Pietro Alvise Mastemann, said the man giving a curt bow while remaining in his seat, then leaned back, his face expressionless as he offered them places in a manner that made it immediately obvious that the undoubtedly grand gesture of the invitation owed nothing to friendliness, readiness to help, desire for company, or curiosity of any kind, but was, at best, the momentary whim of a haughty disposition; and since this was the case the actual seating arrangements presented a problem for they weren’t sure where to sit, Mastemann having spread himself across one of the seats and the other being nowhere near wide enough to accommodate all four of them however they tried, for however three of them huddled together, the fourth, Falke to be precise, would not fit on, until eventually, after a series of attempts at finding some cramped position and with an endless shower of apologies, he finally lowered himself onto Mastemann’s seat, insofar as he was able to do that, meaning that he shifted the various blankets, books and baskets of food slightly to his right and having done so squeezed himself against the walls of the carriage while Mastemann did not move a muscle to help but casually crossed his legs, leaned back at leisure and gazed at something through the window, all of which led them to conclude that he was impatient for them to settle down at last so that he might give the driver the go-ahead — in other words this was the state of affairs in those first few minutes nor did it change much afterwards, so Mastemann gave the signal to the driver and the coach set off, but the carriage itself remained silent though the four of them felt that now was the time, if any, for introducing themselves, though the devil only knew how to go about that for Mastemann was clearly uninterested in conversation and the embarrassment of not having gone through that formality weighed ever more oppressively on them, for surely that should have been the proper thing to do, they thought, clearing their throats, to tell him who they were, where they had come from and where they were going, that’s what should have happened, but how to do this now, they wondered, glancing at each other, and for a long time saying nothing at all, and when they did finally break the silence it was to talk very quietly among themselves so as not to disturb Mastemann, remarking that Bassano was beautiful since they were able to see the picturesque massif of Mount Grappa, the Franciscan church with its ancient tower below, to walk the streets listening to the Brenta as it babbled by them and remark on how nice everyone was, how friendly and open, in other words, thank heaven for Bassano, they said, and thank heaven particularly that they had succeeded in moving on too, though the thanks in this case were due not so much to heaven, they glanced across at Mastemann, more to, in fact entirely to their benefactor, the gentleman who had offered them a ride and who, though they tried to catch his eye, continued to stare at the dust rising from the road to Padua, as a result of which they realized, and none too early, that Mastemann not only did not wish to speak, but preferred them not to speak either, that he wanted nothing at all from them — though they were mistaken in this — and was content with their sheer presence, pleased that they were there and that that was what he wished to convey with his silence, their presence being quite sufficient, and having reasoned so far they naturally concluded that it mattered little to Mastemann what it was they talked about, if indeed they did talk, and that made the whole journey more pleasant for them because having realized that they could continue the conversation they had been having in Bassano from precisely the point at which they left off, and were free therefore, Korin added, to develop the subject of love, the way love created the world, as Kasser put it, they continued to develop it while the carriage swept on and Bassano disappeared from sight altogether.
Korin sat in his room and it was obvious that he didn’t know what to do, what to believe or what he should conclude on the basis of all he had heard in the apartment since that morning, obvious because he kept leaping out of his chair, walking up and down nervously then sitting down again, before leaping up and repeating the procedure for an hour or so, not that there was any need for an explanation as such for he had been scared ever since the interpreter threw his door open, at about a quarter past nine and ushered him into the kitchen which looked as though a war had taken place in it, telling him that they owed it to their friendship to down, there and then, a quantity of ale that was good for you, and followed this with a monologue that seemed to consist chiefly of veiled threats as well as a lot of other unrelated things to the effect that something had come to an end yesterday and that this ending firmly closed a chapter, at which point Korin took over the conversation because he really did not want to know what it was that had brought the chapter to a close, and could see that the interpreter’s mood might any minute swing to outright hostility and so he began talking in as uninterrupted a stream as he could manage, that is to say until the interpreter slumped across the table and fell asleep, after which he scampered back into his room but could find no rest there at all, and that’s where the process of squatting on the bed then stalking the room began, or rather the struggle not to listen out for the interpreter or be too concerned as to whether he was still out there or had returned to his room, a concern that continued to preoccupy him until eventually he heard the sound of clattering dishes and bellowing, and decided it was enough, that it was time to work, work, he said, time to sit down at the computer and pick up the thread where he had left it, and so he continued working, managing to immerse himself in the work, and, he said the next day, he immersed himself in it so successfully that by the time he had finished for the day and laid down on the bed with his hands over his ears, the only thing he could see was Kasser and Falke and Bengazza and Toót, and when, despite the periodic clattering and bellowing, he finally fell asleep it was Kasser and his companions alone who occupied his head, and it was thanks to them that when he ventured out into the kitchen at the usual time the next morning he found a magical transformation, for it was as if nothing had happened there, for that which had been broken had been swept away and that which had been spilled wiped up, and, what was more, there was food in the pans again, the clock was still ticking on the cupboard, and the interpreter’s partner was in her accustomed place, standing immobile with her back to him, all of which meant that the interpreter must be out as usual at this time of day, so, overcoming his astonishment, he took his place at the table in the normal way and immediately launched into his account, continuing where he had left off, saying he had spent the whole evening with Kasser, that Kasser’s was the only face he saw that evening, or rather the faces of Kasser and Falke and Bengazza and Toót, and that was how he fell asleep, with nothing in his mind, but them, and what was more, he was pleased to tell the young lady, they were not only in his head but in his heart too, because this morning when he woke and thought things through he had come to the conclusion that for him they were the only people that existed, that he lived with them, filled his days with them, that he might even say that they were his only contact with the world, no one else, only them, he said, that these were the people who, if for no other reason than that theirs were the histories he had most recently read, were closest to his heart, whom he could see in clear detail, he added, even at this very moment how the carriage was conveying them to Venice, and how should he describe it to the young lady, he visibly pondered, perhaps by simply going through each detail as it arose, he said, and he would attempt to do so now starting with Kasser’s face, those bushy eyebrows, the brilliant dark eyes, the sharp chin and the high brow; going on to Falke’s narrow, almond-colored eyes, his great hooked nose, the locks of his hair that fell in waves down to his shoulders; then there was Bengazza of course, said Korin, with those beautiful blue-green eyes of his, the delicate, slightly effeminate nose and the deep furrows of his brow, and finally Toót with his small round eyes, snub nose and those strong lines running crosswise round his nose and chin that looked as though they had been carved with a knife — that was what he saw day after day, every minute of the day, as clearly as if he could reach out and touch them, and having got so far he should perhaps confess that waking this morning, or rather reawakening, he should say, the sight of them made him suddenly fearful, for after heaven knows how many readings he had gradually formed some kind of apprehension as to what it was they were escaping from, in other words where this strange manuscript was leading them, why it was doing so, why they seemed to have neither past nor future, and what it was that caused them perpetually to be surrounded by a kind of mist, and he simply watched them, he said to the woman in the kitchen, simply watched the four of them with their remarkably sympathetic faces, and for the first time, with a shock of fear, he seemed to know, to suspect, what the apprehension was.