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

the Kolping house, he decided to stop at the nearest kiosk and buy the local newspapers. He’d be sure to find something in the classified ads for apartments or some offers of lodging. On the way, he passed an inconspicuous grocer’s. Outwardly, the premises gave no reason to invite even a passing glance. It was presumably the reflex behaviour of a hunted animal that had him look through the window of the shop as he passed by.

His eyes were instantly greeted by a temptation he was unable to resist. His heart skipped a beat. He caught his breath. A tremor coursed through his body. As he opened the door, the bell above that sounded his entrance rang especially for Frank – and announced not only his excitement, but also the stark warnings of Willi Breitner.

She did not see him as he entered the shop and stood a few short paces behind her. Waiting. He watched while she recited her shopping list to the woman on the counter. A kilogram of Gravensteiner apples, a lettuce, and a camembert cheese. A modest shopping basket. Short and concise. Yet spoken in a voice which came to him like the gentle rippling cascade of a mountain stream and drenched him with the cool bewitching sweetness of its tone.

“That will be three francs seventy, please,” said the woman on the counter, bringing Frank briefly down to earth.

Patricia Roche became very busy in her handbag as the humourless woman made no attempt to conceal her impatience. She kept her waiting hand demonstratively outstretched.

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry, I seem to have left my purse at home.”

The despair and embarrassment in her voice vexed him. But what pained him more was the rudeness of the woman on the counter.

“And what do you expect me to do about it?” she asked. “Give it to you? I’m not a charity, you know.”

“Here,” Frank said, moving up to the counter and putting down four one franc pieces. “Let me help you out.”

When Patricia Roche turned to identify her Samaritan, she looked both shocked and less than pleased. She hesitated. It was plain that she was about to refuse the offer.

“You can pay me back later,” he added in an effort to pre-empt the refusal.

“Er, no. No, thank you,” she said. There was a hint of resentment in her voice. She then turned to the woman on the counter:

“Would you put the items to one side, please? I’ll be back later for them.” With that, she hurried out through the door and did not give Frank so much as a look. He turned back to the woman on the counter.

“I’m sure you will take my money though, won’t you?” he said, pointing to the four francs on the counter.

“What?”

“For the apples, cheese and lettuce,” he added, pointing now to Patricia Roche’s order.

“You can’t have those,” she said, dry and dour as ever, “they’re reserved.”

“In that case,” Frank rejoined, somewhat baffled, “would you please give me a kilogram of Gravensteiner apples, one camembert cheese and a lettuce.”

With a methodical sense of propriety that belied the unreasonable, crotchety impatience of the woman and completely blinded her to the nonsense of the scene, she gathered together the ordered items afresh and handed them to Frank.

“You can put the others back,” he said, and left the woman to her ill humour.

“Sauschwob,” she muttered, as he closed the door behind him. Frank ignored the insult. He had grown used to being called a German pig in this city, where his fatherland was generally held in pretty low regard. And not without reason, he had to admit.

The aim of Willi Breitner’s brutal instruction course the previous week was clear. Yet now, as Frank hurried after the enchanting presence of Patricia Roche, it had lost all value. When he reached the address to which he had followed her that fateful early morning, she was just coming back out onto the street. The closeness of her as they virtually collided – the discreet passing touch of their bodies – rendered him almost speechless. She looked up at him, and he saw a new kind fear in her eyes that was disconcerting. Yet when he held up the groceries he had bought for her, the hint of a capitulating smile flickered across her captivatingly clumsy lips.

“I almost didn’t recognise you in the shop,” she said timidly, “with your rather gruesome makeup.”

“That’s a memento from your friend Breitner.”

The faint spark of concern that showed in the momentary flinch of her eyes made every inch of his suffering worthwhile. So dark, so mysterious – and yet so warm and soothing.

“I’d like you to know,” she said at last, “that Mr Breitner is not my friend. Our association is a purely business arrangement.”

“What sort of business?” he asked.

“I don’t think that’s any concern of yours.”

“And I have bruises that suggest otherwise.”

“Look.” Her voice, so soft and mellow, was beginning to crack with exasperation. “I don’t know what sort of a game you think you’re playing, but you’re not very good at it. And you’re starting to irritate me. Let me pay you for these groceries, and we can go our separate ways.”

Maybe she was right. Whatever he was playing at, he was really not very good. But he was not prepared to throw out this intriguing potion before he had drunk from the cup and tasted the poisoned nectar for himself.

“You know, I took a good deal of beating and humiliation for you. I thought it was because you were Breitner’s girl. Now you tell me it’s business. So it seems to me the least you could do is tell me what the business is I took that beating for.”

She said nothing. But the anxious movement in her eyes told him she was hard at work choosing the right words. Until he added:

“You could tell me all about it over lunch.”

To his surprise, the movement in her sparkling eyes became quite still. She hesitated – with a gentle smile that made his heart