Daniel Kehlmann - F

He blinks at me.

“Everything’s good,” I say. “Everything’s good.”

He takes a few wobbling steps toward my wallet, picks it up, and looks inside. His right eye is closed, the eyelid is twitching, blood is running out of one ear. There’s absolutely nothing written on his red T-shirt.

“Shit,” he says.

“Yes,” I say.

“I really gave it to Ron last week, and now they caught up with me when I was alone.”

“Yes,” I say.

“They’re coming back,” he says. “They’re coming, they’re coming back, they’re on their way here already. They’re coming back.” Deep in thought, he pockets my wallet, then turns away and wobbles off.

Did he say they’re going to come back, did he really say that? Cautiously, step by step, I cross the street. I must not fall down. Once I lie down, I won’t be able to get up again. Every breath I take is like a jab, and each time I extend my leg, bolts of pain shoot through me. There in front of me is the door, that’s where I have to go, behind it the elevator is waiting, up there is my studio, secure behind its secure steel door, they can’t get in there, it’s safe in there, I’ll be safe if they come back.

The street is so wide. I must not faint, it’s only a few more steps.

On I go. He took my wallet!

And on I go. If they really are all called Ron, it won’t be hard to find them. But maybe they were just doing it to confuse me.

And on I go. Can the heat be melting the asphalt, is that possible? My shoes are sinking in, and little waves are running across the sticky mass.

And on I go. There, the door, the key in my trouser pocket, the key has to go in the door, the door needs the key, but I still am not there yet. Why is there no one here? No car, no one at a window, but perhaps this is good, because if someone were here, it could be the three of them again, he said they’d come back. The door. The key. It must be the right one, the one for the front door, not the one for the studio, and not the one for my apartment, because that’s not where I am, where I am is here.

And on I go. Just a few more steps. A few. And again a few. Keep going. A few more. A few steps. The key. The door. Here.

It slips, scrapes across the metal, the keyhole is dodging me, to the right then to the left, my hand is shaking but I can feel it, get the key in, turn it, the door opens, into the house, the elevator, I push the button for the fifth floor, the elevator jerks.

A man is standing next to me, a moment ago he wasn’t here. He has a hideous gap between his teeth, and a battered hat. He says, “Jaegerstrasse 15b.”

“Yes,” I say. “That’s here. That’s the address of this house. Jaegerstrasse 15b.”

“Jaegerstrasse 15b,” he repeats. “Fifth floor.”

“Yes,” I say. “We’re going to the fifth floor.”

We’ve already gotten there, the elevator stops, the door opens, the man is no longer there, I get out; now everything depends on getting the second key into the lock. I’m in luck, the door opens, I go in and lock it behind me. Then I take hold of the bolt — for a moment it doesn’t seem to want to move, but then it does slide sideways with a squeak, and the door is blocked. I’ve done it, I’ve reached safety.

I want to sit down. The chair is over against the opposite wall, but relief gives me strength. I walk and I walk, and eventually I get there. What I really want to do is sleep, long and deep, until everything is better.

I touch my stomach. My hand comes away wet, my jacket is wet, my pants are wet too, I cannot remember when I ever sweated this much. I hold my hand in front of my eyes. It’s red.

And there he is again, with his hat and the gap between his teeth, and even as I’m looking at him, I guess that he’s about to disappear again.

“Go to your brother,” he says, “help him. Jaegerstrasse 15b, fifth floor. Go!”

Instead of answering that it isn’t my brother here, it’s me, I blink in the direction of Holiday Snap No. 9 , and there he is again, looking in from outside, no mean trick to keep his balance on the window ledge up on the fifth floor! I can read his lips: Jaegerstrasse 15b, fifth floor , and I want to cry, “You there, I know where I am!” but it’s too much of an effort and now he’s already disappeared again.

I’m cold.

In fact, I’m shivering. My teeth are chattering, and when I hold my hand up in front of my eyes, I see it’s trembling. Heinrich comes in with his mustache and his stick and his cane, and goes over to the window. Behind his head an airplane moves through the streaks on the windowpane like a little fish swimming through water, and already we’re in a meadow, and I’m smaller than I was a moment ago, and Papa and Mama are saying that I should drink water, and I ask Papa if he wasn’t Heinrich just now, and he wants to know if I’m really not thirsty, and I say, Yes, I’m really thirsty and a little way off Eric is sitting in the grass looking so exactly like me that I feel I’m him. I dig around in the blades of grass, find a worm, and pick it up, it coils itself across my palm, Papa bends over my shoulder, and the feeling of safety remains even as I look around the studio. The worm on my hand isn’t a worm, it’s blood, and Heinrich says, You have to get out of here, or it’ll be too late.

Do you remember Eric’s call, I ask. He said his secretary had mixed up Martin and me, and she called the wrong person. Do you remember?

You really have to get out of here, Ivan.

If she hadn’t mixed us up, then I would have met him for lunch today and I wouldn’t have come here and none of this would have happened, isn’t that curious?

Very curious, but you’ve got to get out of here. Otherwise it’ll be too late.

Too late … so why didn’t I give him my watch? A TAG Heuer, four thousand euros, bought in Geneva two years ago. If I’d given it to him, I wouldn’t have had to reach into my inner pocket. I look at the watch hands. Ten past four. Ten past four. Ten past four. Eleven past four.

All well and good, says Heinrich, but I’m advising you to get out of here.

Where to?

Out.

But where to?

The main thing is out.

Out there ?

Out anywhere.

It’s easy for him to say, but it’s true, it was a mistake to come back here. This building is empty except for one floor, the warehouse, but I’ve never seen a soul even there. I’ll have to crawl to the door, past Holiday Snap No. 9 and the sniggering children, across the rectangle of light the sun is casting on the floor, the door is several yards farther on, that’s where I’ll have to straighten up to reach the bolt and the handle, and then I’ll be out.

So I push myself out of the chair, sink to the floor, and start to crawl. I’ve still got the strength, I’m managing, I’ll be able to reach the door. First I have to get past the chest of drawers; the bottom drawer, which is partway open, holds my brushes, all my brushes, but I don’t know at this particular moment how I’m going to find the right one. It’s not easy, there are a lot of them, and besides I’m not looking for a brush!

But what am I looking for, then?

It’ll come to me. Past the chest of drawers. Cold floor against my cold hands, cracked floor against my cracked hands, rough floor against my rough hands, keep going. I must not look at the painting, so that I don’t attract the attention of the children, and I have to stay clear of the rectangle of light.

But what was that about? The thing with the rectangle of light, what was that?

I no longer know. Help me, open the door, I can’t manage the thing with the bolt. Someone will find me down on the street, someone will call a doctor. And what if the doctor asks what I was doing in a neighborhood like this? But why would he ask, what does he care about my studio and a handful of forged paintings that you can’t even call fakes, they’re genuine, you’re the fake, poor Heinrich, help me with the door! I have to get out before I faint.