Boxer’s Beard

Since I hadn’t seen or heard from Boxer for over a week, I was relieved when he texted me to meet him by the steps of the Stadtkirche.  I needed to do some shopping on that side of town, so this was a convenient rendezvous.

I stopped in at Hermann’s Pâtisserie to say hello to Mina, Boxer’s young cousin.

“Charles!  I’m so glad you stopped by!  Boxer was here an hour or so ago, and I didn’t recognise him – he’s got a beard now!”

“A very clean, dapper, slightly devilish goatee, eh?  That would suit him well.”

“No!  He looks like a – a – oh, I can’t say it.  Like a clochard.  Very untidy.  Do you know anything about this?”

“Not a whisker, as we say.  I’m set to meet him now, so I’ll see what’s up.  I’ll report back to you as soon as I can, OK, Mina?”

“I’m not worried, you understand, just a bit surprised.  He is always so well groomed.  But, yes, thank you.  Let me know what you learn.”

So as to sneak up on Boxer and observe him secretly, I walked well out of my way from Marktgasse, down Graben, then behind Kino Lichtspiele, to the Klosterkapelle, then through a passage to Baslerstrasse.  Now, Baslerstrasse used to be called Trimbacherstrasse, for obvious reasons.  But to find out why it was changed to Baslerstrasse, I shall probably have to hire someone from the Boxer Detective Agency.

I approached from behind the church, passing the pissoir (not a Parisian vespasienne, but a cabin of sorts, nonetheless) and the old weighing scales for goods wagons.  Perhaps the cows were weighed here when this was the Viehmarkt, or maybe they weighed the Kuhfladen, I’m not sure.

And there was Boxer, in conversation with an elderly man, small and thin, wearing a fedora (or a trilby – I’m never sure which is which).  The old gent then headed across Kirchgasse and went into Schreiber’s bookshop, removing his hat as if he were entering a church.  I snuck up on Boxer from the side.

“Boo!”

He turned around slowly, not the least bit perturbed by my surprise attack.

“Boo to you, too.”

“Are you auditioning for a new play, Boxer?  Or are you in full Google Incognito mode today?”

“If you are referring to these whiskers, I am growing a beard.”

“Really?  I would never have guessed.  Have you thought this through?”

“Yes, of course, Charles.  To grow a proper beard, one must grow it out, and then shape it.  I was thinking of something Mephistophelian.  What do you think?”

“Who was that man?”

“Who? Mephist — oh, you mean Herr Schreiber.  The German fellow who runs the bookshop.  We were discussing books, no less.”

“Books in general?”

“Books in general, yes.  Any book in the right hands is powerful, and any book in the wrong hands is dangerous.  That was our conclusion.  Now, shall we go to Gryffe for a beer?”

We sat outside near the back by the path to Platz der Begegnung.  Boxer noticed a self-service kiosk of sorts, filled with what looked like books.  We thought it merely decorative, and had put it out of our thoughts, when a deathly pale young woman with a wild-looking dog went to the kiosk, opened one of the doors and removed a book, replacing it with another from her shoulder bag.

“It is a book exchange station, Charles!  How wonderful!  Wait!  Someone else is approaching it.  These readers in Olten seem a starving lot.  He is not very healthy looking.  Rather dishevelled, actually.  And his dog, too.”

“Those are the outsiders, the Randständige – the ones living on the edge, the border of society.  At least they know how to read, it seems.”

“Let us take a look, Charles.  There may be just the book for me.  Of course, I have no book to trade in, but I shall leave an IOU and a promise to you to return as soon as possible with a book to donate.  Now, what have we here?  Lazlo Shunt, August Wilhelm von Schlegel, the Memoirs of Monsignor Bonifatius Ettlin.  Well, these are not top-of-the-chart reading.”

“Did you notice, Boxer, how those two before us went right in and found a book almost without looking?  And – Boxer, listen.  I think that fellow took out the same book that the woman had just put in.  Could that be?”

“I did not notice, to be honest.  I was paying attention to the dog the two had.  It was the same dog.  I am sure of it.”

“Boxer?  Where were you the past week?”

Boxer gave me the oddest look I had ever seen on his face until now.  It was a mixture of surprise and guilt and pleasure.  Surely he hadn’t been — No.  Impossible, or at least highly improbable.

“Oh, it was such great fun, Charles.  Yes, I shall tell you.  Do not worry.  I was in a television programme re-enacting a crime scene.  That one on German television.”

“‘X, Y …’?  That one?”

“Exactly.  That was thanks to my biblio-friend Herr Schreiber, you see.  He pointed me in the right direction.  And since my appearance lends itself so well to disguise, I was hired to portray the victim of a vicious robbery.  The beard was part of the disguise.”

“You mean it’s not real?  Here, let me see.”

“Ha ha!  Be careful not to get glue on your hands, Charles.  It is real only in the physical sense.  I played a trick on young Mina earlier today.  I am not sure she appreciated it.  Let us stop in for a pastry.”

When we got to Hermann’s, Mina was talking with a policeman.  Boxer was unsure of the uniform, and so he said something wrong.

“Ah, Mina!  Another postman in your life.  For shame.”  She had turned bright red before she noticed that Boxer was beardless.

Well, THAT situation was soon straightened out, just as another arose.  Hearing of Boxer’s acting career and recalling the incident of the four bars of smash, added to Boxer’s uncanny ability to get himself involved in the strangest of cases, the policeman took us into his confidence on a certain matter after we had said goodbye to Mina.

In short, Boxer was to resume his bearded appearance and infiltrate the street crowd of ‘outsiders’ to learn what he could about drug trafficking in Olten.  At that time, I thought this all quite humorous, but, as you shall read, it all turned rather nasty.  I, by agreement, was not to be informed of developments until or unless I was needed. 

Try as I might to ignore Boxer, during nearly all the next month, I only heard my next-door neighbour coming home very late at night and leaving again after just a few hours.  I hoped he was getting some sleep during those times.  And indeed I did see him occasionally, usually sitting on the Chilestäge, deep in discussion with one or more of the out-crowd.

As I have written earlier, Boxer is the sort of fellow who instils trust, and people feel free to confide in him, as I did from our very first meeting.  He had gained entry into their netherworld as easily as a moth into a hidden corner of a carpet.  When I saw him, he looked at ease in the company of his new ‘friends’.

After the second week of his undercover work, I got a text message from him.  He said, of course, not to worry about anything.  He was home long enough every night to do what needed doing.  He said that he was discovering more than he had imagined.  ‘These people,’ he wrote, ‘are not outsiders at all.  They are at the centre of life, of society.  We are the ones at the edge, behind the fence, looking in.  I shall be doing my best to help these people, not to criminalise the innocent.  There are some guilty ones here, to be sure.  Some are evil, others only venal.  I have no reservation about turning those over to the authorities.  I think we shall meet again in a week or so.’

I had said that this affair turned nasty, and it was only a miracle that Boxer came out of it alive, according to his account.  He had been embedded, so to speak, with the drug crowd, and had managed successfully to plead allergies when offered any substance not to his liking.  He said he had to be careful what he ate and drank, as well, and he had even not smoked his usual cigarettes during that time.  Until that final day —

“Charles, I had it all set up.  My plans were finalised for my new friends.  As for my new enemies – they were going to get coordinated and simultaneous surprise visits from the police forces of several cantons.  I had discovered all I needed, and I had just passed on the information.  There were only the goodbyes to say, so to speak.”

“No one ever suspected you?”

“Not once, of that I am sure.  Until that final day — “

“Yes, Boxer, I’ve already written that down.”

“Charles, I am glad you are taking notes.  Anyway, I was just getting ready to leave these criminals forever, when the big man himself offered me a cigarette from his pack.  Well, out of sudden weakness, I accepted.  But as he was lighting it for me, his hand slipped, and my beard caught fire.  Instead of trying to put it out, you see, I merely pulled it off.  The fellow was so shocked, I just had time to run out of the house before he came to his senses about my real identity.  He would have shot me, Charles, or stabbed me.”

“He got away?”

“No, Charles, it was I who got away.  I had timed my departure to coincide with the police raids.  I was still incognito to most of the officers and was glad I had no further explaining to do.”

“So, what is this plan you devised for your friends, Boxer?”

“Literary tea and coffee afternoons.”

“Boxer!  Ha ha!  What on earth?  You’re not serious!”

“Oh, yes, indeed, Charles.  Herr Schreiber and I have disabled the book exchange as a drug trading spot and turned it into a true cultural event.  Once a week, these people will gather in Schreiber’s reading room and listen to someone read from a book relevant to their interests and their needs.  After half an hour or so, tea and coffee will be served and the reading topic discussed. Hermann’s has agreed to provide suitable pastries.  Most of my new friends are actually quite excited about the idea.  We may even discover some real talent amongst them.”

“Did you have anyone in mind for the first reading?”

“Charles!  How splendid of you to volunteer!  I know you have been writing stories.  Here is an excellent chance for you to present your work to the public.  We shall expect you next Tuesday at four o’clock.  Dress casually.”

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