Centred above the text a smart neon sign announces: One Year of Trouble. Headphones hang by their cords, upside down in a grid, in eight rows of eight. Voices pipe gently into the space announcing dates, a different voice for each day. The days slur one into another. November the twenty-first. November twenty-second, November twenty-third, nineteen eighty-one. Men’s voices, women’s voices, most speaking in English. Not all of the headphones play in sync, on one set, in the centre, other voices are superimposed, giving dates and explanations: June seven, nineteen ninety-four, my father passed away. June eighth is the anniversary of my divorce. June ninth, I failed my final exams. June tenth, two thousand and nine, I had an unsuccessful operation on my lower spine. She listens on, November, December, January, the days run chronologically through random years, and on February twelfth she recognizes his voice. Tomas Berens. Short, but distinctive. A date with no explanation.
Surprised to hear Tomas’s voice, Rike instinctively turns about, checks the entrance, checks the corners, not expecting him to be in the room, but out of self-consciousness, as if she has been caught prying. She waits, listens to the year count back to February twelfth, many of the dates are missing, the cycle is incomplete. His voice repeats. She’s less certain the second time.
In the corner of the room is a small booth. In a statement the artists ask that you record a date, and if you like, a short reason.
She stands on tiptoe when she records her message. Most of the days record deaths, which makes her reluctant to add another. October twenty-fifth, two thousand and seven. To the memory of Tobias Georg Bastian. One ear to the headphone, the other poised at the microphone.
As soon as she is finished she feels her voice recede, become indistinct, one among many messages, and then she worries that her sister might hear this, or Henning. But the idea no longer belongs to her, and she feels a detachment, as if, in some small way, she has somehow shed the date and its associations. The machine beeps once, and Rike is offered the choice to save or delete the message.
She chooses delete. This is not her information to tell.
* * *
Rike returns to the apartment clear about her decision not to save the message, but still feels part of the piece. Neither Isa nor Henning would want to hear the message, and she is not sure that she would care to share the information with Tomas. There is too much of an imbalance. Tomas knows basic facts about her — opinions and trivia — the bones of the past five years, but Rike knows little about Tomas.
* * *
Isa wants to know if Rike has gone through any of Henning’s papers. At first it’s a clear question, without blame. The papers were on the table. Did she look at them? Rike says she didn’t, of course she didn’t. She asks what papers Isa is talking about, there was nothing on the table this morning, nor last night, as far as she can remember, except his briefcase.
‘That’s what I’m talking about. The papers were in his briefcase.’
Now Rike is alarmed. Isa should know she wouldn’t go through Henning’s papers, and she would certainly never search through his briefcase.
Isa folds her arms. It doesn’t make sense then. ‘He has information about Parson. He was sent some photographs.’
Rike doesn’t quite see what she’s being asked. ‘And are they missing?’
‘No. But they were in two envelopes. Separate. Now they are together. Someone has been looking through his papers, because they are in a completely different order. Photos of the train. Photos of the body. They were in sealed envelopes. They were opened and mixed together.’
Although this has nothing to do with her, Rike still feels responsible.
5.5
At the Banco di Napoli Gibson draws out the maximum three hundred euro from his personal account. He tries his other cards, debit and credit, struggles to remember the numbers, and is pleased to be able to draw out, in total, a further nine hundred euro. He tries his business cards, but has to go into the bank as these cards are refused. Here they tell him that the sum he wishes to withdraw would take ten days to transfer.
Twelve hundred euro is as much as he can muster.
He stuffs the money into his inside jacket pocket, then returns to the entrance to Hotel Sette.
The passageway leads to a courtyard, then a larger staircase and a caged elevator. The steps are long and sloped, easy to ascend. At the third floor the signs for the hotel with arrows indicating the front of the building are hand-printed and curl from the walls.
The woman behind the counter wears large glasses and appears startled. She doesn’t speak English, and when Gibson talks to her she blinks.
‘There is a man,’ he says, ‘who stayed here. In this room.’ Gibson points to the room beside reception. ‘This one. At the front.’
The woman blinks at him.
‘English?’ he asks. ‘Inglese? Parla Inglese? Trova un persona che parla Inglese?’
This doesn’t help. It isn’t even schoolboy Italian. ‘I need to speak with someone. It is important.’
A man comes out from an office. A simple beaded curtain divides the rooms. A beaded curtain. A man in a string vest with thick slicked-back hair. So familiar it’s a little laughable.
The man politely asks if he can help.
‘I need information about one of your guests.’
The man folds his arms. ‘What is the name?’
‘The man was staying in this room. I think he was staying in this room. I know that it was this hotel.’
The man says he can’t help unless Gibson has a name and tells him what he needs.
Gibson gives the woman a cautious glance and lowers his voice. ‘It’s a little delicate.’ And here he takes out the money. ‘I need to give him this. I need an address.’
The man, now confused, looks hard at the money.
Gibson leans forward and lowers voice a little more. ‘I have a daughter. You understand. A daughter who is interested in this man.’
The man looks from the money to Gibson with equal incredulity. ‘I wish to give him something so that he will leave my daughter alone. You understand?’ Gibson allows his finger to divide the money in half. ‘I need some information, I need his name and I need an address. I want to make sure he isn’t coming back.’ He begins to wish he’d kept with the original idea, that his daughter had disappeared.
The man shakes his head. There wasn’t anyone here, not in this room, within the last month, and not with any woman.
‘My daughter is fifteen years old.’ Gibson sets half of the money on the counter. He keeps his voice flat and cold. ‘Fifteen. Do you see the problem? She is fifteen. I need a name and an address. I know you keep these details. He left eight days ago.’
The man steps back behind the counter and speaks quickly to the woman as he searches through a drawer. She looks up, swipes the man’s hands away then searches through the drawer herself and brings out a register. She places the register on the counter, over the money.
THE FIFTH LESSON
6.1
Rike suggests that they take a walk. If they follow the street it will lead them to the bay. There are the wine factories on one side and the town on the other, the road is the dividing line between a light industrial zone and a living quarter. Today they will walk and talk.
Tomas, naturally, isn’t keen. And while he doesn’t refuse, he asks if this is a good idea. It’s hard to think out there: the sun, the noise, the distraction.