Me And Kaminski Part 6

"On his biography." He put his hat back on. "Has to concentrate." Why the h.e.l.l did he have to repeat himself all the time?

"My name is Zollner," I said. "I'm his biographer and friend." I held out my hand, he took it hesitantly. His handshake was uncomfortably strong, I returned it. He looked at me sharply.

"I'm going to him now." He took a step forward.

"No!" I said, blocking him.

He gave me a skeptical glance. Was he wondering if I could stop him? Just try it, I thought.

"Surely it's just routine," I said. "He doesn't need anything."

"And why do you think that?"

"He really is very busy. He can't just interrupt things. There are so many . . . memories. The work means so much to him."

He shrugged his shoulders, blinked, and took a step back. I'd won.

"I'm sorry," I said generously.

"What was your name?" he asked.

"Zollner," I said. "Good-bye."

He nodded. I smiled and he returned my gaze coldly. I closed the door. From the kitchen window I watched as he went to his car, put his bag in the trunk, got behind the wheel, and drove off. Then he stopped, rolled down the window, and looked back at the house again; I jumped back, waited a few seconds, went back to the window, and saw the car heading down the curve. Relieved, I went back upstairs.

Manuel, I'm not really writing this. I'm only imagining that I would write it, but that I wouldn't then stick it in an envelope and send it into the real world, to you. I was just in a cinema, de Gaulle looked as funny as ever in the newsreel, outside it's thawing, for the first time this year, and I'm trying to imagine that it all has nothing to do with us. When you get right down to it, none of us-not me, not poor Adrienne, not Dominik-believe that they could leave you. But perhaps we're deluding ourselves.

After all this time, I still don't know what we are to you. Maybe we're mirrors (you know all about them) whose task it is to reflect your image and turn you into something large and many-faceted and wide. Yes, you will be famous. And you will have earned it. Now you will go to Adrienne, you'll take what she has to give, and make sure that she believes it will be her own decision when she leaves. Perhaps you'll send her to Dominik. Then there'll be other people, and other mirrors. But not me.

Don't cry, Manuel. You've always cried easily, but this time leave it to me. Naturally it's the end, and we're dying. But that doesn't mean that we won't be here for a long time, that we won't find other people, go for walks, dream at night, and accomplish everything that a marionette can accomplish. I don't know if I'm really writing this, and I don't know if I'll send it. But if I do, if I manage it, and you read it, then please understand that this is what it means: Let me be dead! Don't call, don't come looking for me, because I'm no longer here. And as I look out of the window and ask myself why they all don't . . . . . .

I turned over the page, but there wasn't any more, the rest of it must have gotten lost. I went through all the sheets of paper again, but the missing one wasn't there. Sighing, I pulled out my notepad and wrote the whole thing down. A couple of times my pencil snapped, my handwriting was so hasty as to be unreadable, but after ten minutes I'd done it. I put all the papers back in the portfolio and put the portfolio all the way at the bottom of the drawer. I closed the cupboards, straightened up the piles of doc.u.ments, checked that no drawer was still open. I nodded in satisfaction: n.o.body would notice a thing, I had done it very skillfully. Just at that moment, the sun disappeared, the mountains looked rugged and enormous for a moment, then they retreated and became flat and distant. It was time to play my best card.

I knocked, Kaminski didn't answer.

I went in. He was sitting in his chair, the tape recorder was still lying on the floor. "Back again?" he asked. "Where's Marzeller?"

"The doctor just called. He can't come. Can we talk about Therese Lessing?"

He said nothing.

"Can we talk about Therese Lessing?"

"You must be mad."

"Listen, I'd like . . ."

"What's the matter with Marzeller? Does the guy want me to croak?"

"She's alive, and I've spoken with her."

"Call him. What can he be thinking!"

"I said, she's alive."

"Who?"

"Therese. She's a widow and she's alive. In the north, up on the coast. I have the address."

He didn't reply. He lifted a hand slowly, rubbed his forehead, and let it fall again. His mouth opened and closed, and he frowned. I looked at the tape recorder. The voice-activation function had kicked in, it was recording every word.

"Dominik told you she was dead. But that's wrong."

"It's not true," he said quietly. His chest was rising and falling. I worried about his heart.

"I've known for ten days. It wasn't even hard to discover."

He said nothing. I watched him carefully: he turned his head to the wall, without opening his eyes. His lips were trembling. He puffed his cheeks and blew out the air.

"I'm going to be seeing her soon," I said. "I can ask her anything you want. You just have to tell me what happened back then."

"Who do you think you are?" he whispered.

"Don't you want to know the truth?"

He seemed to be thinking. Now I had him in my hand. That was something he hadn't reckoned with; he too had underestimated Sebastian Zollner! I was so wound up I couldn't stay still, I went to the window and peered through the slats of the blind. From second to second the lights in the valley were becoming brighter. The bushes stood out round, like copper cutouts, in the twilight.

"I'll be with her next week," I said. "Then I can ask her . . ."

"I don't fly," he said.

"No, of course you don't," I said soothingly. He really was very confused. "You're at home. Everything's fine!"

"The medicines are by the bed."

"That's excellent."

"You imbecile," he said calmly. "You need to pack them."

I gaped at him. "Pack them?"

"We're going to drive."

"You're not serious!"

"Why not?"

"I can pa.s.s any questions on to her. We can't do this-no way. You're too-ill." I'd almost said "old." "I can't take the responsibility." Was I dreaming, or were we really having this conversation?

"You're not mistaken, you didn't get something mixed up? Someone didn't pull a fast one on you?"

"n.o.body," I said, "would pull a fast one on Sebastian . . ."

He snorted derisively.

"No," I said. "She's alive and"-I hesitated-"would like to speak to you. You can go to the telephone . . ."

"I'm not going to the telephone. Do you want to let this opportunity slip?"

I rubbed my forehead. What had happened, hadn't I just had everything under control? Somehow things had gotten away from me. And he was right: we'd be driving for two days, I'd never have been able to hope for so much time with him. I could ask him whatever I wanted. My book would become and remain a primary source, read by students and cited by art historians.

"It's strange," he said. "To have you in my life. Strange and not pleasant."

"You're famous. That's what you wanted. Being famous means having someone like me." I didn't know why I said that.

"There's a suitcase in the cupboard. Pack a few of my things."

I took a deep breath. I couldn't believe it! I had hoped to surprise and confuse him, in order to get him to talk about Therese. But I hadn't wanted to abduct him! "You haven't taken a trip in years."

"The car keys are hanging next to the front door. You know how to drive, don't you?"

"I'm a very good driver." Did he really intend to just-right now, just like that, with me? He must be mad. On the other hand: was that my problem? Of course, the journey would endanger his health. But then the book could come out sooner.

"Now what?" he asked.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. Stay calm, I thought, calm! I could just leave it, just walk out; he'd drop off to sleep and by early next morning he'd have forgotten the whole thing. And the opportunity of a lifetime would be over.

"Okay, let's get going!" I cried. I leaped up, the bed creaked, and he winced.

For a few seconds we stayed there frozen, as if he were the one now who couldn't believe it. Then he slowly reached out his hand. I held it, and in that same second I knew that everything was decided. It felt cool and soft, yet its grip was surprisingly strong. I supported him as he slid out of the chair. I stumbled, he pulled me to the door. In the pa.s.sage he stopped, I gave him a firm push. On the stairs I wouldn't have been able to say anymore which of us was leading the other.

"Not so fast," I said hoa.r.s.ely. "I still have to get your luggage."

VII.

SO NOW I I REALLY WAS REALLY WAS driving the BMW. The road dropped away steeply behind us, the headlights only pulled in a few yards of asphalt out of the darkness; it was hard navigating the bends. Another one: I hauled on the steering wheel, the road curved and kept curving, I thought that might be it now, but no, it kept on curving, we came dangerously near to the right edge, the engine coughed, I changed down, the engine howled, and the curve was behind us. driving the BMW. The road dropped away steeply behind us, the headlights only pulled in a few yards of asphalt out of the darkness; it was hard navigating the bends. Another one: I hauled on the steering wheel, the road curved and kept curving, I thought that might be it now, but no, it kept on curving, we came dangerously near to the right edge, the engine coughed, I changed down, the engine howled, and the curve was behind us.

"You need to change gears earlier," said Kaminski.

I bit off any reply, the next curve was already coming up and I had to concentrate: s.h.i.+ft, easy on the gas, s.h.i.+ft down, the engine gave a deep rumble, the road stretched straight ahead of us.

"You see!" he said.

I heard his lips smack, saw his jaw working out of the corner of my eye. He had put on his dark gla.s.ses, folded his hands in his lap, and leaned back. Over his s.h.i.+rt and pullover he was still wearing the dressing gown. I had tied his shoelaces and fastened him into his seatbelt, but he immediately undid the buckle again. He looked pale and agitated. I opened the glove compartment and put the tape recorder in it.

"When was the last time you met Rieming?"

"The day before his s.h.i.+p sailed. We went for a walk, he was wearing two coats, one on top of the other, because he was cold. I said I was having problems seeing, he said, 'Use your memory!' He kept clapping his hands, and his eyes were watering. Chronic inflammation. He was very worried about the journey, water terrified him. Richard was afraid of everything."

Suddenly we were heading into the longest curve I'd ever seen: it felt as if we were turning in a full circle for almost a minute. "And his relations.h.i.+p with your mother?"

He said nothing. The houses of the village suddenly appeared: black shadows, lighted windows, the name of the place on a road sign, for a few seconds streetlights swayed above us, the main square was lit up with its shop displays, then another road sign, this time with a line through the place name, then darkness again.

"He was simply there. He was given something to eat, he read his newspaper, and in the evenings he went to his room to work. Mama and he always used the formal 'Sie' when they spoke to each other."

The curves were less tight now. I eased my grip on the steering wheel and sat back. I was gradually getting used to it.

"Naturally he had no desire to have my scribblings in his book, but he was afraid of me."

"Really?"

Kaminski sn.i.g.g.e.red. "I was fifteen and a little crazy. Poor Richard thought I was capable of anything. A pleasant child I most certainly was not!"

I kept quiet because I was annoyed. Of course, what he'd just told me would be a sensation, but he was probably just trying to trick me, it just didn't sound plausible. Who could I check with? The man sitting beside me was the last person alive who had known Rieming. And everything that Rieming had been, outside his books-the two coats, the hand-clapping, the fear, and the watering eyes-would disappear along with his memory. And perhaps I for once would be the only one who could still recall . . . what was the matter with me?

"With Matisse it was the same thing. He wanted to throw me out. But I wouldn't go. He didn't like my paintings. But I wouldn't go! You know how it is when somebody simply won't go? You can achieve a lot that way."

"I know. When I was writing my account of the Wernicke thing . . ."

"So what could he do? He finally sent me to a collector."

"To Dominik Silva."

"Oh, he was so great and so reserved and impressive, and I couldn't have cared less. A young artist is a strange creature. Half crazed with ambition and greed."

A last curve opened out onto the main road. The mushroom-shaped roof of the railroad station shot into view, the valley was so narrow that the tracks ran right next to the road. An oncoming car stopped and honked its horn, I drove past regardless, and only then noticed that I was still driving with my brights. Another car braked sharply and I dropped my lights to normal. I avoided the entrance to the highway, I really didn't want to have to pay tolls. The roads in any case were empty at this hour. Shadows of forests, a village without lights, it was like driving through a dead land. I opened the window a crack, feeling almost weightless and unreal. Night, in a car, alone with the greatest painter in the world. Who could have imagined it a week ago?

"May I smoke?"

He didn't answer, he was asleep. I coughed as loudly as I could, but it didn't help, he didn't wake up. I hummed to myself. He was supposed to be talking to me! I finally gave up and switched off the tape recorder. For a while I listened to him snore, then I lit a cigarette. But not even the smoke woke him. So why did he need sleeping pills?

I blinked, suddenly I felt as though I'd nodded off. I jerked back again, upright, but nothing had happened, Kaminski snored on, the road was empty, and I steered back into the right lane. An hour later he surfaced and told me to stop because he needed to get out. I was worried and asked if he needed my help; he muttered that that would make his day, climbed out of the car, and fumbled at his pants in the cone of the headlights. Groping for the car roof, he then eased himself back into his seat and closed the door. I drove on and a few seconds later he was snoring again. Once he murmured in his sleep, his head lolled this way and that, and he gave off a faint old man's smell.

Dawn slowly brought the mountains into the foreground as the sky receded, and across the plain in scattered houses, lights began to switch themselves on and off. The sun came up and climbed higher in the sky, I pulled down the visor. The road soon filled up with cars, trucks, and one tractor after another, which I overtook with my hand on the horn. Kaminski sighed.

"Is there any coffee?" he asked suddenly.

"It can be arranged."

He cleared his throat, blew through his nose, moved his lips, and c.o.c.ked an ear in my direction. "Who are you?"

My heart skipped a beat. "Zollner!"

"Where are we going?"

"To . . ." I swallowed. "To Therese, your . . . to Therese Lessing. We had . . . you had-this idea yesterday. I wanted to help."