lot of friends at the university; he was even known to have had a few passing affairs. His teachers treated him kindly and predicted an outstanding career for him in his adopted country. Until then, nothing to report. No police record. No alcohol, no drugs.
One fine morning, a wealthy compatriot, Hans Dunkelman,came to visit him, claiming to be his relative; at the time, Werner didn’t understand: Was he an uncle, a distant cousin? His name didn’t ring a bell. Strongly built, dressed with meticulous elegance, he must be a wealthy industrialist, an investor or stockbroker, thought the young man.
They were often seen together. So much so that Werner’s girlfriend, Anna, a young brunette with cheerful eyes, complained about it to their mutual friends.
“When I want to spend an evening with him,” she said, pouting, “I have to make an appointment. I know, he told me, the man is his uncle, the only living member of his family. But still there’s a limit, don’t you think?”
One day, she couldn’t control her anger. “Werner just told me he was going to take time off in the mountains with that Dunkelman. Without me. Take time off from what, from whom? From me maybe? I can’t get over it!”
Indeed, Werner and his uncle went to the Adirondacks, not far from the Canadian border, but the nephew returned alone. Taciturn, he refused to answer when Anna quizzed him about his uncle’s absence.
“We separated,” he finally said by way of explanation, looking annoyed. “That’s all. And I hope I never see him again.”
“But why? What happened?” asked the young student. “Did you quarrel?”
Werner shrugged his shoulders as if to say, don’t harp on it.
Obviously preoccupied, he preferred to remain alone, asthough he felt estranged from love and happiness. Anna tried in vain to make him relax. This was the first time such a thing was happening to them. He seemed cut off from the outside world, impervious to his girlfriend’s attentions.
Several days later, alerted by a passing tourist, the local police discovered Hans Dunkelman’s corpse at the foot of a cliff. Accident, suicide, or murder? Did he throw himself into the void? Did he succumb to malaise? Did someone push him? The autopsy revealed a high alcohol content in his bloodstream. At the hotel where Werner and he had rented two rooms for a week, they found the name of his nephew, who had returned to New York precipitately.
Two days later, Werner Sonderberg was arrested and charged with murder.
After rereading and correcting my introductory article on the trial, I leave the newspaper office and go home. It is night. Alika welcomes me, looking surprised.
“It’s late. What happened?”
I tell her about the turbulent meeting of the editorial staff, but the solution Paul found doesn’t please my wife.
“Don’t tell me you’re giving up the theater.”
“Don’t be afraid. We’ll still be going to all the good plays … if and when there are any.”
“How are you going to be able to juggle the two issues, writing reviews and summarizing the trial proceedings?”
“No problem: the trial takes place during the day. And itwon’t last long. A few days. Maybe a week. That’s what everyone says.”
“But are you sure you can handle this sort of assignment?”
“No, I’m not. But Paul is sure. You know him; he’s stubborn. Once he gets an idea into his head, he won’t budge an inch. And he’s a friend. I’ve got to trust him.”
Alika is just as obstinate as Paul, and she isn’t convinced. But she becomes resigned.
“Let’s hope these few days go by quickly … and pleasantly.”
But the trial would have many surprises in store for us.
Very early the next morning, I’m barely awake when I get a phone call from Paul.
“I read your piece. It’s going on the front page. But let me be frank: it’s not what I expected of you. You just made a compilation of what others have written. Too many facts, too many details. In a word,
One fine morning, a wealthy compatriot, Hans Dunkelman,came to visit him, claiming to be his relative; at the time, Werner didn’t understand: Was he an uncle, a distant cousin? His name didn’t ring a bell. Strongly built, dressed with meticulous elegance, he must be a wealthy industrialist, an investor or stockbroker, thought the young man.
They were often seen together. So much so that Werner’s girlfriend, Anna, a young brunette with cheerful eyes, complained about it to their mutual friends.
“When I want to spend an evening with him,” she said, pouting, “I have to make an appointment. I know, he told me, the man is his uncle, the only living member of his family. But still there’s a limit, don’t you think?”
One day, she couldn’t control her anger. “Werner just told me he was going to take time off in the mountains with that Dunkelman. Without me. Take time off from what, from whom? From me maybe? I can’t get over it!”
Indeed, Werner and his uncle went to the Adirondacks, not far from the Canadian border, but the nephew returned alone. Taciturn, he refused to answer when Anna quizzed him about his uncle’s absence.
“We separated,” he finally said by way of explanation, looking annoyed. “That’s all. And I hope I never see him again.”
“But why? What happened?” asked the young student. “Did you quarrel?”
Werner shrugged his shoulders as if to say, don’t harp on it.
Obviously preoccupied, he preferred to remain alone, asthough he felt estranged from love and happiness. Anna tried in vain to make him relax. This was the first time such a thing was happening to them. He seemed cut off from the outside world, impervious to his girlfriend’s attentions.
Several days later, alerted by a passing tourist, the local police discovered Hans Dunkelman’s corpse at the foot of a cliff. Accident, suicide, or murder? Did he throw himself into the void? Did he succumb to malaise? Did someone push him? The autopsy revealed a high alcohol content in his bloodstream. At the hotel where Werner and he had rented two rooms for a week, they found the name of his nephew, who had returned to New York precipitately.
Two days later, Werner Sonderberg was arrested and charged with murder.
After rereading and correcting my introductory article on the trial, I leave the newspaper office and go home. It is night. Alika welcomes me, looking surprised.
“It’s late. What happened?”
I tell her about the turbulent meeting of the editorial staff, but the solution Paul found doesn’t please my wife.
“Don’t tell me you’re giving up the theater.”
“Don’t be afraid. We’ll still be going to all the good plays … if and when there are any.”
“How are you going to be able to juggle the two issues, writing reviews and summarizing the trial proceedings?”
“No problem: the trial takes place during the day. And itwon’t last long. A few days. Maybe a week. That’s what everyone says.”
“But are you sure you can handle this sort of assignment?”
“No, I’m not. But Paul is sure. You know him; he’s stubborn. Once he gets an idea into his head, he won’t budge an inch. And he’s a friend. I’ve got to trust him.”
Alika is just as obstinate as Paul, and she isn’t convinced. But she becomes resigned.
“Let’s hope these few days go by quickly … and pleasantly.”
But the trial would have many surprises in store for us.
Very early the next morning, I’m barely awake when I get a phone call from Paul.
“I read your piece. It’s going on the front page. But let me be frank: it’s not what I expected of you. You just made a compilation of what others have written. Too many facts, too many details. In a word,
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