Daniel Kehlmann - F

“Well, okay,” I say.

“Really?”

“For you, I’ll make an exception.”

“Boss!”

“It’s fine!”

“Boss?”

“Please, it’s fine.”

But he brakes again, turns around, and reaches for my hand. At first I manage to avoid it, but then he gets hold of my shirt cuff. “I’d die for you.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“I’d kill for you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean it. Just give me a name.”

“Please—”

“I’ll kill him.”

“Keep driving!”

“It’s not a joke.”

How can I avoid thinking about Kluessen? A car accident, a suddenly induced and mysterious heart ailment.… Luckily Knut lets it go and keeps driving. I close my eyes and manage to black out his ongoing monologue. It occurs to me that my phone is still switched off. This explains why no one from the office has called me to ask where on earth I’ve gotten to.

We’ve already reached home. If you drive early, you avoid the rush hour. I evade Knut’s last effusions of thanks, get out, and stride along the gravel path through the garden like the very image of a man accustomed to overcoming obstacles. I unlock the front door, go in, and call, “I’m home!”

No answer.

There was no anticipation that I would be back so early. The house is silent, as if I’d caught it getting up to something. So this is what it’s like when I’m not here. I call out again. My voice sounds lost in the large hall.

Then I hear something.

Not a knocking, more a scraping noise. It sounds like heavy metal objects being shoved around. I cock my ears, but it’s already stopped. Just as I decide I must have made a mistake, it starts again.

It’s coming from below me, in the cellar. Should I call someone, a plumber or the fire department? But if someone came and there was nothing to hear, what would that make me look like? I go into the kitchen and wash my hands. And there it goes again. The window shakes, the glasses in the cupboard clink gently. I dry my hands. Now all is quiet.

And then I hear it again.

Under no circumstances am I going to go down to the cellar on my own.

I listen. It’s stopped.

It starts again.

I cross the hall and undo the heavy bolt on the cellar door. I’ve never been down there — why would I? It’s where we store our wine bottles, but that’s not my job, Laura’s the one who takes care of all that.

A flight of stairs leads down; two naked bulbs cast a rather spotted light on the treads. Three old posters are glued up on the brick wall: Yoda, Darth Vader, and some naked woman — I’ve never seen any of them before. At the bottom is a metal door. I open it, grope for the light switch, and locate it. The air is musty. A bulb crackles as it comes on.

A long space, a low ceiling, a large wine rack against the wall, half empty. That’s my wine collection, that’s what I spent all that money on? In one corner there’s a tin bucket lying on its side, in the opposite wall I see another door. The noise has ceased. I move slowly through the room and push the lever of the door handle down. I feel a rush of cold air: another flight of steps. I feel for the switch: the light goes on.

This bulb is dirty and flickers badly. It must already be old. The treads are narrow. I put out my right foot and take a cautious step onto the top one, pause for a moment to collect myself, and then go slowly down.

There it is again. A dull thump, a dragging noise, a sort of squeal, of the kind made by the pistons of a large machine. But I cannot turn around. Succumb to your anxieties too often and you become small and pathetic. This is my house. Perhaps this is the critical test, perhaps now everything will change.

Silence falls.

I reach the bottom without a sound to be heard, except for my own breathing and the beating of my heart. It’s cold. How deep is it down here? Another door, which I open; another light switch.

I hear it again. This room is surprisingly large, at least fifteen by thirty meters. Stone walls, the floor hard earth, two bulbs in the ceiling, only one of which is working. I see a crumpled cloth, and next to it a curved metal rod, one end rounded like the head of a walking stick, the other filed to a sharp point. Two doors: I try one, it’s locked. I rattle it, but it doesn’t budge. But the other one opens and on the other side is yet another set of steps. No light switch.

I stare down into the darkness, and try to count the treads. I can’t make out more than nine.

Enough! I’m not going any farther!

I go farther, one step after the other, my left hand flat against the wall, my right hand clutching the phone with its feeble glow. When did the noise stop? I haven’t even noticed. Another two steps. And another. And yet another. Now I’ve reached the floor.

In front of me is a door, which I try to open, but it’s locked tight. I can feel the relief. There’s nothing more here, I can go back. I try it once again, and it opens without the slightest resistance.

I grope my way forward. Under me is a step made of steel, and the wall next to me is curved. After a moment I get it: a spiral staircase. The shaft goes straight down vertically. I search my pockets and find a ballpoint pen made of plastic. I hold it out with my arm and let it drop.

I wait. No sound of an impact. Probably the pen was too small and too light. I search my pockets again and find a wallet, a metal lighter, a key ring, and coins. I only have the lighter so as to be able to offer it to smokers. I snap it open. The flame, much brighter than the phone, lets me see the steps better. I hold it out over the shaft and it flickers. So air is streaming up from down there. I hesitate, then let it fall. The flame dwindles and is swallowed up in the darkness. No sound of an impact.

But I hear something else. I listen, wait, listen, the vibrations are getting stronger: something is hitting the steps. It takes me a few seconds to realize that someone is coming up the stairs. Toward me.

Then it goes dark.

And slowly the light returns. We’re sitting at dinner: Laura, Marie, Laura’s father, Laura’s mother, Laura’s sister and brother-in-law, and two children, all around the table, which has been set.

“It’s supposed to stay this hot all week,” says Laura.

“Every summer worse than the one before,” says her sister. “Nobody knows where you can even take the children.”

“A house in Scandinavia,” says my father-in-law. “Or on the North Sea.” He looks at me. “Like your brother’s. Everyone could use one.”

“We could visit him,” I am obliged to say. I would like to eat, because I’m really hungry, but my hands are shaking too badly.

Now my father-in-law is talking about politics. I nod at regular intervals, as does everyone else. He’s an architect, and in the seventies he built one of the ugliest concrete buildings in the country, which earned him the National Medal. He gestures deliberately and makes long pauses before he says anything he thinks is important. That’s how you have to do it, that’s how you have to be, that’s how you have to present yourself, and then you’ll be respected. I admire him, I always wanted to be like him; and who knows, maybe in reality he’s a little like me.

The trembling has eased up. Very carefully I push food into my mouth. Luckily nobody’s watching me.

Or? Now everyone’s looking at me. What is it, what did I get wrong, what did I mess up? Apparently Laura has said something about a trip to Sicily. They’re all smiling and being pleased and saying how wonderful.

“Do please excuse me,” I say. “Urgent call. Be right back.”

“You work too much,” says Laura.

“Everyone has to indulge themselves a little,” says my father-in-law. He pauses for thought, and then goes on in a tone that suggests he’s imparting hidden wisdom to us: “A man must know how to live.”