Me and Kaminski (7 page)

I opened the window, sat on the windowsill, and lit up a cigarette. The wind carried away the ash, and I carefully blew the smoke into the cool air. The sun was already touching one of the peaks, soon it would be gone. So, the last thing left was the portfolio. I flicked the cigarette away, sat down at the desk, and pulled out my pocket knife.

A single smooth incision down the back from top to bottom. The leather was already cracked, and gave way with a crackling sound. I worked the blade carefully and slowly. Then opened the portfolio from behind. No one would notice. Why would anyone take it out while Kaminski was still alive? And by then—so what?

There were only a few pages in it. Some lines from Matisse, he wished Kaminski success, had recommended him to several collectors, and assured him of his good wishes and was, his respectfully . . . the next letter was also from Matisse: he was sorry about the failure of the exhibition, but nothing to be done about it, he recommended serious focus and work, work, work, was optimistic about Mr. Kaminski’s future, and moreover assured him of his good wishes and . . . a telegram from Picasso:
Walker
wonderful, wish I’d done it, all the best, compadre, live forever! Then, already quite yellowed, three letters in Richard Rieming’s small, semi-illegible handwriting. I knew the first, it was reproduced in all Rieming biographies; it was a strange feeling to be holding it in my hand. He was on the ship now, Rieming wrote, and they would never meet again in this life. This was no cause for sorrow, just a fact; and even if after our separation from our mortal bodies there were still ways in which we would endure, it still was not certain that we would remember our old masks and recognize one another again, in other words if there were such a thing as a last farewell, this was one. His ship was on course for a shore that he still, despite what the books said, and the time-tables, and his own tickets, found unreal. Yet this moment at the end of an existence which had at best been a compromise with what people called Life could not be allowed to pass without serving to ensure that if he, Rieming, had earned the right to call anyone his son, then he would wish to bestow this title on the recipient of this letter. He had led a life barely worthy of the name, had been on earth without knowing why, had carried himself because one must, often freezing, sometimes writing poems, a handful of which had had the luck to find favor. So it did not behoove him to advise someone against following a similar path, and his only wish was that Manuel should be shielded from sorrow, that was already a great deal; indeed it was everything.

Rieming’s two other letters were older, written to Kaminski when he was still a schoolboy: in one of them, he advised him not to run away from boarding school again, it didn’t help, you had to endure; he didn’t want to claim that Manuel would be grateful one day, but he promised him that he would get past it, fundamentally you do get past most things, even when you don’t want to. In the other, he announced that
Roadside Words
would be coming out next month, and he was anticipating it with the anxious joy of a child who feared he was going to get the wrong thing for Christmas, and yet knew that whatever he got, it would also be the right thing. I had no idea what he meant. What all this pointed up was his coldness and affectation. Rieming had always struck me as unpleasant.

The next letter was from Adrienne. She had been thinking about it for a long time, it hadn’t been easy for her. She knew it wasn’t in Manuel’s capacities to make people happy and the word
happy
had a different connotation for him than it did for other people. But she was going to do it, she was going to marry him, she was prepared to take the risk, and if it was a mistake, then she’d make a mistake. This wouldn’t come as a surprise to him, but it did come as one to her. She thanked him for giving her time, she was afraid of the future, but perhaps that’s the way it had to be, and maybe also she’d be capable one day of saying the words he so longed to hear.

I read it again and wasn’t sure what it was that struck me as so weird about it. Now there was only one page left: thin graph paper, like something torn out of an exercise book. I laid it down in front of me and smoothed it flat. It was dated exactly a month before Adrienne’s letter.
Manuel, I’m not really writing this. I’m only imagining
. . . an electric buzzing interrupted me: the doorbell.

In a panic I ran downstairs and opened the door. A gray-haired man was leaning on the fence, a felt hat on his head and a fat-bellied bag next to his feet.

“Yes?”

“Doctor Marzeller,” he said in a deep voice. “The appointment.”

“You have an appointment?”

“He has an appointment. I’m the doctor.”

I hadn’t expected anything like that. “It’s not okay right now,” I said, rather choked.

“What isn’t okay?”

“Unfortunately it’s not okay. Come back tomorrow!”

He took off his hat and stroked his head.

“Mr. Kaminski’s working,” I said. “He doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

“You mean he’s
painting
?”

“We’re working on his biography. He has to concentrate.”

“On his biography.” He put his hat back on. “Has to concentrate.” Why the hell did he have to repeat himself all the time?

“My name is Zollner,” I said. “I’m his biographer and friend.” I held out my hand, he took it hesitantly. His handshake was uncomfortably strong, I returned it. He looked at me sharply.

“I’m going to him now.” He took a step forward.

“No!” I said, blocking him.

He gave me a skeptical glance. Was he wondering if I could stop him? Just try it, I thought.

“Surely it’s just routine,” I said. “He doesn’t need anything.”

“And why do you think that?”

“He really is very busy. He can’t just interrupt things. There are so many . . . memories. The work means so much to him.”

He shrugged his shoulders, blinked, and took a step back. I’d won.

“I’m sorry,” I said generously.

“What was your name?” he asked.

“Zollner,” I said. “Good-bye.”

He nodded. I smiled and he returned my gaze coldly. I closed the door. From the kitchen window I watched as he went to his car, put his bag in the trunk, got behind the wheel, and drove off. Then he stopped, rolled down the window, and looked back at the house again; I jumped back, waited a few seconds, went back to the window, and saw the car heading down the curve. Relieved, I went back upstairs.

Manuel, I’m not really writing this. I’m only imagining that I would write it, but that I wouldn’t then stick it in an envelope and send it into the real world, to you. I was just in a cinema, de Gaulle looked as funny as ever in the newsreel, outside it’s thawing, for the first time this year, and I’m trying to imagine that it all has nothing to do with us. When you get right down to it, none of us—not me, not poor Adrienne, not Dominik—believe that they could leave you. But perhaps we’re deluding ourselves.

After all this time, I still don’t know what we are to you. Maybe we’re mirrors (you know all about them) whose task it is to reflect your image and turn you into something large and many-faceted and wide. Yes, you will be famous. And you will have earned it. Now you will go to Adrienne, you’ll take what she has to give, and make sure that she believes it will be her own decision when she leaves. Perhaps you’ll send her to Dominik. Then there’ll be other people, and other mirrors. But not me.

Don’t cry, Manuel. You’ve always cried easily, but this time leave it to me. Naturally it’s the end, and we’re dying. But that doesn’t mean that we won’t be here for a long time, that we won’t find other people, go for walks, dream at night, and accomplish everything that a marionette can accomplish. I don’t know if I’m really writing this, and I don’t know if I’ll send it. But if I do, if I manage it, and you read it, then please understand that this is what it means: Let me be dead! Don’t call, don’t come looking for me, because I’m no longer here. And as I look out of the window and ask myself why they all don’t
. . .

I turned over the page, but there wasn’t any more, the rest of it must have gotten lost. I went through all the sheets of paper again, but the missing one wasn’t there. Sighing, I pulled out my notepad and wrote the whole thing down. A couple of times my pencil snapped, my handwriting was so hasty as to be unreadable, but after ten minutes I’d done it. I put all the papers back in the portfolio and put the portfolio all the way at the bottom of the drawer. I closed the cupboards, straightened up the piles of documents, checked that no drawer was still open. I nodded in satisfaction: nobody would notice a thing, I had done it very skillfully. Just at that moment, the sun disappeared, the mountains looked rugged and enormous for a moment, then they retreated and became flat and distant. It was time to play my best card.

I knocked, Kaminski didn’t answer.

I went in. He was sitting in his chair, the tape recorder was still lying on the floor. “Back again?” he asked. “Where’s Marzeller?”

“The doctor just called. He can’t come. Can we talk about Therese Lessing?”

He said nothing.

“Can we talk about Therese Lessing?”

“You must be mad.”

“Listen, I’d like . . .”

“What’s the matter with Marzeller? Does the guy want me to croak?”

“She’s alive, and I’ve spoken with her.”

“Call him. What can he be thinking!”

“I said, she’s alive.”

“Who?”

“Therese. She’s a widow and she’s alive. In the north, up on the coast. I have the address.”

He didn’t reply. He lifted a hand slowly, rubbed his forehead, and let it fall again. His mouth opened and closed, and he frowned. I looked at the tape recorder. The voice-activation function had kicked in, it was recording every word.

“Dominik told you she was dead. But that’s wrong.”

“It’s not true,” he said quietly. His chest was rising and falling. I worried about his heart.

“I’ve known for ten days. It wasn’t even hard to discover.”

He said nothing. I watched him carefully: he turned his head to the wall, without opening his eyes. His lips were trembling. He puffed his cheeks and blew out the air.

“I’m going to be seeing her soon,” I said. “I can ask her anything you want. You just have to tell me what happened back then.”

“Who do you think you are?” he whispered.

“Don’t you want to know the truth?”

He seemed to be thinking. Now I had him in my hand. That was something he hadn’t reckoned with; he too had underestimated Sebastian Zollner! I was so wound up I couldn’t stay still, I went to the window and peered through the slats of the blind. From second to second the lights in the valley were becoming brighter. The bushes stood out round, like copper cutouts, in the twilight.

“I’ll be with her next week,” I said. “Then I can ask her . . .”

“I don’t fly,” he said.

“No, of course you don’t,” I said soothingly. He really was very confused. “You’re at home. Everything’s fine!”

“The medicines are by the bed.”

“That’s excellent.”

“You imbecile,” he said calmly. “You need to pack them.”

I gaped at him. “Pack them?”

“We’re going to drive.”

“You’re not serious!”

“Why not?”

“I can pass any questions on to her. We can’t do this—no way. You’re too—ill.” I’d almost said “old.” “I can’t take the responsibility.” Was I dreaming, or were we really having this conversation?

“You’re not mistaken, you didn’t get something mixed up? Someone didn’t pull a fast one on you?”

“Nobody,” I said, “would pull a fast one on Sebastian . . .”

He snorted derisively.

“No,” I said. “She’s alive and”—I hesitated—“would like to speak to you. You can go to the telephone . . .”

“I’m not going to the telephone. Do you want to let this opportunity slip?”

I rubbed my forehead. What had happened, hadn’t I just had everything under control? Somehow things had gotten away from me. And he was right: we’d be driving for two days, I’d never have been able to hope for so much time with him. I could ask him whatever I wanted. My book would become and remain a primary source, read by students and cited by art historians.

“It’s strange,” he said. “To have you in my life. Strange and not pleasant.”

“You’re famous. That’s what you wanted. Being famous means having someone like me.” I didn’t know why I said that.

“There’s a suitcase in the cupboard. Pack a few of my things.”

I took a deep breath. I couldn’t believe it! I had hoped to surprise and confuse him, in order to get him to talk about Therese. But I hadn’t wanted to abduct him! “You haven’t taken a trip in years.”

“The car keys are hanging next to the front door. You know how to drive, don’t you?”

“I’m a very good driver.” Did he really intend to just—right now, just like that, with me? He must be mad. On the other hand: was that my problem? Of course, the journey would endanger his health. But then the book could come out sooner.

“Now what?” he asked.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. Stay calm, I thought, calm! I could just leave it, just walk out; he’d drop off to sleep and by early next morning he’d have forgotten the whole thing. And the opportunity of a lifetime would be over.

“Okay, let’s get going!” I cried. I leaped up, the bed creaked, and he winced.

For a few seconds we stayed there frozen, as if he were the one now who couldn’t believe it. Then he slowly reached out his hand. I held it, and in that same second I knew that everything was decided. It felt cool and soft, yet its grip was surprisingly strong. I supported him as he slid out of the chair. I stumbled, he pulled me to the door. In the passage he stopped, I gave him a firm push. On the stairs I wouldn’t have been able to say anymore which of us was leading the other.

“Not so fast,” I said hoarsely. “I still have to get your luggage.”

VII

S
O NOW
I
REALLY WAS
driving the BMW. The road dropped away steeply behind us, the headlights only pulled in a few yards of asphalt out of the darkness; it was hard navigating the bends. Another one: I hauled on the steering wheel, the road curved and kept curving, I thought that might be it now, but no, it kept on curving, we came dangerously near to the right edge, the engine coughed, I changed down, the engine howled, and the curve was behind us.

“You need to change gears earlier,” said Kaminski.

I bit off any reply, the next curve was already coming up and I had to concentrate: shift, easy on the gas, shift down, the engine gave a deep rumble, the road stretched straight ahead of us.

“You see!” he said.

I heard his lips smack, saw his jaw working out of the corner of my eye. He had put on his dark glasses, folded his hands in his lap, and leaned back. Over his shirt and pullover he was still wearing the dressing gown. I had tied his shoelaces and fastened him into his seatbelt, but he immediately undid the buckle again. He looked pale and agitated. I opened the glove compartment and put the tape recorder in it.

“When was the last time you met Rieming?”

“The day before his ship sailed. We went for a walk, he was wearing two coats, one on top of the other, because he was cold. I said I was having problems seeing, he said, ‘Use your memory!’ He kept clapping his hands, and his eyes were watering. Chronic inflammation. He was very worried about the journey, water terrified him. Richard was afraid of everything.”

Suddenly we were heading into the longest curve I’d ever seen: it felt as if we were turning in a full circle for almost a minute. “And his relationship with your mother?”

He said nothing. The houses of the village suddenly appeared: black shadows, lighted windows, the name of the place on a road sign, for a few seconds streetlights swayed above us, the main square was lit up with its shop displays, then another road sign, this time with a line through the place name, then darkness again.

“He was simply there. He was given something to eat, he read his newspaper, and in the evenings he went to his room to work. Mama and he always used the formal ‘Sie’ when they spoke to each other.”

The curves were less tight now. I eased my grip on the steering wheel and sat back. I was gradually getting used to it.

“Naturally he had no desire to have my scribblings in his book, but he was afraid of me.”

“Really?”

Kaminski sniggered. “I was fifteen and a little crazy. Poor Richard thought I was capable of anything. A pleasant child I most certainly was not!”

I kept quiet because I was annoyed. Of course, what he’d just told me would be a sensation, but he was probably just trying to trick me, it just didn’t sound plausible. Who could I check with? The man sitting beside me was the last person alive who had known Rieming. And everything that Rieming had been, outside his books—the two coats, the hand-clapping, the fear, and the watering eyes—would disappear along with his memory. And perhaps I for once would be the only one who could still recall . . . what was the matter with me?

“With Matisse it was the same thing. He wanted to throw me out. But I wouldn’t go. He didn’t like my paintings. But I wouldn’t go! You know how it is when somebody simply won’t go? You can achieve a lot that way.”

“I know. When I was writing my account of the Wernicke thing . . .”

“So what could he do? He finally sent me to a collector.”

“To Dominik Silva.”

“Oh, he was so great and so reserved and impressive, and I couldn’t have cared less. A young artist is a strange creature. Half crazed with ambition and greed.”

A last curve opened out onto the main road. The mushroom-shaped roof of the railroad station shot into view, the valley was so narrow that the tracks ran right next to the road. An oncoming car stopped and honked its horn, I drove past regardless, and only then noticed that I was still driving with my brights. Another car braked sharply and I dropped my lights to normal. I avoided the entrance to the highway, I really didn’t want to have to pay tolls. The roads in any case were empty at this hour. Shadows of forests, a village without lights, it was like driving through a dead land. I opened the window a crack, feeling almost weightless and unreal. Night, in a car, alone with the greatest painter in the world. Who could have imagined it a week ago?

“May I smoke?”

He didn’t answer, he was asleep. I coughed as loudly as I could, but it didn’t help, he didn’t wake up. I hummed to myself. He was supposed to be talking to me! I finally gave up and switched off the tape recorder. For a while I listened to him snore, then I lit a cigarette. But not even the smoke woke him. So why did he need sleeping pills?

I blinked, suddenly I felt as though I’d nodded off. I jerked back again, upright, but nothing had happened, Kaminski snored on, the road was empty, and I steered back into the right lane. An hour later he surfaced and told me to stop because he needed to get out. I was worried and asked if he needed my help; he muttered that that would make his day, climbed out of the car, and fumbled at his pants in the cone of the headlights. Groping for the car roof, he then eased himself back into his seat and closed the door. I drove on and a few seconds later he was snoring again. Once he murmured in his sleep, his head lolled this way and that, and he gave off a faint old man’s smell.

Dawn slowly brought the mountains into the foreground as the sky receded, and across the plain in scattered houses, lights began to switch themselves on and off. The sun came up and climbed higher in the sky, I pulled down the visor. The road soon filled up with cars, trucks, and one tractor after another, which I overtook with my hand on the horn. Kaminski sighed.

“Is there any coffee?” he asked suddenly.

“It can be arranged.”

He cleared his throat, blew through his nose, moved his lips, and cocked an ear in my direction. “Who are you?”

My heart skipped a beat. “Zollner!”

“Where are we going?”

“To . . .” I swallowed. “To Therese, your . . . to Therese Lessing. We had . . . you had—this idea yesterday. I wanted to help.”

He seemed to be thinking. He wrinkled his brow and his head trembled a little.

“Should we go back?” I asked.

He shrugged, took off his glasses, folded them, and stuck them in the breast pocket of his dressing gown. His eyes were closed. He ran his fingers over his teeth.

“Do I get breakfast?”

“We can stop at the next rest area . . .”

“Breakfast!” he said again, and spat. Just like that, on the floor in front of him. I stared at him, shocked. He lifted his big hands and rubbed his eyes.

“Zollner,” he said hoarsely, “yes?”

“Correct.”

“Do you paint yourself?”

“Not anymore. I tried, but when I failed the entrance exam for art college, I gave up. Maybe a mistake! I should start again.”

“No.”

“I did color compositions in the style of Yves Klein. There were people who liked them. But it would be really dumb; if I just went at it seriously . . .”

“That’s what I mean.” He put his glasses ceremoniously back on his nose. “Breakfast!”

I lit yet another cigarette, it didn’t seem to disturb him. Which, for a moment, I regretted. I blew the smoke in his direction. A sign pointed to a rest area, I drove into the parking lot, got out, and shut the door behind me.

I deliberately took my time, he could just damn well wait. The restaurant was dusty and full of stale smoke, there were hardly any customers. I ordered two cups of coffee and five croissants. “Pack them properly, coffee not too weak!” Nobody had ever complained about her coffee, said the sluglike waitress. I said she must be mistaking me for someone who cared. She asked if I was looking for trouble. I said she should get moving.

Balancing them carefully, I made it back to the car with the steaming cups and the paper bag full of croissants. The rear door was open, and there was a man on the backseat talking to Kaminski. He was thin, with horn-rimmed glasses, greasy hair, and protruding teeth, and next to him on the seat was a backpack. “Think, dear sir,” he was saying. “Prudence is everything. Evil disguises itself as the easier path.” Kaminski smiled and nodded. I got behind the steering wheel, slammed the door shut, looked inquiringly from one to the other.

“This is Karl Ludwig,” said Kaminski in a way that implied any further question was superfluous.

“Call me Karl Ludwig.”

“He’s coming with us for the next bit,” said Kaminski.

“We don’t take hitchhikers!”

There was silence for a few seconds. Karl Ludwig sighed. “I told you so, dear sir.”

“Rubbish,” said Kaminski. “Zollner, if I’m not mistaken, this is my car.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Give me the coffee and drive!”

I held out the coffee, a little too high on purpose, he groped for it, found it, and took it. I put the paper bag in his lap, drank all my coffee, it was too weak of course, threw the cup out the window, and turned the key in the ignition. The parking lot and the rest area shrank in the rearview mirror.

“May I ask where you’re going?” asked Karl Ludwig.

“Of course,” said Kaminski.

“Where are you going?”

“It’s personal,” I said.

“I’m sure it is, but . . .”

“What I mean is, it’s none of your business.”

“You’re quite right.” Karl Ludwig nodded. “Excuse me, Mr. Zollner.”

“How did you get my name?”

“Dear God,” said Kaminski, “because I just used it.”

“That’s exactly right,” said Karl Ludwig.

“Tell us about yourself!” said Kaminski.

“There’s not much to tell. I’ve had a hard life.”

“Who hasn’t?” said Kaminski.

“Truly spoken, dear sir!”

Karl Ludwig tugged at his glasses. “You see, I was someone once. Piercing glance the world to muster, heart that feels each heart’s desire, passion’s glow for women’s luster, voice that sings, my own, my fire. And now? Look at me!”

I lit a cigarette. “What was that with the women?”

“That was Goethe,” said Kaminski. “Don’t you know anything? Give me one too.”

“You’re not allowed to smoke.”

“Right,” said Kaminski, stretching out his hand. I realized that all things considered, it was in my interest, and gave it to him. For a few seconds I could feel Karl Ludwig’s eyes on me in the rearview mirror. I sighed and held the packet over my head so that he could take one. He reached out, I felt his soft, clammy fingers close over mine and pull the packet out of my hand.

“Hey!” I yelled.

“You two, if I may say so, strike me as really odd.”

“What do you mean?”

His eyes in the mirror again: narrow, focused, malicious. He showed his teeth. “You’re not related, you’re not teacher and pupil, and you don’t work together. And he”—he lifted a skinny finger and pointed at Kaminski—“seems familiar to me. You don’t.”

“There are reasons for that,” said Kaminski.

“So I would guess!” said Karl Ludwig. The two of them laughed. What was going on here?

“Give me back the cigarettes,” I said.

“How careless of me. Please forgive me.” Karl Ludwig didn’t move. I rubbed my eyes; suddenly I felt weak.

“Dear sir,” said Karl Ludwig. “The majority of life is falsehood and waste. We encounter evil and we know it not. Would you like to hear more?”

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” said Kaminski. “Do you know Hieronymus Bosch?”

Karl Ludwig nodded. “He painted the devil.”

“That’s not confirmed.” Kaminski sat up. “You mean the figure with the chamber pot on its head, eating people, in the far right in
The Garden of Earthly Delights.
”

“Further up,” said Karl Ludwig. “The man growing out of a tree.”

“Interesting idea,” said Kaminski, “the only figure that’s looking out of the picture and showing its pain. But you’re on the wrong track.”

Furious, I looked from one to the other. What were they talking about?

“That’s not the devil!” said Kaminski. “It’s a self-portrait.”

“Is there a contradiction?” asked Karl Ludwig.

There was silence for a few moments. In the rearview mirror, Karl Ludwig was smiling. Kaminski, nonplussed, chewed his lower lip.

“I think you took the wrong exit,” said Karl Ludwig.

“You don’t even know where we’re going,” I said.

“So where are you going?”

“Not bad,” said Kaminski, reaching back to pass him the croissants. “The tree man. Not bad!” Karl Ludwig tore the paper and began to eat greedily.

“You were saying you had a hard life,” said Kaminski. “I can still remember my first exhibition. What a catastrophe.”

“I’ve exhibited too,” said Karl Ludwig through a mouthful.

“Really?”

“Privately. A long time ago.”

“Paintings?”

“Something of that sort.”

“I bet you were good,” said Kaminski.

“I don’t think one could say that.”

“Was it tough for you?” I asked.

“Well, yes,” said Karl Ludwig. “In principle, anyway. I had . . .”

“I wasn’t asking you!” A sports car was driving too slow, I honked and overtook it.

“It was okay,” said Kaminski. “By chance I didn’t have any worries about money.”

“Thanks to Dominik Silva.”

“And I had enough ideas. I knew my time would come. Ambition is like a childhood illness. You get over it and it strengthens you.”

“Some people don’t,” said Karl Ludwig.

“And besides, Therese Lessing was still there,” I said.

Kaminski didn’t answer. I gave him a sharp side-ways look: his expression had darkened. In the rear-view mirror Karl Ludwig was wiping his mouth with his hand. Crumbs trickled down onto the leather upholstery.

“I want to go home,” said Kaminski.

“Excuse me!”

“Nothing to excuse. Take me home!”

“Perhaps we should talk about it in peace and quiet.”

He turned his head, and for a long moment the feeling that he was looking at me through his dark glasses was so strong that it took my breath away. Then he turned away, his head sank down onto his chest, and his whole body seemed to shrivel.