Self's punishment by Bernhard Schlink Page A

the state of German gastronomy gave me reason for concern. Did you have to resort to such means to get decent service?
    I knew I could call it a day so far as tailing them was concerned. The two of them, after a last calvados, would return either to Frau Buchendorff’s or to Mischkey’s in Heidelberg. I would take a Sunday morning walk to Christuskirche and quickly ascertain whether both cars, no cars, or only Frau Buchendorff ’s were in front of the house in Rathenaustrasse.
    I went home, gave the cat a can of cat food, and myself a can of ravioli, and went to bed. I read a bit more of
Green Henry
and wistfully pictured myself at Lake Zurich before falling asleep.

18
    The impurity of the world
    On Sunday morning I took tea and butter cookies back to bed and mulled things over. I was certain: I had my man. Mischkey corresponded in every way to the image I’d formed of the culprit. As an employee of the RCC he had the opportunity to penetrate the systems of the interconnected firms, and as Frau Buchendorff ’s boyfriend he had the motive to select RCW. The raising of the executive assistant salaries was an anonymous friendly gesture to his girlfriend. This circumstantial evidence alone wouldn’t stand up in court if everything there was handled by the book. Yet it was convincing enough for me to think less about whether he was the one than about how to convict him.
    To confront him in front of witnesses so that he’d fold under the weight of his guilt – ridiculous. To set him a trap, along with Oelmüller and Thomas, this time targeted and better prepared – on the one hand I wasn’t sure of success, and on the other I wanted to have this duel with Mischkey myself with my own weapons. No doubt about it, this was one of those cases that packed a personal punch. Perhaps it even offered too personal a challenge. I felt an unhealthy mixture of professional ambition, respect for my opponent, burgeoning jealousy, the classical rivalry of the hunter and the hunted, and even envy for Mischkey’s youth. I know much of this is simply the impurity of the world: only fanatics believe they can escape it and only saints do. Yet, it bothers me sometimes. Because so few people admit to it I tend to think I’m the only one who suffers from it. When I was a student at university in Berlin my professor, Carl Schmitt, presented us with a theory that neatly differentiated the political from the personal enemy, and everyone felt justified in their anti-Semitism. Even then I was preoccupied by the question of whether the others couldn’t stand their own impurity and had to cover it up, or whether my ability to erect a barrier between the personal and the objective was underdeveloped.
    I made some more tea. Could I get a conviction via Frau Buchendorff? Could I get Mischkey, through her, to tamper once more, this time identifiably, with the RCW system? Or could I make use of Grimm and his obvious desire to put one over on Mischkey? Nothing convincing came to mind. I’d have to rely on my talent for improvisation.
    I could spare myself any further tailing, but on my way to the Kleiner Rosengarten, where I sometimes meet friends for lunch on a Sunday, I didn’t take my usual route past the Wasserturm and the Ring, but instead walked past the Christuskirche. Mischkey’s Citroën was gone and Frau Buchendorff was working in the garden. I crossed to the other side of the street so I wouldn’t have to say hello to her.

19
    Anyone for tennis?
    ‘Good morning, Frau Buchendorff. How was your weekend?’ At half past eight she was still sitting over her newspaper, opened to the sports page, and was reading the latest on our newest tennis marvel. She had the list of roughly sixty businesses linked to the smog alarm system laid out for me in a green plastic folder. I asked her to cancel my appointment with Oelmüller and Thomas. I only wanted to see them after the case was solved, and even then preferably not.
    ‘So you’re crazy about our