitress’s room was immediately adjacent to Brenner’s, and only some thin wood paneling in between. Because it used to be the attic, but at some point, they decided to spare every expense in dividing it up into lodging for their employees. Now, Brenner had slept so deeply through the night that he hadn’t been woken up just before midnight by the waitress’s lusty cries. But even asleep, you still hear it somehow. Unconsciously. And personally, I think that’s why the lover occurred to him while he watched her bundle the silverware into the napkins.

  Interesting, though! These days, if you watch a cheerful person, you’ll feel cheerful, too. Well, maybe not cheerful, exactly, but all the same—Brenner was thinking to himself now: who knows, maybe it’s a good thing that the manager isn’t here yet. I’ll just take a look at the bone-grinder in the basement and have a little chat with the Yugo.

  That Brenner would go down to the basement: not exactly remarkable. Because the bathrooms were also in the basement—enormous facilities, like at an airport. Because so much gets eaten there that, of course, you need a complementary latrine. And I’ve got to say, everything at Löschenkohl’s: tiptop.

  He bypassed the airport bathrooms and followed the squeal of the bone-grinder. It was an endless corridor, and the squealing grew steadily louder. And then he came upon a door. And when he opened the door—my dear swan! Brenner’s morning coffee nearly came back up.

  His first glimpse of the Yugo was a wide shot from behind. He was standing up to his hips in a pile of bones, feeding them into a machine that was nearly as long as all fifteen stalls in the men’s bathroom. And the sheer smell of it. If you can imagine adding up all fifteen men’s toilets here, too.

  But the Yugo must have felt a draft from the door being opened. And as the Yugo turned around, wringing a couple of chicken carcasses in hands the size of dinner plates, Brenner instantly recognized him as the hero of the penalty shootout.

  “You were in tremendous form yesterday,” Brenner said. Because he was of the opinion that if you don’t speak formal German with foreigners, they’ll never learn the language.

  “Sorry?”

  “Yesterday. Tremendous form!”

  “Sorry, my German. Sorry.”

  “Congratulations! Oberwart, no goal, you!” Brenner said, and you see how quickly a good intention can crumble. Sometimes, though, success gets stamped: RETURN TO SENDER.

  “Oberwart, no goal,” a grin spread across the Yugo’s entire face. And Brenner noticed that the goalie had false teeth, a complete set of dentures. Because a goalie of this caliber lives dangerously, of course.

  “Newspaper write: ‘Hero of Klöch,’ ” Brenner said.

  “No hero, no.”

  “But newspaper! Write!”

  Another broad grin for the goalie now. His dentures were perched so loosely on his gums that they slipped whenever he smiled. And you could actually see the gap between his real gums and the fake gums. I’m not saying another word to make this goalie grin, Brenner thought. But what are you going to do. The Yugo goalie was still so happy about the Cup victory and—without Brenner even saying a word—a grin spanned his entire face again. He said: “Oberwart, no goal, extra time, no goal, penalty shootout—”

  “Hero, penalty shootout, you!”

  And of course, a grin—and not a smudge of Fixodent in sight: “Three shots, I bang Oberwart!”

  That’s people for you. Instead of speaking correctly with foreigners, they teach them the dirtiest words.

  Brenner took a few steps closer to the goalie, and although he’d been careful not to step on any bones, something cracked beneath his left foot.

  “You, promotion, next round!”

  “Five thousand money bonus,” the goalie smiled.

  “Millionaire, you! Soon!”

  “Before, ten years, I millionaire. Division One, Yugoslav. Big car, but the money, all—”

  “Banged, I know—”

  “No banged! Build house. Beautiful house. Almost the finish. But goalie, all the time the danger. Striker, brutal pig. Shoot my head, not the ball. I break everything, my head, it breaks. Three month I sleep. All fixed, silver plate.
No more Division One. I play Klöch. Klöch good. Two thousand money paycheck. Send money home, more I build house. Soon I fourteen years old.”

  “Forty.”

  “Ja, forty, no fourteen. Forty! Soon, no more I play Klöch. Then shit. But I go, still. Still!”

  “Oberwart, no goal, still!”

  “Still! Five thousand money bonus, I send home.”

  “You hero.”

  “No hero,” Brenner heard him say, followed by that terrible squeal of the bone grinder as the Yugo finally stuffed the chicken carcass into it.

  Brenner was reminded of the 3,500 spectators yesterday, and how even the ones seated the farthest back could still hear Oberwart’s bones cracking. Only now it sounded reversed. So, if you were to picture yourself as the striker standing there on the grass, and suddenly you heard the bones of all 3,500 spectators breaking at once—it sounded roughly like that. Not very pleasant, I have to say.

  Brenner was quick to disappear now, because first of all, the excruciating noise, and second, he wanted to finally talk with the manager. He thought to himself, what am I doing snooping around those chicken bones when I don’t even have a real contract yet.

  But when he went back upstairs, the manager still wasn’t there. It took all of a second for this to get under Brenner’s collar. And to be honest, I can understand why. Someone calls you, beckons you here, and when you do come, she’s not here.

  He went up to his room, and two minutes later his things were packed. Because that’s how it is sometimes with the good-natured sort: once they get angry, there’s no turning back.

  It wouldn’t have been Brenner, though, if something didn’t get in the way. As he was standing outside in the parking lot, he thought to himself, old man Löschenkohl, there’s an upstanding old man for you, he’s been punished enough, and I’ll just go and quickly say goodbye to him now.

  He noticed that only one car was parked in front of the entrance to the restaurant, a silver trophy car—because before noon, nothing going on, of course. And as Brenner went walking back inside, he heard a loud cry coming from the dining room, and when he opened the door to the dining room, he saw the waitress and old man Löschenkohl and a man he didn’t recognize but who definitely didn’t look like a Porsche driver. Now, you’re going to say, what’s a Porsche driver supposed to look like, then? Anyway, not like Löschenkohl’s son.