I went up the road at a fast pace, after barely ten minutes I saw the parking area and the houses. The little tower poked up into the sky. The gray BMW was sitting in front of the garden gate. I rang.
This wasn’t a good moment, said Anna aggressively. Mr. Kaminski wasn’t feeling well, he didn’t even say good night to his guests last night.
“That’s bad,” I said, reassured.
Yes, she said, very bad. Please come back tomorrow.
I walked past her through the hall and the dining room onto the terrace and squeezed my eyes almost closed: the semicircle of mountains, framed in the glistening morning light. Anna came after me and asked if I hadn’t understood her. I told her I preferred to speak to Miss Kaminski. She stared at me, then wiped her hands on her apron and went into the house. I sat down on a garden chair and closed my eyes. The sun’s warmth was soft against my cheek, I’d never breathed such clean air.
No, that wasn’t right, I had once already. In Clairance. I tried without success to push the memory away.
I had attached myself to a group of tourists around four in the afternoon. The steel cage headed down with a groaning noise, women laughed hysterically, ice-cold air came blowing up out of the depths. For a few seconds there was total darkness.
A narrow passageway, electric lamps with a yellowish light, a fire door made of steel that screamed as it opened and closed. “Ne vous perdez pas, don’t get lost!” The leader shuffled forward ahead of us, an American took photos, a woman touched the white veins in the stone with curiosity. The air tasted of salt. This was where Kaminski had got lost fifty years ago.
The leader opened a steel door, we went around a corner. It must have had to do with his eyes, I closed mine for a moment and groped my way forward blindly. The scene was important for my book: I imagined I was Kaminski, tapping my way ahead, blinking, touching, calling, finally standing still and calling out for so long that I knew nobody would ever hear me. I must be sure to crank up the prose for this episode as drastically as I could, I needed to get a first- serial deal in one of the major color magazines. Some idiot banged into me, I muttered a curse, he did the same, someone else groped my elbow, it was incredible how careless people could be but I withstood the temptation to open my eyes. I absolutely had to be able to describe the echo of his voice in the silence. It would work really well. “The echo in the silence,” I said quietly. I heard people going off to the left. I let go of the wall, took a couple of cautious steps, found the wall on the other side, and followed them. Or followed the voices:after a time I was getting the feel of it. A door banged shut, and out of sheer reflex I opened my eyes. I was alone.
A short passageway, lit by three lamps. I was surprised that the door was more than thirty feet away, it had sounded so close. I hurried over and opened it. More lamps here, and metal pipes running along the low ceiling. No people.
I went back to the other end of the passageway. So they must have gone right, not left, and I’d misheard. My breath rose in little clouds. I reached the door. It was locked.
I wiped my forehead, in spite of the chill I felt hot. Okay, go back to the fork in the passage, then left again, back the way we’d come. I stood still, held my breath, listened: no voices. Nothing. I had never heard such a silence. I hurried along the passageway, reached the next fork, and hesitated. Had we come from the right? Yes, from the right. So now I must turn left. The steel door opened without resistance. Lamps, pipes, another fork, not a human being in sight. I’d gone the wrong way.
I had to laugh.
I went back to the last fork and turned left. Yet another door, but there was no light in the passageway behind it, it was filled with a darkness more complete than any that existed up on the earth’s surface, in fright I slammed the door shut. The next group must be due to be flushed through soon, and then there must be workers down here, the mine was still operating as a business, after all. I listened. I cleared my throat and yelled; I was astonished to discover that there was no echo. The stone seemed to swallow my voice.
I turned off to the right, went through one, two, three doors in a straight line, the fourth was locked. Think logically! I went left, on through two steel doors, and found myself at a crossroads. According to what the guide had said, the doors were to prevent draft in case a fire broke out; without them one single flame could suck all the air in the mine toward itself. Were there fire alarms? For a moment I played with the idea of lighting something. But I had nothing combustible with me, I’d even run out of cigarettes.
I noticed that tiny condensed drops of water were hanging off the pipes. Was that normal? I tried two doors, one was locked, the other led into a passageway I’d already been in before. Or had I? I wished I had a cigarette. I sat down on the ground.
Someone would come, would come soon, no doubt about it. The mine complex couldn’t be all that large. Did they turn out the lights at night? The ground was as cold as ice, I couldn’t stay sitting. I stood up. I called out. I called louder. I realized it wasn’t doing any good. I yelled until I was hoarse.
I sat down again. An idiotic impulse made me pull out my cell phone, but of course there was no reception, you couldn’t find anywhere more perfect for blocking reception than a salt mine. Hard to decide: was my situation merely painful, or was it dangerous? I leaned my head against the wall, for a second I thought I saw a spider, but it was just a little stain, there were no insects down here. I looked at my watch, an hour had already gone by, either time down here was going faster or my life was going slower, or maybe my watch just wasn’t keeping time properly. Should I go farther or wait here? I was suddenly tired. For just a moment, I closed my eyes.
I examined the veins in the rock. They ran toward one another, joined, but never crossed, just like the branches of a river. A never-ending slow torrent of salt in the bowels of the earth. I must not go to sleep, I thought, then I heard voices talking to me, which I answered, a piano was playing somewhere, then I was sitting in an airplane, looking at broad, glowing landscapes: mountains, towns, and a distant sea, people walked past, a child laughed, I looked at my watch, but my eyes couldn’t focus on it properly. Standing up was an effort, my body was numb with cold. The steel door opened of its own accord, I went through it, found myself in Elke’s living room, and knew that I was expected at last. She came toward me, I flung my arms wide in joy, and opened my eyes, I was sitting on the ground, under the wet pipes, in the yellow light of the underground lamps, alone.
It was a little after six. I’d been here two hours already. I was trembling with cold. I stood up, hopped from one foot to the other, and clapped my hands. I went to the end of the gallery, turned right, then left, then right, then left again. Then I stopped and pressed my hands against the rock.
How massive it felt. I leaned my forehead against it and tried to acquaint myself with the thought that I was going to die. Should I write something down, a last message for—who, actually? I sank to my knees, a hand landed hard on my shoulder. A tour guide with a big mustache, and behind him a dozen people with helmets, cameras, camcorders. “Monsieur, qu’estce vous faites là?”
I stood up, murmured something, rubbed away my tears, and fell in with the tourists. Two Japanese looked at me curiously, the guide opened a door: a babble of voices broke over me, the gallery was full of people. There was a souvenir stand selling postcards, lumps of the salt rock, and slides of milky salt lakes. An exit sign pointed to a staircase, a few minutes later the iron cage was cranking me noisily back up to ground level.
“You weren’t supposed to come till tomorrow!”
I lifted my head. Miriam Kaminski was silhouetted in front of me in a nimbus of sunshine. Her black hair was shot through with fine lines of light.
“I just wanted to say hello.”
“Hello. I’m leaving in an hour and I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“I’d hoped I could speak to your father.”
She looked at me as if she hadn’t heard right. “My father isn’t feeling well. Go
for a walk, Mr. Zollner. Explore a little. It’s worth the effort.”
“Where are you going?”
“We’re establishing a Kaminski Foundation. I’ll be glad to explain the details, it could be of interest for your book.”
“Absolutely.” I understood: as long as she was there, I would not be able to speak to him alone. I nodded slowly, she avoided my eyes. It was natural that I would have a certain effect on her. Who knows, if I weren’t someone she considered dangerous . . . But nothing I could do about that. I stood up. “Then I’ll go exploring.”
I went quickly into the house, I had to make absolutely sure she didn’t see me out. The kitchen door was almost closed, behind it there was the clatter of plates. I looked through the crack, Anna was in the process of washing dishes.
As I came in, she looked at me expressionlessly. Her hair was gathered into a thick plait, her apron was dirty, and her face was as round as a cartwheel.
“Anna!” I said. “May I call you Anna?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I’m Sebastian. Call me Sebastian. The food yesterday was wonderful. Can we talk?”
She didn’t answer. I pulled up a stool, then pushed it away again and sat on the kitchen table. “Anna, isn’t there something you want to do?”
She stared at me.
“I mean, that . . . you could do today. Yes?”
Through the window I saw the banker who’d been at last night’s dinner come out of the house next door. He crossed the parking area, hooked his car key out of his pocket, opened the driver’s door, and climbed in laboriously.
“Let me put it another way. Whatever you’d like to do today, I’d . . . no, let’s say . . .”
“Two hundred,” she said.
“What?”
“Just how dumb are you?” She looked at me calmly. “Two hundred, and I’ll be away until midday tomorrow.”
“That’s a lot,” I said hoarsely.
“Two hundred and fifty.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Three hundred.”
“Two hundred,” I said.
“Three hundred and fifty.”
I nodded.
She held out her hand, I brought out my briefcase and counted out the money. I never normally carried so much around with me; that was the sum I’d hoped would cover the whole trip.
“Okay, let’s do it!” she said. Her skin had an oily sheen. She seized the money, her hand was so large that the bills disappeared into it. “My sister will call this afternoon, then I’ll say I have to go to her at once. Tomorrow at noon I’ll be back here.”
“And not a minute earlier!” I said.
She nodded. “Now go.”
My legs were a little wobbly as I went to the front door. All that money! But I’d gotten what I wanted. And God knows I had set it up pretty cleverly, she hadn’t had a chance against me. I slowly set down the briefcase and leaned against the wall.
“Mr. Zollner!”
I whirled around.
“Lost your way?” asked Miriam.
“No, no—I just wanted . . .”
“I wouldn’t want you to have any wrong impression,” said Miriam. “We’re glad about what you’re doing.”
“Thank you, I know.”
“Things aren’t easy right now. He’s ill. Often he’s like a child. But your book is very important to him.”
I nodded sympathetically.
“When is it supposed to come out?”
I jumped. Did she suspect? “That’s not settled yet.”
“Why isn’t it settled? Mr. Megelbach didn’t want to tell me either.”
“It depends on so many factors. On . . .” I shrugged. “Factors. A lot of factors. As soon as possible!”
She looked at me thoughtfully, I hastily said good-bye, and set off. This time the descent seemed to go very quickly: everything smelled of grass and flowers, an airplane swam lazily through the blue; I felt cheerful and almost weightless. I got money from an ATM and a new shaver in the village drugstore.
I went up to my room in the boardinghouse and looked at the old farmer on the wall, whistling to myself and drumming my fingers on my knee. I must have been a little nervous. I lay down on the bed without taking off my shoes, and stared at the ceiling for a while. Then I stood in front of the mirror and stayed like that for so long that my reflection became a stranger and looked absurd. I shaved and took a long shower. Then I reached for the receiver and dialed a number by heart. It rang five times before anyone picked up.
“Miss Lessing,” I said, “it’s me again, Sebastian Zollner. Don’t hang up!”
“No!” said a high voice. “No!”
“Please, all I ask is that you listen to me!”
She hung up. For a few seconds I listened to the busy signal, then I dialed again.
“Zollner again. Please would you give me a short . . .”
“No!” She hung up.
I cursed. Nothing for it, it really did look as if I would have to drive up there myself. Which was all I needed!
In a restaurant on the main square, I ordered a miserable tuna fish salad. Tourists all around me, children crowing, fathers thumbing through maps, mothers sticking forks into huge portions of cake. The waitress was young and not hideous, I called after her: too much oil in the salad, please take it away again. She’d be glad to, she said, but I’d have to pay for it anyway. But I’d eaten almost none of it, I said. That was my affair, she said. I asked to see the proprietor. She said he wouldn’t be there until the evening, but I could wait. As if I had nothing better to do, I said, and winked at her. I ate the salad, but when I wanted to pay my bill, it was a broad-shouldered colleague of hers who brought it. I left no tip.
I bought cigarettes and asked a young man for a light. We fell to talking: he was a student, visiting his parents during the vacation. What was he studying? Art history, he said, looking at me a little defensively. Very understandable, I said, particularly if one comes from here. What did I mean? I gestured toward the slope of the mountain. God? Hardly, I said, great painters made their homes here. He didn’t understand. Kaminski! He looked blank.
Did he really not know Kaminski? No, he didn’t. The last pupil of Matisse, champion of the classical . . . He didn’t concern himself with that sort of stuff, he interrupted me, his thing was contemporary art from the Alps. Full of exciting trends, you know, Gamraunig, and Göschl, of course, and Wagreiner. Who? Wagreiner, he said loudly, his face going pink. I didn’t know Wagreiner? Really? He was only painting now with milk and edible substances. Why, I asked. He nodded, he was hoping for that one. Nietzsche.
Anxiously, I took a step back. Was Wagreiner a Neodadaist? He shook his head. Or a performance artist? No, no, no. Had I really never even heard of Wagreiner? I shook my head. He muttered something I couldn’t catch and we eyed each other mistrustfully. Then we went our separate ways.
I went into the boardinghouse, packed my suitcase, and settled my bill. I would simply come back tomorrow, no reason to pay for a night when I wouldn’t be there. I nodded at the proprietress, threw away my cigarette, found the footpath, and started climbing. I didn’t need any taxi, it was easy for me now, even though I had the suitcase to carry, I was soon up at the signpost. Up the road, first bend, second bend, third bend, then the parking area. The BMW was still standing in front of the garden gate. I rang, Anna opened the door immediately.
“Nobody home?”
“Only him.”
“Why is the car still here?”
“She took the train.”
I looked her straight in the eyes. “I’ve come, because I forgot my bag.”
She nodded, went inside, and left the door open. I followed her.
“My sister called,” she said.
“Really!”
“She needs help.”
“If you want to go, I can stay with him.”
She inspected me for a few seconds. “That would be kind.”
“Think nothing of
it.”
She smoothed her apron, bent down, and picked up a well-stuffed overnight case. She went to the door, hesitated, and looked at me questioningly.
“No worries!” I said softly.
She nodded, breathed audibly in and out, then closed the door behind her. Through the kitchen window I watched her as she walked across the parking area with small, heavy steps. The bag swung in her hand.
VI
I STOOD IN THE HALL, ears cocked. To my left was the front door, to my right the dining room, and straight ahead the staircase went up to the second floor. I cleared my throat, my voice echoing oddly in the silence.
I went into the dining room. The windows were closed, the air stale. A fly was banging against a pane. I carefully opened the top drawer of the chest of drawers: tablecloths, neatly folded. The next one: knives, forks, and spoons. The bottom one: twenty years’ worth of old magazines, Life, Time, Paris-Match, all jumbled together. The old wood resisted; I almost couldn’t close the drawers. I went back into the hall.
To my left were four doors. I opened the first: a little room with a bed, table, and chair, a TV, a picture of the Madonna and a photo of the young Marlon Brando. It must be Anna’s room. Behind the next door was the kitchen, the one after that was the room where I’d been received the day before. The last one opened onto a staircase going down.
I took my bag and groped for the light switch. A single bulb cast its dirty light onto wooden steps, which creaked, and their downward pitch was so steep that I had to hang on to the banister. I hit another switch, spotlights crackled as they sprang to life, and I squeezed my eyes tight shut. When I’d gotten used to the glare, I realized I was in the studio.
A windowless space, lit only by four spotlights. Whoever had worked here hadn’t needed any natural light. In the middle was an easel with a painting in its genesis; dozens of brushes were scattered over the floor. I bent down to feel them: all of them were dry. There was also a palette, the colors on it were hard as stone and cracked. I sucked in a mouthful of air: a normal cellar smell, a little damp, a faint odor of mothballs, no hint of paints or turpentine. Nobody had painted here for a long time.