Read Online Broken Glass Park by Alina Bronsky - Free Book Online Page B

Mahler and my co-worker who ran the piece an earful. That’s why she was a bit nervous when you honored us with your unannounced visit. I had told Ms. Mahler that, as a result of her little ditty, for the first time in my career I hoped our paper wasn’t being read and that the family of the victims never came across it. My wish was not answered. I ask for your forgiveness from the bottom of my heart.”
    He sticks the rest of the cookie in his mouth and smiles at me. It’s a crooked smile because his left cheek is bulging out.
    “I’m so sorry,” he says suddenly with his mouth full. “I followed the news about the case two years ago. And not just for professional reasons. It created a sense of shock and dismay in me that exceeded anything I had experienced in the course of my work in years. I’m very sorry.”
    I nod.
    Then we’re both silent for a while. I listen as he chews up the cookie and swallows it. Then he pours himself a cup of coffee and reaches for the cream.
    “What can I do for you, Sascha?” he says as he does. “You can dismiss that as an empty offer, but I would actually be willing to do a lot to try to ease things for you. Do you have any ideas about how I could do that?”
    I try to think. Not that I expect to come up with something, but I want to be able to answer in a way that doesn’t sound stupid for once. My best moments so far have been silent ones.
    A white rectangle with letters on it pops into my field of vision. I put out my hand. The rectangle is put into the palm of my hand.
    You are capable of reading, Ms. Naimann, I think to myself. You taught yourself how to read when you were four. And ever since you’ve read everything you could get your hands on.
    So read it.
    I read: Volker Trebur, Editor, City Section. There’s an address, telephone number, email, private address, and phone number.
    I look at him quizzically.
    “Call me when you think of something I can do,” he says. “Hang on, my mobile number’s not on there.” He pulls a pen out of his chest pocket, takes the white rectangle from my hand, writes a row of numbers on it, and puts the card back in my hand. “It would be an honor,” he says flatly.
    I try to shove the business card into my pants pocket. But when I stand up to do that, I drop it on the floor. I bend over to pick it up and crumple it in my fist.
    “Is it a deal?”
    “What? I’m sorry?”
    “You’ll come up with something?”
    “I don’t know if I’ll think of anything,” I mumble. “I’m not very creative.”
    “I don’t believe that.”
    “Then don’t.” I pull my backpack onto my shoulders. The man stands up quickly.
    “Thanks for letting me in,” I say. “It’s nice to be taken seriously. I’m off.”
    “I’ll take you down,” he says and opens the door for me. We ride the elevator silently. The card wriggles in my hand like a captured butterfly. Maybe it just feels that way because my hand is shaking.
    At the glass door I turn to him. I’m expecting to have to shake hands goodbye. I don’t like shaking hands and don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.
    But he doesn’t try to shake my hand. He puts his hand on my shoulder and says “Good day.”
    “Good day,” I answer like an echo.
    I take the subway, the commuter rail line, and the tram. The business card in my hand has stopped wriggling. I open the apartment door with the other hand and toss my backpack in the corner beneath the jackets.
    That’s when I see them—the shoes.
    I wouldn’t have noticed them if I hadn’t tripped over them. They’re big, stained leather shoes. The laces hang limply from them.
    Huh, I think lethargically, and shove them aside with my foot. I want to go straight to my room. But I stop at the door to my room and turn around to look back at the shoes again.
    It’s a riddle, I think. A pear, a banana, an apple, and a circular saw: which one of these things is not like the rest?
    It’s nice operating in a gray fog, I think to myself.