Seeing the boxes stacked in every room, he had no inclination to go back to work that day. Half the cupboards and shelves had been emptied, after all, and there was no rush.
He lay down on the bed surrounded by rolls of sticky tape, newspapers, scissors. Unused boxes, not yet unfolded, were leaning against the wall.
He shut his eyes.
The clock was ticking on the wall. His father’s smell still lingered in the air, but he no longer had the pleasurable sensation of being immersed in a vanished world. The rooms were filled with the atmosphere that precedes departure.
If he wanted to call anything in the world his own, he would have to re-create the past. Although everything in Vienna, every car, every vase, every glass was his for the taking, nothing remained that belonged to him.
*
He stood at the window, watching the sun sink below the skyline. It had reached its maximum height on 21 June and gone down behind a thick clump of trees on the Exelberg. Since then its setting point had been almost imperceptibly moving leftwards.
It was on an evening like this, sixteen or seventeen years ago, that Jonas had got ready for his first solo vacation. He had packed his rucksack, taken his new two-man tent from the cupboard, borrowed a crash helmet from a neighbour. The alarm clock went off at 4 a. m., but he’d been awake for a long time before that.
He’d got horribly cold during that eight-hour trip to the Mondsee in Upper Austria, having underestimated the night-time chill and dressed too lightly. But the adventure was worth it. Riding through villages in the dark. Passing houses in which people were just getting up, showering, shaving, brewing coffee or still asleep while he himself was on the road. The unfamiliar smells. Dawn in a place he’d never seen before. The solitude. The sense of romantic daring.
He lowered the blinds.
He paused outside the bedroom door. He withdrew his hand, which was already on the handle. Bending down, he peered through the keyhole.
On the opposite wall he saw the embroidery Marie’s mother had given them, and beneath it the chest of drawers. On the right he glimpsed the foot of the bed.
The embroidery showed a woman standing beside a well with a shirt in her hands. A traditional farmhouse could be seen in the background. The door was done in bright red, whereas the other colours were muted. Above it was the inscription K+M+B, although Jonas couldn’t read this through the keyhole.
On the chest of drawers was a ceramic fruit bowl. Beside it, leaning against a pile of books, a pair of imitation duelling pistols, a gift from his father.
He felt a slight draught on his eyeball.
He was separated from the picture of the washerwoman by a door. He was outside, yet he could see what was happening inside the deserted room. Strictly speaking, no one could look at that chest of drawers. From the room’s point of view, there was no one there. It was like seeing the contents of an unopened book.
Or was he wrong? By looking through the keyhole, wasn’t he crossing a line? Becoming a part of the room once more?
*
He started the tape. The whole of the bed was in shot. As he had the last time, he saw himself walk past the camera and fall into bed. Minutes later his gentle snoring issued from the loudspeakers.
While watching the Sleeper, he debated whether he ought to view the other tape in parallel. The one that showed his face in close-up. For that, of course, he would need another TV and video recorder. These could be obtained from the neighbouring flats. Now that he was comfortably stretched out on the sofa, however, he realised how weary he was after his exertions. He dropped the idea. It probably wouldn’t make any difference.
The Sleeper must have been equally tired last night. He lay quite still. It was more than thirty minutes before he turned over for the first time. From one point of view, that was a good thing. His almost total inertia meant that the second camera had also kept him in shot, so he would later be able to study his changes of expression. On the other hand, this uneventfulness wasn’t exactly a spur to his investigations.
His throat felt sore. No, it couldn’t be. He normally caught one cold a year at most. Surely he couldn’t have caught another so soon. Better safe than sorry.
He prepared a hot toddy, scarcely taking his eyes off the screen, and made a mental note to get hold of some vitamin tablets.
The Sleeper rolled over again. He seemed to be hot, because he kicked his hairy white legs free of the bedclothes. A sigh was heard. A minute later he turned over so far that he escaped the second camera’s field of view. The upper part of his body was now lying on the other side of the bed, beside the T-shirt Marie hadn’t worn.
Jonas pulled a face. He’d overdone the sugar. There was a little whisky left in the saucepan. He poured it into his cup and added some more lemon juice.
After an hour and a half the Sleeper pressed Marie’s pillow to his face.
That was last night, Jonas thought, and tonight will be the same. I shall lie there and sleep, and there won’t be any difference.
This time he’d overdone the whisky. He laid the cup aside. The toddy had gone cold in any case.
Jonas rubbed his eyes. He sluiced his face and neck with cold water. He found an aspirin in the bathroom cabinet. It was soluble, but he let it dissolve on his tongue. It prickled.
Back in the living room he turned on all the lights. The dull glow from the TV screen was making him sleepy. He brewed himself some strong coffee.
The Sleeper slept on.
That should be me, Jonas thought. That should be me.
*
Two hours and fifty-eight minutes after the beginning of the tape, the Sleeper’s eyes half opened. He rolled around. Stood up. Strode towards the wall with a purposeful air. Bumped into it.
Still with his eyes half open, he explored the wall with his hands as if wanting to get into it. He concentrated on a particular spot, neither reaching up nor bending down, applying pressure with his palms as if trying to squeeze into the masonry. He even braced his shoulder against it.
There the tape ended.
*
Never before had Jonas darted so quickly from one room to another. He examined the bedroom wall in vain. No sign of an opening, no secret door. Just an ordinary wall.
His fatigue had vanished. He quickly resumed his place in front of the screen and rewound the tape.
The Sleeper opened his eyes like someone roused by a noise or by lying in an uncomfortable position. He squirmed around. Threw off the bedclothes and stood up. He seemed impervious to reality. Like a man in a dream, he groped his way over to the wall and began his exertions. He made no sound, nor did he ever look at the camera.
Jonas looked at his hands. His fingernails were chalky.
He went into the next room again. Lay down on the bed and looked at the wall. Taking the same route as the Sleeper, he tottered over to the spot with his arms extended and pushed. Braced his shoulder against the wall.
He looked round. Nothing had changed. It was his bedroom.
He watched the second tape in fast-forward. There was nothing of interest on it, as he’d expected. After an hour the Sleeper rolled out of shot. None of the mysterious happenings at the end had been recorded.
With great reluctance, he set up a camera for the night. He didn’t bother with the close-up camera. He drank the rest of his cold toddy.
10
Jonas blinked. The bedside light was dazzling him. He groped for the switch, turned it out and opened his eyes. Twenty to twelve. The other duvet was lying on the floor with the overturned tripod and camera beneath it. He had no particular wish to speculate on the significance of this, so he left everything lying there and made himself some breakfast.