Me And Kaminski Part 13

"Take me to the car." He had never sounded like that before. I opened my mouth and shut it again.

"Come in, come in!" said the old gentleman. "Friends of Little Therese?"

"Sort of," I said. Little Therese?

"I'm Holm. Little Therese and I are . . . well, we've moved in together. Sharing our twilight years." He laughed. "Little Therese is inside."

Kaminski, attached to my arm, didn't seem to want to move. I pulled him gently toward the door. With every step his stick rapped against the ground.

"Keep going!" said Holm. "And do take your things off!"

I hesitated, but there was nothing to take off. A narrow hall with a brightly colored carpet and a doormat that said "Welcome." Three coat hooks festooned with half a dozen knitted jackets, pairs of shoes lined up on the floor. An oil painting of a sunrise, with a rascally hare hopping over a flowerbed. I pulled out the tape recorder and shoved it un.o.btrusively into my pocket.

"Follow me!" said Holm and went ahead of us into the living room. "Little Therese, guess what!" He looked back at us. "Sorry, what was the name?"

I waited, but Kaminski said nothing. "This is Manuel Kaminski."

"He knows you from before," said Holm. "Do you remember?"

A bright room with large windows. Flowered curtains, striped rugs, a round dining table, a sideboard with piles of porcelain plates behind the gla.s.s doors, a TV in front of the sofa, an armchair and a coffee table, a telephone on the wall, next to a photograph of an elderly married couple and a reproduction of Botticelli's Birth of Venus. Birth of Venus. Sitting in the armchair was an old woman. Her face was round, all folds and wrinkles, and her hair was a ball of white. She was wearing a pink wool jacket with a flower embroidered on the front, a checked skirt, and furry slippers. She switched off the TV and looked at us questioningly. Sitting in the armchair was an old woman. Her face was round, all folds and wrinkles, and her hair was a ball of white. She was wearing a pink wool jacket with a flower embroidered on the front, a checked skirt, and furry slippers. She switched off the TV and looked at us questioningly.

"Little Therese doesn't hear so well," said Holm. "Friends! From the old days! Kaminski! Do you remember?"

She looked up, still smiling, at the ceiling. "Of course." Her hairdo bobbed up and down as she nodded. "From Bruno's firm."

"Kaminski," said Holm loudly.

Kaminski clutched my arm so tightly that it hurt.

"My G.o.d," she said. "You?"

"Yes," he said.

For a few seconds there was absolute silence. Her hands, tiny and looking as if they were carved out of wood, brushed over the remote control.

"And I'm Sebastian Zollner, we spoke on the phone. I told you that sooner or later we'd . . ."

"Will you have some cake?"

"What?"

"Have to make coffee first. Do sit down!"

"How kind of you," I said. I tried to lead Kaminski to one of the chairs, but he wouldn't budge.

"I've heard you became famous."

"You predicted it."

"What did I do? G.o.d, come on and sit down. It's all so long ago." Without moving a finger, she indicated the empty chairs. I tried once again, Kaminski didn't move an inch.

"So when did you know each other?" asked Holm. "Must be a long time ago, Little Therese never mentioned a thing. She's lived through a lot." She giggled. "It's true, you know, there's no need to blus.h.!.+ Married twice, four children, seven grandchildren. Quite something, don't you think?"

"Yes," I said, "it certainly is."

"You're making me nervous, standing there," she said. "It's so uncomfortable. You don't look good, Miguel, sit down."

"Manuel!"

"Yes, yes, come on, sit down."

With full force I pushed him toward the sofa, he stumbled forward, reached for the arm, let himself down. I sat next to him.

"First a couple of questions," I said. "What I'd like to know from you is . . ."

The telephone rang. She reached for the receiver, said "No!" loudly, and hung up.

"Children from the neighborhood," said Holm. "They call up pretending to be someone else and think we won't notice. But they picked the wrong person!"

"The wrong person." She gave a sharp little laugh. Holm went out. I waited: which of them would start to talk first? Kaminski sat there, bent over, Therese nestled there smiling between the lapels of her jacket; she nodded once, as if some interesting thought had just gone through her head. Holm came back with a tray: plates, forks, a flat, brownish cake. He cut it into slices and gave me a piece. It was dry as dust, hard to chew, and almost impossible to swallow.

"So," I cleared my throat. "What did you do back then, after you left?"

"Left?"

"Left," said Kaminski.

She gave an empty smile.

"All of a sudden you were gone."

"Sounds just like Little Therese," said Holm.

"I took the train," she said slowly, "and headed north. I worked as a secretary. I was very alone. My boss was called Sombach, he always dictated too fast, and I had to correct his spelling. Then I met Uwe-we got married after two months." She looked at the backs of her gnarled hands with their web of veins. For a moment her smile disappeared and her eyes hardened. "Do you remember that dreadful composer?" I looked at Kaminski, but he didn't seem to know who she was talking about. Her expression softened, the smile came back. "Now you've forgotten the coffee."

"Oops!" said Holm.

"Never mind!" I said.

"He who wants, never gets, and vice versa," he said and stayed sitting.

"We had two children. Maria and Heinrich. But you know them already."

"How would I know them?" asked Kaminski.

"Uwe was in a car accident. Someone hit him head-on, a drunk, he was killed instantly. Didn't suffer."

"That's important," said Kaminski softly.

"The most important. When I heard the news, I thought I was dying too."

"She says that," said Holm, "but she's tough."

"Two years later, I married Bruno. Eva and Lore are his. Lore lives right over there in the next street. You drive straight ahead, third left, then left again. Then you're there."

"Where?" I asked.

"At Lore's." There was silence for a few moments. We looked at one another, confused. "That's where you said you wanted to go!" The telephone rang, she picked up, cried "No!" and hung up again. Kaminski folded his hands and his stick fell on the floor.

"What business are you in?" asked Holm.

"He's an artist," she said.

"Oh!" Holm's eyebrows shot up.

"He's well known. You shouldn't just read the sports pages in the papers. He was very good."

"That's a long time ago," said Kaminski.

"Those mirrors," she said. "So spooky. The first time you did something that wasn't . . ."

"What annoys me," said Holm, "are those pictures where you can't recognize anything. You don't paint that sort of thing, do you?" Before I could take evasive action, he pushed another slice of cake onto my plate; it almost fell off, and crumbs showered down into my lap. He himself, said Holm, made herbal products: small factory, shower gel, teas, creams for muscle pains. You'd find almost nothing comparable these days, you just had to accept that, a certain decline was built into the order of things. "The order of things!" he cried. "Are you sure you don't want coffee?"

"I've always thought about you," said Kaminski.

"But it's been such a long time," she said.

"I asked myself . . ." He fell silent.

"Yes?"

"Nothing. You're right. It's a long time ago."

"What is?" asked Holm. "You should come out and say it!"

"Do you remember your letter?"

"So what's going on with your eyes?" she asked. "You're an artist. Isn't that a problem?"

"Your letter!"

I bent down, picked up the stick and pushed it into his hand.

"Remember what? I was so young."

"And?"

A thought pa.s.sed over her face. "I knew nothing."

"You knew more than that."

"That's what I mean," said Holm, "whenever I ask Little Therese . . ."

"Shut up!" I said. He took a long breath and stared at me.

"No, Manuel. I really don't remember anymore." The corners of her mouth turned up, her brow smoothed itself out, and she turned the remote control around and around in her hand without bending her fingers.

"You don't know the best story of all," said Holm. "It was Little Therese's seventy-fifth birthday and everyone was there: her children, the grandchildren, everyone finally together in one place. n.o.body was missing. And when they sang For she's a jolly good fellow, For she's a jolly good fellow, right then, in front of the big cake . . ." right then, in front of the big cake . . ."

"Seventy-five candles," she said.

"Not that many, there wasn't room. Do you know what she said?"

"There were so!"

"We have to go," said Kaminski.

"Do you know what she said?" The doorbell rang. "Now what?!" Holm stood up and went out into the hall, you could hear him talking quickly and agitatedly with someone.

"Why did you never come?" she asked.

"Dominik said you were dead."

"Dominik?" I said. "You insisted you didn't even know him." He frowned, Therese looked at me in surprise, they both seemed to have forgotten I was there.

"Did he?" she said. "Why?"

Kaminski didn't reply.

"I was young," she said. "One does the oddest things. I was someone else."

"You certainly were."

"You looked different. You were taller and . . . you had such strength. Such energy. If I spent enough time with you, I felt dizzy." She sighed. "Being young is a disease."

"The fever of reason."

"La Rochefoucauld." She laughed softly. Kaminski smiled for a moment, then leaned forward and said something in French.

She smiled. "No, Manuel, not for me. Basically everything started after that."

There was silence for a few moments.

"So what did you say?" he asked hoa.r.s.ely. "On your birthday?"

"If only I knew!"

Holm came back. "She didn't want to come in, she said she'll wait. Would you like coffee now?"