Me And Kaminski Part 5

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 gra.s.s 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. G.o.d? 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 cla.s.sical . . . 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 Goschl, 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.

"n.o.body 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 ap.r.o.n, 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 STOOD IN THE HALL, ears c.o.c.ked. 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, Life, Time, Paris-Match, all jumbled together. The old wood resisted; I almost couldn't close the drawers. I went back into the hall. 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 mothb.a.l.l.s, no hint of paints or turpentine. n.o.body had painted here for a long time.

The canvas on the easel was almost untouched, only three brushstrokes cut across its whiteness. They began in the same spot down on the left and then pulled apart, in the top right was a tiny field crosshatched in chalk. No sketching, nothing to indicate what should have grown out of this. As I stepped back, I noticed that I had four shadows, one from each spotlight, that cut across one another at my feet. Several large canvases, covered with sailcloth tarps, leaned against the wall.

I pulled the first tarp away and winced. Two eyes, a twisted mouth: a face, curiously distorted, like a reflection in flowing water. It was painted in bright colors, red lines pulled away from him like dying flames, his eyes as they observed me were questioning and cold. And although the style was unmistakable-the thin layer of color, the preference for red-yellow, which both Komenev and Mehring had written about-it looked utterly different from anything else of his I knew. I looked for his signature and didn't find it. I reached for the next cloth; as soon as I touched it, it emitted a cloud of dust.

The same face, this time a little smaller, more of a ball, a slightly contemptuous smile playing in the corners of the mouth. On the next canvas there it was again, this time with the mouth stretched unnaturally wide, the eyebrows angled violently toward the nose. The forehead was creased into masklike folds, and individual hairs straggled thinly, like tears in paper. No beginnings of a neck, no body, just the detached head floating in empty s.p.a.ce. I pulled away tarp after tarp, and the face was becoming more and more deformed: the chin stretched and lengthened, the colors became harsher, the forehead and ears grotesquely extended. But each time his eyes seemed more distant, indifferent, and, I pulled the tarp away, more filled with contempt. Now it was bulging outward as if in a funhouse mirror, had a Harlequin's nose and puckered frown lines, on the next canvas-the tarp got caught, I tore it off by full force, dust swirled up, making me sneeze-it crumpled together, as if a puppeteer were clenching his fist. On the canvas after that it was a hint of itself, seen in a blur through driving snow-the remaining paintings were unfinished, just sketches with a few patches of color, a forehead here, a cheek there. In the corner, as if thrown away, lay a sketch block. I picked it up, wiped it off, and opened it. The same face, from above, from below, from every side, even once, like a mask, seen from inside. The sketches were done in charcoal, increasingly unsure, the lines became shaky and missed one another. Finally there was more of a thick patch of pure black. Tiny splinters of charcoal trickled down at me. The remaining pages were empty.

I set aside the sketch block and began to search the paintings for a signature or a date. In vain. I turned one of the canvases around to examine its wooden stretchers, and a shard of gla.s.s fell onto the floor. I picked it up with the tips of my fingers. There were more; the entire floor behind the pictures was carpeted in broken gla.s.s. I held the shard up to the spotlight and closed one eye: the light jumped a tiny distance, and its black housing bulged. The gla.s.s had been ground.

I got the camera out of my bag. A very good little Kodak, a Christmas present from Elke. The spotlights were so bright that I wouldn't need either a tripod or a flash. A painting, the photo editor of the Evening News Evening News had explained to me, must be photographed head-on, to avoid any foreshortening of perspective, if it is to be usable for reproduction. I photographed each canvas twice and then, standing back up and propping myself against the wall, the easel, the brushes on the floor, the shards of gla.s.s. I kept clicking till the memory card was full. Then I put the camera back in the bag and began to cover the paintings again. had explained to me, must be photographed head-on, to avoid any foreshortening of perspective, if it is to be usable for reproduction. I photographed each canvas twice and then, standing back up and propping myself against the wall, the easel, the brushes on the floor, the shards of gla.s.s. I kept clicking till the memory card was full. Then I put the camera back in the bag and began to cover the paintings again.

It was hard work, and the tarps kept on getting hooked on things. Where did I know this face from? I started to hurry: I didn't know why, but I wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible. How in the world could it be familiar to me? I got to the last painting, met its contemptuous stare, and covered it up. I tiptoed to the door, switched off the light, and let out my breath involuntarily.

I stood in the hall again, ears c.o.c.ked. The fly was still buzzing in the living room. "h.e.l.lo?" n.o.body answered. "h.e.l.lo?" I went up to the second floor.

Two doors to the right, two to the left, one at the end of the landing. I began on the left. I knocked, waited for a moment, and opened the door.

It must be Miriam's room. A bed, a TV set, bookshelves, and a Kaminski, one of the Reflections Reflections series:three mirrors-at their center a discarded duster, a shoe, and a pencil, arranged as a parody of a still life-that organized themselves into a perfect system of surfaces; if you looked at it out of the corner of your eye, it seemed to s.h.i.+mmer faintly. It must be worth a fortune. I looked in the cupboards, but they held nothing but clothes, shoes, hats, a few pairs of gla.s.ses, silk underwear. I let one of the pairs of panties slide slowly through my fingers; I'd never met a woman who wore silk underwear. The drawer of the night table was filled with boxes of medications: Baldrian, Valium, Benedorm, various kinds of sleeping pills and tranquilizers. The instruction leaflets would have made interesting reading, but I didn't have time. series:three mirrors-at their center a discarded duster, a shoe, and a pencil, arranged as a parody of a still life-that organized themselves into a perfect system of surfaces; if you looked at it out of the corner of your eye, it seemed to s.h.i.+mmer faintly. It must be worth a fortune. I looked in the cupboards, but they held nothing but clothes, shoes, hats, a few pairs of gla.s.ses, silk underwear. I let one of the pairs of panties slide slowly through my fingers; I'd never met a woman who wore silk underwear. The drawer of the night table was filled with boxes of medications: Baldrian, Valium, Benedorm, various kinds of sleeping pills and tranquilizers. The instruction leaflets would have made interesting reading, but I didn't have time.

Next door was a bathroom. Pristine, smelling of cleaning stuff, there was a sponge, still damp, lying in the tub, and three perfume bottles in front of the mirror. One of them was Chanel. No shaver, so the old man must use another bathroom. How did blind people shave, anyway?

The door at the end of the pa.s.sage led into an unaired room. The windows hadn't been cleaned, the cupboards were bare, the bed wasn't made: an unused guest room. A little spider sent a tremor across the web she'd spun over the windowsill. On the table was a pencil with an almost-worn-down eraser and teeth marks in the wood. I picked it up, rolled it between my fingers, put it back, and went out.

Only two more doors. I knocked on the first, waited, knocked again, and went in. A double bed, a table, and an armchair. An open door led to a small bathroom. The blinds were down, the ceiling light was on. In the armchair was Kaminski.

He seemed to be sleeping, his eyes were closed, he was wearing a silk dressing gown several sizes too large for him, with rolled-up sleeves. His hands didn't reach the ends of the arms, the back of it rose high above his head, his feet dangled clear of the floor. His forehead twitched, he turned his head, opened and closed his eyes very quickly, and said, "Who's that?"

"Me," I said. "Zollner. I forgot my bag. Anna had to go to her sister, and asked me if I could stay, no problem, and . . . I just wanted to let you know. In case you need anything."

"And what would I need?" he said calmly. "Fat cow."

I wondered if I'd heard him right.

"Fat cow," he said again. "And she can't cook either. How much did you pay?"

"I don't know what you mean. But if you have time for a conversation . . ."

"Were you in the cellar?"

"In the cellar?"

He tapped his nose. "You can smell it."

"In which cellar?"

"She knows we can't throw her out. It's impossible to find good help up here."

"Should I . . . switch off the light?"

"The light?" He frowned. "No, no. Pure habit, no."

Maybe he'd taken another pill? I pulled the tape recorder out of my bag, switched it on, and set it on the floor.

"What was that?" he asked.

It would be best to come straight to the point. "Tell me about Matisse!"

He said nothing. I would like to have seen his eyes, but he'd obviously trained himself to keep them shut whenever he wasn't wearing his gla.s.ses. "That house in Nice. I thought: That's how I'd like to live one day. What year are we in?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I know you were in the cellar. What year?"

I told him.

He rubbed his face. I looked at his legs. Two woolly slippers dangled in the air, a hairless, white s.h.i.+n, that of a child, was exposed.

"Where are we?"

"In your house," I said slowly.

"So tell me how much you paid the fat cow!"

"I'll be back later." He drew breath, I left the room quickly and shut the door. It wasn't going to be easy! I would give him a few minutes so that he could collect himself.

I opened the last door and had finally found the office. A desk with a computer, a revolving chair, file cabinets, supplies, piles of paper. I sat down and put my head in my hands. The sun was already low, in the distance the gondola of a funicular climbed the side of a mountain, glittered as it caught a sunbeam, then disappeared over a patch of forest. I could hear cras.h.i.+ng and banging from next door; I listened but nothing came of it.

I had to proceed systematically. This was Miriam's workplace, her father probably hadn't been here in years. First I would go through all papers that were lying open, then I would work my way through the desk drawers from bottom to top, then the cupboards, from left to right. I could be very tidy when I had to.

Most of it was financial records. Bank statements and deposit receipts, involving much less money than I would have thought. Contracts with gallerists: Bogovic had gotten forty percent to begin with, then it came down to thirty, remarkably little, whoever had done the negotiating with him back then had done a good job. Records for private medical insurance-fairly expensive-plus life insurance, for Miriam, oddly enough, but not for that much money. I turned on the computer, it chattered itself into action and asked for the pa.s.sword. I tried Miriam, Manuel, Adrienne, Papa, Mama, h.e.l.lo, Miriam, Manuel, Adrienne, Papa, Mama, h.e.l.lo, and and pa.s.sword, pa.s.sword, but none of them worked. Crossly, I shut it down again. but none of them worked. Crossly, I shut it down again.

Now for the letters: carbon copies of endless correspondence with gallerists about prices, sales, transport of individual paintings, the rights for prints, postcards, ill.u.s.trated books. Most of the letters were from Miriam, a few had been dictated and signed by her father, only the oldest of them were in his own handwriting: negotiations, proposals, demands, even requests from before he was famous. Back then his handwriting was a scrawl, the lines sloped off to the right, the dots on his i i's were all over the place. Carbon copies of various responses to journalists: My father is not and never was a representational painter, because he thinks the concept is meaningless, either every painting is representational or none is, and that's all there is to say on the subject. My father is not and never was a representational painter, because he thinks the concept is meaningless, either every painting is representational or none is, and that's all there is to say on the subject. A few letters from Clure and other friends: arrangements to meet, short replies, birthday greetings, and, in a careful pile, Professor Mehring's Christmas cards. Invitations to lecture at universities; as far as I knew, he never gave lectures, obviously he'd turned them all down. And the photocopy of a curious card to Claes Oldenburg: Kaminski was thanking him for his help, but regretted he had to admit that he thought Oldenburg's art- A few letters from Clure and other friends: arrangements to meet, short replies, birthday greetings, and, in a careful pile, Professor Mehring's Christmas cards. Invitations to lecture at universities; as far as I knew, he never gave lectures, obviously he'd turned them all down. And the photocopy of a curious card to Claes Oldenburg: Kaminski was thanking him for his help, but regretted he had to admit that he thought Oldenburg's art-Forgive my candor, but in our business friendly lies are the only sin-was worthless nonsense. Underneath everything else, on the bottom of the last drawer, I found a thick leather portfolio, closed with a little lock. I tried without success to unlock it with the letter opener, then set it aside for later.

I looked at the time: I had to be quick. No letters to Dominik Silva, to Adrienne, to Therese? I heard an engine and took an uneasy look out of the window. A car had stopped downstairs. Clure got out, looked around, took a couple of steps toward Kaminski's house, then turned aside, I let my breath out, and he opened his own garden gate. Next door I could hear Kaminski's dry cough.

I got to the cupboards. I leafed through fat doc.u.ment files, copies of insurance stuff, copies of land registers, he had bought a piece of land in the south of France ten years ago and sold it again at a loss. Copies of trial doc.u.ments from a court case against a gallerist, who had sold paintings from his early Symbolist period. Also old sketchbooks with detailed drawings of the lines of reflected light between various mirrors: I calculated what they must be worth and struggled for a few seconds against the impulse to pocket one of them. I was on the last cupboard already: old bills, copies of the last eight years' tax returns; I would have loved to go through them, but there wasn't time. Hoping for secret compartments or false bottoms, I tapped the rear walls. I lay down on the floor and peered under the cupboards. Then I got up on the chair and took a look on top of them.

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 a.s.sured 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 a.s.sured him of his good wishes and . . . a telegram from Pica.s.so: Walker 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p was on course for a sh.o.r.e 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 pa.s.s without serving to ensure that if he, Rieming, had earned the right to call anyone his son, then he would wish to bestow this t.i.tle 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 s.h.i.+elded from sorrow, that was already a great deal; indeed it was everything. 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p was on course for a sh.o.r.e 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 pa.s.s without serving to ensure that if he, Rieming, had earned the right to call anyone his son, then he would wish to bestow this t.i.tle 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 s.h.i.+elded 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 Roadside Words would be coming out next month, and he was antic.i.p.ating 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. would be coming out next month, and he was antic.i.p.ating 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 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. 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 Manuel, I'm not really writing this. I'm only imagining . . . an electric buzzing interrupted me: the doorbell. . . . 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 painting?"

"We're working on his biography. He has to concentrate."