I thought about the flight I was supposed to take that afternoon, about arriving the next morning, the drive home, unlocking the door, unpacking, showering, going through the post in my dressing gown, shaving and dressing, driving to the office, and being welcomed back. I thought of the words I’d exchange with the driver: he would ask me if I had had a pleasant journey; I would ask him whether anything had happened in Frankfurt. I thought of the flowers my secretary would place on my desk.
I thought about the ritual of homecoming, and it made me sad. I had adhered to it all these years, and the years themselves had become a ritual faithfully adhered to, case by case, client by client, contract by contract. Mergers and acquisitions – that was what I was good at, what clients came to me for, and what the contracts were about. Over the years I had learned the points to be considered, the questions to be asked. I always considered the same points, always asked the same questions. There were only problems when the other side tried some ruse. But I, too, had my ruses.
I called the head of my travel agency in Frankfurt. It was far too late to reach him at the office, but I reached him at home. He said he could rebook my flight, but only to a specific date. When would I want to fly? I didn’t know yet? Then he would simply move it by two weeks, and he could move it forwards or backwards, at any time. He wished me a pleasant stay.
I put on the suit I had worn the day before, wrinkled and stained by dirt and grass. Suddenly my decision not to fly home frightened me. Suddenly the rituals I followed – at work, in leaving and returning home, in my free time – seemed to be the only thing holding my life together. How would I live without them? But I did not reverse the postponement of my flight.
12
I couldn’t spend the day at the Botanic Garden without going to the Art Gallery. Once again I stood before the painting, and once again the woman made me feel awkward. Not because she was naked, and not because she reminded me of what had happened in the past. Rather, because the woman I saw wasn’t the one I’d encountered back then, the woman I had seen until now. Why hadn’t I seen it before?
The woman in the picture was not descending the staircase to play the piano, or to drink tea, or because her lover was happily waiting at the bottom. She was descending the staircase with bowed head and downcast eyes, as if under duress, but duress she had submitted to. As if she had resisted, but had given up because whoever controlled her was too powerful. As if she could only plead for clemency with softness, seduction, and surrender. Risking, simply to be taken. Or was that what she wanted? Without admitting it to her master, or even to herself?
In a museum I had once seen nineteenth-century paintings of white slave girls in Arabic or Turkish harems. Columns, marble, cushions, fans, the women naked, in lascivious poses, with inscrutable eyes. Kitsch, I had thought. Was the woman descending the staircase and coming towards me kitsch as well? I didn’t know. The jumble of power and seduction, resistance and surrender felt awkward. It was not a terrain I had ever encountered women on. It did not fit with how I had experienced Irene Gundlach back then. Or had I gotten it all wrong?
I did not want to think about it. Luckily, I had the book and the red wine. I don’t read novels, but books about history. What really happened – that is something different from what somebody makes up. When we learn from history, we learn from reality, not from sometimes inspired, but often ridiculous fantasies. And people who find novels more colourful than history are not taxing their imagination: they are not picturing Caesar, who loves Brutus like a son, and gets stabbed to death by him; the Aztecs, who get decimated by the white man’s diseases, even before they meet in battle; the women and children with Napoleon’s army who, crossing the Berezina, get trampled in the snow, or pushed into the icy water. Tragedies and comedies, good and bad luck, love and hate, joy and grief – history offers it all. Novels can’t offer more.
I read about the history of Australia, the convicts in chains, the settlers, the land grant companies, the gold miners, the Chinese. The Aborigines who died first from infections, then from being massacred, and then had their children taken away. The taking was well intentioned, it brought tremendous suffering to both parents and children. My wife would have nodded; she liked to say that the opposite of good is not evil, but good intentions. But the opposite of evil is not evil intentions, but good.
13
As Gundlach had predicted, Schwind turned up at the firm the next day. He came directly from Gundlach, and sat in the chair in front of my desk, head bowed, hands folded. He remained silent for so long that I became impatient. Even when he started to speak, he did not raise his head or unfold his hands.
“When I arrived, the painting hung on the wall. I showed Gundlach my work, and he saw and praised it. Then he took out a pocketknife, opened it, made a cut in the painting, closed the knife, put it back in his pocket. I could have stopped him; he did it all slowly and calmly. But it was as if I was paralyzed. Then he smiled and said: ‘You’ll fix this in no time.’ He was right, the cut is small, and on the staircase. ‘But you’ll only find rest when you have the painting and I get back what’s mine. Go to your lawyer and have him draw up a contract.’ I asked: ‘A contract?’ He said: ‘We have to make it right.’ ”
He raised his head and looked at me. “Can you do that? Draw up a contract so I get the picture back and he gets Irene?”
I said nothing, but he saw the horror on my face.
“I must get the picture back, I must. Do you think I’ll let Gundlach damage it again? Or let him destroy it? I should never have sold it to him. When Irene and I got involved, I should have given back the deposit and taken the painting with me. I was dumb, by God, was I dumb. I know now that I can only paint when I can decide what happens to the painting. Some paintings I’ve destroyed. Because they weren’t right. This painting is right. One day it will hang in the Louvre, or the Met, or the Hermitage. You don’t believe me? You’re right, maybe I’ll need the money and will be happy if I can sell the picture to Berlin, or Munich, or Cologne. But then a different painting of mine will hang in the Met. And one day I’ll have a retrospective in New York, to which Berlin will lend the painting.” He spoke with ever more agitation, throwing up his hands, splaying out his fingers, clenching his fists, then letting them sink down again. Suddenly he laughed. “Maybe I’ll come to the opening of the exhibition and remember you when I see the painting.” He laughed some more and shook his head.
Then he became upset again. “But the painting won’t be sent to New York without my consent. Never again will I sell a painting without retaining the power to decide what happens to it, who buys it, who gets it on loan. You think buyers won’t agree to that? Buyers will fight over my paintings and agree to everything I demand. You don’t believe me. You can’t believe that a little sketch that I scribble on your notepad would make you rich one day. You’d rather be paid by Irene. You take me for somebody who’s not talented enough or persistent enough – or you think I’m too crotchety for the art market.”
I wanted to object, but he wouldn’t let me interrupt, and dismissed me with a wave. “If only he’d do something abstract, you’re thinking – or at least something like Warhol. Soup cans or Coke bottles or Marilyn Monroe – that’s what you like, admit it, that’s what you like. Here in your office you have old engravings, at home you have Warhol’s Goethe or Beethoven because you want to show that you’re educated, but not old-fashioned, you’re open to everything modern. Isn’t that right?”
His tone was contemptuous, his gaze hostile. I wanted to explain what paintings hung in my apartment and why, but then I decided it was none of his business. He could think whatever he wanted. “Your painting is more important to you than your lover?”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about. What do you know about my painting? What do you know about the woman? Nothing. Not about the painting, not about the woman. Maybe she wants to go back to her husband. To the comfort he offers: the servants, the holidays, the horses, the tennis, t
he money. Have you asked yourself that? What will she do when her money runs out and my paintings don’t yet earn enough? Work as a waitress? As a cleaning lady? In a factory? And why should you care about any of this?”
“I’m supposed to draw up a contract. A perverse contract. And you ask why I should care?”
“Slow down. Irene Gundlach is a grown woman. It doesn’t matter what you write, what her husband and I sign – she can do what she wants. If I tell her it’s over, and if he tells her she belongs to him again, she can tell him to go to hell, and tell me she doesn’t believe me. Don’t talk to me about perverse. Two men have got into a mess and want to sort it out, and whether they succeed depends on the woman. An old story.”
During the last few sentences he’d calmed down. He was brusque but in control of himself. He stood up. “I’ll agree to whatever terms. Let him decide when and where and how what needs to happen happens. You know how to reach me.”
14
Today, if a client came to me with such a request, I’d show him the door. Back then I didn’t know what to say, and watched silently as Schwind left the room.
Should I speak to one of the two senior partners? But my reputation in the firm was partly built on never asking for help, but rather solving all problems myself. I thought of the first judge for whom I had worked as a clerk and with whom I had an especially close relationship. I could imagine what he would say.
The phone rang; the firm’s manager had Gundlach on the line. Had Gundlach hired a detective to shadow Schwind and report when he entered and left my office?
“You’re considering what you should put down in the contract. It’s not for me to meddle in your work. But allow me to make a suggestion. It’s best if Schwind and Irene come to me. We’ll talk a little, then Schwind will take the painting to his car, and say he’ll come back to pick up Irene – but he’ll drive away with the painting instead. When I explain to Irene that Schwind has swapped her for the picture, she’ll know to whom she belongs.”
“What if she doesn’t know?”
He laughed. “Let that be my concern. I know her. When she left we were going through a bad patch, and she thought she’d find true love not with me but with him. After the swap, she’ll know better.” I said nothing. “Hello? You don’t believe me? You’re asking yourself what happens if she still doesn’t get it? Don’t worry, I won’t put her in chains and lock her in the cellar. If she wants a taxi, she’ll get a taxi.” His tone became imperious. “So draw up the contract, have Schwind and me sign it, and set up the meeting.” He hung up.
Put her in chains and lock her in the cellar? No, not like that. But what if he kidnapped her and took her somewhere? To his country house or his Aegean island? If he drugged her, and she woke up on his yacht or in his jet, and because she had no choice but to grin and bear it, she would write me a postcard, saying she was enjoying a second honeymoon with Gundlach?
I imagined the conversation, the struggle, and the drugging. Would Gundlach do it alone? Or would the butler hold her down while Gundlach pressed the chloroform-soaked rag to her face? Would they carry her to the car together? Would Gundlach himself drive? Then I imagined a different scenario. What if Schwind tricked Gundlach? If he told Irene everything? If she helped him get the picture back, then ran away with him? Gundlach would not tolerate that, he would have people hunt them down, punish Schwind and kidnap her. Or would he be so furious that he would have her not just kidnapped, but also punished? Beaten, raped, mutilated? No, Schwind had to know that he couldn’t betray Gundlach. The exchange would take place.
15
Gundlach retired only a few years ago, passing the reins of the company to his daughter. He was a skilled businessman who had successfully expanded into Eastern Europe, America, and China, had advised Kohl and Schröder on the economics of German reunification. Had he wanted to, he could have become President of the Federation of German Industries. We occasionally crossed paths socially. His promise to keep me in mind, if I brought him and Schwind together, came to nothing.
Yes, I did the deal between Gundlach and Schwind, just as they wanted. I drew up the contract, setting out the exchange according to Gundlach’s suggestion, and had both of them sign it. The exchange was scheduled for five o’clock on Sunday.
In addition, I resolved to warn Irene Gundlach. Should I summon her to the firm? Ask her to come alone? But what if Schwind accompanied her anyway? Or she found my request odd, and didn’t come? I knew where she and Schwind lived, took a day off, and parked my car so that I had a view of the entrance to the old apartment building. I didn’t have to wait long; at nine o’clock, she stepped out of the door and walked down the street. I followed her on the opposite side. We took the metro to the city centre, and in the rush of the exiting crowd, our encounter seemed coincidental enough.
“How nice to run into you. There’s been a turn of events I wanted to talk to you about. Do you have a moment?”
Was she surprised? She seemed relaxed, and smiled. “I have to cross the river. Would you accompany me?”
We walked through the old city and over the bridge and along the park by the river, discussing the changing face of the city, the upcoming elections, the beautiful autumn. Morning fog still hung over the river, but the colourful leaves were already lit up by the sun. I reminded her that the sun had also been shining and the leaves glowing when she visited my office.
We sat down on a bench, and I told her about my visit to Gundlach, about Schwind’s visit to my office, and the contract that I had drawn up and the two men had signed. I told her my fear for what Gundlach could do to her if she didn’t co-operate. I did not know how she took my news. I did not look at her. I looked at the city across the river. As I spoke, I watched the fog thinning, drifting apart, dissolving. When I finished, the city was bathed in light.
When I finally looked at her, she had tears in her eyes, and I quickly looked away. “It’s okay,” she said with a voice that belied the tears. “Just a few tears.” Then she asked: “Why the contract? What do they get out of it?”
“I think Gundlach wanted to give the agreement a binding formality, even though it can’t legally be enforced. In olden days he would have challenged Schwind to a duel.”
“And you? What do you get out of the contract?”
“If I hadn’t drawn it up Gundlach would have found another lawyer. And I wouldn’t have known what he and Schwind were planning for you.”
“As a lawyer, are you allowed to do this? You represent one of my two men, then you’re in cahoots with the other, then you tell me everything?”
“I don’t care.”
She nodded. “So on Sunday…No, my husband doesn’t have a yacht or a jet, or an island. But he does have a country house. Is he capable of drugging and abducting me? I don’t know.”
“Your husband? Aren’t you divorced?”
“He has his lawyers delaying the proceedings.” She sounded irritated, and I did not know if the cause was my curiosity or Gundlach’s resistance.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to constantly apologize.”
I wanted to say that I did not constantly apologize. But then I let it be. I sat there and did not know how I should say what I wanted to say: that I wanted to help her, that I was ready to do anything, give up anything, for her. That I loved her.
“What have I got myself into with these two men of mine! One wants to sell me, the other maybe to abduct me.” She laughed. “And you? What do you want?”
I blushed. “I…I was involved in getting you into this situation, and I’d like to do whatever I can to help you out of it. If I…if you…”
She looked at me – surprised? moved? with pity? I couldn’t read her. Then she smiled, ran her hand over my head, neck and shoulders, and held me briefly. “I got mixed up with the bad guys but I’m not lost. A brave knight has come to rescue me.”
“Are you mocking me? I don’t mean that I’m anything special. I’m…I love you.”
> 16
I love you – I immediately sensed that this degree of intimacy did not sound right. You should probably keep your mouth shut if “I love you” does not sound right. But out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks. Now I wanted to talk my way out of my stilted declaration into a better one, by laying out the love I felt.
“It happened when you came to the firm alone. You spoke of love, of what a woman who’s really loved becomes – lover, mother, sister, daughter – of a joy so great that God would envy us. You smiled when you said it – a joyful, pained, wise smile that held a promise. You didn’t promise me anything, there’s nothing I want to hold you to, for God’s sake, the promise was a…a cosmic promise, I know you were speaking of love, and women, per se. But for me, you are woman per se, and to love and be loved by you…”
“Shhh.” She put her arm around my shoulders again and pulled me close. “Shhh.” I stopped talking, hoping the embrace would never end, and closed my eyes. “If you really want to help me…”
“What?” I opened my eyes. “What?”
“You can…” She broke off, and took her arm away, and sat up straight. I also sat up straight.
Then she began to talk, at first haltingly, then with more certainty. “When we drive to Gundlach on Sunday…Karl won’t want to drive my car, he’ll want his VW bus. I can…I can give you my key, and when we’ve gone into Gundlach’s house, you sneak into the van and hide behind the wheel. When Karl has brought the picture out of the house and put it in the van, and shut the door…Everything depends on you driving off immediately. That you leave right away. If Karl manages to open one of the doors and jump in, it’s over. But if he doesn’t, I’m sure Karl will think Gundlach betrayed him. He’ll come back into the house, accuse Gundlach, and while the two of them fight, I can get away. Down below Gundlach’s house, where the garden ends, there’s a bend in the road. That’s where you wait. I’ll climb over the wall and get into the van with you.”
The Woman on the Stairs Page 3
