Thomas Glavinic: Night Work

To the ear-splitting accompaniment of the security alarms he rode the escalator up to the platforms. Taking his time, he began by exploring platforms 1 to 11 in the east section, where he’d seldom been before. Then he boarded the second escalator.

He also smashed the windows of the shops in the south section. They weren’t equipped with burglar alarms, which surprised him. He raided one for a bag of crisps and a can of lemonade, plus a packet of paper handkerchiefs for his runny nose. From the newsagent’s he grabbed a stack of newspapers two days old.

Without searching it from end to end, he got into the rear carriage of a train bound for Zagreb. The seat was hot, the compartment stuffy. He yanked the window open and sat down, putting his feet on the seat opposite without removing his shoes.

While mechanically stuffing crisps into his mouth he looked through the newspapers. Not the smallest indication that some exceptional occurrence was imminent. Political squabbles at home, crises abroad, reports of horrors and banalities. The TV pages listed series, talk shows, magazine programmes.

His eyelids drooped.

The muffled, monotonous wail of the security alarms drifted into the compartment.

He swept the papers off his lap. He could afford a brief nap. Only a minute with his eyes closed and the muted strains of the sirens in his ears. Only a minute …

He jumped up and rubbed his face hard. He looked for a bolt on the door, then remembered that only sleepers were lockable.

He went out into the corridor.

‘Hello? Anyone there?’

He tested one of the curtains with his fingertips. It was so grimy and impregnated with nicotine, he wouldn’t have touched it normally. He tugged at it with all his might. There was a ripping sound and he fell over backwards with the length of material in his hand. Using what was left of the pipe wrench, he managed to tear it into several strips. These he used to lash the door handle to the grille of the luggage rack.

Having made a bed out of the six seats, he drained his can of lemonade and lay down.

He felt a bit more cheerful now. Lying there open-eyed with his head resting on his arm, he ran his fingers over the plush upholstery. They encountered a cigarette burn.

He couldn’t help thinking of the summer he and some friends had spent touring Europe by train. He’d travelled many thousands of kilometres on a moving bed like this one. From one unfamiliar smell to another. From one happening to the next. From one exciting city to an even more alluring one. Fifteen years ago, it was.

The people he’d slept rough with in parks and railway stations — where were they at this moment?

Where were the people he’d been speaking to only two days ago?

Where was he? In a train. It was uncomfortable. It wasn’t going anywhere.

*

He might have slept for half an hour. Some saliva had trickled from the corner of his mouth. Instinctively, he wiped it off the seat with his sleeve. He looked at the door. His makeshift lock was intact. He shut his eyes and listened. No change. The security alarms were wailing exactly as before.

He blew his nose, which was stuffed up with cold and the dust from the compartment. Then he tried to untie the strips of curtain around the door handle. It turned out that he’d done his work too well. He picked at the knots with his fingers, but he was too clumsy and impatient. He tried brute force, but the door wouldn’t budge and the knots tightened still more. They were past untying now.

He had no choice but to free himself by violent means. He smashed the window with the wrench. Carefully, he climbed out into the corridor. He glanced back into the compartment, committing the scene to memory in case he should return for some reason.

Then he looted the supermarket.

He filled a wire-mesh basket with drinks and tins of soup, nibbles and bars of chocolate, apples and bananas. He also took meat and sausages. The perishable stuff would soon go off. He didn’t dare think when he might get another fresh steak.

He circled his car before getting in, uncertain whether he had parked it at that particular spot.

He peered around. He walked a few steps, then went back to the car.

Jonas awoke fully dressed.

He thought he remembered putting on his pyjamas last night. Even if he hadn’t, he always wore something comfortable at home. He’d certainly got changed.

Or had he?

In the kitchen he found five empty beer cans. The beer he’d drunk — that he did remember.

After showering he threw some T-shirts and underpants into a bag before undertaking the depressing check of the window, TV and phone. He was hungry, but his appetite had deserted him. He decided to breakfast somewhere on the way. He blew his nose and smeared some ointment on the sore places beneath it. He did without a shave.

The look of the wardrobe puzzled him. Something had changed since yesterday. There seemed to be one jacket too many hanging there. That was impossible, though. Besides, he’d locked the front door. No one else had been here.

He was already standing on the doormat when something impelled him to go back inside. He stared at the hangers in the wardrobe but couldn’t put his finger on it.

*

The air was crystal-clear, the sky almost abnormally cloudless. Despite an occasional puff of wind, the dashboard in his car seemed to be melting. He lowered all the windows and half-heartedly pressed a few buttons on the radio. Nothing emerged but a hiss of static, sometimes louder, sometimes more subdued.

He found his father’s flat unchanged. The wall clock was ticking. The tumbler he’d drunk from was standing, half empty, on the table. The bedclothes were rumpled. When he looked out of the window he caught sight of the bicycle with the plastic cover on its saddle. The bottle was protruding from the dustbin. The motorbikes were in their places.

He was about to leave when he thought of the knife.

He didn’t have to search for long. His father kept his war souvenirs in the drawer beside the drinks cupboard. His Iron Crosses First and Second Class, his close-combat clasp, his wounded-in-action badge, his Eastern Campaign medal. Jonas knew them all. Often, as a child, he’d watched his father polishing them. An address book, his army paybook, some letters from comrades-in-arms. Three photos showing his father seated in some gloomy rooms with a group of fellow conscripts. The expression on his face was so unfamiliar Jonas couldn’t recall ever having seen him look like that. The knife was in there too. He took it.

*

His last visit to Schönbrunn Zoo had been a work outing — a cheerful occasion several years ago. He had a vague recollection of dirty cages and a café where they hadn’t been served.

Much had changed since then. The newspapers claimed that Schönbrunn was the finest zoo in Europe. It offered some new sensation every year. A pair of koalas, for example, or other exotic beasts that obliged every Viennese with still-impressionable young children to make a pilgrimage to the zoo. It had never occurred to Jonas to spend his Sundays gazing at the big cats’ enclosure or the insectarium. Now, because he wanted to discover whether the animals had vanished as well, he pulled up beside the ticket office and the metal bollards that denied access to cars.

He didn’t get out until he’d sounded his horn for a couple of minutes. He stuck the knife in his belt. He also took the wrench with him.

The gravel path crunched beneath his feet. It was a little cooler here than in the city centre. Wind was ruffling the trees that surrounded the zoo, but nothing was stirring inside the fence which, according to a noticeboard, enclosed the giraffe paddock.

His legs refused to carry him beyond a point from which he could still see his car. He couldn’t bring himself to turn off down one of the lateral paths. The car was his home, his insurance.