Magic Hoffmann Read Online Free PDF Page A

further suspicion fell upon Annette.
    It was shortly after nine, the sun was behind the house, and the Schöllers front garden lay calmly in shadow. Nothing had changed. The garden was still a sort of Mediterranean oasis in comparison to its meticulously laid-out neighbours with their beds of pansies and little fir trees. At the Schöllers the grass hadn’t been mown, shrubs and flowers mingled in wild confusion, and sage and rosemary grew in brown earthenware pots.
    The original Happy Family. Fred could picture them, how they cooked together cheerfully, then sat down at the dinner table, how they laughed about the same things, were interested in the same subjects and even held more or less the same opinions about what was in the newspapers. Fred’s father had once said, either the parents had a screw loose or the children had no guts - but he never had a good word to say about the Schöllers anyway.
    Fred pushed open the garden gate, went to the front door and rang the bell. Nothing happened. He rang again, till the curtain in the first floor window moved and somebody coughed. Then Fred could hear steps on the stairs and he took the bottle out of the bag. When the footsteps stopped, a voice croaked from behind the door, asking who was there. Fred shoved the bottle back.
    â€˜Fred Hoffmann . I wanted to speak to Mrs Schöller.’
    â€˜Fred?’
    The door opened, and Fred’s heart stood still. It was Mrs Schöller - or what was left of her: shrunk down to a small, pointed, tumorous beer gut, her face a battlefield of festering pustules, rutted lips and glassy bloodshot eyes. Like a cave animal avoiding the light, she remained in the dimness of the hall. Fred could detect a putrid stench of sweat.
    He tried not to make his shock apparent. Just like in the old days when he had been up to some mischief, he gave a cheeky grin and called out: ‘Well then, Mrs Schöller,’ as if he were hoping to give her back her former appearance by adopting the old manner.
    â€˜Fred. So you’re out at last.’
    â€˜Since yesterday.’
    â€˜Come in.’ But at the same moment she looked to one side, as if something had occurred to her. She gathered up her bathrobe and ran a hand through her clotted hair. When she looked up her gaze was full of fear. ‘I mean, if you would like to. You can see…things have changed somewhat.’
    Fred shrugged. ‘Where do they not? Don’t I get coffee here any more?’
    â€˜Of course.’ She revealed a row of yellow teeth, and a soft glow scurried across her eyes.
    Fred followed her in to the living room. The curtains were drawn, and isolated sunbeams came through the gaps. There was a smell of Schnapps and stale smoke. In the half-light Fred recognised the same old Protestant furnishings, chosen according to Mr Schöller’s taste: practical bright wooden furniture, orange lampshades, tapestries in woodland colours and a poster promoting understanding between peoples. On the shelf were photos of Annette and her elder brothers. One was a violin maker, the other did something worthy in Africa, Fred didn’t know exactly what. Beside them, a plaster head of Mr Schöller was resplendent. An artist friend had given them the sculpture. It gave him the air of a Greek philosopher.
    Mrs Schöller stood still and rubbed her hands together.
    â€˜Do you recognise everything?’ she asked, doing her best to sound cheerful. Fred wished she would leave it out.
    â€˜Of course. And still the same old rags on the wall. Don’t the moths eat stuff like that?’
    Mrs Schöller had to laugh. She disliked the tapestries as much as Fred did. For a while she asked him about prison, and he described a kind of cheery holiday camp - for her sake as well as his.
    â€˜I’m so sorry for you, Fred.’
    â€˜No need. I’m taking it easy, Mrs Schöller, honestly. You know me: if and but aren’t in my vocabulary. What