by Martin Suter
At last it was quiet. The man, presumably the brother, shut the door and turned round. He wore a fading smile, now twisting into a yawn.
Allmen drew back from the stairs, but didn’t return to the bedroom. He heard the brother humming to himself. A door opened, the guest bathroom, judging by the watery sounds which soon emerged from the open door. The toilet was flushed, the door shut and then he heard the clattering of a hanger on the coat stand.
Allmen took a few steps forward again, and caught the brother in his coat at the front door before everything went dark.
The door was pulled shut. Gradually Allmen’s eyes got used to the darkness. Now he saw there were emergency lights, glowing close to the floor in the hall, and by every other step along the staircase.
A motor started up, grew louder, quieter, louder again, then faded away.
Allmen was chilly in his T-shirt and boxer shorts. He returned to the bedroom and slipped in next to Joëlle under the comforter.
Now he was wide awake.
30
An hour later he was still awake. The storm had ended as abruptly as it began. Joëlle hadn’t moved at all. And Allmen’s head was full of dragonflies.
“Should you,” Jack Tanner had said, “have any more such dragonflies in your little collection, I would be interested.”
There had been five there, each one finer than the next.
They were alone in the house. And Joëlle was sleeping like a log.
The house had been full of guests. Any of them could come under suspicion.
Except for him. He would be witnessed leaving the house empty-handed. As before.
Twenty thousand.
That would solve the Dörig problem. Which, strictly speaking, Joëlle was responsible for.
Who would have thought twenty thousand would one day be an issue for Johann Friedrich von Allmen.
He got up quietly and dressed.
31
The smell of cold cigar smoke hung in the room. Allmen pushed past the obstruction in front of the door. The vitrines lit up. On the small glass table in front of the solitary leather armchair was an ashtray with a cigar butt and three intact cylinders of ash, almost identical in length, left by a very measured smoker.
Allmen walked over to the vitrine with the dragonflies. In the spot where the bowl he had taken had been, was another.
If he hadn’t known otherwise, he would have sworn it was the same one.
But as he did know otherwise, he concluded the bowl he had walked off with was not in fact unique, and that was why Tanner had paid him such a low price for it.
He opened the vitrine, took the piece out and wrapped it carefully in a towel.
He did the same with the other four. Which hadn’t been his original intention. But if that one wasn’t unique, then the others undoubtedly weren’t either.
32
Carrying a misshapen bundle of towels under his arm he walked softly down the stairs. The foyer smelled of the guests who had left the house an hour ago. Perfumes, nicotine and the exhalations of a long evening.
The door was one you could open only from the inside. Allmen propped it open with a coat hanger so it couldn’t shut and lock him out.
The driveway lay in front of him, brightly lit by the moon. He took the long way around, under the protection of the trees to the hedge and along it to the gate. There he stashed his booty at the same spot in the cypress hedge he had used last time.
He returned to the house the same way. As he reached the corridor on the first floor he thought he heard footsteps. But inside the bedroom Joëlle was still lying exactly as he had left her.
He undressed quietly and slipped under the sheets. He noticed only now that he was shivering. He attributed it to the cold fall night.
33
He was woken by the whining of a vacuum. For a moment he thought he was in a hotel.
Then he remembered the previous night. The extraordinary restaurant, the extravagant wine, the exorbitant check. And the stupid thing—the indescribably stupid thing—he had done.
He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes, as if this would undo the mistake. What devil had talked him into stealing all five bowls? Someone had obviously been in the room since his last visit, had smoked a whole cigar in peace. Why had this fact not dissuaded him from making such a blunder? The alcohol. It must have been the wickedly expensive alcohol. He had been reasonably sober, but only when compared to Joëlle. Compared to his usual drinking levels, he had seriously overdone it.
Generally Allmen succeeded in ignoring unpleasant realities for as long as it took them to vanish from his consciousness, not forever, but long enough for him to generate some pleasant realities. But this time it wasn’t working. He was forced to try the second best method: opening his eyes and busying himself, thinking of nothing except, for example: now I’m pulling back the covers. Now I’m turning on my side. Now I’m putting my left foot on the ground. Now I’m raising my head while I put my right foot on the ground. Now I’m sitting on the edge of the bed.
He opened his eyes. The strip of moonlight on the carpet had given way to a glaring band of sun. The mother-of-pearl boudoir of the night had been transformed into a tasteless bedroom.
Still fast asleep, Joëlle had undergone a similar metamorphosis. Her face was slightly bloated now. Here and there shone the remnants of her thickly plastered night cream, and on her lower lip a thin red wine crust could be traced, which had withstood the removal of her makeup.
Allmen stood up and went into the bathroom. He found some towels in a cupboard and took out more than he needed. He showered and distributed the towels around the bathroom, so that the ones stuffed into the cypress hedge would not be missed.
He shaved with a lady’s razor he found in one of the mirrored cabinets, and got dressed.
Joëlle was still sleeping when he returned to the bedroom. He had no choice; he would have to wait till she woke. He needed her as a witness he had left the house empty handed.
It was just after ten thirty. He had to do something to accelerate her waking process.
Allmen went to the window and opened the curtains. The room filled with merciless sunlight. But Joëlle showed no sign of waking.
Perhaps he should bring her breakfast. Always a reasonable excuse for waking someone.
He headed out into the corridor.
The vacuum had been silent for a while, but there were sounds coming from the ground floor. He descended the staircase.
The foyer had been tidied up and aired. In the corridor that led to the living rooms stood a cleaning trolley and a vacuum. Allmen walked to the door at the end where he hoped to find the kitchen.
It was the pantry. The food was served from here, sent up in a dumbwaiter from the kitchen.
The room was empty. But the door to the dining room was open. Allmen entered.
The table was laid for two people. There was a third place, which had been used. The domestic worker from last time, a middle-aged woman in a gray and white striped apron, was busy clearing the plate, cutlery and leftovers onto a tray. Now she paused and looked at him.
“Good morning,” Allmen wished her.
The woman nodded and smiled faintly.
“Do you think … I would like to bring Frau Hirt’s breakfast to her room. Do you think you could assemble a few things she likes to eat?”
The woman nodded again and continued clearing the place at the table. She took the tray into the pantry. Allmen followed her. She took a fresh tray from a rack and returned to the table. Allmen followed her back and saw her gather up the crumbs with a table sweeper then clear one of the place settings and put everything on the fresh tray.
“Coffee?” she asked. She had an accent but Allmen couldn’t place it with just this one word. He hesitated. “While I prepare Frau Hirt’s breakfast?”
Polish, Czech, somewhere in that region.
“Do you have espresso?”
“Double?”
“Double.�
�� Did he look that wasted?
She gestured to the chair in front of the remaining place setting at the table. He sat and waited. After a short time she returned with the espresso and a newspaper.
Only the smell in the room revealed that a few hours ago there had been a huge gathering. There was a very mild aroma of cigar smoke in the air, mixed with a dry, leathery eau de toilette.
Allmen skimmed the headlines then turned to page three for an article trailed on the front page.
From where he was sitting he could see the double doors out to the corridor. And from the corner of his eye he now noticed a figure passing by.
When he looked up the person had gone, but before he had time to turn back to the newspaper, he returned. As if he had noticed the man at the table in passing and wanted to check he hadn’t been mistaken.
The figure was Klaus Hirt. He stood in profile, half hidden by the door frame, his head turned toward Allmen, and mumbled something which sounded like a greeting.
And then he was gone. The cigar smell was stronger than before.
Now Allmen uttered a greeting in return—if the nervous coughing sound he projected toward the empty doorway could be described as a greeting.
So Hirt was here! It was Hirt who had smoked a cigar in the glassware room. It was Hirt’s footsteps he had heard in the supposedly empty house. He might easily have met him earlier. He might easily have bumped into him in the glassware room. He might easily have been caught in the act by him.
He would definitely leave the towel-wrapped bundle in the hedge alone now.
The domestic worker came in with a tray. It contained two espressos, a glass filled with a green liquid, a glass of water on a saucer holding two Alka-Seltzer tablets and a half-bottle of champagne. “Frau Hirt’s breakfast.” She said this with an entirely straight face.
Allmen attempted to take it from her with the same matter-of-factness.
34
When he returned to the room, the bed was empty. The bathroom door was ajar, and inelegant sounds were coming from within: coughing, choking, spitting, groaning, swearing.
Allmen placed the tray on the bedside table and considered how to make his presence known.
But at that moment the door flew open and Joëlle entered. She was naked, which he noticed had suited her better in the gentle silky light of the other night, than the glaring sunshine of this warm morning, with the foehn wind blowing.
It took a few seconds for her to notice him. “Shit! I thought you’d gone.” She looked down at herself, shot him a look of hatred and rushed back into the bathroom.
When she returned, ten minutes later, she was wearing lipstick, eyeliner, a little makeup, one black towel as a turban and another as a sarong.
Now she saw the tray. She headed straight for it, peeled the two Alka-Seltzers and dropped them into the glass of water. She watched in fascination as the tablets jumped around in the commotion of their carbon dioxide.
“You’ve saved my life,” she murmured, and patted his cheek.
The tablets had dissolved to leave just a small deposit of white crumbs. She put the glass to her mouth and emptied it in one go with practiced ease. Then she took the glass with the grass-green liquid, drank half and said, “Barley grass juice. Detoxifies the body and strengthens the immune system.” She sat on the edge of the bed and drank the first espresso.
“I saw your father.”
“Oh, is he here?” In a disinterested way she sounded surprised.
“You didn’t know?”
“With my father you never know where he is at any one moment. Come here, sit down. You can have my second espresso.”
“Thanks, I already had mine.” Allmen sat down next to her. “I’ll have to be going soon.”
“Could you open this baby for me?” was all she had to say to this announcement.
Allmen uncorked the small champagne bottle and filled the flute.
“First the other espresso.” She held the empty cup out as if he were a waiter.
He swapped it for the full one, its brown froth already clearing to reveal a circle of dark liquid.
She drained the cup, screwing her face up, and held it out to him. He took it from her and placed the champagne glass in her hand, still outstretched.
Joëlle drank half the glass and placed it on the bedside table. Then she threw her arms up in the air, stretched and yawned. “Boris will drive you. Whenever you’re ready.”
“Now then.” Allmen said bluntly.
She went to the telephone, dialed a short number and said, “Ja, Boris. Herr von Allmen is ready to leave. Thank you.” She put the phone down and smiled at him. “He’ll be waiting for you in the drive.”
Joëlle held her left cheek out to him, and put a hand on his neck. With the other she patted his cheek again, in the same patronizing way. “Thanks,” she murmured, “it was nice.”
Allmen walked down the staircase, wondering why she had brushed him aside so unceremoniously. He consoled himself by concluding she felt he had seen too much of her. Too much reality, in too much light.
Boris was waiting for him with thinly disguised mirth. As they left the gateway behind them, Allmen muttered, “See you never again, Jojo.”
35
Around midday Allmen pressed his doorbell.
“Hello?” came Carlos’s voice, suspicious.
“Soy yo,” Allmen answered.
“Don John …” he heard Carlos say, then the line was cut and the buzzer sounded. Allmen took the section of the path toward the villa then turned off down the smaller path to the gardener’s cottage.
The door was open, as always, and Carlos was waiting in the vestibule. Allmen could see immediately something was wrong. Without waiting for his greeting, Carlos said, “Don John, le esperan. You have a visitor.”
“Who is it?”
“Un señor.” He gestured toward the living room with his chin.
Before he even saw him, Allmen knew who was waiting for him; he was standing in the half-open door. Now he opened it fully. Without a word he held his open hand out to Allmen. When Allmen failed to react immediately, he waved it up and down, demanding.
Allmen managed to get his coat off, with Carlos’s help, before reaching into his top pocket for his remaining money. He counted out five thousand-franc notes into Dörig’s paw.
Dörig stood still as a pillar of salt and waited for the rest.
Allmen looked through his pockets, found two hundred-franc notes and a fifty and placed them with the larger notes.
Dörig said, “Twelve thousand, four hundred and fifty-five.”
“Do we have any more money in the house, Carlos?” Allmen asked casually.
Carlos went into the kitchen and returned with the two thousand-franc notes Allmen had slipped into his household accounts. Allmen placed them on the immobile, outstretched hand.
Dörig waited.
“The rest will follow in the next few days,” Allmen said firmly.
Dörig turned his hand ninety degrees. The notes fell to the ground. “No one palms off a Dörig,” he said quietly and menacingly. Then he placed his right heel on the arch of Allmen’s foot and shifted his entire weight onto it.
Allmen yelped.
“Friday. Same time. Same place. Or else …”
Dörig went to the door and stood there. Carlos got the message and opened it for him. Dörig handed him a tip of ten centimes. Carlos closed the door behind him, threw the coins in the trash can next to the coat stand and bent down to gather up the notes from the floor.
Allmen was hopping on one foot, rubbing the other.
“No one palms off a Dörig!” he kept muttering in disgust. “A Dörig!”
36
It wasn’t often that Allmen could not be distracted by a book. He was under no illusions that his hunger for literature had really always been his way of avoiding this reality by barricading himself in another.
But this time the barricades were not withstanding the onslaught. He w
as reading A Woman of Thirty by Balzac, an author he could normally rely on to transport him into another world. But even Balzac couldn’t block out the images of the last day.
Joëlle kept slipping in between the lines. Effusive and decadent at shaparoa, later a weary, needy pajama girl, then hungover, naked and spent in the late morning light, finally cold and haughty as he left. And the dragonfly bowls kept appearing, in their finest light in the vitrines, and as an ungainly bundle of black towels in the cypress hedge.
The image of Klaus Hirt kept getting in his way too. The way he had peeked through the door in passing. What kind of look had it been? Searching? Disparaging? Suspicious? Knowing?
And when he succeeded in banishing these images, another barged its way past Balzac’s elegant counts and refined marquises, the crude and vulgar Dörig. A Dörig!
That man was the hardest to suppress. Thanks to the dull pain of the bruise on his foot he was omnipresent. Allmen had taken his shoe off and raised his leg and was putting his faith in the ointment Carlos had prescribed. It came from a battered metal tube labeled “Milagro”—miracle.
Allmen gave up. He put the book aside and hobbled over to the glass wall facing the rear of the grounds from where you could see the dark thicket behind the greenhouse, where the urban fox sometimes appeared.
If he were honest, a rare situation in Allmen’s life, he would have to admit he’d pretty much hit rock bottom. No, not pretty much. He had hit rock bottom. Period.
He was living from hand to mouth. Superficially easing his most urgent debts no longer hid even to himself that something much bigger was building up behind them, which would sooner or later crash down on top of him. The goodwill he had gained during his years of extravagance would soon be exhausted. All the well-disposed creditors would turn, one after another, into a swarm of Dörigs, dominating first his thoughts and dreams, and then his reality. Nothing could save him.
