The Tavernier Stones

Chapter 22

Gebhardt would have preferred to conduct business on dry land. But Blumenfeld had insisted on getting out of the house, claiming she was tired of walking the streets of Mainz and loitering in its museums. Also, she was sure her husband suspected something: he was uncharacteristically quiet nowadays and often lingered nearby while she spoke on the phone.

The two cohorts seated themselves in a large dining room on the highest enclosed deck of the Berlin, a river cruiser operated by the Köln-Düsseldorfer line. Three rows of tables, already set with long-stemmed wine glasses, spanned the length of the boat. But despite the capacity, the room was nearly empty, most passengers electing to sit above on the open deck, where the view was better.

Gebhardt knew Blumenfeld didn't care about the view. She wanted to continue the "saturation." And the disappointment on her face, as she watched him gaze idly out the window, was obvious. As for Gebhardt himself, he acted the way he felt, and the way he felt was that they had reached a dead end.

The Rhein River was beautiful from its source in the Alps to its mouths on the North Sea. But it was most beautiful in Germany, especially between Mainz and Köln. And it was legendary between Bingen and St. Goar, where the channel narrowed ruggedly and castles peppered the bluffs.

Across the river from Bingen's harbor were steep, terraced vineyards, the vine culture dating back to the Roman occupation. Although the sun was already low, it shined warmly on the vines as the boat pulled out of the harbor.

Gebhardt looked out the window. Waves from passing barges lapped inoffensively against the hull of the cruise ship. The churning surface of the water reflected the dull green hues of vineyards blanketing the hills. If not for the rumbling of the ship's engines, it would have been hard to tell whether the ship was moving or the scenery was reeling slowly by.

A loudspeaker began a commentary in German, repeating everything afterwards in English and French.

"So much for peace and quiet," Gebhardt muttered.

The first landmark, visible even from Bingen's harbor, was the Mäuseturm, a thirteenth-century tower jutting up from the middle of the channel in starkly medieval orange and white. In its prime it had served as a lookout for Burg Ehrenfels, a castle built on the north bank without a clear view downriver. The castle, picturesque in ruins, was destroyed by the French during their pillage of 1689.

Ruins of more castles drifted lazily past on the hilltops.

"After half a dozen or so of those brick piles," Gebhardt said, "they all begin to look alike."

"Pity," Blumenfeld responded. "You should visit some of them. That one, for instance." She pointed up at Burg Rheinstein, its gray, menacing battlements growing out of the schist and slate high above the south bank. "The interior is splendid."

"I'll take your word for it. I like it down here, where the air is dense."

The boat docked at Bacharach and picked up more passengers, including a large group of Japanese tourists. Gebhardt commented that should his favorite party come to power, there would be fewer such elements in the country, and therefore more seats on the boat.

"Yes," Blumenfeld agreed, "and fewer boats."

The jewel of Bacharach was its Gothic chapel. Looming on the hill above, Burg Stahleck was yet another medieval fortress defeated in 1689, yet again by the French.

"This is where I'd live, where I'd buy a house." Gebhard nodded toward the town. "It's pretty and unpretentious."

"Oberwesel for me," Blumenfeld said. "The architecture is better preserved."