I went into the entrance hall, climbed to the top floor and kicked in the door leading onto the roof. Found myself under a cold black sky.
Going up to the cornice, I leaned over and worked out which balcony was the one I wanted. By all appearances, that one over there, the unglazed one. I tried to recall the details of my – pah! – of Magda’s balcony. Seemed I did recall them. I’d gone out onto it once and observed no glazing. So that was the one. Quiet as a little mouse, I lowered myself onto the balcony and cautiously peered into the room.
All my calculations turned out to be correct. Predictable, simple little fool Magda was pacing nervously about the room with an unlit cigarette in her hand. Yes. If there had been a pistol in that hand, I would of course have thought twice about barging unceremoniously into somebody else’s home. But here the moment obliged. Smashing the window – splinters flying in all directions – I burst into the room like a whirlwind, knocked Magda off her feet and, forgetting for the time being the principle «You don’t hit women and children, you love them», raised my hand for a felling blow. The enemy has to be neutralized, that’s how it is! And straight away took some hard object in the face. Oof! Fighting girl! She’d stop a galloping horse, so what is there to say about me. Not for nothing had all the hand-to-hand combat instructors warned: «Arbalet, you’ve got a glass jaw. You take a punch very badly.» Exactly. Such is my physiology. In short, while I was coming round after the knockdown, Magda leapt to her feet. However, being no slouch myself, I recovered smartly and leapt up after her. We faced each other in fighting stances, snarled at one another and set about establishing who was mightier than whom. My answer, naturally, was prepared in advance. Magda held her own excellent opinion, which she attempted to substantiate with the whistling of heels past my face.
Oh, how I dislike fighting, if only anyone knew. In short, I dodged Magda as best I could. I didn’t swing my own fists about much, there’s a brake inside after all – you mustn’t hit a woman in the face. On the bottom you may. Which is what I did. Not much use in it, of course. But look how Magda flew into a rage. What a business!
Come on then, come on, my dear, what else have you got in reserve? Ah, mawashi-geri again. Spectacular, but not effective. A punch for the cinema. I sprang aside and – time to end this farce! – immediately closed the distance. Acquaint yourself, little karate girl, with the perfectly honed technique of ju-jitsu. Grip, hook and transfer to the ground, and there begins pure rhetoric – on top you find the fighter with the greater length of levers (that is, arms and legs), and with the greater body mass as well. One should study mechanics so as not to build illusions afterwards. My mass is exactly twice Magda’s. The proportions of the body are also in my favour. Therefore kindly stop puffing, stop thrashing about, and lie still while the hands are being tied behind the back.
Phew, I had hobbled my fighting girlfriend. Now we could have a chat about life.
– Answer me, where is Hans.
– In Hamburg.
– No need to lie, my dear.
– I’m not lying, – Magda gave a sob.
– Kitty, I know that Hans is in Moscow. I know it for certain. So don’t muddle my brains, lay it all out as if at confession. Well?
I wasn’t bluffing. By every calculation Hans had to be here. Calculation one – the facsimile. Signed by Hans, it had been brought to me at seven in the morning. But I know for certain that Hans never gets up before nine; only extraordinary circumstances could force him out of bed at eight, and super-extraordinary ones at seven. Maybe the business with me was a super-extra-most-utterly-extraordinary one, but… recall the two-hour time difference between Moscow and Hamburg, and everything falls into place. At five in the morning Hamburg time I had in my hands a fax signed by Hans, a man who goes to bed at two in the morning and switches off every telephone in the house until eight. I checked once.
Calculation two – the smell of men’s cologne that I had caught yesterday. I remembered – it was the smell of Hans’s «Amouage». Only he could leave such a rich scent behind him. An aesthete, damn and blast him.
I stroked Magda’s head. She jerked once or twice and wilted.
– Hey, girlfriend. Somehow my mood is rising, looking at such a sexual woman. Perhaps I should screw you? The position is arousing, and you’re behaving expansively. I like it when they squirm under me.
A torrent of abuse tumbled onto my head, extremely feeble Russian abuse (evidently she hadn’t finished learning the language at her embassy, she’d picked up her knowledge in the wrong place) and standard German. Ugh, ugh, ugh.
I felt the loops that had drawn her hands behind her back. Then I checked the strength of the rope on her legs once more and slapped her bottom. Firm, damn it.
– Well, what’s it to be? Are we going to say where Hans is, or are we going to copulate?
Abuse again.
– I’m delighted that you don’t answer questions and are nudging me towards taking my trousers off. You’re not afraid of sex with me and perhaps even desire it. But first things first, all the same. Where is Hans?
I took hold of her arms and pulled up a little. Magda shrieked with all her might. Mustn’t frighten the neighbours. Midnight, after all.
– Hey, can you not squeal? My ears are blocking up.
Magda muttered something, and I turned her over onto her back and took the pistol off the table.
– Keep silent – and you’ll be lying there with a hole shot through your head. I’ve already done for Jurgen, you’ll be next. I’ve nowhere to go, I’m out of the game. Well.
I clicked the safety catch.
– Hans is staying at a hotel. I don’t know the name, only the telephone number. Tomorrow, or rather, this morning now, he’s coming here.
– At what time?
– At ten. But first I’ll have to ring and say that you’ve stopped being a problem.
– You’ll ring.