Thomas Glavinic - The Camera Killer

That would be unthinkable, Eva rejoined; such a step would cause people in the district to promptly infer either that they, the Stubenrauchs, had something to hide or that they didn’t feel part of the local community. Both inferences would entail certain disadvantages, principal among which were social ostracism and the withholding of neighborly assistance. In this neck of the woods, said Eva, you have to run with the pack.

Heinrich came back into the house and took off his shoes. Looking into the living room, he swore at the dirt on the floor and went to fetch a mop. In a low voice, Eva asked if he had managed to shake the farmer off. He mopped the floor with gritted teeth until the sweat stood out on his forehead.

Hadn’t he done well? he demanded, smiling at us. By showing the farmer a hole in the gutter, he had given him something to worry about and distracted him from his tirades. Eva hoped Heinrich hadn’t been unfriendly. He had combined cunning with tact, he replied; the farmer would have nothing to reproach him for. Eva manifested relief at this. She was the one that spent the most time with these people and had to get on with them, she said, being at home while Heinrich was at work.

Heinrich asked if we could go on playing. My partner fetched two packets of chips and two bottles of mineral water from the kitchen. Depositing them all on the coffee table, she said, Yes, she was ready. We went on with our game.

After we had played three more hands, the telephone rang. Grumbling, Heinrich searched around for his shoes, which the in-voluntary movements of his feet had pushed in different directions beneath the table, then jumped up and hurried out into the passage.

While he was speaking with the person on the other end of the line, my partner reverted to the subject of lack of privacy. She asked why people should consider it so reprehensible of someone to keep their house locked up during the day. After all, everyone agreed that half of the rest of the world’s inhabitants were a bad lot. Why should it be any different here? Eva said she didn’t know, but now that unheralded visits from neighbors no longer made her feel uneasy, or she had gotten used to them, she had stopped thinking of locking the front door.

Unpleasant situations were rare. Indeed, if she discounted the postman’s intrusion, she could think of only one other incident that had unnerved her. On one occasion, one of the African immigrants who roamed around with self-produced and terribly ugly paintings had walked into the house when she was on her own there. Most of these men were students, she said. They went from house to house, mainly in rural areas, offering their little works of art for sale.

Some days before the visit in question, there had been a press report that Africans had committed two rapes in Graz, so the black picture-seller’s entrance had made her nervous. As a rule, she always gave such people something. This time, she had told him she was poor and he should leave. He’d laughed at her and said she had nice hair. Where was her husband?

That really alarmed her. He was working upstairs, she’d replied. The picture-seller laughed again and said he didn’t believe her; she was all on her own, and he’d appreciate something to eat and drink. Under other circumstances, said Eva, she would have given him something, but because she found him frightening, she told him to leave.

He’d started on again about her husband’s absence, however. This had caused Eva to leave the house and request assistance from their neighbor, who was strolling around his farmyard. On seeing the farmer, the picture-seller had promptly fled without trying to interest him or his wife in a picture.

So my partner could see, Eva concluded, that being embedded in the rural social structure has definite advantages.

My partner, who was about to raise some objection, was interrupted by an exclamation from Heinrich. We listened. He kept saying, aha, yes, so that’s the way it is.

Just as my partner was about to respond once more, Heinrich hung up and hurried into the room. The podiatrist had called, he said, but first he needed a drink. He poured himself a glass of wine from a bottle that had been standing around since the previous night.

The podiatrist? asked Eva.

Heinrich nodded. Yes, he said, the podiatrist they’d patronized several times since living in the district had called. Some thirty policemen and paramilitaries had passed her house, guns at the ready and heading north. Heinrich surveyed us expectantly.

My partner asked what he inferred from this. Where did the podiatrist live and what lay north of there?

Heinrich took a map from some wooden shelves in the corner. Back at the table, he lit a cigarette although he already had one smoldering in the ashtray. Unfolding the map, he said it was the most detailed graphic representation of the area obtainable; indeed, he doubted if even the CIA possessed a better one. He spread the map out on the table (actually, he held it in his hands for a while until we had cleared away playing cards, glasses, bottles, paper and pencils, cigarettes, ashtrays, etc.).

Then he asked Eva for the pen and drew a line. This is where the podiatrist lives, he said. He had gotten her to describe precisely which way the police were headed and where they had turned, etc., so he was able to plot their route with great accuracy. He extended the line on the map and said, This is where we live, here in the north, then drew a circle around the Stubenrauchs’ house.

My partner asked how far apart the houses were. A mile or two, Heinrich replied.

You mean they’re coming here? my partner exclaimed. Is the murderer roaming around in this area? Her voice broke.

Heinrich said it didn’t amount to anything yet, but first he wanted to have a word with the farmer and instruct him to ask his acquaintances in the district by phone if they had observed any unusual police activity. He himself would do likewise, though he didn’t know many people around here. Meanwhile, we could listen to the radio and look at the news on online.

Just as Heinrich rose, we heard the neighbor’s voice outside the door. Once again, he came stomping into the living room in his rubber boots. He told us that a Herr Zach had called him and reported that a horde of policemen had tramped through his farmyard. They were heading for the property of the Weber family, not far from here.

Great excitement reigned in the room.

This is it, said my partner.

Heinrich picked up the map. Going over to the farmer, he asked him if he could point out or mark Herr Zach’s farm and the Weber family’s property with the pen. The farmer held the map away from him and squinted at it, then took it over to the window, with the result that his huge, gnarled, filth-encrusted hands and his equally huge, black fingernails were clearly visible.

Eva quietly remarked that it had stopped raining.

What did you say? asked Heinrich.

In the same tone of voice, Eva repeated that it had stopped raining.

Lucky for the policemen, Heinrich said casually.

He once more asked the farmer if he could indicate a definite location. Being unable to read a map, he couldn’t. Laboriously, Heinrich showed him which house lay where and which places, roads, and hills were shown. In that way, he managed to give the farmer an approximate idea of what the map conveyed. The man took the pen and drew on the map.

Heinrich came back to the table. With the aid of finger movements and oral explanations, he made it clear that the two police contingents so far identified were moving toward each other and said that the Stubenrauchs’ house lay roughly on their line of convergence. My partner sprang to her feet without uttering a word or doing anything else. It was evident that the situation Heinrich had described alarmed her. It didn’t really mean anything, said Heinrich; on the contrary, it was highly amusing.