Thomas Glavinic - Night Work

The Toyota was standing outside, just as he’d left it. Although it didn’t appear to have rained for quite a while, the car was quite clean. The air was evidently less dirty than it used to be.

‘Hello, you,’ he said, and drummed on the roof.

He’d never felt sentimental about the Toyota before. But now it was his car, the one he’d owned in the old days. The Spider would never be that for the same reason that Jonas never got himself any new clothes. No new shirts or shoes, because he couldn’t have regarded them as his property. What had belonged to him before 4 July belonged to him now. He would never get any richer.

He backed the 4WD and the Spider off the truck. The Toyota started first time. He drove it aboard. Although the Spider had been smaller, there was still room for the 4WD.

*

He left the motorway at Laakirchen. The road to Attnang-Puchheim was well signposted, but the house he’d slept in was considerably harder to find. Not having expected to return, he hadn’t bothered to memorise the route. Eventually he recalled that the house with the few windows had been near the station. That narrowed it down. Five minutes later he spotted the DS standing beside the kerb.

Jonas trod on the kick-starter and the engine fired. He let the moped putter away for a while. Then he pushed it up the ramp and into the truck and secured it to the side. He counted backwards. It was almost incredible but true: he’d been here only a week ago. It felt like months.

Whether or not he’d turned off all the lights before leaving the house, he had to turn them on again now. Going into the bedroom with the bundle of clothes under his arm, he caught sight of his approaching figure in the wardrobe mirror and dropped his gaze. He put the shirt and trousers back where they belonged.

‘Thanks for these.’

He left the room without looking back and headed, stiff-backed, for the front door. He wanted to walk faster, but something held him back. He paid no attention to the curious pictures in the hallway and replaced the car key on its hook.

Just then it struck him that there was

one

more

picture

than last time.

He shut the front door behind him and made his way along the narrow path to the street with marionette-like movements. Nothing in the world could have persuaded him to set foot in that house again

He wasn’t mistaken. One of those pictures hadn’t been there a week ago. Which one, he didn’t know, but there had been seven. Now there were eight.

No, he must have miscounted. That was the only explanation. He’d been tired and agitated and soaked to the skin. His memory was playing tricks.

*

On the way to Salzburg he felt hungry. He opened the bag of sweets lying on the bunk behind him and drank some lemonade. The weather was deteriorating. Just before the Mondsee exit he drove into a violent rainstorm. Memories of his last visit were not pleasant and he didn’t want to stop, but at the last moment he braked and swerved off down the exit road. The truck’s big wiper blades were whipping back and forth across the windscreen, the cab was warm and he had plenty to eat and drink. He felt almost snug. His shotgun was lying beside him. Nothing bad could happen.

There was a crash as he drove through the lido gate. The signboard above the entrance went flying, but he didn’t feel the slightest jolt.

The car park roads were narrow and separated by strips of grass enclosed by low walls. Ignoring the rows of saplings he was mowing down, he made straight for the stretch of grass beside the lake. With malicious glee he rammed the Hungarian car, which was still there. He put his foot right down. A metal barrier hurtled through the air. He giggled. The grass was slippery. He braked so as not to plunge the truck into the lake.

Keeping well clear of the water’s edge, he reconnoitred the area without getting out, without even stopping. Rain was drumming on the roof of the cab with such violence that he had no need of the inner voice warning him not to get out.

No trace of his tent. Jonas turned and drove as far as the changing cubicles, then back to the car park, which was strewn with branches and debris. He lowered the driver’s window and put his arm out into the rain. Levelling his forefinger at an invisible passer-by, he yelled some garbled sentences, the content of which he himself didn’t understand.

*

Finding the Salzburg Marriott presented no problem, in part because it had stopped raining. When he got out in front of the hotel he was both alarmed and exultant.

He couldn’t hear any music.

The CD of the Mozart symphonies, the one that had been meant to attract people to the scene, had evidently been turned off. Or had turned itself off. Or there’d been a short circuit.

Had someone been here? Was someone here?

He would know soon.

Soon.

Shotgun at the ready, he entered the lobby. The notes on the door and the reception desk had both disappeared, but a video camera had been set up in the middle of the passage, its lens trained on the entrance.

‘Who’s that?’ he shouted.

He fired at a lampshade, which exploded in a shower of glass. The sound of the shot continued to echo for several seconds. Without knowing why, he ran out into the street and looked around. No one in sight. He drew a deep breath.

Step by step, hugging the walls and taking cover behind columns, he ventured back into the hotel. He couldn’t stop gulping.

He reached the video camera. No lights were on in the corridor beyond it, which led to the restaurant. Jonas raised the gun, intending to fire into the gloom. He tried to cock the weapon, but it jammed. He flung it away. The missing knife crossed his mind.

‘What’s the matter, eh? What’s the matter? Come on, don’t be shy!’

He yelled the words at the darkness. All around, everything was quiet.

‘Hang on! I’ll be back in a minute!’

He grabbed the camera and dashed outside. Tossing it onto the bunk complete with its tripod, he locked the doors of the cab and drove off.

He pulled into the next service area. There was a TV in the café. He looked at the video camera. It was the model he used himself.

He went and fetched a lead from the truck. Having connected the camera to the TV, he raided the drinks shelf. His toothache was coming back.

He started the tape.

*

A man on a station platform wearing the blue uniform of the Austrian State Railway. Whistle in mouth, he was pumping his bat up and down as though signalling to an engine driver.

It was night-time. A train was standing alongside the platform. The uniformed man blew a shrill blast on his whistle and gesticulated in an incomprehensible manner. As if the train were about to pull out, he ran along beside it and leapt aboard. Recovering his balance, or so it seemed, he disappeared inside the carriage. The scene was so perfectly staged, Jonas had the momentary impression that the train was moving.

He looked more closely, his head swimming. The train was stationary.

A blue sign in the background read: HALLEIN.

The uniformed man did not reappear. A few minutes later, without any footsteps being heard, the tape ran out.

*

Jonas pocketed the tape and replaced the camera and lead in the truck. He acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Whistling a tune with his hands in his pockets, he sauntered across the car park to the filling station and back. He looked round surreptitiously. Nobody seemed to be watching him, no sign of anyone near him. He was surrounded only by the wind.

*

He felt defenceless without the shotgun. When he passed the station building in Hallein and gained access to the platform by a side entrance, he behaved as if his leg were hurting. He hobbled along, clutching his knee and groaning.