“I’ve never heard shots,” said Leo. “Artillery?”
“Tanks,” said Müller.
Of course! She closed her eyes for a moment. Was it possible he’d recognized the sound and she hadn’t?
The village was a mere grouping of little corrugated iron huts. Two rusty jeeps were standing at an angle in the grass, a dozen men, weapons at the ready, sat yawning around the remains of a fire. A goat was sniffing thoughtfully at a mound of earth. Three Europeans ducked out of one of the houses: a little woman in her mid-fifties with glasses and a knitted vest, a man in uniform with the UN insignia on the front, and behind them a woman with brown hair, tall, slim, and extremely beautiful.
“Riedergott,” said the little woman. Elisabeth took a moment to realize she’d just introduced herself. “Klara Riedergott, Red Cross. Good that you’re here.”
“Rotmann,” said the man. “UNPROFOR. The situation is completely unstable. I don’t know how long we can maintain a presence here.”
A phone rang, they all looked around, puzzled. Finally Leo pulled out his gadget with an apologetic smile. How amazing that there was reception here! He turned away and began to murmur.
“Haven’t we already met?” asked Elisabeth.
“I can’t think where,” said Mrs. Riedergott.
“Yes,” said Elisabeth. “Not so long …”
“I already told you,” Mrs. Riedergott had turned rigid. “I can’t think where!”
Elisabeth noticed that the brown-haired woman was looking at her. She had an aura of intelligence and something secret. For some reason she seemed to be the most important person here. It was almost impossible not to look at her.
“The Elmitz Karner Prize,” cried Leo.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m getting the Elmitz Karner Prize. They wanted to know if I’d accept. I said I can’t possibly think about such nonsense right now.”
“And?”
“What do I know? Probably they’ll give it to someone else. Can’t pay attention to that sort of thing right now. They must be confusing me with someone who does give a damn.”
Elisabeth’s eyes moved back to the woman. What in the world was going on here? Her suspicions were still vague, she couldn’t put them into words. At that moment the horizon glittered, despite the brightness of the daylight, and she thought the ground trembled. Only seconds later did they hear the explosion. I shouldn’t have brought him here, she thought, it’s too much for him. But Leo looked calm and alert, only his lips twitched a little.
“I don’t think they’re coming in this direction,” he said. “They’re heading north. They’ll probably stick to their route.”
“Looks that way,” said Rotmann.
“You never know,” said Rebenthal.
“How,” she said, “do you know which way is north?”
“Are there elephants here?” asked Leo.
“They’re all on the other side of the border,” said Rotmann. “Fleeing the war.”
“I came to Africa,” said Leo. “Perhaps I’ll die in Africa. Without seeing an elephant.” He smiled in the direction of the brown-haired woman. She returned his look. There was a complicity in it that went far beyond words, a total mutual understanding, of the kind that only exists between people who know each other to the very core.
Elisabeth felt her pulse beat faster. “Someone needs to inventory the stocks of medicines,” Rotmann said to her. “Would you help me?” And it was true, this was not the moment to be thinking about such things, there was work to be done.
The two of them sat down inside one of the stifling huts and sorted injection ampoules. Rotmann squeezed his eyes to slits in order to see better. He was breathing heavily. Beads of sweat stood out on his moustache.
“Why UNPROFOR?” Elisabeth asked suddenly.
“Pardon?”
“UNPROFOR was in Yugoslavia, UN Peacekeeping Forces should be called something different here.”
He said nothing for a few minutes. “I must have misspoken.” He laughed awkwardly. “I do know who I work for.”
“And who do you work for?”
He looked at her, baffled. Outside there was the sound of further artillery fire. The door opened, the brown-haired woman came in and bent over the medicines.
“Excuse me.” A handshake, both soft and strong. “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Lara Gaspard.”
“You’re …” Elisabeth rubbed her forehead. “Weren’t you … in America?”
“A long story. Very complicated. My whole life is one long story of complications.”
“Astonishing,” said Rotmann, “how alike you two look.”
“You think?” asked Lara.
Elisabeth stood up and went out without saying a word.
She leaned against the metal hut wall. It was still hot, but the light was fading from minute to minute. In a moment it would be dark, near the equator this happened very fast. It took her several seconds to realize that Leo was standing next to her.
“All this isn’t real,” she said. “Or is it?”
“Depends on your definition.” He lit a cigarette. “Real. It’s a word that means so much, it doesn’t mean anything anymore.”
“That’s why you’re so serene. So composed and on top of everything. This is your version, this is what you’ve made of it. Out of our trip back then and out of what you know of my work. And of course Lara is there.”
“Lara is always there when I am.”
“I knew you’d do this. I knew I’d end up in one of your stories! Exactly what I didn’t want!”
“We’re always in stories.” He drew on the cigarette, the tip glowed red, then he lowered it and blew smoke into the warm air. “Stories within stories within stories. You never know where one ends and another begins! In truth, they all flow into one another. It’s only in books that they’re clearly divided.”
“The mistake with UNPROFOR shouldn’t have happened. Ever heard of research?”
“I’m not that kind of author.”
“Could be,” she said. “And I’m going to leave you.”
He looked at her. She felt a wave of sadness well up in her. The horizon glittered again. Out there was death, out there reality was so harsh and so painful that there were no words to describe it. No matter whether he’d thought it up or she was actually here—there were places of pure terror, and places where things were themselves and nothing else.
“But not now,” he said. “Not in this story.”
They were silent for some moments. In front of them the uniformed men had lit the fire. Now they were sitting around the flames talking quietly in their language. From time to time, one of them laughed.
“In reality you’d never turn down a prize. Give me a cigarette.”
“That was my last.”
“Nothing to be done?”
He shook his head. “My God, no. And yet I badly need more, I’m appallingly nervous.”
She blinked, but she could hardly see him anymore. He struck her as unreal, already almost transparent and more of a placeholder than himself. And inside the hut meantime, she knew, Lara Gaspard’s presence and charisma had only grown stronger.
“Poor Mrs. Riedergott! Did you really have to use her too?”
“Why not?” His voice was almost disembodied, it seemed to be coming from all around and yet was almost inaudible in the evening wind. “I found her very useful.”
“Useful.”
“Is that bad?”
She shrugged and went back inside. Lara Gaspard was holding a pencil and drawing in a sketchbook with dreamlike concentration. How graceful she was! Beside her Rotmann was reading a worn French paperback, The Art of Being Oneself by Miguel Auristos Blanco. Müller and Rebenthal were playing cards with one of the militiamen.