Me and Kaminski (11 page)

“Doesn’t mean a thing?” he repeated. “You want to write about my life. Didn’t it bother you?”

“Not at all,” I lied. “The book will be terrific, everybody wants to read it. Besides which, you yourself predicted it all: First one’s unknown, then one’s famous, then one’s forgotten again.”

“I said that?”

“Absolutely. And Dominik Silva says . . .”

“Don’t know him.”

“Dominik!”

“Never met him.”

“You’re not going to tell me . . .”

He snapped off the light and removed his glasses. His eyes were closed. “When I say I’ve never met someone, then I mean exactly that. I don’t know him. Believe me!”

I didn’t reply.

“Do you believe me?” It seemed to be important to him.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “Of course I do.” And all of a sudden I really did believe it, I was ready to believe anything he said, it didn’t matter. It didn’t even matter when the book came out. I just wanted to sleep. And I didn’t want him to die.

XI

I
WAS WALKING
down the street. Kaminski wasn’t with me, but he was somewhere close and I had to hurry. More and more people were coming toward me. I stumbled, fell to the ground, tried to get up again, couldn’t: my body was getting heavier, its weight trapped me there, legs brushed past me, a shoe trod on my hand, but didn’t hurt, I used all my strength to stop the ground from crowding against me—then I woke up. It was four-thirty in the morning, I recognized the outlines of the cupboard and the table, the dark window, Elke’s bed next to mine, empty.

I pushed back the covers, got up, felt the carpet under my naked feet. A noise of shuffling feet came out of the cupboard. I opened it. Kaminski was sitting inside, huddled up, his chin on his knees, his arms wrapped around his legs, and he looked at me with bright eyes. He wanted to speak, but with his first words the room dissolved; I felt the weight of the covers on me. A sour taste in my mouth, a dull feeling, headache. Cupboard, table, window, empty bed. Ten past five. I cleared my throat, my voice sounded strange, I got up. I felt the carpet under my feet and looked, shivering, at the checks on my pajamas in the mirror. I went to the door, turned the key, and opened it. “And I thought you’d never ask!” said Manz. “Now do you know?” Jana came into the room behind him. What was I supposed to know? “Oh,” said Manz, “stop pretending you’re so dumb!” Jana pensively wound a strand of hair around her forefinger. “Waste,” said Manz cheerfully, “all folly and waste, my dear.” He pulled out a handkerchief, waved at me in an affected way, and laughed so loudly that I woke up. Window, cupboard, table, the empty bed, the tangled covers, my pillows were on the floor, I had a headache. I got up. As I felt the carpet under my feet, I was overcome by such a sense of unreality that I reached for the bedpost, but in one swift movement it eluded my grasp. This time I knew it was a dream. I went to the window and pulled up the blind: the sun was shining, people were walking through the park, cars drove by, it was shortly after ten, and no dream. I went out into the hall. It smelled of coffee, and I could hear voices in the kitchen.

“Is that you, Zollner?” Kaminski was sitting at the kitchen table in his dressing gown, wearing his dark glasses. In front of him were orange juice, muesli, a bowl of fruit, jam, a basket of fresh baked things, and a steaming coffee cup. Sitting opposite him was Elke.

“You’re back?” I said a little uncertainly.

She didn’t reply. She was wearing an elegantly tailored suit, and she had a new haircut—shorter, leaving the ears free, softly curling in the nape of her neck. She looked great.

“Horrible dream!” said Kaminski. “A tiny space, no air, and I was locked in, I thought it must be a coffin, but then I realized there were clothes hanging above me and I wanted to paint, but I didn’t have any paper. Can you imagine that I dream every night about painting?”

Elke leaned forward and stroked his arm. A childlike smile lit up his face. She threw me a brief glance.

“You’ve met already!” I said.

“You were also there, Zollner, but that part I don’t remember.”

Elke poured him more coffee, I pulled up a chair and sat down. “I didn’t expect you back so early.” I touched her shoulder. “How was your trip?”

She stood up and went out of the room.

“Doesn’t look good,” said Kaminski.

“Just wait,” I said, and went after her.

I caught up with her in the hall, and we went into the living room.

“You had no right to come here!”

“I was in a tough spot. You weren’t there, and . . . anyhow, a lot of people would be delighted if I brought them Manuel Kaminski.”

“Then you should have brought him to one of them!”

“Elke,” I said, reaching for her shoulder, and moving close to her. She looked different, younger, something had happened with her. She glanced up, eyes glistening, a strand of hair fell down over her brow and caught itself in the corner of her mouth. “Let’s just forget it!” I said softly. “It’s me, Sebastian.”

“If you want to seduce me, you should shave. You shouldn’t be in your pajamas, and just maybe you shouldn’t be sitting beside Rubens waiting to bring him back to the love of his youth.”

“Where do you get that from?”

She pushed my arm away. “From him.”

“He doesn’t talk about it!”

“Maybe not with you. I got the impression he talks about nothing else. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed, but he’s really worked up.” She looked at me sharply. “And besides, what kind of an idea is this?”

“It gave me the chance to be alone with him. And I needed the scene for the beginning of the book. Or maybe the end, I have to think about that. That’s how I get to know what really happened.” For the first time, it felt good to talk to her. “I would never have thought it’s so hard. Everyone says something different, almost everything is forgotten, and they all contradict one another. How am I supposed to find out things?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.”

“Nothing fits together. He’s completely different from the way he was described to me.”

“Because he’s old, Sebastian.”

I rubbed my eyebrows. “You said I still had a chance. What did you mean?”

“Ask him.”

“Why him? He’s totally senile.”

“If that’s what you think.” She turned away.

“Elke, does it really have to end this way?”

“Yes it does. And it’s not tragic, it’s not terrible, it’s not even sad. Excuse me, I’d like to have broken it to you some easier way. But then I’d never have gotten you out of here.”

“That’s your last word?”

“I gave you my last word on the telephone. This is simply superfluous. Order a taxi and go to the station. I’ll come back in an hour and I would like the apartment to be empty.”

“Elke . . .”

“Otherwise I’ll have to call the police.”

“And Walter?”

“And Walter,” she said, and left the room. I heard her speaking quietly to Kaminski, then the front door closing. I rubbed my eyes, went to the table in the living room, took one of Elke’s packs of cigarettes, and wondered if I should try to cry. I lit up, laid the cigarette in the ashtray, and watched it turn to ashes. That made me feel better.

I went back into the kitchen. Kaminski was holding a pencil and a writing pad. His head was tilted against his shoulder and his mouth was open; he looked as if he were dreaming, or listening to someone. It took me a few moments to realize that he was drawing. His hand slid slowly over the paper: his forefinger, ring finger, and little finger were extended, the thumb and third finger were holding the pencil. Without lifting his head, he drew a spiral that broke into little waves here and there, at what seemed to be quite arbitrary points.

“Shall we get going?” he asked.

I sat down beside him. His fingers were contorted, a dense mat of lines was growing in the middle of the sheet of paper. He made a few swift lines using his wrist, then set the pad aside. Only when I looked again did the mat become a stone and the spirals the circles that this created as it hit smooth water, throwing up spray that suddenly contained the hint of the reflection of a tree.

“That’s good,” I said.

“Even you can do that.” He tore off the sheet of paper, put it in his pocket, and handed me pad and pencil. His hand laid itself on mine. “Imagine something. Something quite simple.”

I thought of a house, the way children draw it. Two windows, the roof, the chimney, and a door. Our hands moved. I looked at him: his beak of a nose, his raised eyebrows, I heard the whistling of his breath. I looked back down at the paper. There was the roof already, thinly crosshatched, as if by trails of snow, or ivy, then a wall, a shop window stood open, a tiny figure, formed by three strokes, leaned out, supported on one arm, then the door, it dawned on me that this was an original drawing, if I could just get him to sign it, I could sell it for a lot of money. The door had gone crooked, the second house as well, the pencil slipped down to the bottom corner, something didn’t add up anymore; Kaminski let go. “So?”

“It’s okay,” I said, disappointed.

“Are we driving?”

“Of course.”

“Will we take the train again?”

“The train?” I pondered. The car key must still be in my pocket, the car was where I’d parked it yesterday. Elke wouldn’t be back for an hour. “No, not today.”

XII

I
DECIDED
to take the highway this time. The man at the tollbooth rejected my credit card. I asked what real job he was running away from, he retorted that I should pay up and get out of his sight, and took the last of my cash. I put my foot on the gas and the power of the engine pressed me gently back against my seat. Kaminski took off his glasses and spat again. A moment later he was asleep.

His chest rose and fell regularly, his mouth hung open, you could see the stubble on his cheeks—neither of us had shaved for two days. He began to snore. I switched on the radio, a jazz pianist was playing riffs, faster and faster, Kaminski snored deeper, I turned up the volume. Good that he was asleep. There’d be no hotel this afternoon, we’d be driving straight back. I would give Elke the car, if she really insisted on it I’d take my suitcases with me, and I’d bring Kaminski home from there by train. I had everything I needed. The only thing still missing was the central scene, the climactic reencounter with Therese in the presence of his friend and biographer.

I turned off the radio. The dividers streamed toward us, I overtook two trucks, using the slow lane. All that, I thought, was his history. He was the one who’d lived it, now it was coming to an end, and I was no part of it all. His snoring checked itself for a moment, as if he’d read my thoughts. His life. And what about mine? His history. Did I even have one? A Mercedes was driving so slowly that I had to use the shoulder; I honked, pulled back left, and forced him to brake.

“But I have to go somewhere.”

Did I say that aloud? I shook my head. But it was true, I did have to go somewhere, and do something. That was the problem. I stubbed out my cigarette. That had always been the problem. The landscape had changed, there were no hills anymore, even the villages and paths were disappearing; it felt as if we were traveling back in time. We left the highway, for some time we were driving through woods: tree trunks and the interlaced shadows of branches. Then there was nothing but sheep meadows.

How long was it since I’d seen the sea? To my own surprise, I realized I was looking forward to it. I stepped on the gas, somebody honked. Kaminski, startled awake, said something in French and went back to sleep again, a thread of spittle hanging from the corner of his mouth. Houses built of red brick started appearing, and there, suddenly, was the town’s name on a sign. A straight-backed woman was crossing the street. I stopped, rolled down the window, and asked for directions. She pointed the way with a movement of her head. Kaminski woke up, got a fit of coughing, gasped for air, wiped his mouth, and said calmly, “Are we there?”

We were driving down the last line of streets in the place. The numbers seemed to be random, I had to drive the length of the street twice before I found the right house. I stopped, and got out. It was windy and cool, and unless I was imagining things, I could smell the sea.

“Have I been here before?” asked Kaminski.

“Not as far as I know.”

He pushed his stick against the ground and tried to stand up. He groaned. I went around the car to help him. I had never seen him like this: his mouth was distorted, his brow furrowed, and he looked shell-shocked, almost terrified. I knelt down and fastened his shoes. He licked his lips, pulled out his glasses, and put them on very deliberately.

“Back then, I thought I would die.”

I looked at him, astonished.

“And it would have been better that way. Everything else was a lie. Going on, pretending there was still some point to it all. Pretending not to be dead. It was exactly the way she wrote it. She always was smarter.”

I opened my bag and groped for the tape recorder.

“This letter was there one day. Just like that.”

My thumb found the “record” button and pressed it down.

“The apartment was empty. You’ve never experienced anything like it.”

Would the machine be able to record through the bag? “Why do you think I’ve never experienced anything like that?”

“You think you have a life. And suddenly, everything’s gone. Art means nothing. Everything’s an illusion. And you know it and you have to go on.”

“Let’s go on,” I said.

It was a house like its neighbors: two stories, a steep pointed roof, big picture window, a little front garden. The sun was nowhere to be found, veils of cloud covered the sky. Kaminski was breathing hard and I watched him with concern. I rang the bell.

We waited. Kaminski’s jaw worked, his hand ran over the handle of his cane. What if nobody was home? I hadn’t thought of that. I rang again.

And again.

A plump elderly gentleman opened the door. He had thick white hair and a lumpy nose, and he wore a shapeless knitted jacket. I looked at Kaminski but he didn’t say a word. He stood there bowed, held up by his stick, his head down, and seemed to be listening for something.

“Maybe we have the wrong address,” I said. “We’re looking for Ms. Lessing.”

The fat gentleman didn’t reply. He frowned, looked at me, looked at Kaminski, looked at me again, as if he were waiting for some kind of an explanation.

“Does she not live here?” I asked.

“She knows we’re coming,” said Kaminski.

“Well, not exactly,” I said.

Kaminski turned toward me slowly.

“We spoke,” I said, “but I’m not sure if I made it clear. I mean . . . basically we agreed to it, but . . .”

“Take me to the car.”

“You’re not serious!”

“Take me to the car.” He had never sounded like that before. I opened my mouth and shut it again.

“Come in, come in!” said the old gentleman. “Friends of Little Therese?”

“Sort of,” I said. Little Therese?

“I’m Holm. Little Therese and I are . . . well, we’ve moved in together. Sharing our twilight years.” He laughed. “Little Therese is inside.”

Kaminski, attached to my arm, didn’t seem to want to move. I pulled him gently toward the door. With every step his stick rapped against the ground.

“Keep going!” said Holm. “And do take your things off!”

I hesitated, but there was nothing to take off. A narrow hall with a brightly colored carpet and a doormat that said “Welcome.” Three coat hooks festooned with half a dozen knitted jackets, pairs of shoes lined up on the floor. An oil painting of a sunrise, with a rascally hare hopping over a flowerbed. I pulled out the tape recorder and shoved it unobtrusively into my pocket.

“Follow me!” said Holm and went ahead of us into the living room. “Little Therese, guess what!” He looked back at us. “Sorry, what was the name?”

I waited, but Kaminski said nothing. “This is Manuel Kaminski.”

“He knows you from before,” said Holm. “Do you remember?”

A bright room with large windows. Flowered curtains, striped rugs, a round dining table, a sideboard with piles of porcelain plates behind the glass doors, a TV in front of the sofa, an armchair and a coffee table, a telephone on the wall, next to a photograph of an elderly married couple and a reproduction of Botticelli’s
Birth of Venus.
Sitting in the armchair was an old woman. Her face was round, all folds and wrinkles, and her hair was a ball of white. She was wearing a pink wool jacket with a flower embroidered on the front, a checked skirt, and furry slippers. She switched off the TV and looked at us questioningly.

“Little Therese doesn’t hear so well,” said Holm. “Friends! From the old days! Kaminski! Do you remember?”

She looked up, still smiling, at the ceiling. “Of course.” Her hairdo bobbed up and down as she nodded. “From Bruno’s firm.”

“Kaminski,” said Holm loudly.

Kaminski clutched my arm so tightly that it hurt.

“My God,” she said. “You?”

“Yes,” he said.

For a few seconds there was absolute silence. Her hands, tiny and looking as if they were carved out of wood, brushed over the remote control.

“And I’m Sebastian Zollner, we spoke on the phone. I told you that sooner or later we’d . . .”

“Will you have some cake?”

“What?”

“Have to make coffee first. Do sit down!”

“How kind of you,” I said. I tried to lead Kaminski to one of the chairs, but he wouldn’t budge.

“I’ve heard you became famous.”

“You predicted it.”

“What did I do? God, come on and sit down. It’s all so long ago.” Without moving a finger, she indicated the empty chairs. I tried once again, Kaminski didn’t move an inch.

“So when did you know each other?” asked Holm. “Must be a long time ago, Little Therese never mentioned a thing. She’s lived through a lot.” She giggled. “It’s true, you know, there’s no need to blush! Married twice, four children, seven grandchildren. Quite something, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I said, “it certainly is.”

“You’re making me nervous, standing there,” she said. “It’s so uncomfortable. You don’t look good, Miguel, sit down.”

“Manuel!”

“Yes, yes, come on, sit down.”

With full force I pushed him toward the sofa, he stumbled forward, reached for the arm, let himself down. I sat next to him.

“First a couple of questions,” I said. “What I’d like to know from you is . . .”

The telephone rang. She reached for the receiver, said “No!” loudly, and hung up.

“Children from the neighborhood,” said Holm. “They call up pretending to be someone else and think we won’t notice. But they picked the wrong person!”

“The wrong person.” She gave a sharp little laugh. Holm went out. I waited: which of them would start to talk first? Kaminski sat there, bent over, Therese nestled there smiling between the lapels of her jacket; she nodded once, as if some interesting thought had just gone through her head. Holm came back with a tray: plates, forks, a flat, brownish cake. He cut it into slices and gave me a piece. It was dry as dust, hard to chew, and almost impossible to swallow.

“So,” I cleared my throat. “What did you do back then, after you left?”

“Left?”

“Left,” said Kaminski.

She gave an empty smile.

“All of a sudden you were gone.”

“Sounds just like Little Therese,” said Holm.

“I took the train,” she said slowly, “and headed north. I worked as a secretary. I was very alone. My boss was called Sombach, he always dictated too fast, and I had to correct his spelling. Then I met Uwe—we got married after two months.” She looked at the backs of her gnarled hands with their web of veins. For a moment her smile disappeared and her eyes hardened. “Do you remember that dreadful composer?” I looked at Kaminski, but he didn’t seem to know who she was talking about. Her expression softened, the smile came back. “Now you’ve forgotten the coffee.”

“Oops!” said Holm.

“Never mind!” I said.

“He who wants, never gets, and vice versa,” he said and stayed sitting.

“We had two children. Maria and Heinrich. But you know them already.”

“How would I know them?” asked Kaminski.

“Uwe was in a car accident. Someone hit him head-on, a drunk, he was killed instantly. Didn’t suffer.”

“That’s important,” said Kaminski softly.

“The most important. When I heard the news, I thought I was dying too.”

“She says that,” said Holm, “but she’s tough.”

“Two years later, I married Bruno. Eva and Lore are his. Lore lives right over there in the next street. You drive straight ahead, third left, then left again. Then you’re there.”

“Where?” I asked.

“At Lore’s.” There was silence for a few moments. We looked at one another, confused. “That’s where you said you wanted to go!” The telephone rang, she picked up, cried “No!” and hung up again. Kaminski folded his hands and his stick fell on the floor.

“What business are you in?” asked Holm.

“He’s an artist,” she said.

“Oh!” Holm’s eyebrows shot up.

“He’s well known. You shouldn’t just read the sports pages in the papers. He was very good.”

“That’s a long time ago,” said Kaminski.

“Those mirrors,” she said. “So spooky. The first time you did something that wasn’t . . .”

“What annoys me,” said Holm, “are those pictures where you can’t recognize anything. You don’t paint that sort of thing, do you?” Before I could take evasive action, he pushed another slice of cake onto my plate; it almost fell off, and crumbs showered down into my lap. He himself, said Holm, made herbal products: small factory, shower gel, teas, creams for muscle pains. You’d find almost nothing comparable these days, you just had to accept that, a certain decline was built into the order of things. “The order of things!” he cried. “Are you sure you don’t want coffee?”

“I’ve always thought about you,” said Kaminski.

“But it’s been such a long time,” she said.

“I asked myself . . .” He fell silent.

“Yes?”

“Nothing. You’re right. It’s a long time ago.”

“What is?” asked Holm. “You should come out and say it!”

“Do you remember your letter?”

“So what’s going on with your eyes?” she asked. “You’re an artist. Isn’t that a problem?”

“Your letter!”

I bent down, picked up the stick and pushed it into his hand.

“Remember what? I was so young.”

“And?”

A thought passed over her face. “I knew nothing.”

“You knew more than that.”

“That’s what I mean,” said Holm, “whenever I ask Little Therese . . .”

“Shut up!” I said. He took a long breath and stared at me.

“No, Manuel. I really don’t remember anymore.” The corners of her mouth turned up, her brow smoothed itself out, and she turned the remote control around and around in her hand without bending her fingers.

“You don’t know the best story of all,” said Holm. “It was Little Therese’s seventy-fifth birthday and everyone was there: her children, the grandchildren, everyone finally together in one place. Nobody was missing. And when they sang
For she’s a jolly good fellow,
right then, in front of the big cake . . .”

“Seventy-five candles,” she said.

“Not that many, there wasn’t room. Do you know what she said?”

“There were so!”

“We have to go,” said Kaminski.

“Do you know what she said?” The doorbell rang. “Now what?!” Holm stood up and went out into the hall, you could hear him talking quickly and agitatedly with someone.