Part 12 (2/2)

”Otherwise I'll have to call the police.”

”And Walter?”

”And Walter,” she said, and left the room. I heard her speaking quietly to Kaminski, then the front door closing. I rubbed my eyes, went to the table in the living room, took one of Elke's packs of cigarettes, and wondered if I should try to cry. I lit up, laid the cigarette in the ashtray, and watched it turn to ashes. That made me feel better.

I went back into the kitchen. Kaminski was holding a pencil and a writing pad. His head was tilted against his shoulder and his mouth was open; he looked as if he were dreaming, or listening to someone. It took me a few moments to realize that he was drawing. His hand slid slowly over the paper: his forefinger, ring finger, and little finger were extended, the thumb and third finger were holding the pencil. Without lifting his head, he drew a spiral that broke into little waves here and there, at what seemed to be quite arbitrary points.

”Shall we get going?” he asked.

I sat down beside him. His fingers were contorted, a dense mat of lines was growing in the middle of the sheet of paper. He made a few swift lines using his wrist, then set the pad aside. Only when I looked again did the mat become a stone and the spirals the circles that this created as it hit smooth water, throwing up spray that suddenly contained the hint of the reflection of a tree.

”That's good,” I said.

”Even you can do that.” He tore off the sheet of paper, put it in his pocket, and handed me pad and pencil. His hand laid itself on mine. ”Imagine something. Something quite simple.”

I thought of a house, the way children draw it. Two windows, the roof, the chimney, and a door. Our hands moved. I looked at him: his beak of a nose, his raised eyebrows, I heard the whistling of his breath. I looked back down at the paper. There was the roof already, thinly crosshatched, as if by trails of snow, or ivy, then a wall, a shop window stood open, a tiny figure, formed by three strokes, leaned out, supported on one arm, then the door, it dawned on me that this was an original drawing, if I could just get him to sign it, I could sell it for a lot of money. The door had gone crooked, the second house as well, the pencil slipped down to the bottom corner, something didn't add up anymore; Kaminski let go. ”So?”

”It's okay,” I said, disappointed.

”Are we driving?”

”Of course.”

”Will we take the train again?”

”The train?” I pondered. The car key must still be in my pocket, the car was where I'd parked it yesterday. Elke wouldn't be back for an hour. ”No, not today.”

XII.

I DECIDED DECIDED to take the highway this time. The man at the tollbooth rejected my credit card. I asked what real job he was running away from, he retorted that I should pay up and get out of his sight, and took the last of my cash. I put my foot on the gas and the power of the engine pressed me gently back against my seat. Kaminski took off his gla.s.ses and spat again. A moment later he was asleep. to take the highway this time. The man at the tollbooth rejected my credit card. I asked what real job he was running away from, he retorted that I should pay up and get out of his sight, and took the last of my cash. I put my foot on the gas and the power of the engine pressed me gently back against my seat. Kaminski took off his gla.s.ses and spat again. A moment later he was asleep.

His chest rose and fell regularly, his mouth hung open, you could see the stubble on his cheeks-neither of us had shaved for two days. He began to snore. I switched on the radio, a jazz pianist was playing riffs, faster and faster, Kaminski snored deeper, I turned up the volume. Good that he was asleep. There'd be no hotel this afternoon, we'd be driving straight back. I would give Elke the car, if she really insisted on it I'd take my suitcases with me, and I'd bring Kaminski home from there by train. I had everything I needed. The only thing still missing was the central scene, the climactic reencounter with Therese in the presence of his friend and biographer.

I turned off the radio. The dividers streamed toward us, I overtook two trucks, using the slow lane. All that, I thought, was his history. He was the one who'd lived it, now it was coming to an end, and I was no part of it all. His snoring checked itself for a moment, as if he'd read my thoughts. His life. And what about mine? His history. Did I even have one? A Mercedes was driving so slowly that I had to use the shoulder; I honked, pulled back left, and forced him to brake.

”But I have to go somewhere.”

Did I say that aloud? I shook my head. But it was true, I did have to go somewhere, and do something. That was the problem. I stubbed out my cigarette. That had always been the problem. The landscape had changed, there were no hills anymore, even the villages and paths were disappearing; it felt as if we were traveling back in time. We left the highway, for some time we were driving through woods: tree trunks and the interlaced shadows of branches. Then there was nothing but sheep meadows.

How long was it since I'd seen the sea? To my own surprise, I realized I was looking forward to it. I stepped on the gas, somebody honked. Kaminski, startled awake, said something in French and went back to sleep again, a thread of spittle hanging from the corner of his mouth. Houses built of red brick started appearing, and there, suddenly, was the town's name on a sign. A straight-backed woman was crossing the street. I stopped, rolled down the window, and asked for directions. She pointed the way with a movement of her head. Kaminski woke up, got a fit of coughing, gasped for air, wiped his mouth, and said calmly, ”Are we there?”

We were driving down the last line of streets in the place. The numbers seemed to be random, I had to drive the length of the street twice before I found the right house. I stopped, and got out. It was windy and cool, and unless I was imagining things, I could smell the sea.

”Have I been here before?” asked Kaminski.

”Not as far as I know.”

He pushed his stick against the ground and tried to stand up. He groaned. I went around the car to help him. I had never seen him like this: his mouth was distorted, his brow furrowed, and he looked sh.e.l.l-shocked, almost terrified. I knelt down and fastened his shoes. He licked his lips, pulled out his gla.s.ses, and put them on very deliberately.

”Back then, I thought I would die.”

I looked at him, astonished.

”And it would have been better that way. Everything else was a lie. Going on, pretending there was still some point to it all. Pretending not to be dead. It was exactly the way she wrote it. She always was smarter.”

I opened my bag and groped for the tape recorder.

”This letter was there one day. Just like that.”

My thumb found the ”record” b.u.t.ton and pressed it down.

”The apartment was empty. You've never experienced anything like it.”

Would the machine be able to record through the bag? ”Why do you think I've never experienced anything like that?”

”You think you have a life. And suddenly, everything's gone. Art means nothing. Everything's an illusion. And you know it and you have to go on.”

”Let's go on,” I said.

It was a house like its neighbors: two stories, a steep pointed roof, big picture window, a little front garden. The sun was nowhere to be found, veils of cloud covered the sky. Kaminski was breathing hard and I watched him with concern. I rang the bell.

We waited. Kaminski's jaw worked, his hand ran over the handle of his cane. What if n.o.body was home? I hadn't thought of that. I rang again.

And again.

A plump elderly gentleman opened the door. He had thick white hair and a lumpy nose, and he wore a shapeless knitted jacket. I looked at Kaminski but he didn't say a word. He stood there bowed, held up by his stick, his head down, and seemed to be listening for something.

”Maybe we have the wrong address,” I said. ”We're looking for Ms. Lessing.”

The fat gentleman didn't reply. He frowned, looked at me, looked at Kaminski, looked at me again, as if he were waiting for some kind of an explanation.

”Does she not live here?” I asked.

”She knows we're coming,” said Kaminski.

”Well, not exactly,” I said.

Kaminski turned toward me slowly.

”We spoke,” I said, ”but I'm not sure if I made it clear. I mean . . . basically we agreed to it, but . . .”

”Take me to the car.”

”You're not serious!”

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