“What did you say?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says.
I turn away.
“Sometimes every path is the wrong one,” he says.
I stare at him.
“The truth will set you free,” he says. “Nice if it were so. But sometimes there is absolutely nothing that can set you free anymore. Neither lies nor the truth.” He straightens his hat with an affected gesture. “At bottom there is no longer any difference between the two, Ivan.”
“Excuse me?”
He frowns.
“What did you just say? About lies and truth? Did you call me Ivan?”
Now the two men with the briefcases are watching us, concerned. Yes, that’s how it goes, that’s how they shatter your nerves. And then all of a sudden, you grab someone and yell and start hitting them and then they can put you away. But I’m not going to make it that easy for them.
“Apologies,” I say. “I must have misheard.”
“You think?” asks the man with the hat.
The elevator stops, one of the briefcase men gets out and a woman in a black jacket gets in. They’ve practiced really well, everything looks natural. You could watch for hours and never have any suspicion.
“You’re not going to hold out very much longer,” he says.
I don’t react.
“Keep running. Look good in your suit. Keep running for as long as you can. You look the worse for wear.”
I don’t react.
“You have to know, today is not a day like any other. Sometimes it’s easier. Death brings us closer.”
The elevator stops, the doors open, I get out without turning around. I go out to the street, the heat has abated a bit, it will soon be evening. Knut is sitting in the car with the engine running. Did I tell him to wait for me? I get in.
“Question,” he says.
“Not now.”
“Municipal bonds — should you, shouldn’t you, how does it look?”
How cool and quiet it is in the car. A good make of car, clean, tank full, with a chauffeur at the wheel, all give me more peace than the finest of religions.
“To be specific,” says Knut. “My aunt. Dead. Bad thing. I told you about it. The building site. The crane.”
“Yes, I know.” As always, I haven’t a clue.
“But it was also her fault. She shouldn’t have hidden where she did. Nobody made her do that, did they?”
“No.”
“In any case, none of us would have thought she had a hundred thousand euros. We just didn’t know. Particularly not after the thing with the innkeeper and the burglars. And also because she was always so stingy. Nothing ever at Christmas. Nor to the children. So now, what do we do? There’s this old guy next door, his son is with the bank. I don’t like him. He doesn’t like me either. Particularly not after the whole thing with his dog. He stated that the beast was never in our garden, but I have two witnesses. So — municipal bonds. His son’s idea. Mitznik.”
“What?”
“That’s what the old guy is called. And he stutters! Municipal bonds. Mitznik’s his name. So what now, boss, are they okay? Municipal bonds?”
“Yes, pretty much.”
“But do they pay anything?”
For no apparent reason he brakes sharply; luckily my seat belt is fastened. He hits the horn and then drives on. “I want to make some money! If there’s nothing in it, I’m out!”
“The more reliable an investment is, the less it pays. The highest wins you can make are in a casino, because the odds there are so terrible. Investing is gambling with good odds.”
“Can I give it to you, boss?”
“Me?”
“Will you invest it for me, boss?”
“We don’t accept such small investments.”
“But for me? As a favor? For a friend?”
Did he really call me a friend? The maneuver is transparent, but it moves me. “A hundred thousand?”
“Maybe even a bit more.”
Well, it would be enough to pay the rent on the office space for a while. Later that would make him one joint plaintiff among many, that’s no longer the point.
I shake my head.
“Boss!”
“It wouldn’t be right. Believe me.”
“Why?” He coughs, then he emits a series of high, sharp sounds. They could be sounds of rage, or they could be sobs.
“You just have to believe me. It’s better this way.”
He brakes, opens the window, and screams at someone. I can’t understand it all, but the words animal, pig-ignorant, and child abuser emerge, along with something about strangulation. He’s already driving on.
“Well, okay,” I say.
“Really?”
“For you, I’ll make an exception.”
“Boss!”
“It’s fine!”
“Boss?”
“Please, it’s fine.”
But he brakes again, turns around, and reaches for my hand. At first I manage to avoid it, but then he gets hold of my shirt cuff. “I’d die for you.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
“I’d kill for you.”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean it. Just give me a name.”
“Please—”
“I’ll kill him.”
“Keep driving!”
“It’s not a joke.”
How can I avoid thinking about Kluessen? A car accident, a suddenly induced and mysterious heart ailment.… Luckily Knut lets it go and keeps driving. I close my eyes and manage to black out his ongoing monologue. It occurs to me that my phone is still switched off. This explains why no one from the office has called me to ask where on earth I’ve gotten to.
We’ve already reached home. If you drive early, you avoid the rush hour. I evade Knut’s last effusions of thanks, get out, and stride along the gravel path through the garden like the very image of a man accustomed to overcoming obstacles. I unlock the front door, go in, and call, “I’m home!”
No answer.
There was no anticipation that I would be back so early. The house is silent, as if I’d caught it getting up to something. So this is what it’s like when I’m not here. I call out again. My voice sounds lost in the large hall.
Then I hear something.
Not a knocking, more a scraping noise. It sounds like heavy metal objects being shoved around. I cock my ears, but it’s already stopped. Just as I decide I must have made a mistake, it starts again.
It’s coming from below me, in the cellar. Should I call someone, a plumber or the fire department? But if someone came and there was nothing to hear, what would that make me look like? I go into the kitchen and wash my hands. And there it goes again. The window shakes, the glasses in the cupboard clink gently. I dry my hands. Now all is quiet.
And then I hear it again.
Under no circumstances am I going to go down to the cellar on my own.
I listen. It’s stopped.
It starts again.
I cross the hall and undo the heavy bolt on the cellar door. I’ve never been down there — why would I? It’s where we store our wine bottles, but that’s not my job, Laura’s the one who takes care of all that.
A flight of stairs leads down; two naked bulbs cast a rather spotted light on the treads. Three old posters are glued up on the brick walclass="underline" Yoda, Darth Vader, and some naked woman — I’ve never seen any of them before. At the bottom is a metal door. I open it, grope for the light switch, and locate it. The air is musty. A bulb crackles as it comes on.
A long space, a low ceiling, a large wine rack against the wall, half empty. That’s my wine collection, that’s what I spent all that money on? In one corner there’s a tin bucket lying on its side, in the opposite wall I see another door. The noise has ceased. I move slowly through the room and push the lever of the door handle down. I feel a rush of cold air: another flight of steps. I feel for the switch: the light goes on.