Daniel Kehlmann - F

He murmurs something, trying to talk his way out of it.

Why isn’t she answering? “Perhaps it’s all part of what you do. Perhaps you have to be that inquisitive.”

My telephone vibrates. Okay, then later .

When? I write, and ask myself for the thousandth time how many servers this message will pass through and how many strangers can read it. Any one of them could blackmail me. Why does she force me into such careless behavior? “Do you still do exorcisms? Demonic possession. Do you still deal with that? Do you have people who do it?”

He gapes at me.

“What is the classic school of thought? Do you have to let a demon in when he comes? Does he need an invitation, or can he just take possession of someone?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Always a question to counter a question. Why can’t he just tell a person what they want to know? Because I’m afraid of ghosts, every day, all the time — is that what I should answer? “A book, just a book. I read this book. A strange book. Never mind.”

The phone vibrates. Already booked. Flight and hotel, leaving Saturday, back Sunday night, so looking forward.:-)

It takes me a moment to realize it’s from Laura. Since when does she book her own flights?

Wonderful! I write back. I will really need a good excuse.

I’ve barely hit the Send button when the phone vibrates again. How are you, call me if you have time! Martin .

Good. Stay calm. Always calm. I look up, there he is, sitting in front of me. Martin. My brother. I look at the phone, the message is still there. I look at his face. I look at the phone. Is it my imagination after all? Am I sitting here alone? His plate is empty, mine is full, which argues against that.

But why should it argue against it? I don’t know anymore, I’ve lost my train of thought. Anyone who can imagine a brother can also imagine an empty plate. Don’t panic. The main thing is to stay calm. Carefully, making sure not to hit any wrong button, I erase the message. Then I put away the phone and say, “This heat!” just in order to have something to say.

He asks about Laura and Marie, I answer him. I talk about my mother’s new TV broadcast, then ask after his mother. Obviously he spends all his time with her, poor bastard, it’s tragic. For all that, I like his mother, at least more than I do my own. Just as I’m about to ask him if it’s really necessary, all this visiting business, and if something shouldn’t be done about it, someone slaps me on the shoulder. Lothar Remling. The phone vibrates but I can’t look now. I jump up. Shoulder slapping. Punch in the upper arm. Football talk. Then he takes himself off. I can’t stand the guy, he almost wrecked the Ostermann deal for me a couple of years ago. Finally I can look. Three messages.

I can’t take it anymore .

Come later, come now, doesn’t matter .

Come now or don’t come at all .

I stand up, say something about an urgent appointment, and run.

The heat seems to have gotten even worse, it’s not far to go, she lives only ten blocks away. But I quickly register that today it would have been smarter to take the car.

I stop, pull out the phone. The free signal: once, twice, three times, four. Has she stopped answering when I call? Are we that far along?

Sibylle picks up. “What is it, Eric?”

“I have to see you.”

“But I wrote you that you can come right now.”

“But right now I can’t!”

I think she’s already disconnected, but she’s still there. “Eric, it’s unendurable. First the thing in the movie house, and now—”

“Don’t say any more! Not on the phone.”

“But—”

“Do you know how many people could hear us?”

“You called me !”

“Because I have to see you.”

“And I said come.”

“But I can’t right now.”

“Then don’t come.”

I feel dizzy. Did she really say I shouldn’t come? “Are you at home?”

She says nothing.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?”

I listen, and only after a while do I realize she’s disconnected.

I have to sit down. Next to the street there’s an asphalt playground, surrounded by a wire fence, with a bench at its edge.

I sit there for some time with closed eyes. I hear the noise of the traffic: honking, engine sounds, a jackhammer. The sun is burning. My heartbeat steadies.

When I open my eyes, two children are sitting next to me. A boy with a baseball cap and a girl with long black hair that has a blue bow in it. She’s about six years old, he’s about ten.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“I’m sitting,” I say. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sitting too.”

We look at the girl.

“Me too,” she says.

“Do you live around here?” I ask.

“A long way away,” she says. “And you?”

“Also a long way away,” I say.

“How old are you?” asks the boy.

“Thirty-seven.”

“That’s old,” says the girl.

“Yes,” I say. “That’s old.”

“Are you going to die soon?”

“No.”

“But you’ll die sometime.”

“No!”

We say nothing for a bit.

“Are you here to play?”

“Yes, but it’s too hot,” says the boy.

“You can’t do anything when it’s this hot,” says the girl.

“Do you have children?” he asks.

“A daughter. She’s about the same age as you.”

“Is she here too?”

“In school. She’s in school. Why aren’t you in school?”

“We’re playing hooky.”

“You shouldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

I think. Absolutely no good reason presents itself to me. “Because it’s not okay,” I say hesitantly. “You have to learn.”

“You don’t learn much,” she says.

“If you don’t go for a day, you don’t miss anything at all,” he says.

“So you’re going back tomorrow?”

“Perhaps,” he says.

“Yes,” she says.

“Perhaps,” he says again.

“So what are your names?”

The girl shakes her head. “We’re not allowed to tell strangers our names.”

“I think you’re not supposed to talk to strangers at all.”

“Yes we can. Talking’s okay. But not telling anyone our names.”

“That’s strange,” I say.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s strange.”

“Is she your sister?” I ask.

“He’s my brother,” she says.

“Do you go to the same school?”

The two of them look questioningly at each other. He shrugs.

I absolutely know that I’m in a hurry, that I should be moving on, that I have to get to Sibylle’s and then the conference. But instead of getting to my feet, I close my eyes again.

“Were you ever in a plane?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Why can it fly?”

“Because it has wings.”

“But a plane’s so heavy. Why can it fly?”

“The lift.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know.”

“But why does it fly?”

“The lift.”

“What is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“But you went to school.”

“Yes.”

“But why does it fly?”

The darkness behind my eyelids is lit by sunlight. Glowing orange with yellow circles in it that wander and rise and fall. Even the noise of the jackhammer suddenly sounds peaceful.

“Leave the three of them,” says the boy. “Don’t butt in, just keep going.”

“What?” I blink in the sun. “What did you say?”

“I said we have to go now.”

I stand up quickly. “Me too.”

“Josi,” says the boy. “My name’s Josi. That’s Ella.”