Part 1 (2/2)

I got out and lit up a cigarette. The dizzy feeling gradually subsided. Behind the station was the village street, and behind that a two-story house with a weathered wooden front door and open shutters: Belview Boardinghouse, breakfast, good cooking. Belview Boardinghouse, breakfast, good cooking. A stag's head stared at me gloomily from one of the windows. No help for it, this was where I'd reserved, everything else was too expensive. A stag's head stared at me gloomily from one of the windows. No help for it, this was where I'd reserved, everything else was too expensive.

The reception desk was staffed by a large woman with her hair in an elaborate beehive. She spoke slowly, articulating every word, but I still had to concentrate in order to understand her. A s.h.a.ggy dog was snuffling around on the floor. ”Take the suitcase to my room,” I said, ”and I need an extra pillow, a coverlet, and paper. Lots of paper. How do I get to Kaminski's house?”

She set her sausage hands on the reception desk and looked at me. The dog found something and ate it noisily.

”He's expecting me,” I said. ”I'm not a tourist. I'm his biographer.”

She seemed to be thinking this over. The dog pushed his nose against my foot. I suppressed the urge to kick him.

”Behind here,” she said, ”up the path. Half an hour, the house with the tower. Hugo!”

It took me a moment to grasp that this was aimed at the dog. ”Do people often ask for him?”

”Who?”

”I don't know. Vacationers. Admirers. Anyone?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

”Do you have any idea who this man is?”

She said nothing. Hugo grunted and let something drop out of his mouth; I made myself not look. A tractor chugged past the window. I thanked her for her help and went outside.

The path began behind the semicircle of the main square, went up in a double spiral above the roof tops, and then through some brownish field of rubble. I took a deep breath and set off.

It was worse than I'd expected. A few steps and my s.h.i.+rt was already sticking to my body. A warm mist was rising off the meadows, the sun was blazing, sweat poured down my forehead. When I stopped to catch my breath, I had cleared the first two turns.

I took off my jacket and put it over my shoulders. It fell to the ground; I tried tying the sleeves around my hips. Sweat was getting into my eyes, I wiped it away. I made it up another two bends, then I had to rest.

I sat on the ground. A mosquito buzzed, high-pitched, then suddenly stopped somewhere close to my head; seconds later my cheek began to itch. The wet gra.s.s was beginning to soak my pants. I stood up.

The main thing was obviously to find the right rhythm between walking and breathing. But it didn't come to me, I kept having to stop, my whole body was soon wet, I was having to pant and my breath rattled, my hair was stuck to my face. Then there was a rumble, I leapt sideways in fright, a tractor overtook me. The man driving it looked at me with indifference, his head bobbing to the rhythm of the engine.

”Can I hitch a ride?” I yelled. He didn't pay any attention. I tried to keep pace with him and almost managed to jump on. But then I fell back and couldn't catch up with him, and watched as he climbed the hill away from me, grew smaller, then disappeared around the next curve. His diesel smell hung in the air for quite some time.

Half an hour later, I was at the top, breathing heavily and hanging on to a wooden post. As I turned around, the slope seemed to plunge in one direction as the sky soared away in the other, and I clung to the post till the rush of vertigo eased. I was surrounded by spa.r.s.e tufts of gra.s.s mixed with shale, and the path ahead of me fell away gently. I followed it slowly, and after ten minutes it ended in a small south-facing bowl of rock that held three houses, a parking place, and a black-topped road leading down to the valley.

Yes: a wide, tarred road! I had made a great big detour, not to mention the fact that I could have done the whole thing by taxi. I thought about the proprietress: this was going to cost her! The parking place held nine, I counted them, cars. The first nameplate said Clure, Clure, the second said the second said Dr. Glinzli, Dr. Glinzli, the third said the third said Kaminski. Kaminski. I looked at it for a while. I had to get myself used to the idea that he really lived here. I looked at it for a while. I had to get myself used to the idea that he really lived here.

The house was large and graceless: two stories and a pointy decorative tower in an elephantine approximation of art nouveau. There was a gray BMW parked in front of the garden gate; it made me envious, I would love to have driven a car like that just once. I smoothed back my hair, put on my jacket, and fingered the mosquito bite on my cheek. The sun was already low in the sky, my shadow on the lawn in front of me was narrow and long. I rang the bell.

II.

APPROACHING FOOTSTEPS, a key turned, the door flew open, and a woman in a dirty ap.r.o.n was giving me the once-over. I said my name, she nodded, and the door slammed.

Just as I was about to ring again, the door reopened: another woman, mid-forties, tall and thin, black hair, narrow, almost oriental eyes. I said my name, she made a brief gesture that meant: Come in. ”We weren't expecting you until the day after tomorrow.”

”I was able to get here sooner.” I followed her through a bare hall, at the other end of which a door stood open, emitting a babble of voices. ”I hope it won't cause you any problems.” I gave her time to confirm that it wouldn't indeed cause any, but she didn't take me up on it. ”You could have told me about the road. I came up here on the path, I could have gone right over the edge. You're the daughter?”

”Miriam Kaminski,” she said, quite coolly, and opened another door. ”Please wait.”

I went in. A sofa, two chairs, a radio on the windowsill. On the wall, an oil painting of a dark hilly landscape, probably Kaminski's middle period, early fifties. The wall above the heating unit was streaked with soot, in a couple of places dust hung down from the ceiling in threads that moved in some air current that was otherwise undetectable. I was going to sit down, but right then in came Miriam and, I recognized him at once, her father.

I hadn't expected him to be so small, so tiny and shapeless compared with the slim figure in old photographs. He was wearing a pullover and impenetrable dark gla.s.ses, one hand was on Miriam's arm and the other on a white walking cane. His skin was brown, creased like old leather, his cheeks sagged loosely, his hands seemed enormous, his hair a chaotic halo. He was wearing threadbare corduroys and gym shoes, the right one was undone and the laces dragged behind him. Miriam led him to a chair, he groped for the armrests and sat down. She remained standing and watched me.

”Your name is Zollner,” he said.

I hesitated, it hadn't sounded like a question, and I was struck, quite inexplicably, by a momentary shyness. I held out my hand, met Miriam's stare, and pulled it back again; of course, stupid mistake! I cleared my throat. ”Sebastian Zollner.”

”And we're waiting for you.”

Was that a question? ”If it's okay with you,” I said, ”we can start right now. I've done all the preparation.” Literally, I'd been traveling for the better part of two weeks. I had never spent so much time on a single project. ”You'll be amazed how many old acquaintances I've found.”

”Preparation,” he repeated, ”acquaintances.”

I felt a stirring of unease. Did he understand what I was saying? His jaws were working, he laid his head to one side and seemed, but this was obviously a mistake, to be looking past me at the picture on the wall. I looked at Miriam for help.

”My father has very few old acquaintances.”

”Few is misstating things,” I said. ”Let's just take Paris . . .”

”You must excuse me,” said Kaminski. ”I've just got out of bed. I spent two hours trying to get to sleep, then I took a sleeping pill, and then I got up. I need coffee.”

”You're not allowed coffee,” said Miriam.

”A sleeping pill before you get up?” I asked.

”I always wait till the very end, in case I can do it on my own. You're my biographer?”

”I'm a journalist,” I said. ”I write for several major newspapers. Right now I'm working on your life story. I've got a couple more questions, then as far as I'm concerned we can start tomorrow.”

”Article?” He lifted one of his enormous hands and ran it over his face. His jaws worked. ”Tomorrow?”

”You'll be working mostly with me,” said Miriam. ”He needs his peace and quiet.”

”I don't need peace and quiet,” he said.

Her other hand laid itself on his other shoulder. She smiled at me over his head. ”The doctors see it differently.”

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