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“Mosbach?” I bring out in a rough voice.
“More precisely, commercial area at the Forest Tusk street in Neckarelz. Right next to the federal highway B27—with a so-to-speak private access road.Páposchkais sure: The anonymous environment, combined with the good accessibility from the surrounding major centers, will give him a particularly high occupancy rate there.” Jelisaweta smiles sweetly. “And, Bella, shall we get started now?” she adds with a finger pointing to her cleavage.
10. To Throw in theSlip-Up
Celine
I grip the Fiat 500’s steering wheel tightly as I step on the gas at the beginning of the four-lane section of the federal highway B27 and set the turn signal.
The Fiat’s fifty-four-horsepower engine purrs like a seamstress’s sewing machine at piecework.
To overtake a truck with Bulgarian license plates, I get the most out of mycarnoodle: a little car everyone wants to canoodle.
Just before the highway narrows again, I can get in front of the speeding rust bucket. “Stupid toll bouncer!” I scold the driver, who uses his high beams to express his annoyance at my pushing in front of him.Aren’t trucks only allowed to drive at thirty-seven miles per hour on country roads?The speedometer needle is trembling at seventy-five miles per hour, and still, I could hardly get past him…
Breathless with excitement, I almost forget to slow down for the 45-mph zone after the River Neckar bridge.
The hood of myfriendcomes dangerously close in the rear window, and I’m glad I have to turn right here anyway to get to Hassmersheim. The trucker honks several times as he overtakes me while I brake for the sharp U-turn in the deceleration lane.
“You can bite me too!” I would love to show this jerkface my outstretched middle finger—but I don’t have the courage. Apart from the fact it is not proper to do so.
The sun is still low over the mountains on the other side of the River Neckar when I drive down the Hochhausser Road from the hill to the lock. The light bathes the valley in a mystical haze of gold and mist. Mercifully, it covers the scars of industrialization in the landscape. The keep, ruins and freshly renovated buildings of Hornberg Castle stand out as a somber silhouette against the mid-morning spring sky.
Every time I drive along here, I can almost physically feel the true core of the Notburga legend.
What might the Neckar Valley have looked like at the time the king’s daughter resisted marriage to a pagan invader?
The thought of Notburga having her arm ripped out by her own father makes me shudder. And then her escape, which resembles a superhero’s: badly injured, she swam through the wild Neck, which had not yet been tamed at the time, and found refuge in a grotto on the steep bank. I’m almost more creeped out by the saint being healed by a snake and fed by a white doe.
Actually, snakes and white-colored mammals are pretty much pagan symbols, aren’t they?
In the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of the hill a few hundred meters behind me. Nowadays, one can no longer pass the path on the steep bank of the Neckar for safety reasons. But when I was little, I clambered up to the Notburga grotto with Aunt Mareike and Uncle Bert more than once.
Now I’m passing the Hassmersheim town sign, slowing down to the prescribed thirty miles per hour. My pulse quickens, and I have to admit to myself I am really extremely excited.Of course, this is only because of my very first on-site appointment and not because of that darn Mr. Sandtmann!
My plotting heart knows this claim is a lie. It pumps three times the amount of blood through my veins every second, as it rushes down over the barrages of the Neckar, which is swollen from rain.
At least I can’t detect any telltale redness when I take a careful look in the rearview mirror. Neither on my cheeks—where the foundation and makeup conceal it anyway—nor on my neck or ears.
Apparently, Pauline’s tip helped: I ordered a vibrator online and used it this morning. This measure keeps my susceptibility to this nefarious demigod within halfway tolerable bounds.
Thecarnoodlepurrs around the 90° bend at the old ferry dock, and now I’m getting a little dizzy.
At walking pace, as I don’t care about the jostling of the people behind me, I look for a parking space. Leisurely I roll past the bakery, then the tattoo parlor. I remember reading something in Mr. Sandtmann’s documents about parking possibilities on the brownfield next to the tattoo parlor. So, I set the blinker and steer the little car death-defyingly over the holey gravel surface until it comes to a halt next to a black behemoth of a pickup truck.
Whew.I take two deep breaths and grab my handbag and briefcase from the passenger seat. Immediately afterward, I curse myself. Of course, now my stuff is squashed against the steering wheel uncomfortably.No matter, now it’s time to look ahead!
With careful steps, I cross the improvised parking lot without breaking a heel.Nor even spraining my ankle!A few meters along the narrow sidewalk, then three steps up, and fearlessly I push open the door.
“Ding-ding,” greets a doorbell that seems to have jumped out of some vintage Didi Hallervorden sketch, where he messes up with his jail cell neighbor while playing shop.
I’d like a bottle of French friesis on my lips. With difficulty, I control the corners of my mouth and shake my head at this hokum. I don’t know myself to be so silly.Is this a side effect of the sex-toy endorphins from earlier today?Upon entering, I almost expect to be immersed in Didi Hallervorden’sNonstop Nonsenseshow.
But the broad-shouldered figure now rising from behind a computer screen is the exact opposite of Hallervorden’s sketch partner.
Philipp.Um… I mean, Mr. Sandtmann.
“Hi,” he says, nothing else, and the echo of his warm voice causes a comforting shiver to run down my spine.
