Павел Хюлле - Cold Sea Stories

What could he tell her about all this? Could he say that his father, accused of spying, had broken down under interrogation and signed a piece of paper? Or on the contrary, that he hadn’t signed anything? That his nocturnal expeditions with the Great Conductor came to an end one autumn night? They stood beside each other at an abandoned signal, watching the goods trains roll past one after another. People were poking their hands out of the barred windows, and occasionally a face flashed by.

‘They’re going to their death,’ said the Great Conductor in a whisper.

‘Can’t we do anything?’ he asked.

‘We have no influence on the timetable. For the time being all the connections are cancelled.’

After that night the railway line never came to life again, and neither the elegant old carriage coupled to the panting locomotive, nor the Great Conductor, had ever appeared again among the rampant weeds and rusted points. He had never revealed that secret to anyone. In the dark hotel room he now realised that the only person he could tell it to was his neighbour from behind the wall, or rather from behind the wardrobe.

‘I’ll go to that church tomorrow,’ he decided, as he fell asleep.

The next morning he was received with extremely subtle courtesy by both Herr Rossets. Once his identity had been confirmed with the aid of his passport – which was a pure formality – it was necessary to state that he was his father’s only heir. His mother and brother were no longer alive, as shown by the relevant documents, long since forwarded to the office. He signed an additional declaration.

As the younger lawyer, Sebastian Rosset, began to read out the document, he gazed through the large office window at a pleasure boat gliding up the Limmat. On the other side of the river, above the city, stretched the purple range of the Alps. He was expecting in the best case about thirty thousand francs. Even increased by capitalised interest, the total amount should not be greater. But what he heard was staggering.

‘Could you say that again?’ he interrupted the lawyer, ‘I can’t have understood.’

‘Yes, of course. The total sum, minus the annual costs of tax, service expenses and our commission, now comes to one million nine hundred and ninety-six thousand seven hundred and fifty-four euros.’

‘Is that possible?’

‘Absolutely. The sum your father won on the lottery was enormous for those days – over two hundred thousand dollars. In accordance with his wishes, we invested the money in three ways: in trust funds, real estate and shares. As you can see, our firm achieves superb results. If the prize money had lain in a bank, even at the best rate of interest, you would not have even half that sum today. More than thirty years have gone by.’

‘What we’re talking about,’ the older, François Rosset now continued, ‘is of course the money which, after disposing of the securities, we deposited in three different banks, in keeping with your suggestion. But there is also the real estate.’

‘Indeed,’ said the younger lawyer, handing him a file of documents, ‘here is a list of the properties, with valuations and all communication with the administrators. If you should so wish, our firm is willing to continue to manage them. We have prepared a contract. Of course you can sell, but not immediately.’

In total silence he looked through the list.

‘Fiorenzuola?’ he asked bashfully, pointing at one of the items.

‘A beautiful property. Last month the lease expired and Mr O’Brien and his entire family went back to the States, as far as we know. We haven’t looked for a new tenant, as you mentioned in your letter that once matters were settled here you would like to take a holiday in Italy,’ explained Herr Sebastian. ‘The administrator, Signor Corelli, lives on site.’

‘Are you feeling unwell?’ The older lawyer summoned the assistant. ‘Please bring some water!’

He really was feeling odd, and gladly took the glass. He thought it was all a sort of game, which he had accidentally got mixed up in without the involvement of his own free will, a game for which he would have to pay through the nose eventually.

‘The accounts I mentioned,’ said Herr François, ‘are already active. You only have to make your way to any of the banks and submit examples of your signature. We thought of that – here are the phone numbers. They are expecting you.’

‘As you wanted a small sum in cash,’ added Herr Sebastian, handing him an envelope, ‘here is that too. Please count it.’

He was surprised to find that once he had counted out twenty thousand francs in new notes and put the envelope into his jacket pocket, no receipt was demanded of him.

When after two hours he finally left the offices of Henri & François Rosset’s legal firm, having entrusted it with the continued management of his real estate, he felt he should go straight back to the hotel to change his shirt – it was wet with perspiration.

However, he stopped at the first little café on the Limmat. He ordered mineral water and a sandwich. He took out his mobile phone and wrote: We really are rich , then selected his wife’s number. He failed to press the send button, because at almost the exact same second, a couple of tables along, he spotted Herr Hugin (though it could just as well have been Herr Munin) pointing the lens of a small camera in his direction. He got up, went over to the detective, and as loud as he could, said: ‘Please call the police! This man is stalking me for no reason!’

Several people looked up at them.

‘Are you sure?’ said a passing waiter, stopping in mid-stride. ‘What’s this about?’

But Herr Munin (though it could just as well have been Herr Hugin) immediately walked off, disappearing among a group of Japanese tourists, who had just alighted from an pleasure boat.

He returned to his table, deleted the unsent text message, swallowed his sandwich, paid and set off along Wühre and up to the old town. It was noon, and the bells began to ring from several churches. He had no trouble reaching the small square where, on the façade of the two-storey toy shop, he could see the familiar sign saying Franz Carl Weber, with the company logo – a rocking horse, and the date of its foundation – 1881. On the ground floor there were lots of departments which did not arouse his interest. Hundreds of computer games, and squeezed in among them here and there, Barbie dolls or their relatives – that was really all. He roamed about in this labyrinth, unsure what to do next. Finally he came upon a sales assistant. His white shirt, black trousers and waistcoat betrayed a hesitant kinship with the elegance of former years.

‘Excuse me, please, ’ he asked. ‘Are there any electric railway sets here?’

‘What’s that?’ The young man hadn’t heard properly, or hadn’t understood his German.

‘Model trains. Locomotives, carriages, signals, stations.’

The assistant was surprised.

‘Do you mean a computer game? A railway one? We haven’t anything like that. There’s only Murder on the Orient Express . Interested?’

‘No, that’s not it. An electric railway set, dear sir. Models. Miniature, perfect replicas. Made by Märklin, for example. They travel on tracks like real ones. Have you got any like that?’

‘Yes,’ replied the young man after some thought. ‘Please go upstairs and ask the manager. I’ve only been working here for a month,’ he said, smiling disarmingly.

A moving staircase silently carried him upwards. But even here, among pyramids of Lego bricks, space stations from the Star Wars era and all possible mutants and cousins of the Matrix, he couldn’t find a single railway set. He also spent a long time looking for anyone who might be able to provide information. Finally, from behind a stack of colourful boxes, a young girl emerged, dressed the same way as the assistant on the ground floor.