The Stronger Sex by Hans Werner Kettenbach Page A

naturally.” I wouldn’t have expected this usually rough-mannered oaf to show disappointment so clearly. After a little pause during which I tried in vain to think of some comment to mollify my No, he said, “Well, maybe some other time. Anyway, I wish you a pleasant weekend, Dr Zabel.”
    I said quickly, “Just a minute, if you would.”
    Frauke lowered her hairbrush. Klofft said, intently, “Yes?”
    I cleared my throat and said, “I’ll call you back later.”
    When I’d ended the call, Frauke said, “Who was that? Oh, sorry! None of my business, I expect!”
    â€œIt was Herbert Klofft.”
    â€œOh yes?” She made a small artificial throat-clearing sound. “Herbert, you said?”
    â€œYes, Herbert! My client!”
    â€œOh, really?” She passed the brush once more, slowly, over her hair. “And his business is so urgent that he calls you at home on a Saturday morning?”
    I was beginning to lose my temper. “He was asking whether I’d like a game of chess with him.”

    Lowering the brush, she stared at me. “On a Saturday morning?”
    â€œSo? Not the worst time in the world for playing chess!”
    â€œReally? So why aren’t you accepting?”
    â€œBecause I want to go to the flea market with you!” My tone of voice was sharper than I meant it to be.
    â€œI tell you what, why not call – er, him straight away?” She paused and then added, “That’s what you promised her, didn’t you? I’ll call you back later.” She wasn’t going to much trouble to imitate my voice, but it was clear that she was parodying me. “And tell her you’re already on your way. She can put the champagne on ice.”
    I could hardly believe my ears. “ She ? What do you mean, she ? I told you it was Herbert Klofft calling!”
    â€œSo you said. But I understood all right, don’t you worry!”
    She turned away and disappeared from sight. I heard her moving about the bedroom, turning the bedclothes upside down. I was about to go in after her, but before I could bring myself to do it she reappeared with the bag in which she brings her night things, walked through the living room without deigning to glance at me, and disappeared into the bathroom.
    My mind elsewhere, I closed the dishwasher and turned on the programme. In the bathroom I heard the clink of Frauke’s jars and little bottles that stood on the shelf above the basin. As I switched the dishwasher on, she came out of the bathroom again, carrying her bag, her cheeks flushed.
    She took a step closer and looked at me. I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything she said, “Have a nice weekend. And thanks for the hospitality.” She went to the front door of the apartment, turned back once more and said, “Oh, and my regards to Herbert – I mean Cilly Klofft. Your client!” With that she opened the door and walked out.

11
    When I was standing at the front door of the villa, under the overhanging roof, listening to the chime of bells that I had just set going, I could almost see Cilly Klofft before me. I was expecting her to open the door, maybe in her painter’s smock again, with those eyes of hers that shone in a dim light. But it wasn’t her. It was a blonde, handsome woman in her mid-forties wearing jeans and a striped kitchen apron. She examined me briefly through the crack in the doorway before letting me in.
    She gave me no chance to show my good manners, but climbed the stairs ahead of me, slippers on her bare feet, went to Klofft’s door and knocked. I heard Klofft’s voice. “Come in!”
    The woman opened the door and said, “Young person is here.” Klofft’s voice replied, “He’s no young person to you, he’s a gentleman. A gentleman with a doctorate as well!” In spite of the reproof his voice was quite mild. “And how often do I