The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

Achim was starting to get heated again, his voice louder by the second. Frank tried discreetly to signal the need for restraint. It seemed to him unwise to speak so disparagingly of a Swiss politician in such a public place. Especially with a strong Berlin accent.

“You do know they eventually released him again after the Swiss protested?” Frank said.

“Only after they tortured the shit out of the man!” Achim cried and brought a fist down on the table with a thud that brought questioning glances from the table next to them.

It was plain to Frank that Achim had more than heard about the case: he had made himself familiar with every detail of events in Switzerland these past months.

“You only have to look at their arrogance over the trial of that man who shot Gustloff in Davos. The blatant contempt displayed by the propaganda hounds they unleashed on the Swiss courts. Their self-righteous zeal as they bayed like hungry wolves for the head of a man who had the guts to stand up to them.”

Then he added with a final, ominous flourish: “Don’t you worry, they’ll try that kind of thing as many times as it suits them – and as often as they’re allowed to get away with it.”

Achim’s fervour embarrassed Frank into silence. For the first time in their long relationship, he had made Frank feel like an unworldly, ineffectual simpleton – like an empty shell washed up on the beach, rinsed of all emotion and opinion by the salt water. But Achim seemed unaware of the effect his words were having on his friend. At times he appeared almost to be talking to himself. And his impassioned monologue left Frank wondering why he had initially pretended to be so ignorant of the whole story. But his friend gave him no time to call him out on this contradiction as he added almost without pause: “Come on, let’s pay for this and get moving.”

He gestured to Gertrude that she should see to the two sleeping infants on the bench seat beside her. Then got to his feet, carefully arranging the mysterious rucksack on his shoulders.

“I’ll get it,” said Frank. He pulled the wallet from his pocket, gave the waitress a ten-franc note and opened the inner pouch for the small change.

“What’s this?” asked Achim, reaching down to pick up the lock of strawberry-blonde hair that tumbled out of the wallet. The broad smile that lit up his face was the first sign of cheer that Frank had seen in him since they met. But he hurriedly retrieved the lock of hair and slipped it back into the wallet, ignoring his friend’s amusement.

By the time he had brought Achim and his family to their hotel, it was already late in the afternoon.

“You know, there’s a Kolping house just the other side of the river,” he said as they stood at the entrance to the hotel. “I’m sure you could find lodging there for a time. It’s not only cheaper, but you would also find it a whole lot safer than this place.”

Achim squeezed his friend’s shoulder.

“I’ll look into it,” he said, as much to reassure his wife as Frank. Gertrude gave him what seemed a worried and imploring glare. He squeezed her hand. Then they turned and disappeared into the hotel lobby.

Frank returned to his own hotel room to wash and brush up. The reunion with his old friend had been deeply dissatisfying. And left him feeling more alone than ever. He needed the promise of that evening with Patricia to keep him from dipping below the water that he felt was slowly flooding the life out of him.

So it was a sense of desperation that had him leave his hotel at five-thirty already to head for the Spalenberg and the wine tavern just around the corner. The huge Persil advertisement covering the entire blind wall of the end building stared down at him as he turned the bend. Perhaps a reminder that everything eventually comes out in the wash, he told himself. And smiled at the idea as he entered Lisettli’s wine tavern almost half an hour early. During the next thirty minutes, he marinated his thoughts with half a litre of pinot gris, rendering him certainly too carefree to create a serious impression on her when she turned up.

The tavern was almost empty. In the far corner, an elderly couple sipped coffee together exchanging a few quiet words with each other every now and then. Two tables from them sat a slightly dishevelled old man poring over a newspaper, nursing a cigarette in his mouth and a glass of red wine in his right hand – ready to be raised at any moment. Otherwise, there was nothing to dispel the sense of tired early-evening indifference that filled the space between the empty tables and chairs. Frank took up a strategic position two tables away from the door so that Patricia Roche could not miss him the moment she entered.

He recalled the gentle curvature of her back as it touched the frame of the chair. The way she parted her lips every so often to sweep away the strands of her raven hair. These warm memories coupled with the thoughts provoked by his disturbing reunion with Achim occupied Frank almost to the end of his second half-litre of pinot gris. The elderly couple had by now been replaced by a succession of other guests. Only the old man poring over the newspaper seemed a permanent fixture. When he got up to go, Frank finally shook the wishful alcoholic haze out of his mind and looked reality in the face. He would not be seeing her tonight. But that was no reason to walk out on a dream that was only just beginning. He ordered a last glass of wine.

As the waitress set the glass down in front of him, another customer sat down at the table next to his. Between him and the door. There was