Part 11 (2/2)
”Well, you certainly pulled off that surprise,” said Manz.
”No,” I said, ”he's here with me!”
”Mr. Kaminski,” said Zabl, ”may I invite you to attend my seminar next week?”
”I don't think he's here next week,” said Quilling. ”Manuel travels a lot.”
”Is that a fact?” asked Manz.
”He manages incredibly well,” said Quilling. ”Sometimes his health worries us, but right now . . .” He touched the dark-stained frame of the Watch It! Watch It!collage. ”Knock on wood!”
”Has anyone called for a taxi?” asked Kaminski.
”We're about to leave,” I said. The woman with the tray came past again and I took another gla.s.s.
”Would ten o'clock tomorrow morning suit you?” said Manz.
”What for?” said Kaminski.
”Our interview.”
”No,” said Kaminski.
”I'll sort it out with him,” I said. Zabl tried to get up, had to grab on to something, and collapsed back onto the chair. Hochgart suddenly had a camera in his hand, and clicked; the flash threw our shadows against the wall.
”Can I call you next week?” I said quietly to Manz. I had to act while he still had some vague memory of the evening.
”Next week's no good.” He squeezed his eyes shut. ”Week after.”
”Great,” I said. Across the other side of the room, under three of Quilling's neon tubes glued over with newspaper clippings, I could see Walrat and Verena Mangold standing. She was talking a mile a minute while he leaned against the wall and stared sadly into his gla.s.s. I took Kaminski's elbow and helped him to his feet; Quilling immediately did the same from the other side. We led him to the door.
”It's fine,” I said, ”you can let go!”
”No problem,” said Quilling. ”No problem.”
Manz tapped me on the shoulder, and I let go of Kaminski for a moment. ”Let's say the end of this week instead. Friday. Call my secretary.”
”Friday,” I said, ”very good.” Manz nodded absentmindedly, the thin lady laid her head on his shoulder. As I turned around, I saw Hochgart in the process of taking a photograph of Quilling and Kaminski. The conversation died away. I hastily grabbed Kaminski's other arm, but too late: Hochgart had finished already. We moved on, the floor felt uneven, and the air seemed to quiver faintly. I'd drunk too much.
We went down the stairs. ”Careful, a step!” said Quilling with every tread. I looked at Kaminski's wild hair, his right hand gripped the stick tightly. We got out onto the street. It had stopped raining, and the streetlights were reflected in the puddles.
”Thanks!” I said. ”I'm parked over there.”
”I'm parked closer,” said Quilling. ”I can drive him. I also have a guesthouse.”
”Don't you have to get back?”
”They can get along without me.”
”It's your exhibition.”
”This is more important.”
”We don't need you anymore!”
”It would be easier my way.”
I let go of Kaminski, walked around the pair of them, and said into Quilling's ear, ”Let go of him, and get back inside!”
”And who do you think you are?”
”I'm a critic and you have exhibitions. We're the same age. I'm going to be there every time.”
”I don't understand.”
I went back around and took Kaminski's arm.
”But perhaps I really ought to get back.”
”Perhaps.”
”It's still my exhibition.”
”It is,” I said.
”Nothing to be done about it.”
”Tough,” I said.
”It was a great honor,” he said, ”a great honor, Manuel.”
”And who are you?” asked Kaminski.
”He's just priceless!” cried Quilling. ”Good-bye, Sebastian!”
”Good-bye, Alonzo!” For a few seconds we glared at each other furiously, then he turned and ran up the stairs. I led Kaminski across the street to Elke's car. A roomy Mercedes, fast and luxurious, almost as beautiful as the stolen BMW. Sometimes I had the feeling that everyone except me was earning money.
I had to concentrate to stay in the traffic lane, I was a little drunk. I opened the window, the cool air did me good, I needed to go to sleep soon because tomorrow I was going to need a clear head. The evening had been a real success, they'd all seen me with Kaminski, everything had gone well. Yet suddenly I felt sad.
”I know why you did it,” said Kaminski. ”I underestimated you.”
”What are you talking about?”
”You wanted to show me that I'll be forgotten.”
It took me a moment to grasp what he meant. He leaned his head back and let out a deep sigh. ”n.o.body knew a single picture I'd painted.”
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