Arnon Grunberg - Tirza

'How do you want to dine, Mr ship's steward?" asks the receptionist.

'eight, nine and a half.'

'One person?'

'one person.'

As soon as he is in his room, he himself in bed. He does his shoes off, closes his eyes, rubs gently over his feet.

Certainly twenty minutes he remains so. Half asleep, half-watchful.

It is the noise of the wind to him on his watch does look. Somewhere a flap clicks or a door. Almost seven hours al.

Soon he must eat.

Hastily he goes away, leaving the bath flooding and within them.

In the warm water if him to relax. Also seems this is a basic travel, as he ever made. A visit to an author in his native country, a book fair, a few times a conference. Especially at the beginning of his career he visited them just might, conferences.

Only when his mobile phone in the bedroom tone, urges the purpose of his journey back to him by. Without having to dry off he comes the bath.

As soon as he can he walks to the telephone. He glides almost off, but know to keep his balance.

It is the wife.

'And?' she asks.

'And? I am. That is all I can tell you now. Tomorrow I am going to draw up a plan. At the embassy. Along the youth hostels. But wind angle is not dangerous. Small, especially small. I do not think that they have remained here long. Tourist go to the coast or the desert, I heard.'

She takes the information without much comment to itself.

'call me if you hear anything," she says. 'and read your e-mail from time to time, perhaps sends an email they you'

'I will.'

'And Jörgen.'

'Yes?'

'No, nothing. Let but. Here I am waiting on you. I will keep the garden for you.'

Then he weather in bath. He has time before he to table must be.

In the room next to his he will hear people talking. He tries to mean what language they speak, but the sounds are too far away.

The talk is about in howl. But if he is listening carefully, he hears that it is not, it is crying gehijg.

Before he goes out of the bath, shower he the foam away and here are favorite song. 'bei mir bist du schön, please let me explain. Bei mir bist du schön, means you are grand.'

With a large white towel dries he thoroughly and very briefly he thinks of the worker in Amsterdam.

Only now he opens his suitcase.

The gift for Tirza he embodied in a la. The rest of the clothes he let in his suitcase.

He decides to withdraw a suit, aftershave. You never know who you encounter.

Only when he wants to attract his shoes, he notes that this is not good for more. His feet are battered. The shoes are not set on this heat, they are not made for swollen feet. With pain and difficulties" squeezes his.

Otherwise than he had hoped, dinner is not on the terrace, but served indoors.

He will get a table in a corner. Ship's steward is one of the few men in suit. The other guests are nonchalance dressed. As a tourist in Africa. But he is not casually.

During the appetizer he tries to read the manuscript. Soon he keeps it. The wine and the vermoeienis of the travel stun him light, but pleasant. His thoughts wander off.

He shall submit the photo of Tirza on table in the hope that someone him whether he will. But no one is asking a question. It is adequately controlled. It. Comment on the photo remains off. Is the wine bijgeschonken regularly, he immediately ordered but a bottle. No Italian gewürztraminer, but nice. He plays with the photo, he likes it up. It is about Tirza no question. Nobody wants to know who she is, nobody is interested in what is a ship's steward on its has to say.

After the main dish is the pain in his feet so bad that he spends shoes and socks. The tablecloths are low. We will not see it.

Order a lime relieved parfait. If something does not eat your problem, easy.

While he is in the lime parfait lepelt, he tries to summarize his life, as up to now it has declined. The he succeeds not. If he is looking back, he discovers nothing which he may be proud. What he sees are in the fog of his own history are small, fairly insignificant defeats. No large, an exception. The daily defeat, that cannot be distinguished from the daily shame.

He proudly is Tirza on. It. On Tirza. Proud. Without good to know why. What is his merit? Seed. The preparation of what hot meals. It disciplined to cello and swimming lesson, but we later found out that he had done something to be disciplined. No, it is proud without reason. Senseless proud.

Coffee and cognac he decides to drink at the bar. The dining room is now on a few tables after empty. It is apparently early sleep. Through the window you see below the lights of Wind Angle. In the evening seems to be a nice big city.

He walks slowly to the bar. A waiter comes to follow him.

'Meneer,' says the waiter, 'dit has you forget.'

He loves Hofmeesters shoes and socks up.

Ship's steward looks at his feet. They are exposed.

The shame is something overweldigends, so much stronger than affection.

The waiter gives a ship's steward his shoes and socks.

'Dank you,' he says. 'Dank you friendly. Completely forgotten. What kind of you." And he is going to sit at the bar.

He dares shoes and socks are not pulling. The shame disappears but slow, shame never disappears completely. Stir he concentrated coffee as if nothing is wrong.

The photo is now on the bar. If a proof. A declaration.

The bartender looks. He has no choice. There are no other people at the bar. To whom should he see or hear it?

My daughter,' says ship's steward. 'Tirza. Eighteen years old.'

'What is it?" asks the barkeeper.

Ship's steward shrugs. 'They will be studying,' he says. 'do not yet know what the. One week is the music sciences. Next week psychology. The following week classical languages. Has no idea. They do not have the time.'

He picks up a toothpick and removes discreet something from his mouth. He speaks — he observes the self — with double tongue.

'And where is it now?'

Tirza's father looks at the photo as if it were the answer to that question can be found.

'Here,' he says. He looks around. 'Here. She is somewhere here. In Namibia.'

He says it as if it were a secret.

He kept wanting cognac. The last guests leaving the dining room. Only the staff is still there. Smiling looks the bartender to ship's steward.

'Are you here only?' he asks.

Tirza's father nods. Slow and long. 'I am only here,' he says, 'but not really only, i am here to surprise my daughter. So basically we are together. I wanted my children money to act. A lot of money. A substantial sum. In order for them to open the doors were for me have remained closed. But it has disappeared. The money. It is eaten. Do you know who the has eaten?'

He beckons him, he flutters with his hands. The bartender must be closer.

'De world economy,' he whispers soft. 'After 11 September 2001, when the fairs bloc, they were already fallen, but they collapsed further in, it disappeared my hedge fund. It held to exist. From one day to the other. Road hedge fund. As if it was not there was. Mohammed Atta has eaten my money. Do you remember who Mohammed Atta is that?'

The barman shakes his head.

'Does there should not,' says ship's steward. 'Where the issue is that the people think: Mohammed Atta is dead. Mohammed Atta is there not more. They say. But there are thousands of Mohammed Atta, tens of thousands, millions of Mohammed Atta. Millions. The world economy as far as Mohammed Atta can do not. He also has been home to me. Mohammed Atta.'

Ship's steward stops the photo of his daughter in his inner pocket, withdraw its colbert law. Slowly bending his shoes and socks to pick-up. His back creaks.

'We See you tomorrow?" asks the barkeeper.

Ship's steward nods. On bare feet he walks to his room. There are sounds of insects. The night produces just as his main humming noises. Yes, Mohammed Atta is in his own home, that is something that the people will be surprised. Something that they will still have questions later.