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

I finished my tea, took a shower, and changed into fresh clothes. I felt like a new woman.

I was careful to crouch as I went down the stairs. I wondered if anyone had ever suggested to them that they pad the beams.

Monk was waiting for me in the front room, studying the decorative plates and needlepoint portraits of Lohr that were hanging on the white-plastered walls.

He was dressed in his usual uniform—a 100 percent cotton shirt buttoned up to the neck, a buttoned-up gray sport coat, pleated slacks with eight belt loops instead of the usual seven, and brown Hush Puppies loafers buffed to a brilliant sheen.

Heiko Schmidt sat in a stiff-backed chair, smoking a pipe and studying Monk.

“Is that how folks are dressing in the States now?” he asked.

“They should,” Monk said.

Heiko nodded. He wore a checked shirt under a cable-knit cardigan sweater that seemed to be two sizes too large. The ribbed napping of his corduroy pants was nearly smoothed away with wear.

“Very stylish,” Heiko said. I think he meant it.

Monk cocked his head from side to side. It wasn’t often that he got an unsolicited compliment.

“I think it’s going to catch on,” he said.

I asked Heiko if he could recommend a place to eat in Lohr.

“The Boar’s Head,” he said. “Best food in town outside of Mama’s own kitchen. It’s right down the street.”

I thanked him and we headed out to dinner.

Night was a lot darker in Lohr than it was in San Francisco. The cobblestone streets and half-timbered buildings were softly illuminated in the glow of lamps crafted in the style of old gas lanterns. If there were any parked cars around, I couldn’t see them and I was glad for that. The dim light in the deep blackness seemed to erase all the signs of modern times. It was easy and fun to imagine that we were back in the Middle Ages.

Monk didn’t notice. He was watching his feet, carefully selecting each stone that he stepped on until he reached a drainage gully that ran down the center of the street.

The stones in the drain were laid down in a consistent pattern, two stones wide. It meant that Monk had to walk with one foot directly in front of the other, like he was on a tightrope, if he wanted to avoid touching the randomly placed stones on either side of the drain.

I slipped my arm around Monk’s and he immediately stiffened up.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Walking arm in arm with you.”

“I know that,” he said. “But why?”

“Because we’re in an adorable medieval village on a warm spring night and I’m happy to be here with you.”

I wasn’t aware of it until I’d said it, but it was actually true.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he said.

I sighed. “I’m afraid I might trip on one of these uneven stones and I’m holding on to to you for dear life.”

“I don’t blame you,” Monk said. “Whoever laid these stones was deranged.”

I felt him relax a bit, which for him was quite a lot.

We walked on in silence, arm in arm. I liked the sound of our feet against the cobblestone. It wasn’t a sound I ever heard at home. It was soothing.

“This is nice,” I said.

“I’m uncomfortable here,” he said.

“You’re uncomfortable everywhere.”

“I’m not uncomfortable in my apartment,” he said.

“But is that how you’d like to live? In total isolation?”

“It’s probably not possible,” Monk said. “But it doesn’t hurt to dream.”

The restaurant was in a building every bit as old, lopsided, and charming as the bed-and-breakfast where we were staying, so naturally Monk was reluctant to step inside. But since my arm was entwined with his, I was able to yank him in without much effort.

The walls of the restaurant were adorned with antlers and stuffed birds of all kinds, and above the fireplace in the main dining room there was a giant boar’s head topped with a bowler hat crowned with colorful plastic flowers.

Monk wanted to leave immediately but I convinced him that he needed to eat and I reminded him that he didn’t bring any food of his own so he was stuck consuming the local fare. He would have tried to bring a year’s worth if he hadn’t been heavily medicated when he packed.

He shook his head in despair. “This is why you should just say no to drugs.”

“Because you could end up eating in a lovely old restaurant in an idyllic small town in Germany?”

“Exactly,” Monk said. “Next thing you know, I could be plucking my eyes out with hot pokers.”

“I’ll try to keep you away from hot pokers,” I said.

“Let this be a lesson for your daughter.”

“I will be sure to tell her.”

We were led to a table for two against the wall. I sat with my back to the wall so Monk had to face only me and one set of antlers rather than look at the boar’s head and the mounted fowl.

The waiter gave us menus in English without being asked. Somehow he’d figured out we were American tourists despite the distinctive Lohr bumps on our heads.

The menu was simple and short, with only a few steak, fish, and salad items. The rib-eye steak was described as “muscle from the zone between the ribs with typical bubbling fat pockets,” which might have been accurate but didn’t sound too appetizing. The fish entrée was described as “salmontrout on white rice