Thomas Glavinic - Night Work

His bat. His walking stick, too. From a time that was long gone. That would never come back. A time he could never re-enter, never use again.

*

Early that afternoon Jonas cooked himself some lunch at the inn. A plateful of noodles and potatoes from the larder he’d discovered behind an inconspicuous door. He ate a lot and drew himself a beer. It tasted and smelt bad. He poured it away and opened a bottle instead.

He sat down on the terrace with the bottle and a fleece belonging to the landlord tied round his waist by the arms. He had also put on a frayed old peasant hat he had found hanging on a hook. The sun was scorching hot, but a strong wind was blowing. He finished off the bottle. Then he thought of the transceiver. He went inside and spent half an hour looking for it until he was satisfied it had gone.

It had been there that Christmas nearly twenty-five years ago, but it hadn’t been working. They were snowed in, the roads were impassable, and then it happened: Leo the waiter, who was helping out over the holidays, gashed his hand chopping wood. Although the wound wasn’t thought to be too serious, it became infected. They couldn’t call a doctor because all the phone lines had been brought down by avalanches. To everyone’s alarm, Leo was confined to bed with blood poisoning. They were afraid he would die.

Jonas happened to hear about the defective transceiver. The grown-ups, who thought he wanted to play some game or show off, gave him sidelong, pitying looks when he asked to see it. One look at the relay circuit, however, and Jonas realised that he really could be of help. He had drawn so many circuit diagrams in physics, an optional subject he was studying at school, that he asked for a length of copper wire and a soldering iron.

A few minutes later, with his heart thumping, he gestured grandly at the transceiver and announced that it was working again. They all thought at first that he was joking. In fact his father showed signs of wanting to chuck him out of the window, transceiver and all. Jonas turned it on. As soon as the landlord heard it crackling he dashed over and sent an SOS. The helicopter that flew Leo to hospital landed two hours later.

Frau Löhneberger wept. Herr Löhneberger slapped Jonas on the back, stood him an ice cream, and invited the whole family to a meal on the house. Jonas thought he would be in for more praise and more ice creams, but the incident wasn’t mentioned again after a day or two. Nor was any further reference made to a reporter who had wanted to put something about it in the local paper.

*

Once in the forest, Jonas put on the fleece and zipped it up. It didn’t seem to have rained here for some time. Little puffs of dust arose at every step he took up the path to the alpine hut. He recalled wearing a hood as a boy, for fear of ticks, which he wrongly believed to lurk in trees. Now, even one of those revolting little creatures would have been a comfort to him.

He thought he remembered which way to go. To his surprise, however, nothing looked familiar. It wasn’t until he reached the hut from which he’d collected milk, and where he’d been presented with the walking stick, that images came to life in his mind’s eye.

One summer holiday he was allowed to bring a school-friend whose parents had naturally, at his father’s insistence, been expected to pay for their son’s board and lodging. Jonas had decided to invite Leonhard. And it was with Leonhard, he now remembered, that he’d been up here one day. They had prowled around the hut like two Redskins planning to raid a ranch. Then, when the grizzled old giant of a man appeared in his doorway, the raiders’ courage had suddenly deserted them. They had bidden the trapper a sheepish good morning and vanished into the undergrowth.

Jonas surveyed the mountainside, rifle over shoulder and peasant hat on head. He rested for a minute or two. Should he break into the hut? No, he didn’t feel hungry or thirsty, so he left the clearing and started climbing again.

Nothing looked familiar to him.

Now and then he heard a crack, like someone stepping on a fallen branch. He froze, listening.

Jonas suppressed his mounting alarm. There was no need to be scared, he’d proved that last night. No one was after him. The sounds he was hearing sprang from his overheated imagination or were chance natural phenomena. Twigs snapping by themselves, perhaps. He was alone.

‘You aren’t there either,’ he said, looking over his shoulder. He repeated the words and laughed aloud despite himself, as if he’d cracked a joke.

His mobile was showing half past five. The battery was nearly flat. There was no dialling tone, he noticed. That worried him, but why? Who would he have called? All the same, it was like a warning that he’d strayed too far. He turned back.

And lengthened his stride.

Something was welling up inside him. Growing stronger.

To take his mind off it he recalled how, as a boy, he’d gone looking for Attila’s grave in these woods. He’d heard tell of it. According to legend, the king of the Huns had died while marching through Austria and been buried in a forest. Any hummock might conceal his tomb, and if Jonas found the spot it would make him rich and famous. He had also combed these woods with Leonhard. Every time they had come to a sizeable mound of earth they’d looked at each other and discussed its chances like experts. When out by himself he had only searched the edge of the forest within sight of the holiday house or the inn.

The path was so overgrown with bracken, he kept tripping over hidden stones. Twice the rifle dug him hard in the side, knocking the breath out of him. He was annoyed he’d taken it with him, for all the use it had been.

As if he’d bumped into a wall, he stopped short. It took him a long moment to realise what he’d just heard: a bell. A cowbell.

There — there it went again, over to his left.

‘Wait! Now you’ll see something!’ he yelled.

Holding his rifle in front of his chest, he dashed in the direction he thought the sound had come from. To his bewilderment, the third clang seemed to come from even further to his left. He changed direction. He gave no thought to what he would find and what he would do when he found it. He simply ran on.

The sixth time the bell clanged, he felt unsure whether he was heading towards it or away from it.

‘Hooo!’

No answer. The bell, too, remained silent.

He looked around. A geocaching tree caught his eye. Something told him he was on the right track. He hurried past the tree and squeezed through some bushes. Beyond them he came out in a small clearing with a lone birch tree standing in the middle.

The bell was hanging from one of its branches.

He scanned the area before going over to it. It was suspended on a surprisingly thin length of cord. The metal rims were flecked with rust, but there was no indication of how long the bell had been there or who had hung it up. It clanged whenever the wind blew, that was the only certainty.

It occurred to Jonas how the bell might have got there, but that theory was too unpleasant to be credited.

He looked for the route he had come by. Having ventured too far, he needed to get his bearings again. It wasn’t long before he thought he knew where he was and where he would come upon a path. He set off in that direction. Ten minutes later, when he had merely strayed even deeper into the forest, he was overcome by the feeling he’d had before.

‘Well, Attila, coming to get me?’

He tried to give the words a hint of mockery, but his voice sounded feebler than he’d intended.

He looked back. Dense forest. He didn’t even know which direction he’d come from.

He ploughed straight on. On and on. You had to look for fixed points, enlist the help of the sun or the stars, that’s what he’d been taught as a boy. But he’d never got lost before, and he’d forgotten how you made sure of going straight ahead instead of in a circle.