Hannibal filled in the grave and patted down the dirt with his hands. He covered the grave with pine needles, leaves and twigs until it looked like the rest of the forest floor.
In a small clearing at some distance from the grave, Dortlich sat gagged and bound to a tree. Hannibal and Cesar joined him.
Settling himself on the ground, Hannibal examined the contents of Dortlich’s pack. A map and car keys, an army can opener, a sandwich in an oilskin pouch, an apple, a change of socks, and a wallet. From the wallet he took an ID card and compared it to the dog tags from the lodge.
“Herr … Dortlich. On behalf of myself and my late family, I want to thank you for coming today. It means a great deal to us, and to me personally, having you here. I’m glad to have this chance to talk seriously with you about eating my sister.”
He pulled out the gag and Dortlich was talking at once.
“I am a policeman from the town, the horse was reported stolen,” Dortlich said. “That’s all I want here, just say you’ll return the horse and we’ll forget it.”
Hannibal shook his head. “I remember your face. I have seen it many times. And your hand on us with the webs between your fingers, feeling who was fattest. Do you remember that bathtub bubbling on the stove?”
“No. From the war I only remember being cold.”
“Did you plan to eat me today Herr Dortlich? You have your lunch right here.” Hannibal examined the contents of the sandwich. “So much mayonnaise, Herr Dortlich!”
“They’ll come looking for me very soon,” Dortlich said.
“You felt our arms.” Hannibal felt Dortlich’s arm. “You felt our cheeks, Herr Dortlich,” he said, tweaking Dortlich’s cheek. “I call you ‘Herr’ but you aren’t German, are you, or Lithuanian, or Russian or anything, are you? You are your own citizen—a citizen of Dortlich. Do you know where the others are? Do you keep in touch?”
“All dead, all dead in the war.”
Hannibal smiled at him and untied the bundle of his own handkerchief. It was full of mushrooms. “Morels are one hundred francs a centigram in Paris, and these were growing on a stump!” He got up and went to the horse.
Dortlich writhed in his bonds for the moment when Hannibal’s attention was elsewhere.
There was a coil of rope on Cesar’s broad back. Hannibal attached the free end to the traces of the harness. The other end was tied in a hangman’s noose. Hannibal paid out rope and brought the noose back to Dortlich. He opened Dortlich’s sandwich and greased the rope with mayonnaise, and applied a liberal coating of mayonnaise to Dortlich’s neck.
Flinching away from his hands, Dortlich said, “One remains alive! In Canada—Grentz—look there for his ID. I would have to testify.”
“To what, Herr Dortlich?”
“To what you said. I didn’t do it, but I will say I saw it.”
Hannibal fixed the noose about Dortlich’s neck and looked into his face. “Do I seem upset with you?” He returned to the horse.
“That’s the only one, Grentz—he got out on a refugee boat from Bremerhaven—I could give a sworn statement—”
“Good, then you are willing to sing?”
“Yes, I will sing.”
“Then let us sing for Mischa, Herr Dortlich. You know this song. Mischa loved it.” He turned Cesar’s rump to Dortlich. “I don’t want you to see this,” he said into the horse’s ear, and broke into song:
“Ein Mannlein steht im Walde ganz still und stumm …” He clicked in Cesar’s ear and walked him forward. “Sing for slack, Herr Dortlich. Es hat von lauter Purpur ein Mantlein um.”
Dortlich turned his neck from side to side in the greasy noose, watching the rope uncoil in the grass.
“You’re not singing, Herr Dortlich.”
Dortlich opened his mouth and sang in a tuneless shout, “Sagt, wer mag das Mannlein sein.”
And then they were singing together, “Das da steht im Wald allein …” The rope rose out of the grass, some belly in it, and Dortlich screamed, “Porvik! His name was Porvik! We called him Pot Watcher. Killed in the lodge. You found him.”
Hannibal stopped the horse and walked back to Dortlich, bent over and looked into his face.
Dortlich said, “Tie him, tie the horse, a bee might sting him.”