Read Online The Ice Queen: A Novel by Nele Neuhaus - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nele Neuhaus
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once-in-a-lifetime chance to make his name known far and wide, because the ambitious project would undoubtedly attract a lot of attention.
His cell phone rang, tearing him from his ruminations. He searched for it under the piles of plans, sketches, tables, and photos, and his heart beat faster when he recognized the number on the display. He’d been waiting for this call, longingly and yet with a terribly guilty conscience. He hesitated a moment. He had actually made Tina a firm promise to go to the soccer field where the Fischbach Sports Club had set up a tent, as they did each year, hosting a big dance to celebrate the first of May. Nowak paused as he looked at his cell and bit his lip, but the temptation was too strong.
“Damn,” he muttered softly, and took the call.
* * *
He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol all day; well, only a little. He’d washed down the two Prozacs an hour ago with a gulp of vodka; nobody would smell it. He’d promised Kurti not to drink, and now he was feeling good and his head was clear as glass. His hands weren’t shaking. Robert Watkowiak grinned at himself in the mirror. What a difference a decent haircut and a respectable outfit made. His dear Uncle Herrmann was a real German bureaucrat and set great store by a clean, proper appearance. So it was better to show up at his office dressed neatly and clean-shaven, without booze on his breath or bloodshot eyes. Sure, he would get the money no matter what, but it seemed better to present his request politely.
It was pure chance that he had happened upon the dark secret of the old man—the secret that he assiduously concealed from the whole world—and since then they had been the best of friends. He wondered what Uncle Jossi and his stepmother would say when they found out what dear Uncle Herrmann was doing in his basement. Watkowiak chortled and turned away from the mirror. He wasn’t so stupid that he’d ever tell them, because then his source of income would dry up for good. He just hoped the old bugger would live a long time! He rubbed a cloth over his black patent-leather shoes, which he’d bought specially for the occasion, along with the gray suit, the shirt, and tie. He’d spent almost half of Uncle Jossi’s money on the clothes, but his investment was sure to pay off. In a splendid mood, Watkowiak set off shortly before eight o’clock. Kurti had said he’d pick him up at the train station at eight on the dot.
* * *
Auguste Nowak was sitting on the wooden bench behind her little house, enjoying the evening calm and the fragrant scent of the nearby woods. Although the weather forecast had predicted a marked drop in temperature along with rain, the air was mild, and the first stars were appearing in the cloudless evening sky. In the rhododendron bush, two blackbirds were squabbling, and a dove was cooing on the roof. It was already quarter past ten, and everyone in the family was having fun up at the soccer field, dancing to welcome the first of May. Except for Marcus, her grandson, who was still sitting at his desk. But they didn’t see that—all those jealous people who’d been bad-mouthing the young man ever since his company had become successful. None of them was prepared to work sixteen hours a day, with no weekends and no vacation.
Auguste Nowak clasped her hands in her lap and crossed her ankles. If she stopped to think about it, she’d never had it so good in her whole long life full of work and worries. Her husband, Helmut, had been irreparably traumatized by the war, had never held a job longer than four weeks, and had hardly set foot out the front door in the last twenty years of his life. Two years ago, he had died. Auguste had then given in to the urgings of their son and moved into the little house on the company property in Fischbach. After Helmut’s death, she could no longer endure living in the village in Sauerland. Finally she had her peace and quiet. She no longer had to put
His cell phone rang, tearing him from his ruminations. He searched for it under the piles of plans, sketches, tables, and photos, and his heart beat faster when he recognized the number on the display. He’d been waiting for this call, longingly and yet with a terribly guilty conscience. He hesitated a moment. He had actually made Tina a firm promise to go to the soccer field where the Fischbach Sports Club had set up a tent, as they did each year, hosting a big dance to celebrate the first of May. Nowak paused as he looked at his cell and bit his lip, but the temptation was too strong.
“Damn,” he muttered softly, and took the call.
* * *
He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol all day; well, only a little. He’d washed down the two Prozacs an hour ago with a gulp of vodka; nobody would smell it. He’d promised Kurti not to drink, and now he was feeling good and his head was clear as glass. His hands weren’t shaking. Robert Watkowiak grinned at himself in the mirror. What a difference a decent haircut and a respectable outfit made. His dear Uncle Herrmann was a real German bureaucrat and set great store by a clean, proper appearance. So it was better to show up at his office dressed neatly and clean-shaven, without booze on his breath or bloodshot eyes. Sure, he would get the money no matter what, but it seemed better to present his request politely.
It was pure chance that he had happened upon the dark secret of the old man—the secret that he assiduously concealed from the whole world—and since then they had been the best of friends. He wondered what Uncle Jossi and his stepmother would say when they found out what dear Uncle Herrmann was doing in his basement. Watkowiak chortled and turned away from the mirror. He wasn’t so stupid that he’d ever tell them, because then his source of income would dry up for good. He just hoped the old bugger would live a long time! He rubbed a cloth over his black patent-leather shoes, which he’d bought specially for the occasion, along with the gray suit, the shirt, and tie. He’d spent almost half of Uncle Jossi’s money on the clothes, but his investment was sure to pay off. In a splendid mood, Watkowiak set off shortly before eight o’clock. Kurti had said he’d pick him up at the train station at eight on the dot.
* * *
Auguste Nowak was sitting on the wooden bench behind her little house, enjoying the evening calm and the fragrant scent of the nearby woods. Although the weather forecast had predicted a marked drop in temperature along with rain, the air was mild, and the first stars were appearing in the cloudless evening sky. In the rhododendron bush, two blackbirds were squabbling, and a dove was cooing on the roof. It was already quarter past ten, and everyone in the family was having fun up at the soccer field, dancing to welcome the first of May. Except for Marcus, her grandson, who was still sitting at his desk. But they didn’t see that—all those jealous people who’d been bad-mouthing the young man ever since his company had become successful. None of them was prepared to work sixteen hours a day, with no weekends and no vacation.
Auguste Nowak clasped her hands in her lap and crossed her ankles. If she stopped to think about it, she’d never had it so good in her whole long life full of work and worries. Her husband, Helmut, had been irreparably traumatized by the war, had never held a job longer than four weeks, and had hardly set foot out the front door in the last twenty years of his life. Two years ago, he had died. Auguste had then given in to the urgings of their son and moved into the little house on the company property in Fischbach. After Helmut’s death, she could no longer endure living in the village in Sauerland. Finally she had her peace and quiet. She no longer had to put
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