Part 3 (1/2)

”You did a lot for Kaminski,” I said carefully.

”Don't overestimate it. If I hadn't, someone else would. People like him always find people like me. He wasn't born rich. His father, who was Swiss of Polish parentage, or vice versa, I don't remember anymore, went into bankruptcy before Kaminski was born, and died, his mother was supported by Rieming later on, but Rieming didn't have much money either. Manuel always needed money.”

”You paid his rent?”

”It happened.”

”And today you're . . . no longer wealthy?”

”Times change.”

”Where did you get to know him from?”

”Matisse. I visited him in Nice, he said there's a young painter in Paris, a protege of Richard Rieming.”

”And his pictures?”

”Nothing earth-shattering. But I thought, this will change.”

”Why?”

”Because of him, really. He simply gave you the impression that he could go places. At the beginning, his stuff was fairly bad, overloaded Surrealism. That all changed with Therese.” His lips rubbed together; I wondered if he still had any teeth in his head. On the other hand, he'd just ordered a steak.

”You mean Adrienne,” I said.

”I know who I mean. Maybe this will surprise you, but I'm not senile. Adrienne came later.”

”Who was Therese?”

”My G.o.d, she was everything! She changed him completely, even if he would never admit it. You've certainly heard about his experience in the salt mine, he talks about it often enough.”

”That's where I'm going the day after tomorrow.”

”Do whatever you want. But Therese was more important.”

”I didn't know.”

”Then you need to start at the beginning again.”

”Let's be candid. Do you consider him a great painter?”

”Yes, of course.” I returned Professor Komenev's stare. ”Within bounds.”

Komenev folded his hands behind his head, and his chair tipped right back in a single movement. His little fuzzy beard stuck out straight from his chin. ”Okay, to take things in order. No need to waste words on the early pictures. Then the Reflections. Reflections. Very unusual for that time. Technically brilliant. But still rather sterile. A good basic idea, too often worked through too exactly and too precisely, and the Old Master stuff with the tempera doesn't make it any better. A little bit too much Piranesi. Then Very unusual for that time. Technically brilliant. But still rather sterile. A good basic idea, too often worked through too exactly and too precisely, and the Old Master stuff with the tempera doesn't make it any better. A little bit too much Piranesi. Then Chromatic Light, Chromatic Light, the the Walker, Walker, the street scenes. At first sight, fabulous. But not exactly subtle, thematically speaking. And let's be honest, if people didn't know about him going blind . . .” He shrugged. ”You've seen the pictures themselves?” the street scenes. At first sight, fabulous. But not exactly subtle, thematically speaking. And let's be honest, if people didn't know about him going blind . . .” He shrugged. ”You've seen the pictures themselves?”

I hesitated. I had thought about flying to New York, but it was quite expensive and besides-what were art books for? ”Of course.”

”Then you will have noticed the uncertain brushwork. He must have used strong magnifying gla.s.ses. No comparison to the earlier technical perfection. And after that? Oh G.o.d, the verdict is already in. Calendar art! Have you seen the hideous dog on the beach, the Goya knockoff?”

”So, first too much technique and too little feeling, then the reverse.”

”You could say that.” He lifted his hands from behind his neck, the chair tipped upright again. ”Two years ago I discussed him again in a seminar. The kids were baffled. He had nothing to say to them anymore.”

”Did you ever meet him?”

”No, why would I? When my Some Thoughts on Kaminski Some Thoughts on Kaminski came out, I sent him the book. He never responded. Didn't think it mattered! As I say, he's a good painter, and good painters are transient. Only great painters are not.” came out, I sent him the book. He never responded. Didn't think it mattered! As I say, he's a good painter, and good painters are transient. Only great painters are not.”

”You should have gone there,” I said.

”Excuse me?”

”It's pointless to write and then sit there waiting for an answer. You have to go there. You have to take him by surprise. When I wrote my portrait of Wernicke-you know Wernicke?”

He looked at me, puzzled.

”It had just happened and his family didn't want to talk to me. But I didn't leave. I stood at their front door and told them I was going to write about his suicide anyway, and the only choice they had was whether to talk to me or not. 'If you choose not to,' I said, 'what that means is that your own views won't be represented. But if you were prepared . . .'”

”Excuse me.” Komenev leaned forward and stared at me. ”What exactly are you talking about?”

”It didn't last that long. A year, and then the thing with Therese was over.”

The waiter brought the steak with roast potatoes, Silva grabbed his knife and fork and began to eat, his throat quivering as he swallowed. I ordered another Coca-Cola.

”She was really something special. She never saw him as he was, but as what he could become. And then that's what she made him. I can still remember how she looked at one of his pictures and said, quite quietly, 'Do those always have to be eagles?' You should have heard the way she said 'eagles.' That was the end of his Symbolist phase. She was wonderful! The marriage to Adrienne was just a messed-up mirror image, she looked a little like Therese. Need I say more? If you ask me, he never got over her. If every life has one decisive catastrophe”-he shrugged his shoulders-”then that was his.”

”But his daughter is Adrienne's?”

”When she was thirteen, her mother died.” He stared into nowhere, as if the memory were painful. ”Then she came to him in this house at the end of the world, and since then she has taken care of everything.” He pushed a chunk of meat that was a bit too ambitious into his mouth, and there was a pause before he was able to speak again; I made an effort not to look. ”Manuel always found the people he needed. He felt the world owed him.”

”Why did Therese leave him?”

He didn't answer. Maybe he was hard of hearing. I pushed the recorder closer to him. ”Why . . .?”

”How do I know? Mr. Zollner, there are always a thousand explanations, a thousand versions of every thing, and in the end, the truth is always the most ba.n.a.l. No one knows what happened, and no one has any idea of what someone else thinks of them! We should stop. I'm no longer accustomed to people listening to me.”

I looked at him in astonishment. His nose was trembling, he'd laid down his knife and fork, and was looking at me with swollen eyes. What had upset him? ”I had a few more questions,” I said cautiously.

”Don't you understand? We're talking about him as if he were already dead.”