Part 10 (1/2)

”For example, I wanted to do a series of self-portraits, but not using my reflection in a mirror or photos, just drawing on the image I had of myself. n.o.body has any idea what they really look like, we have completely false pictures of ourselves. Normally you try to even things out, using whatever you can. But if you do the opposite, if you intentionally paint this false picture, as accurately as possible, in every detail, with every characteristic trait . . . !” He banged on the table. ”A portrait that isn't a portrait! Can you imagine such a thing? But nothing came of it.”

”You tried.”

”How do you know that?”

”I-I'm a.s.suming.”

”Yes, I tried. But then my eyes . . . or maybe it wasn't my eyes, maybe it just wasn't going well. You have to know when you're defeated. Miriam burned them.”

”Excuse me?”

”I asked her to.” He laid his head back, blew smoke straight up in the air. ”Since then I haven't set foot in the studio.”

”I believe you!”

”There's no reason to be sad. Because that's what everything's about: your estimate of your own talent. When I was young and hadn't yet painted anything useful . . . I doubt if you can imagine it. I locked myself up for a week . . .”

”Five days.”

”I don't care, five days, to think. I knew that I hadn't yet produced anything that mattered. n.o.body can help with stuff like this.” He groped for an ashtray. ”I didn't just need a good idea. They're a dime a dozen. I had to find what kind of painter I could become. A way out of mediocrity.”

”Out of mediocrity,” I repeated.

”Do you know the story of Bodhidarma's pupil?”

”Who?”

”Bodhidarma was an Indian sage in China. Somebody wanted to become his pupil and was turned away. So he followed him. Silent, submissive, year after year. In vain. One day his despair overcame him, he planted himself in Bodhidarma's path and cried, 'Master, I have nothing.' Bodhidarma answered, 'Throw it away!'” Kaminski stubbed out his cigarette. ”And that's when he found enlightenment.”

”I don't get it. If he had nothing left, why . . .”

”During that week I got my first gray hairs. When I went out again, I had the first sketches for the Reflections. Reflections. It was still a long time before the first good picture, but that was no longer the problem.” He was silent for a moment. ”I'm not one of the greats. I'm not Velazquez or Goya or Rembrandt. But sometimes I was pretty good. And that's not nothing. And it was because of those five days.” It was still a long time before the first good picture, but that was no longer the problem.” He was silent for a moment. ”I'm not one of the greats. I'm not Velazquez or Goya or Rembrandt. But sometimes I was pretty good. And that's not nothing. And it was because of those five days.”

”I'll quote that.”

”You shouldn't quote it, Zollner, you should pay attention to it!” Once again I had the feeling that he could see me. ”Everything important has to be reached in sudden leaps.”

I signaled to the waiter and asked for the check. Leaps or no leaps, this time I wasn't going to pay for him.

”Excuse me,” he said, reached for his stick, and stood up. ”No, I can manage.” He went past me, taking little steps, b.u.mped into a table, apologized, b.u.mped into the waiter, apologized again, and disappeared into the toilet. The waiter set down the check in front of me.

”Just a moment!” I said.

We waited. The houses increased, their windows reflected the gray of the sky, cars made traffic jams on the street, the rain grew heavier. The waiter said he didn't have all day.

”A moment!”

An airplane rose from the nearby airport and was swallowed by the clouds. The two men at the next table gave me filthy looks and left. Outside I saw the main street, the illuminated sign of a department store, and a fountain despondently dribbling water.

”So?” asked the waiter.

Wordlessly I handed him my credit card. A plane made its blinking descent, more and more tracks started coming together, the waiter returned and said my card was blocked. Not possible, I said, try again. He said he wasn't an idiot. I said I wasn't so sure about that. He stared down at me, rubbed his chin, and said nothing. But the train was already braking and I had no time for an argument. I threw down some cash and grabbed the change. As I was getting to my feet, Kaminski came out of the toilet.

I picked up both bags, mine and the one with his dressing gown, took him by the elbow, and led him to the door. I yanked it open, suppressed the impulse to push him out, jumped down onto the platform, and helped him gently off the train.

”I want to lie down.”

”At once. We take the subway and . . .”

”No.”

”Why?”

”I've never been on one and I'm not starting now.”

”It's not far. A taxi's expensive.”

”Not that expensive.” He dragged me along the jam-packed platform, avoiding people with remarkable skill; he stepped into the street as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and raised his hand. A taxi stopped, the driver got out and helped him into the pa.s.senger seat. I got in in front, my throat dry with anger, and gave the address.

”Why the rain?” said Kaminski pensively. ”It's always raining here. I think it's the ugliest country in the world.”

I threw the driver a nervous look. He was fat, with a big mustache, and looked pretty strong.

”Except for Belgium,” said Kaminski.

”Were you in Belgium?”

”G.o.d forbid. Would you pay? I have no change.”

”I thought you had no money at all.”

”Exactly.”

”I've paid for everything else!”

”Very generous of you. I have to lie down.”

We stopped, the driver looked at me, and because I felt awkward, I paid him. I climbed out, the rain lashed my face. Kaminski slid out, I held on to him tight, his stick clattered onto the ground; when I picked it up, it was dripping wet. The marble in the entrance hall bounced the noise of our footsteps back at us, then the elevator whisked us silently upstairs. For a moment I panicked that Elke could have changed the locks. But my key still worked.

I opened the door and listened: not a sound. Two days' worth of mail lay under the mail slot. I coughed loudly, listened again. Nothing. We were alone.

”I don't know if I'm getting this right,” said Kaminski, ”but I have a feeling that we've found our way into your past, not mine.”

I led him to the guest room. The bed was freshly made. ”Needs air.” I opened the window. ”Medicines.” I lined them up on the night table. ”Pajamas.”

”The pajamas are in the suitcase and the suitcase is in the car.”

”And the car?”