She waited until his gaze lit on her. His smile expressed surprise in a boyish, slightly flustered way. He knew very well who she was but he had not expected to meet her here. Andreas Bark probably did not read glossy magazines and obviously did not go in for gossip. He talked a lot as they drove, but his voice was pleasant. It had been snowing in Copenhagen when he left. I ask you! No wonder there was something abject, somehow aggrieved about the Danes. Each time you stuck out your nose for a whiff of spring you were put in your place with a shock of cold. He took off his leather jacket, he was sweating. He had spent the winter in Rome. His arms and wrists were surprisingly slender. Rome… wasn’t it a place for old ladies? He laughed, but made no reply. He said he had seen her in The Father. The production had impressed him, its rhythm and clarity… And she had been good, he hastened to add, like something he almost forgot to mention.
They left Almeria behind them. At the end of the stony plain you could see the snow-clad ridge of the Sierra Nevada. Andreas gave free rein to his delight, genuinely bowled over. He caught sight of one of the mock-up towns left among the furrowed rocks after being used for a spaghetti western. Couldn’t they stop by there? They walked among the wooden houses consisting of mere façades, with name-plates reading Sheriff or Saloon in faded lettering. The façades had wooden pillars and planked walkways, where the sheriff and the loafers of the town had sat tilting their chairs with their hat brims pulled down over their eyes. In the middle of the set there was a gallows with a rope that swung lightly back and forth in the wind. Andreas put the noose round his neck and stuck out his tongue. She laughed. He beckoned her with a familiar gesture, as if they already knew each other. From where he stood, beneath the gallows, you couldn’t see the supporting beams against the backs of the flats. It was an authentic scene from a western, where the dust had just subsided after a horseman had ridden off.
Harry was disgruntled when they finally arrived back and joined him on the roof terrace. Did it really take so long to cover the hundred kilometres? Andreas was disconcerted at the grudging welcome and politely tried to defend her. He talked about their visit to the wild west town. He had led her astray, he said apologetically. She was annoyed that he was suddenly so smarmy. He had been more himself as they drove, she felt, but how could she tell? After all, she didn’t know him. Well, Harry growled, it was time for a drink, anyway. Did he like white wine? Andreas shrugged his shoulders with an embarrassed smile. He liked everything. Harry stopped on his way across the terrace and turned towards him. Everything? That was quite a lot… They sat on the parapet while he went down. Andreas was less talkative than he’d been in the car. He avoided her eyes and studied the view. The riverbed was in shadow, the pink flowers of the oleander bushes glowed on the steep cliff sides. The cicadas rattled away as usual. Why were they suddenly lost for words?
Harry came back with a tray of glasses, a dewy bottle of white wine and a bowl of black olives. He placed the tray on the stone table and turned towards them. Come along then, children! He had recovered his good humour, and Andreas seemed more relaxed, but she could tell from his tone of voice how much he respected Harry, and took pains to find the right words. He spoke in a different way here on the terrace, his voice was more cultivated, and he did not smile boyishly as he had done at the airport. It was the master and his apprentice sitting in the flickering light under the canopy, drinking white wine and chatting about a Verdi opera Andreas had seen in Verona. Harry knew the director, a German. Andreas listened intently as Harry talked about the German director’s staging of Schiller’s The Robbers at the Burgtheater in Vienna.
Lucca was not listening. Andreas took a pack of Gitanes out of his bag and put a magazine on the table. Harry asked if he could have one. It was a long time since he had smoked a French cigarette. As many as you want! Andreas was a model of generosity. She picked up the magazine without asking leave and riffled through it. It was one of those so-called men’s magazines with the latest in watertight watches and instructions on how to fasten a tie in fourteen ways, and how to find the most authentic run-down hotel in Havana with damp-stained columns in colonial style and mahogany ventilator fans. There was also an interview with a racing driver and a mountain climber, and at the end, between two whisky advertisements, there was one with Otto. She rose, saying she was tired after the drive. Harry looked up at her as if suddenly remembering she was there. She took the magazine to the bedroom and lay down on the bed.
Otto and his girlfriend were photographed in front of an American camper-van from the Fifties, rounded and shining silver. It was chocked up in the corner of a field. They went out there, said the caption, when they just needed to get away from it all. The girlfriend was a reflexologist. She looked sweet, she was four months gone. Lucca looked at the picture more closely. It must have been taken in the autumn, the sunlight was white and sharp, and there seemed to be a cluster of withered leaves hanging in the foreground. She counted on her fingers. Otto had dropped Lucca in June. If the picture had been taken in October, he must recently have become a father. He hadn’t wasted any time. He could not have known the reflexologist for more than a couple of weeks before she became pregnant, unless…
Otto confided to the readers that it had been like a revelation when he met the reflexologist. She was the woman in his life, and she had taught him what life was about. It had just been wham! He hadn’t doubted they were made for each other. Lucca imagined what it had sounded like when he said wham! He explained that for years his life had felt unreal. Today he realised he had been through a depression. He had been concerned with external things, success and prestige, it had all happened much too fast. He had not had genuinely close relationships with anyone, and he had been about to lose his faith in love. Until he met the reflexologist. It had felt like being pulled down to earth and shot out into the galaxies at one and the same time. Otto felt as if only now was he starting to grow up. Now, when he was to be responsible for a new little person, totally entrusted to him. A little one like that, it was just a miracle. It was a boy, they had seen it when she had had a scan. He was already looking forward to the day when they would play football together…
Lucca put down the magazine. She thought of the American boy who had been given a red car for his birthday and sent his unknown father a drawing. She was glad she had persuaded Otto to send Lester that advent calendar. Otto… the twenty-fourth man in her life. She had really believed he was Father Christmas. It was less than a year since she had still believed that. At that time the Gypsy King was merely an old goat who had sneaked up on the pretext of his interest in her youthful talent. She took off her clothes and stretched out on the bed in the semi-darkness, thinking of Otto. He did not remember much, or else their memories differed. In any case she had made a mistake when she thought he was the one, hadn’t she?… She pulled herself together and wished him luck.
A child. They had never talked about that. It was not something which could ever arise with Harry. He had said so, without her asking. He didn’t want to be one of those pensioner fathers who were moved to tears over themselves, but who nevertheless took to the rocking chair before their children had passed their driving test. She felt he was right. There was more to life than children. There were enough of them anyway, more than all the adults in the world could provide with happiness. Her own childhood had not been particularly happy. She could say that now, matter-of-factly, without being upset. She had said it to Harry, and he had looked at her without comment. She was grateful he had not been sorry for her. Then she thought of Otto’s pious chatter about the little boy who would depend on him completely. Poor child, she thought, and not only because of the thought of Otto as a father. He would probably be just as good or bad a father as anyone else. It was the dependence itself, the helplessness of the little child, that repelled her.