An inviting smell out here on the landing. At this time of night?
Perhaps it was his neighbour, Frau Gruber. Lately, she had become a little absent-minded. Old age. Now that was a depressing thought, because they were the same age. She was a widow, he a bachelor. On Sundays, Frau Gruber would invite him over for lunch and flirt a little. Maybe she had fallen in love in him. Well, why not?
They were old, but not that old.
Poor Frau Gruber. In all these years, she had not yet realised that no delicious titbit or languid glance would get her anywhere. It was a matter of tribes, Gabriel kept telling himself. There were two tribes: the one that liked women and the one forced into hiding.
Even so, he never declined Frau Gruber’s delicious dishes. She was an outstanding cook.
Once he shut the door behind him, Gabriel forgot all about her. He was tired, dead tired. He needed a shower and a glass of sherry, though maybe not in that order.
You’re getting old, he said to himself when he noticed that he had left the light on in the kitchen.
But it was not old age. It was something worse.
An intruder.
An impeccably dressed intruder with an apron tied around his waist. A man (as handsome as a Hollywood actor, Gabriel couldn’t help thinking) standing there cooking.
Using his kitchen, his stove, his pots and pans.
The breath caught in his chest.
There was a gun on the table. A gun with a bottle-shaped thing fixed to the barrel.
A silencer.
“Good evening, Gabriel. You may have had dinner already, but please don’t be ungracious. Try this and tell me what you think.”
Gabriel stood rooted to the spot, unable to take his eyes off the gun.
The stranger saw where he was looking. “Don’t be afraid. We’re civilised people, it won’t be needed.”
Gabriel started shaking. Not because of the gun, but because of that gentle, melodious voice. This man as handsome as a Hollywood actor was terrifying.
“Who are you? What are you doing in my apartment?”
His voice came out as a squeak that wouldn’t have intimidated a child. It happens when you get old.
“Please sit down, and I’ll explain everything.”
Gabriel felt the impulse to turn and run.
The stranger read his mind. “Don’t,” he said, and smiled.
Gabriel sat down.
“They call me the Trusted Man,” the intruder said. “I have a job to do. Nothing for you to worry about.” He put a pan on the table and removed the lid. “Spaghetti, with a little mountain of butter and forty-month-old Parmesan. A simple dish. I hope you don’t mind, I opened one of your bottles.” He poured the wine and sat down opposite him. “Do eat, please.”
Old age. It was old age, or so Gabriel thought, that made him give in. Old age made you weak, fragile. Every gesture was an effort, every thought reminded him of the frailty of this body he no longer felt was his.
The flesh is weak. And the food was indeed delicious.
“Sharing a meal brings men closer, Gabriel. This is my way of asking you to trust me.”
“For what?”
“Men who are close, friends who are like brothers, don’t need this” – he indicated the gun – “in order to be honest with each other. We’re going to have a short and, I hope, successful conversation. An intimate conversation. I’d like to know if you intend to lie.”
“I don’t even know what . . .”
The Trusted Man poured himself some more wine. “It’s a shame to waste good wine. And it would be a shame to cause you pain. Especially as it would be hard for me to miss from where I’m sitting. I wouldn’t shoot you in the heart or the head, but in the stomach, which they say is extremely painful. Not to mention the fact that, after a meal like this one, surgeons would have a hard time putting things back together. Are you scared?”
Gabriel gave a start. “Shouldn’t I be?”
“Not at all. There are many people who would say that dress-making isn’t an art, but then there are also many people who think Monet was a misfit obsessed with water lilies. In other words, you’re an artist, and I like art. I would never hurt you. As long as I’m not obliged to. Are you going to oblige me to hurt you, or would you prefer a civilised conversation?”
“A . . . a civilised conversation, please,” Gabriel stammered.
“Does that mean you trust me?”
“Partly.”
“An honest answer. Thank you. My job is to find people. I’ll be honest with you: I find them in order to kill them.”
Gabriel turned pale. “Are you planning to—”
“No, not you. Although I do believe our conversation will end with your having a small wound. Not a physical one, naturally. Please, Gabriel, don’t faint. Would you like some water?”
Gabriel nodded, and the Trusted Man brought him a glass from the sink.
“Marlene Wegener née Taufer. Do you know her?”
“Is it her you want to . . .”
“I’ve never in my whole life borne anyone a grudge, believe me. I am a weapon, Gabriel. Just as you are a hand that obeys inspiration. I have nothing against your young friend. Even so, yes, I am going to kill her.”
Gabriel leaped angrily to his feet. “I’ve already told that son of a bitch Wegener that I have no idea where—”
“That’s not the kind of information I’m interested in. I know you haven’t the faintest idea where the lady in question might be, or where’s she headed. Please sit down.”
“I want you out of my apartment!” Gabriel cried.
The Trusted Man looked him straight in the eyes. “Please. Sit. Down.”
Gabriel obeyed. “What is it you want?”
“Information. I’m interested in getting to know Marlene, seeing her through your eyes, understanding her. You’re more than just a colleague to Marlene, aren’t you? Can we use the word ‘mentor’?”
“I would never presume . . .”
From the doctor’s bag he had kept between his feet, the Trusted Man took a pair of steel pliers and put them on the table. Then he grabbed Gabriel’s hand and slammed it down on the wooden surface. With the index finger of his free hand, he counted his phalanges. “Twelve. Plus the thumb. Artists’ hands are precious, don’t you agree? You’re misinterpreting my words. That saddens me, and I apologise. Let me make myself clear. What I’m suggesting is an exchange between equals. I intend to trade your hands or, God forbid, your very life for information. I haven’t lied to you and I won’t lie to you. I need the information you give me to find and kill Marlene. That’ll make you an accomplice to murder. I doubt you’ll call the police when I’m gone, and I wouldn’t advise it, but if you were to do so, I’m certain that any charge against you would immediately be dropped. The information will have been obtained from you under threat of torture and death. Even so . . .”
The Trusted Man let go of Gabriel’s hand and leaned back in his chair.
“We’ve shared a meal and drunk the same wine, so I can assure you that, even if you’re innocent in the eyes of the law, you’ll have a guilty conscience. That’s the wound I was referring to. So what I’m suggesting is not an exchange between information and life, but between information and conscience.”
When the Trusted Man said “conscience,” Gabriel heard “soul.”