Daniel Kehlmann - Fame - A Novel in Nine Episodes

Yes?

I’m real!

Are you?

Trust me. It’s not going to hurt. That much I can take care of, I promise. My story—

Excuse me, but I couldn’t care less about your story. It’s probably not even any good !

I’m furious and I say nothing, and to make sure Rosalie doesn’t start up again, I have her arrive at the airport a few minutes later—the taxi has made unbelievable time, the streets have become a blur of color, and she’s already getting out, no line at the check-in counter, no waiting to clear security, and she’s sitting at the gate, surrounded by noisy children and people on business trips, and has no idea how all this happened. Our conversation has slipped into the back of her brain, she’s no longer sure whether I actually said something or whether she invented my words herself.

The plane is late. All planes are always late, that’s something not even I can do anything about. So Rosalie sits in the departure lounge. Sunlight filters softly through the windows. Until now she hasn’t felt afraid, but suddenly she is rigid with terror.

At exactly this moment, things begin to move. The flight to Zurich is called, and as Rosalie stands up, a fellow passenger asks if she needs help. She doesn’t, but why turn down the offer of a little support and friendliness? So she allows herself to be assisted on board.

Luckily, she has a window seat. She decides not to waste a moment, she’s going to look out as if she could take it all with her. It’s a fine thing to fly over the Alps one more time just before the end. The plane starts down the runway, engines screaming.

Rosalie wakes as the plane touches down and the force of the brakes presses her against her seatbelt. Her eardrums hurt. She rubs her forehead. Did she really … the whole way? She can’t believe it. But out there the landing runway stretches away under a uniform gray sky. It’s true, she’s slept through it all.

“Are we really already there?” she asks her neighbor.

He shakes his head. “Basel.”

“What?”

“Fog in Zurich.” He looks at her as if it’s her fault. “We had to land in Basel.”

Rosalie stares at the back of the seat in front of her and tries to think. What is this? The unexpected twist that’s meant to save her life? Have I intervened to interrupt her journey?

But Rosalie, I reply. You have cancer. You’re going to die anyway. A break in your journey isn’t going to save you.

It could turn into another kind of story, she says. I could discover life in the next two weeks. Do things I’ve never done before. It could be one of those stories about how nobody ever values the present enough and how you should always live as if it would be all over in the next few days. It could be a positive … what do they call them?

Life-affirming. It’s called a life-affirming story.

So it could be one of those!

Rosalie, the airline will offer you two things. A connecting flight, but nobody will know when you’ll be able to board, because the fog in Zurich is extremely thick, or a train ticket. The train would get you there on time. You’ll take the train ticket. This isn’t a life-affirming story. If anything, it’s a theological one.

How so?

I say nothing.

But how so, she says again. What do you mean?

I say nothing.

“I beg you,” says Rosalie’s neighbor. “It’s not so bad. You’ll get to Zurich—it’s not that far. There’s no reason to cry.”

At the door to the plane she’s pulled herself together again. A man from the airline is handing out vouchers to the grumbling passengers. Rosalie does opt for the train, and because she looks frail and not very well, an employee is found to drive her to the station. Her train is already at the platform. “Mind the step,” says the young man. “Mind, there’s a gap. Mind the next step. Would you like to sit here? Mind the seat.”

Very shortly the train is racing through a green landscape of hills and valleys. This time Rosalie is determined not to doze off.

She wakes as the train is stopping at some little provincial station. Fog hangs over the roofs of hideous houses. Out on the platform a child is whimpering while his mother next to him stares wildly as if she’d just trodden in a mound of turds. Rosalie rubs her face. Then the conductor comes onto the loudspeaker: there’s been an accident, bodily injuries, please disembark!

“Someone’s committed suicide,” a man says cheerfully.

“Jumped in front of the train,” says a woman. “That makes a mess of you. Nothing left!”

“Maybe a shoe,” says the man. “It’ll turn up miles away.”

They all nod in concert, then they get out. A man helps Rosalie down onto the platform, and she stands out there in the drizzle. Not knowing what to do, she goes into the station buffet. A Madonna smiles down from the wall next to a general in black and white next to a mountain guide with a pickax. There are four Swiss flags in the room. The coffee is disgusting.

“Dear lady, do you wish to get to Zurich?”

She looks up. There’s a thin man with horn-rim glasses and greasy hair at the next table. Rosalie has already noticed him on the train.

“If so, I could give you a lift.”

“You have a car here?”

“Dear lady, there are many cars.”

She’s silent, nonplussed. But what does she have to lose? She nods.

“If you would be so kind as to come with me. I take it time is tight.” In a grand gesture he pulls out his wallet and pays for her coffee. Then he goes over to the coat stand, takes a bright red cap that’s hanging there, puts it on his head, and slowly adjusts it. “Forgive me if I don’t assist you, but alas my back hurts. What is your name?”

She introduces herself.

He takes her hand and—she pulls back involuntarily—presses his lips to it. “Charmed!” He doesn’t tell her his own name. He holds himself very straight, his movements are supple, and there’s no sign that he has a bad back.

She follows him into the parking lot. He walks quickly without looking back and she can hardly keep up with him. He stops first in front of one car, then another, his head to one side and his lips pursed.

“What do you think about this one?” he asks in front of a silver Citroën. “I think it will do the job.” He looks questioningly at Rosalie. As she nods, disconcerted, he bends over and does something to the door, which springs open after a moment. He gets in and does something to the ignition.

“What are you doing?”

“Dear lady, won’t you get in?”

Rosalie hesitantly sits down in the passenger seat. The engine starts. “Is this your car, or did you just …”

“Of course it’s my car, dear lady! You wouldn’t wish to insult me?”

“But the ignition! You …”

“A new patent, very complicated, why don’t you tilt your seat back, it’s not going to take long, even if I can’t drive at top speed, too much fog and I don’t want to expose you to the slightest danger.” His laugh sounds like a bleat and Rosalie feels a shiver down her spine.

“Who are you?” she asks, her voice hoarse.

“A friendly fellow human being, dear lady. A seeker, a helper, a voyager. A shadow and a brother. As each of us should be to others.”

They’re already on the Autobahn. The guardrails glisten at the side of the car and the speed pushes Rosalie into her soft leather seat.

“The old riddle,” he says with a sidelong glance at her face. “Oedipus and the Sphinx. In the morning, four; at midday, two; in the evening, three. So profound, dear lady.” He turns on the radio, alpenhorns groan, in the background someone yodels. He whistles along and bangs out the rhythm on the steering wheel, completely off the beat. “A thinking reed, most venerable lady, un roseau pensant , what else is man? I will take you to your destination, and all I ask in return, fear not, is absolutely nothing.”