THE GREEN KING (part 49)
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The Photographer
from Salzburg
Epke smiled.
Maybe Epke was not his real name: he was extremely blond, his eyebrows were
almost white and blended into his very light skin, and he spoke German with the
particular intonation of people from the Baltic states. He shook his head, with
an expression of regret, like a professor who is not given the expected answer
from a good students.
‘He is alive,’
repeated Reb, more determined. ‘You are lying.’
He looked
exactly like a crazy adolescent. Even his size seemed to have decreased. He was
half-collapsed against the wall, the barrel of the Luger still pressed against
his temple. His eye darted from one man to another, stopping a little longer on
Lothar, who was sweating more than ever. Behind Lothar was a small window,
obstructed by two bars, with a dusty window pane: not so dusty, however, that
you couldn’t see through it.
‘Let’s finish
with this,’ said Epke.
‘In the letter
my father left for me…’
Reb stopped
suddenly, as if he realized he had said too much. Epke’s pale gaze had quickly
returned to him.
‘What letter?’
‘My father is
alive, I know it’
‘What letter?’
Through the
half moon opening of the window people could be seen walking by in the street,
from their shoes to their knees, even though the noise of the traffic was
inaudible. The man wearing paratroopers’ boots had already walked by once; he
reappeared, and, just by the position of his feet, it was clear that he was
facing, if not the window, at least the house where Reb and the four men were.
Reb lowered his
head, defeated.
‘I left it in
Vienna.’
‘Where in
Vienna?’
‘I won’t tell
you.’ In the tone of a stubborn kid.
Epke was
looking at him, uncertain. Finnaly, he shook his head and said, without turning
around: ‘Lothar, can you find the pictures of his father?.’
TO BE CONTINUED
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I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
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