The following weeks were a struggle for Paul. When he showed his face back at the stables he had to endure the forced apologies of Klaus, who had escaped a fine but still bore the remorse of having left the young man in a lurch. At least this mitigated his anger at Paul’s broken arm.
“The middle of winter, and only me and poor Hulbert to do the unloading, with all the orders we have. It’s a tragedy.”
Paul refrained from mentioning that they had so many orders only thanks to his scheme and the second cart. He didn’t feel like talking much, and he sank into a silence every bit as deep as Hulbert’s, freezing his backside off for long hours on the driver’s seat, his thoughts elsewhere.
Once he tried to return to Prinzregentenplatz when he thought Herr Tannenbaum wouldn’t be there, but a servant slammed the door in his face. He slipped various notes to Alys through the letterbox, asking her to meet him in a nearby cafe, but she never turned up. Other times he would walk by the gate of her house, but she never appeared. A policeman did, doubtless instructed by Josef Tannenbaum; he advised Paul not to return to the neighborhood if he didn’t want to end up picking his teeth off the pavement.
Increasingly, Paul closed in on himself, and the few times he and his mother crossed paths at the boardinghouse, they barely said a word. He ate little, hardly slept, and paid no attention to his surroundings. On one occasion the back wheel of the cart narrowly missed a trolley. As he endured the curses of the passengers-who shouted that he could have killed them all-Paul told himself he had to do something to escape the thick storm clouds of melancholy that floated around inside his head.
It was not surprising that he didn’t notice the figure watching him one afternoon on Frauenstrasse. The stranger approached the cart slowly at first to get a closer look, trying to keep out of Paul’s line of sight. The man jotted down notes in a booklet he carried in his pocket, carefully writing the name Klaus Graf. Now that Paul had more time and a healthy arm, the sideboards of the cart were always clean and the letters visible, which went some way to dampening the coal man’s anger. Finally the observer sat down in a nearby beer hall until the carts had left. It was only then that he approached the estate they had been supplying to make some discreet inquiries.
Jurgen was in an extremely bad mood. He had just received his marks for the first four months of the year, and they were not in the least bit encouraging.
I’ll have to get that cretin Kurt to give me private lessons, he thought. Maybe he’ll do a couple of bits of work for me. I’ll ask him to come round to my house and use my typewriter so they won’t find out.
It was his final year of secondary school, and a place at university was at stake, with all that it entailed. He had no particular interest in getting a degree, but he liked the idea of strutting around campus, parading his baronial title. Even if he didn’t actually have it yet.
It’ll be full of pretty girls. I’ll be fighting them off.
He was in his bedroom, fantasizing about university girls, when the maid-a new one hired by his mother after she’d thrown out the Reiners-called to him from outside the door.
“Young Master Krohn is here to see you, Master Jurgen.”
“Let him in.”
Jurgen greeted his friend with a grunt.
“Just the person I wanted to see. I need you to autograph my report card; if my father sees it, he’ll fly off the handle. I’ve spent the whole morning trying to fake his signature, but it doesn’t look anything like it,” he said, pointing to the floor, which was covered in scrunched-up bits of paper.
Krohn glanced at the report lying open on the table and gave a whistle of surprise.
“Well, we have been enjoying ourselves, haven’t we?”
“You know Waburg hates me.”
“From what I can tell, half of the teachers share his dislike. But let’s not worry about your performance at school right now, Jurgen, because I bring you news. You should prepare yourself for the hunt.”
“What are you talking about? What are we hunting?”
Krohn smiled, already enjoying the recognition he would earn from his discovery.
“A bird that’s flown the nest, my friend. A bird with a broken wing.”