Mr. Monk Goes to Germany by Lee Goldberg (general ebook reader .TXT) 📕

short and as round as a bowling ball. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun and she wore her flowered apron as if it was her skin.

What they had in common was an easy smile and a natural hospitality.

Friderike showed us up to our rooms on her own, sparing her tall husband a potential head-bruising, though neither Monk nor I was so lucky. We both managed to bang our heads, me while climbing on the uneven staircase and Monk while walking down the corridor.

“If you need some ice, you just let me know,” she said. “A cup of hot mint tea helps, too.”

She took a long, old-fashioned key out of her apron pocket and opened the door to one of the rooms.

“This was my room when I was a child,” she said. “And now it’s yours.”

I peeked inside. It was snug, only a little larger than the iron bed in the center of the room. Thick wooden beams stretched across the low, bowed ceiling. The floor seemed to slope towards the stone fireplace, where another thick slab of smooth wood served as a mantelpiece and supported a row of books. There were candles everywhere and a small, square window covered with hand-sewn drapes.

“I love it,” I said.

“But it isn’t level,” Monk said.

“It looks very cozy to me,” I said.

“It is,” Friderike said. “Warm in the winter and cool in the spring.”

She led us down the hall to the next room. It didn’t have a fireplace, but otherwise it was the same as mine. Monk shook his head in disapproval.

“These rooms are uninhabitable,” Monk said. “And the entire building is crooked. It could tumble down at any moment.”

“It’s probably leaning a bit, but the house has always looked that way,” she said. “That’s because it was built without right angles.”

Monk gasped. “Why would anyone do that?”

“They believed that the devil sits in right angles,” she said.

“My God,” Monk said. “Were they living in the Dark Ages?”

“Yes,” she said cheerfully, “they were.”

“When was your home built?” I asked her.

“In 1440. The walls are made of oak from the Spessart and mud, rocks, and twigs from the banks of the river Main.”

“Mud?” Monk said.

“And it’s still better-made and sturdier than the homes they build today. I wouldn’t want to live in one of those flimsy places.”

Friderike was probably right. I doubted that a modern American tract home could endure as long as the buildings in Lohr had against the vagaries of time and war.

What was really amazing to me was that the wooden beams of their buildings had been exposed to the elements for centuries without rotting, and yet, no matter what I did, I had to replace my window frames every few years.

I had to know the secret.

“How did they keep the wood from rotting?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s simple. They soaked it in ox blood,” she said. “It keeps the worms away.”

“And people, too.” Monk abruptly turned and marched to the stairs, banging his head on a beam again.

I grabbed him firmly by the arm and turned him around.

“There is nowhere else to stay, Mr. Monk.”

“There’s the car,” he said, rubbing his forehead.

“They don’t allow people to sleep in their cars here,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“I saw a sign.” It was a lie, but I was confident the regulation existed. I looked back at Friderike. “We’ll take the rooms.”

“We’re glad to have you,” she said, handing me the keys. “Breakfast is at seven. I’ll make you both a cup of tea.”

She walked past us down the stairs.

“Natalie, be reasonable,” he implored me. “The walls are made of dirt and soaked in ox blood.”

“Do you think the walls at home are any healthier? Who knows what chemicals have gone into them?”

“I do,” Monk said.

“You mean like asbestos, lead, and formaldehyde?” I said. “I feel a lot safer surrounded by walls made of mud that was taken from the riverbanks centuries before everything was polluted by chemicals and insecticides.”

“But infested with sewage and plague,” he said.

“That was hundreds of years ago. But think of all the people who have been in that rental car in just the last few weeks,” I said. “I can’t imagine what germs and bodily fluids they might have left behind.”

“I can.” Monk put his hand on his forehead again and closed his eyes. “I feel dizzy.”

“It’s hunger, dehydration, and lack of sleep,” I said. “Or a concussion.”

I led Monk to his room and told him to rest while I brought up our suitcases. When I returned a few minutes later, I found him rubbing the wall with a disinfectant wipe. There was a cup of hot tea on his nightstand and one on mine, too.

I suggested to Monk that we shower, change, and meet downstairs in an hour for dinner.

“An hour isn’t enough time,” he said.

“How much time do you need?”

He was quiet for a moment. “Under perfect conditions, and by that I mean if I wasn’t occupying a mud hut, cleaning the shower would take only two to three hours. I’m going to need at least eight, but I am being conservative.”

“I’m leaving for dinner in an hour,” I said. “With or without you.”

I went to my room and closed the door. I sat down on the edge of the bed and enjoyed my cup of tea, which was piping hot and had a touch of honey. It was delicious and, as promised, it seemed