VII

SO 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.

“Fine,” I said quietly, “we’ll go back.” Karl Ludwig sniggered. I signaled, pulled off the road, and turned around.

“On,” said Kaminski.

“What?”

“We’re going on.”

“But you just said . . .”

He hissed, and I shut up. His face was hard, as if chiseled. Had he really changed his mind, or was he simply demonstrating his power to me? No, he was old and confused, I shouldn’t overestimate him. I turned around again and drove back onto the road.

“Sometimes it’s hard to decide,” said Karl Ludwig.

“Be quiet,” I said. Kaminski’s jaws were chewing on nothing, his face had gone slack again, as if nothing had happened.

“Besides,” I said, “I was in Clairance.”

“Where?”

“In the salt mine.”

“You’re certainly making an effort!” Kaminski said loudly.

“Did you really get lost in there?”

“I know it sounds ridiculous. I couldn’t find the guide again. Until then, I hadn’t taken the thing with my eyes seriously. But suddenly there was a mist everywhere. And there couldn’t be any mist down there. So I had a problem.”

“Macular degeneration?” asked Karl Ludwig.

“What?” I asked.

Kaminski nodded. “Good guess.”

“Do you make out anything at all these days?” asked Karl Ludwig.

“Shapes, sometimes colors. Outlines, if I’m lucky.”

“Did you find your way out by yourself?” I asked.

“Yes, thank God. I used the old trick: keep following the right-hand wall.”

“I understand.” The right-hand wall? I tried to picture it. Why should that work?

“Next day I went to the eye doctor. That’s when I found out.”

“You must have thought the world was going under,” said Karl Ludwig.

Kaminski nodded slowly. “And you know what?”

Karl Ludwig leaned forward.

“It went under.”

The sun was almost at its zenith, the mountains, already far behind us, shimmered in the midday heat. I had to yawn, a pleasant exhaustion crept over me. I began to talk about my Wernicke book. How I had heard about the incident by chance, luck is often the father of great achievements, and I was the first to get to the house and had peered through the window. I described the widow’s fruitless attempts to get rid of me. As always, the story was well received:Kaminski smiled pensively, Karl Ludwig looked at me open-mouthed. I stopped at the next gas station.

While I filled the tank, Kaminski got out. Groaning, he smoothed down his dressing gown, pressed one hand against his back, pulled the cane into position, and straightened up. “Take me to the toilet!”

I nodded. “Karl Ludwig, out!”

Karl Ludwig took his time putting on his glasses and bared his teeth. “Why?”

“I’m locking the car.”

“No problem, I’ll stay in it.”

“That’s why.”

“Do you want to insult him?” asked Kaminski.

“You’re insulting me,” said Karl Ludwig.

“He hasn’t done anything to you!”

“I haven’t done anything!”

“So stop that nonsense!”

“Yes, please—I beg you!”

I sighed, bent down, put the tape recorder away, pulled out the car key, gave Karl Ludwig a warning glance, shouldered my bag, and reached for Kaminski’s hand. Again his soft, oddly certain touch, again the feeling that he was the one leading me. As I waited, I looked at advertising posters: Drink Beer!, a laughing housewife, three fat children, a round teapot with a laughing face. I leaned my head against the wall for a moment; I really was very tired.

We went to the cashier. “I don’t have any money with me,” said Kaminski.

I bit my teeth and pulled out my credit card. Outside an engine started up, died, started up again, and then receded into the distance; the woman at the cash register looked up curiously at the surveillance monitor. I signed, and took Kaminski by the arm. The door hissed as it opened.

I stopped so abruptly that Kaminski almost fell.

And yet: I really wasn’t surprised. I felt it was inevitable, that some essential piece of a composition had fallen into place. I wasn’t even shocked. I rubbed my eyes. I wanted to scream, but I didn’t have the strength. I sank slowly to my knees, sat down on the ground, and propped my head in my hands.

“Now what?” said Kaminski.

I closed my eyes. Suddenly, I just didn’t care. He, and my book, and my future could all go to hell! What concern of mine was all this, what did this old man have to do with me? The asphalt was warm, the dark streaked with light, it smelled of grass and gasoline.

“Zollner, are you dead?”

I opened my eyes and stood up slowly.

“Zollner!” roared Kaminski. His voice was high and cut like a knife. I left him standing there and went back in. The woman at the cash register was laughing as if she’d never seen anything so funny. “Zollner!” She picked up the phone receiver, I stopped her, the police would just hold us up and ask inconvenient questions. I said I would take care of things myself. “Zollner!” She should simply call us a taxi. She did so, then she wanted money for the phone call. I asked her if she was mad, went out, and took Kaminski by the elbow.

“So there you are. What’s wrong?”

“Don’t behave as if you don’t know.”

I looked around. A light wind was making waves run across the fields, a few thin clouds hung in the sky. Basically it was a peaceful place. We could stay here.

But our taxi was arriving already. I helped Kaminski into the backseat and asked the driver to take us to the nearest railroad station.