Part 8 (1/2)
”You're certainly making an effort!” Kaminski said loudly.
”Did you really get lost in there?”
”I know it sounds ridiculous. I couldn't find the guide again. Until then, I hadn't taken the thing with my eyes seriously. But suddenly there was a mist everywhere. And there couldn't be any mist down there. So I had a problem.”
”Macular degeneration?” asked Karl Ludwig.
”What?” I asked.
Kaminski nodded. ”Good guess.”
”Do you make out anything at all these days?” asked Karl Ludwig.
”Shapes, sometimes colors. Outlines, if I'm lucky.”
”Did you find your way out by yourself?” I asked.
”Yes, thank G.o.d. I used the old trick: keep following the right-hand wall.”
”I understand.” The right-hand wall? I tried to picture it. Why should that work?
”Next day I went to the eye doctor. That's when I found out.”
”You must have thought the world was going under,” said Karl Ludwig.
Kaminski nodded slowly. ”And you know what?”
Karl Ludwig leaned forward.
”It went under.”
The sun was almost at its zenith, the mountains, already far behind us, s.h.i.+mmered in the midday heat. I had to yawn, a pleasant exhaustion crept over me. I began to talk about my Wernicke book. How I had heard about the incident by chance, luck is often the father of great achievements, and I was the first to get to the house and had peered through the window. I described the widow's fruitless attempts to get rid of me. As always, the story was well received:Kaminski smiled pensively, Karl Ludwig looked at me open-mouthed. I stopped at the next gas station.
While I filled the tank, Kaminski got out. Groaning, he smoothed down his dressing gown, pressed one hand against his back, pulled the cane into position, and straightened up. ”Take me to the toilet!”
I nodded. ”Karl Ludwig, out!”
Karl Ludwig took his time putting on his gla.s.ses and bared his teeth. ”Why?”
”I'm locking the car.”
”No problem, I'll stay in it.”
”That's why.”
”Do you want to insult him?” asked Kaminski.
”You're insulting me,” said Karl Ludwig.
”He hasn't done anything to you!”
”I haven't done anything!”
”So stop that nonsense!”
”Yes, please-I beg you!”
I sighed, bent down, put the tape recorder away, pulled out the car key, gave Karl Ludwig a warning glance, shouldered my bag, and reached for Kaminski's hand. Again his soft, oddly certain touch, again the feeling that he was the one leading me. As I waited, I looked at advertising posters: Drink Beer!, Drink Beer!, a laughing housewife, three fat children, a round teapot with a laughing face. I leaned my head against the wall for a moment; I really was very tired. a laughing housewife, three fat children, a round teapot with a laughing face. I leaned my head against the wall for a moment; I really was very tired.
We went to the cas.h.i.+er. ”I don't have any money with me,” said Kaminski.
I bit my teeth and pulled out my credit card. Outside an engine started up, died, started up again, and then receded into the distance; the woman at the cash register looked up curiously at the surveillance monitor. I signed, and took Kaminski by the arm. The door hissed as it opened.
I stopped so abruptly that Kaminski almost fell.
And yet: I really wasn't surprised. I felt it was inevitable, that some essential piece of a composition had fallen into place. I wasn't even shocked. I rubbed my eyes. I wanted to scream, but I didn't have the strength. I sank slowly to my knees, sat down on the ground, and propped my head in my hands.
”Now what?” said Kaminski.
I closed my eyes. Suddenly, I just didn't care. He, and my book, and my future could all go to h.e.l.l! What concern of mine was all this, what did this old man have to do with me? The asphalt was warm, the dark streaked with light, it smelled of gra.s.s and gasoline.
”Zollner, are you dead?”
I opened my eyes and stood up slowly.
”Zollner!” roared Kaminski. His voice was high and cut like a knife. I left him standing there and went back in. The woman at the cash register was laughing as if she'd never seen anything so funny. ”Zollner!” She picked up the phone receiver, I stopped her, the police would just hold us up and ask inconvenient questions. I said I would take care of things myself. ”Zollner!” She should simply call us a taxi. She did so, then she wanted money for the phone call. I asked her if she was mad, went out, and took Kaminski by the elbow.
”So there you are. What's wrong?”
”Don't behave as if you don't know.”
I looked around. A light wind was making waves run across the fields, a few thin clouds hung in the sky. Basically it was a peaceful place. We could stay here.
But our taxi was arriving already. I helped Kaminski into the backseat and asked the driver to take us to the nearest railroad station.
VIII.
THE RINGING OF A TELEPHONE jolted me out of sleep. I groped for the receiver, something fell to the ground. I found it and pulled it toward me. Who? Wegenfeld, Anselm Wegenfeld, from reception. Fine, I said, what is it? The room I found myself looking at was a shabby hodgepodge: bedposts, table, a stained bedside lamp, a mirror hung squint. The old gentleman, said Wegenfeld. Who? The old gentleman, he repeated with peculiar emphasis. I sat up, wide awake. ”What's happened?” jolted me out of sleep. I groped for the receiver, something fell to the ground. I found it and pulled it toward me. Who? Wegenfeld, Anselm Wegenfeld, from reception. Fine, I said, what is it? The room I found myself looking at was a shabby hodgepodge: bedposts, table, a stained bedside lamp, a mirror hung squint. The old gentleman, said Wegenfeld. Who? The old gentleman, he repeated with peculiar emphasis. I sat up, wide awake. ”What's happened?”
”Nothing, but you should check in on him.”
”Why?”
Wegenfeld cleared his throat, coughed, cleared his throat again. ”There are rules in this house. You'll understand that there are some things we just cannot tolerate. You understand?”
”Dammit, what's going on?”
”Let's say, he has a visitor. Either you get rid of her, or we will!”