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

but every bit as sensuous with the sulphurous hint of an active volcano at rest – simply offered Frank her hand and a look that left him with an oddly disquieting thrill of expectation.

The role of Helga and Maria was, as Breitner put it, to provide the “right company” for their lunch. So Frank was not anticipating any contribution to the conversation from this company. And he received none. Conversation in fact proved a misnomer, monopolised as it was by the host. As to be expected from a Willi Breitner, he talked incessantly about himself with a nauseating and entirely unconvincing smugness. He gave Frank the impression of trying to conceal some deep sense of inadequacy by painting a picture of rampant virility and a towering career of achievement. He even claimed acquaintance with his Führer during his teenage years, talked with a chilling nostalgia of his days at school in the Upper Austrian steel town of Steyr – of how he and Adolf would often come out of school at lunchtime on a Saturday, head straight over the bridge to the town square and spend the rest of the afternoon in cafes or bars, drinking the cares of the week away; and as the evening wore on, how they would sometimes take a boat out into the gentle current of the Enns and spend the remaining hours of night-time on the river in communion with nature, a supply of bread and dripping, and a bottle of apricot brandy. It was not uncommon, he said, for one or both of them to be found next morning littering the riverbank or the side of a road leading into town.

It was impossible to say how much truth there was in the stories, but the picture of adolescent depravity that Breitner painted matched the image Frank had of the country’s saviour and leader. It was still a complete mystery to him how an entire nation of people, from gardeners to bankers, could give itself with such enthusiasm to a man whose political skills appeared to consist in little more than loud-mouthed lies, self-aggrandisement and bigoted scapegoating. A man who came to power on a wave of intemperate, mendacious bullying and sustained his grip on their worship by systematically isolating the scapegoats and brutally eliminating any rivals. Yet still they adored him. Willi Breitner was no exception and showed every sign of being a model disciple.

Throughout the monologue, both Helga and Maria excelled in their roles as supernumeraries. Maria would contribute appreciative laughter every so often, while Helga cast occasional glances in the direction of Frank with a seductive power that was reinforced all the more by a contrived veneer of shyness.

As lunch drew to a close and they sat over coffee, Breitner suddenly – with a crass non sequitur that suggested it was as carefully planned as the lunch itself – swung the talk away from himself and on to Frank.

“What is your connection to Zimmermann Joachim?”

Frank was initially perplexed by the question, unsure who his host was referring to. He never thought of Achim in terms of his surname. And he could not recall anyone having ever used his given name in all its fullness.

“He’s in the art business, I understand,” Breitner said. “Are you in the art business?”

“He’s an old friend. And he’s a stage designer, if that’s what you mean.”

“Really?” The trace of a leery, dismissive smile spread across Breitner’s lips as he studiously wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin, folded it up very deliberately and set it down with careful precision beside his coffee cup.

“And you have no idea what your friend has done with Lola?” he asked. His voice loitered over the words ‘no idea’ as if gazing on them in disbelief.

“Who the hell is Lola?”

Frank had never heard the name before. Certainly not among any of the circles Achim moved in.

Breitner watched Frank with an inscrutable smile on his face. And said nothing. He was enjoying the discomfort of his guest, the sight of him shifting nervously in his chair. He was sizing him up. Gauging his resistance.

“No matter,” Breitner said, when he eventually broke the anxious silence. “We can discuss it some other time.”

He reached for the brandy, poured two glasses and passed one to Frank.

“You know what I fail to understand about you people?” he continued, with an undisguised trace of meanness in his voice as he pushed the glass across the table. “It’s the way you gather like ants in this particular corner of the Earth. Do you honestly imagine that the arm of the Third Reich is so short? We showed only recently just how easy it is to reach across the border and bring traitors and enemies of the people back to face justice.”

“You’re referring to the Berthold Jacob story,” Frank said, recalling the conversation with Achim some days before. Breitner beamed a self-satisfied smile in reply.

“So, what sort of person do you think I am?” Frank asked. “Quite frankly, I’ve never seen myself as the enemy of anyone.”

In reply, Breitner simply rose from his chair, the smile on his face now worn thin, and moved around the table to the buffet. His voice betrayed a threatening edge of irritation as he spoke:

“Come here,” was all he said. It was sufficient. Frank complied and joined him beside the large Jugendstil sideboard with its beautifully bevelled mirror. He was feeling tense with anticipation of Breitner’s next move. Close up, the features of his puffy face betrayed all the signs of dissolution Frank would expect in such a person. The lips pencil-thin. The lupine eyes a heartless stare. Frank almost had the sense that Breitner was reading his thoughts. He stepped back a little, as if to break any subliminal contact.

“I never trust people who insist they are speaking ‘quite frankly’,” Breitner declared.

Frank began to sense that Willi Breitner was getting down to business.

“Take a look in the mirror.”

Frank turned to look at the mirror and saw Breitner’s narrow lupine eyes