Thomas Glavinic: Night Work

Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he’d gone mad.

Mechanically, he took another sip of whisky.

He looked up at the cloudless sky. He didn’t believe that extraterrestrials would have spent light years travelling through space, simply to annihilate every Viennese except himself. He didn’t believe in any of that stuff.

He extracted his address book from under the phone and dialled every number listed. He called Werner again, likewise Marie’s relations in England. He dialled the police, the fire brigade, the emergency services. He tried 911, 160 604, 1503. No emergency services. No taxi. No speaking clock.

Jonas looked through his collection of videos for movies he hadn’t yet seen or hadn’t seen for a long time. He deposited a stack of comedies in front of the TV and lowered the blinds.

Jonas awoke with a sore throat. He felt his forehead. No temperature. He stared up at the ceiling.

After breakfast, having satisfied himself that the TV was still flickering and the street deserted, he sat down beside the phone. Marie didn’t answer — neither her mobile, nor her relatives’ phone. He couldn’t reach anyone else either.

He turned out half the medicine cabinet before he found an aspirin. Leaving it to dissolve, hissing, in a glass of water, he took a shower. He put on some casual clothes. He drained the glass in one gulp.

He looked in both directions as he left the building and came out into the sunlight. He took a few steps, turned his head swiftly. He stopped. Listened. Just the muted lapping of the Danube Canal. He craned his neck and scanned the windows for signs of movement.

Nothing.

Back inside again, he went downstairs to his storage space in the basement. He turned the contents of his toolbox upside down without finding anything suitable. Then he remembered the pipe wrench he’d left beside a stack of old tyres.

*

‘Anyone there?’

His voice sounded absurdly feeble in the Westbahnhof’s spacious concourse.

Shouldering the pipe wrench, he stomped up the steps to the departure hall. Bureau de change, newsagent, cafés — all were shut.

He went out onto the platforms. Several trains were standing there as if on the point of pulling out. Back to the departure hall, then out onto the platforms once more.

Back again.

Out again.

He jumped aboard the Intercity to Bregenz and searched it carriage by carriage, compartment by compartment. He called out as he entered each stuffy carriage in turn, gripping the pipe wrench tightly. Sometimes he coughed or cleared his throat with the ferocity of a man fifty pounds heavier. He made as much din as possible by banging the wrench against the partitions.

By midday he’d explored every last corner of the station. Every train, every ticket office. The lounge. The restaurant where he’d eaten a few lousy meals, which still reeked of stale fat. The supermarket. The tobacconist’s. The News & Books. He’d bashed in windows and glass doors with the pipe wrench, disconnected wailing security alarms and searched a whole series of back rooms. Bread two days old indicated the last time anyone had been there.

The big arrivals and departures board in the middle of the concourse was blank.

The clocks were working.

So were the cash dispensers.

*

At Schwechat Airport he didn’t bother to park in the multi-storey and walk all the way back. He left his car right outside the main entrance, in the no-waiting area normally patrolled by policemen and security personnel.

The temperature out here was somewhat cooler than in the city. Flags were fluttering noisily in the breeze. Shading his eyes with one hand, he searched the sky for aircraft. He strained his ears, but all he could hear was the flap-flap of the flags.

With the pipe wrench on his shoulder he strode down some dimly lit passages to the departures level. Menus were stuck in their holders on the tables outside the café. The café was shut, like the restaurant and the pub. The lifts were working, the departure lounges accessible. No flights were listed. The electronic displays were blank.

He combed the entire area. An alarm went off when he passed through a security gate. Repeated blows with the wrench failed to silence it. He peered around uneasily. There was a box on the wall. He pressed several buttons and the wailing finally ceased.

On the arrivals level he sat down at a computer terminal, trying to discover the last time an aircraft had taken off or landed. Either he didn’t have the expertise to tackle the problem, or the computer had a fault. No amount of messing around with mouse and keyboard would bring up anything on the screen but meaningless, flickering columns of figures.

He got lost several times before he found the stairs and walked out onto the tarmac.

Most of the aircraft attached to the telescopic walkways belonged to Austrian Airlines. There was a Lauda, a Lufthansa, a Yemeni machine, another from Belgium. Standing further away was an El-Al 727. This plane interested him most. Why was it so far out? Had it been about to take off?

When he reached the plane he crouched down. He looked up at it, breathing heavily, then back at the airport buildings. He felt disappointed. It wasn’t anything like as far out as he’d thought. The runway’s dimensions had played a trick on him, nor was there any indication that the pilot had been on his way to the take-off point.

Jonas started to shout. He hurled the wrench at a window, first in the cockpit and then in the passenger cabin. When it landed on the tarmac for the eighth or ninth time it broke in half.

He combed every hall, every lounge, every area accessible to him. In the loading bay he made a discovery that galvanised him: dozens of bags and suitcases.

Excitedly, he opened one. Underclothes. Socks. Shirts. Swimming trunks.

Neither this bag nor any of the others contained any clue to what had happened to their owners. There weren’t enough to suggest that they belonged to an entire flight. It seemed more probable that they’d either been forgotten or were awaiting collection. They might have come from anywhere, any time. No help at all.

*

He got out at the intersection of Karolinengasse and Mommsengasse. Reaching in through the driver’s window, he sounded the horn and looked up at the front of the building as he did so. Not a window opened, not a curtain twitched, even though he hooted continuously.

He didn’t bother to press the intercom button. The front door, most of which was glass, yielded to a couple of blows with the remaining half of his wrench. He ducked through the jagged opening and went inside.

Werner’s flat was on the first floor. A photograph of a heavily laden yak was pinned to the door beneath the spyhole, and the doormat greeted visitors with a grimy Rolling Stones tongue. He couldn’t help remembering how often he’d stood there, bottle of wine in hand, and listened to Werner’s approaching footsteps.

He hammered on the door with the remains of his wrench. He couldn’t open it — only a crowbar would have forced the lock. He felt in his pockets for something to write with, meaning to leave a message under the spyhole. All he found apart from a pencil was a dirty handkerchief. When he tried to scrawl a few words on the door itself, the lead broke off.

*

On reaching the Südbahnhof he noticed how hungry he was.

In the station concourse he trotted from ticket office to ticket office, shop to shop, smashing the windows with his wrench. He didn’t disconnect the security alarms this time. Having broken the window of the bureau de change, he waited to see if its alarm would go off, or if he would have to continue his orgy of destruction. Perhaps some still-surviving guardian of the law would think a heist was in progress and intervene.