Chapter 7 Chapter Six

I received an obituary.Among the weepers were Bid's father, her children, siblings and her friends; although Bid's ex-husband drew up the obituary, his name did not appear on the obituary. For the funeral, I prepared myself a small wreath of blue flowers (Bide's favorite color): delphinium, aconitum, cornflowers, iris, and a few sprigs of blue-dyed chamomile .It looked like a wedding basket, I thought, not a wreath for the dead. My own attire was unremarkable: I was wearing black, and I wasn't wearing lipstick or anything like that.My self-confidence was slowly waning, and with fear and intimidation I tried to arrive at the cemetery neither too early nor too late.

I did not expect the scale of the funeral.The parking lot is already full, so there are many cars parked on both sides of the street. On the way to the entrance, someone called my name behind me: "Hi Rosie, wait a minute!" I address very few people with "you" and I don't use it in my Mannheim office, so my colleagues think I'm weird.I firmly reject the way of addressing people with the word "you" in the workplace.I have no relatives, and few bosom friends.Yes, Bid, I have known her since I was a child, no need to ask, including her children also call me "Rosie", except Bid's ex-husband; most recently Hartmut from Berlin-I am at any rate Wouldn't address him as "you"; Witold - thank God! —and, so to speak, by chance, his friend Dr. Schroeder.There's no one else besides that, I'm thinking.But among the mourners dressed in black, there was indeed a familiar figure hurried towards me, and he greeted me with the word "you": it was Bid's last boyfriend, Jurgen Fatemann.In fact, it was a title he completely imposed on me the only time we met.I was thinking, maybe I'll never run into him again, so I was less reserved that time.He is here with me right now.

"Rosie, I wanted to call you a few days ago, but unfortunately I forgot your last name." He was too far away from me. "Gelter," I said dryly. "Oh, yes! Geert! But it doesn't matter now. Do you have time for a while? I have something to see you." "If you must," I said rather unkindly, but he simply replied, "well, I'll wait at the gate entrance." We squeezed into the chapel, I took a seat at the back, and Jurgen took a seat in the middle.Bid had previously quit the church with her husband, I recall.Still, will the pastor give a speech now?

In front sat Bid's father, old and broken-hearted, and next to him was Lacey.He took Lacey's hand.Next came the brothers and sisters of Richard, Vivian, and Bid with their respective families, and a few rows behind were distant relatives, among them Bid's ex-husband and a large group of friends and acquaintances, among whom I Saw Witold.Beside him stood Spember's new wife, by sheer chance—I recognized her from a photograph, Bid's successor, plus her daughter , the half-sister of Bid's children. A brother-in-law of Bide, a professor at the University of Hamburg, gave a speech.His speech was insightful and coherent, describing Bid's life and praising her many good qualities.But his cold, rather businesslike address did not arouse the enthusiasm of the audience; some were coughing and clearing their throats, others were blowing their noses, or talking softly.

After the professor finished his speech, there was a momentary pause on the field.Then there was a sound at the door, and about twenty middle-aged men in uniforms filed in.The aged father, who had been a member of the boys' choir all his life, had brought these distinguished gentlemen.It seemed to him that a memorial service without a priest and prayers was too cold, and now he was going to make it a little more solemn.Elderly singers, with their left hands behind their backs and one leg behind their backs, sang, "I pray for the power of love!" Their pitches suddenly jumped from strong to weak, and back again effortlessly.Although I have already emphasized that I don't know much about music, I knew it was all noise when I heard it.What the speaker failed to do, now these singers do all at once: at first there was a terrible sobbing sound, old and young could not restrain themselves, and at last the multitude Unity formed a League of Weepers.The artists who counted on such a successful effect appear to be very generous, still doing their part to prevent such a river from drying up so quickly.

Pride flooded through me: it was me and these funeral singers who brought so many people together into one great emotion.Without me, this unforgettable funeral would never have been possible. My joy did not stop until I met Jürgen Fatemann.I didn't like him, especially when he called me "Rosie" so casually. "Let's go get a drink," he said quickly, "I'm not interested in being stared at by a bunch of people." He's as sweaty as Hartmut, I thought with disgust. We sat in a cheap restaurant that smelt acridly of chips.Jurgen ordered a beer, I ordered a glass of mineral water, he ordered a salad steak, and I ordered a pastry.

Jurgen poured beer down his throat.He took off his top, and now he was sitting across from me in a black roll-neck sweater made of impermeable synthetic fibers. "Let's get down to business in a moment," he began, watching the gate sharply, but the other funeral guests did not come here.I looked at him suspiciously. "Those cops keep pestering me. It happened on a Saturday and I happened to be in Munich with my wife and kids. I have a gas station receipt for Sunday night, but it doesn't help me much. I can't prove that I Left here as early as Friday afternoon. No one saw me except my wife in Munich on Saturday. The kids talking doesn't count anyway. The car was sitting in the garage. The weather was nice, but I this Fools stay at home on Saturday and keep accounts."

He picked up a plastic flower from a vase on the table and took it apart. I was about to ask what this had to do with me, when I heard him rebuke: "You must have told the cops that stupid thing about Peed falling in love with the guy who was in love with Vivian, the guy with the pomp teacher. How could you think of spreading such a lie?" I blushed and assured him that it wasn't a lie and that I didn't spread it around, I just told the police, who had promised absolute secrecy. Jurgen ordered another beer. "The cops keep secrets, that made me laugh out loud!—that's the worst bullshit I've ever heard. Bid and I aren't romantic couples, but we love each other and are genuine. Like you (What does he mean by that?) Of course it is impossible to understand."

I feel insulted.I immediately said sharply that if he was going to speak in that tone, it would be over.I've known Bid since school days, and she's been my friend for a long time. "That's right, it's a friend," Jurgen said sarcastically, "A person wouldn't spread rumors about a friend. Anyway, she doesn't believe you, otherwise she would have told you what she told me." "What else would she tell me?" I asked, my heart racing. "Bide already knew that Vivian had something to do with this teacher, and she's no fool! Of course, Vivian has a new boyfriend here, but he's not in Frankfurt, because she's suddenly visiting very frequently , and then borrowed Bid’s car and didn’t go home in the middle of the night. In addition, that person appeared, but I forgot his name. After he met Vivian, he always came here for no reason, and every time it was Vivian When Ann is around. Mothers are always curious! Once someone picks up Vivian and she doesn't need a car, Bid will of course peep through the window. Then she sees the teacher in the street Wait for her around the corner."

I'm having trouble breathing. "That's how Bid knows what's going on," I said. "Then she's in love with him herself anyway, why shouldn't she?" "Great God, what a dullness of your understanding. She has little interest in sentimental men, of whom we have talked enough. But on the other hand, she felt that the relationship between him and Vivian A friendly relationship is not a bad thing. She seems to have said something like this: 'Teachers are pedophiles, and Vivian has a father complex, and their relationship is very stable'. So a person, Once he (she) himself has malicious words towards a man, he will not say such things."

"It's possible it's just one of her disguises," I objected, "and you don't notice it." Jurgen looked at me and shook his head. "What kind of world do you spinsters live in?" he said so loudly that all the other guests turned to look at me with interest. "I'm sorry, Rosie, that's not what I meant. (What else could that mean, I wonder) But you probably can't imagine that Bid and I can get along without this nonsense." I was about to leave, but he held on to me, hands sweaty and beer-stained, similar to the Hartmuts of late.An inexplicable anger surged all over his body. "Mr. Fatman, please let me go! I just went to my best friend's funeral and I'm not ready to listen to your insulting talk." "Aha, now I'm suddenly Mr. Fatman. My dear lady doesn't want to address an agent with the word 'you'. Bid is a completely different person from you. She doesn't know what it means to be arrogant and Prejudice. And she has never fallen in love with someone who is neither hot nor cold in her life," he thought for a moment, "I can imagine you better." I flushed with anger, and he saw the change. "Well, I'm sorry, please don't take offense, Rosie! I didn't want to hurt the noble daughter. In fact, it's only because the policemen are annoying me that I'm so angry. And that may be due to you. They thought Bud and I must have met for a champagne breakfast, and she must have told me she was in love with someone else, and then I'd killed her. They also knew that Bud and I had gone to You probably told them about that tower too." "Can I go now?" I asked; my health was really bad again, maybe I had a relapse. "You can go now," Jurgen said. "Don't be so pessimistic. I'm a sincere person. I can say what I think. At your age without a husband and children, maybe it has something to do with other people's love lives." A fertile imagination. Leave your mind on things that have nothing to do with me. Bid didn't commit suicide because of an unhappy love, nor did I kill her because she broke off with me. It's not very understand?" I nodded and he finally let me go.I went to the counter, paid, and walked out the door. Of course afterwards I remembered what I should have said to him at the time.When he started talking about spinsters' imaginations, I could as a rule retort, hadn't Peed told me about the difference in quality between him and Witold? How can a man kill a strong, tall man (who can subdue you with only his two hands) if he doesn't have a revolver at hand?With poison?How to make him commit suicide by taking poison?Then how to pour poison into him?Another pistol must be obtained.Where did you get the pistol?There must be a professional killer, a killer!This is the solution.Oh, that's absolutely out of the question, these killers - I've seen detective dramas - must get at least 100,000 marks, where do I get that much money?And me, decent Rosemary Helt who works for an insurance company, how am I going to find the killer?I am tolerant, and I will spare his life for the time being. Besides, this hooligan deprived me of the opportunity to talk to Witold after the funeral.It is at least possible that Witold wanted to talk to someone after this sad moment, but certainly not Vivian's relatives.He must have found me. "Tiha," he must have said, "come here, dear, let's go to your house and talk a little longer!" Perhaps he saw me walking with that annoying Jurgen Fautmann. I lay in bed, listening to Brahms. "At night I pluck the aroma of kisses from the shrubs of your lips. I have never tasted the aroma of kisses that fascinate me." Witold is really an excellent psychologist.He knew very well that an old girl would cry bitterly at such lyrics.Never in my life have I shed so many tears.I'm fifty-two, a sad age, perhaps the first and only time I've ever been in love, but unfortunately it's too late. Can I just wait patiently, hold on until Vivienne has a new love?Every day irrevocably makes me pale and ugly.Maybe there's a cure for it for a short time - go get some hair dye, go for an expensive make-up, boost your vitamins and hormones, but it won't last long. Five years ago, I really wanted to kill a man, which should be a reasonable thing.Recalling this past incident, I am a little unhappy.Just thinking of this man makes me blush with embarrassment.Most of my past vacations have been with protracted tour groups - "elderly gentlemen and ladies with some money in their pockets, visiting places of interest, and escaping the cold on the Turkish coast resort to go swimming”, that’s how I get through those boring activities. But a long time ago, I liked to go to foreign bathhouses alone, and I was not opposed to having an affair with a well-bred gentleman during the vacation in principle.At that time, the young man, who spoke German with almost no regional accent, struck me as personable and humorous at first, and I fully agreed with him spending the night in my hotel room at night.Two days later, he took me to a priceless boutique because he figured I should buy something suitable for the sea.Because I like his professional aesthetic taste, I listened to his advice and bought a sailor-style women's dress that is not cheap. It is dark blue in color and has a large white collar.If he hadn't helped me choose, I would never have bought this dress.This dress fits me perfectly.I'm tall and slender, and it looks great in this style, just surprised I didn't think of it myself. The store also sells men's clothing.After my purchase of the sailor suit was a foregone conclusion, my escort picked out a natural silk dress for himself and tried it on.At least it fit him well, like the sailor suit I had tried on me just now.I nodded at him approvingly.At this time, he quietly showed me the price tag of the clothes, admitted to me that buying such clothes was beyond his financial ability, and asked if I could help him.I immediately shook my head. "If you can't afford this dress, you've got to give it up," I said calmly, without being unkind. My friend immediately replied in shocking tones: "Then you don't enjoy young lovers either." The saleswoman couldn't help laughing.I bought my clothes, which were later hung in the hotel closet, packed my luggage hastily, and went home. How I want to kill this despicable and shameless male duck!For this reason, I have been thinking for a long time how to attack him.It's obviously not easy to do in a hotel, but you can just as well lure your lover to those out-of-the-way places the way I lured my best friend: I could have just pushed him off a cliff. Mrs. Roemer cheerfully called my office.Her retirement application has been approved, and she will no longer have to work for the insurance company. "I'll go to the office to-morrow and clear my desk; I still have my umbrella in the cupboard." I promised to take them to her house in a few days, since she has no means of transport and her right arm is terribly swollen. So I started putting her belongings into plastic bags.Not only was there an umbrella in the closet, I also found a pair of loafers, a lavender cardigan, a bottle of decaffeinated coffee, a silver mug, and an open can of spoiled condensed milk.In the drawer are packets of tissues, medication, candy, a sewing kit, flyers, pins, and a replacement pair of glasses. I stared at the assortment of medicines: nasal sprays, headache and migraine remedies, ointments for sports injuries, whole packets of foxgloves, and another packet of foxgloves already opened.I knew her heart was to be treated with the very poisonous drug foxglove.This piqued my interest.I looked at the instructions above.The deadly part of this remarkable pill is called digoxigenin. "Treatment of myocardial insufficiency, recurrent supraventricular tachycardia, atrial fibrillation, and atrial flutter due to cardiac insufficiency" - I was overjoyed with this message.I decided not to give Mrs. Roemer the whole pack of foxglove, but to keep a copy for myself.Who knows, maybe one day such a deadly poison will be used. Back home, my curiosity grew stronger and stronger.I decided to do a little experiment: add poison to the bonbons.I must find a corresponding customer, possibly Vivian. Reluctantly, I went out again and walked to a small shop on the corner of the road.I bought washing powder, semolina bread, cheese and some fruit, and I also bought a box of bonbons with liqueur in them. In the kitchen, I take a pill out of the silver protective film.Is it possible to put such an unpalatable thing in a whole piece of sandwich chocolate?I carefully drilled holes in the praline with a barbecue skewer.To my surprise, no liquid came out of the chocolate, the liqueur had already congealed in the softened chocolate.I successfully hollowed out the chocolate, inserted the pills, and re-capped the praline.However, the pralines looked a bit deformed, as if they had been stored in the sun. Now I must venture to taste it myself, and must stuff my poor artifact into my mouth.I read the directions for a second time with a little fear in my heart.Since heart patients can swallow one of these pills three times a day, it's no big deal for me to take one.That takes courage!I stuff things into my mouth.No, this really doesn't work.Immediately, a foreign body was felt on the tongue, and the pill, which was dyed chocolate brown, immediately popped out again.This pill is too big. I took out the pills, wiped the chocolate off with a tablecloth, and started powdering the pills.At first, with a knife, you can only cut into small pieces, but the effect is much better with a hammer.I hollowed out the second chocolate and filled it with powder, but although I did it very successfully, the praline became syrupy again.I tasted it: it was so horrible, I couldn't help but spit the praline into the sink in disgust.Bah, hell!Only people who have lost their sense of taste will swallow such things.And he would have to—by rough estimate—at least a dozen of these pralines before he would lose consciousness. No, I said to myself, I didn't kill myself by taking poison.What if I now anonymously send Vivienne or Fatman these painstakingly made bonbons?Vivian must have tasted it before pouring out the rest.Fartman might not taste it at all (beer drinkers have their lusts), but offer the gift to his wife or his new girlfriend.All this is useless.In a fit of rage I ate the rest of the chocolate--against my iron-clad principles--and redistributed the poison among Mrs Roemer's other possessions. A few days later, I went to Mrs. Roemer's house and brought a fried sausage for the dog and a tape of Brahms that I dubbed myself for Mrs. Roemer. She hugged me for the first time after all those years of friendship.Before this, the friendly relationship had never been intimate enough to pat the shoulder. "Ms. Helt, you are the only person I will miss at the insurance company. You have always cared about me and my dog, and I want to say something to you today!" Somewhat mysteriously, she led me into the bedroom and took out a jewelry box from the wardrobe. "Anything I can pass on to my daughter, of course she will get it. But for some reason, I don't want to give her this little thing. I give it to you," she said solemnly. This brooch is pinned to my shirt.It was a very old relic, and on it was carved a profile of a deity made of black obsidian, surrounded by a border of pure gold. "You are a man of great secrecy, Ms. Helt, and I have known for years. Nobody knows who my daughter's father is, and I have never had contact with him. He was seventeen when it happened. I'm almost thirty. I certainly haven't told anyone that I had an affair with a student, and marriage never even occurred to me. I never told him about my pregnancy, and at the time I left my hometown immediately. This brooch was left by him. He stole it from my mother. I never dared to wear it, and in fact I don't want my daughter to wear it. I put this The child was brought up alone. Maybe I would be miserable if she wore this brooch." I don't want to accept a thing full of memories. "That's impossible," said Frau Roemer, "my daughter doesn't like it at all. You'd better do me a favor!" So I, with mixed feelings, let this ornament dangle on my shirt, and the silk shirt was terribly damaged by the heavy load of the brooch.Is Frau Roemer playing tricks on me?Because she couldn't take the dog with her on her planned trip to the United States.