He took a handful of photos out of the first box. Black-and-white snapshots, they looked as if they dated from the 1950s. His parents in the countryside. On walking tours. At home. At work parties. His mother in witch’s get-up, his father as a sheikh. Many were stuck together as if fruit juice had been spilt on them.
A photo from the next box was of Jonas himself. Five or six years old, he was dressed up as a cowboy, complete with charcoal moustache. Standing round him and grinning at the camera were three more youngsters in fancy dress. One of them, who had lost his upper front teeth, was brandishing a sword and laughing. Jonas remembered him. Robert and he had been at nursery school together, so the snapshot must be thirty years old.
A few more photos from the nursery school era. Some with his mother. Fewer with his father. Most of the latter lacked a head or a pair of legs. His mother had been no photographer.
A picture of him on his first day at school. In colour, but faded. He was clutching a satchel not much smaller than himself.
The light in the passage went out.
He straightened up. Half facing the passage, he listened, then shook his head. If he heard any noises from now on, he would ignore them. They were nothing, meant nothing.
A snapshot of himself cuddling a tiger cub and wearing a forced smile. A seaside holiday.
He still remembered the annual holidays at North Italian resorts on the Adriatic. The whole family had had to get up in the middle of the night because the coach left at 3 a.m. He pictured the wall clock’s hands showing half past twelve and vividly recalled the sense of adventure and happiness with which he had packed his little checked rucksack.
They were driven to the bus station by a friend of his father who owned a car. Seaside holidays were a communal venture involving the entire family. That was why, when they got there, he said hello to Uncle Richard and Aunt Olga, Uncle Reinhard and Aunt Lena, whom he recognised by their voices in the darkness. Cigarettes glowed, somebody blew their nose, ring-pull cans of beer snapped open, strangers took bets on when the coach would be ready to leave.
The journey. The voices of the other passengers, some of whom snored. The rustle of paper. It gradually grew lighter and he could make out faces.
A stop at a picnic area in unfamiliar surroundings. Grassy hills glistening with dew. Birds twittering. Glaring light and deep, foreign voices in the toilets. The driver, who had introduced himself as Herr Fuchs, cracked jokes with him. He liked Herr Fuchs. Herr Fuchs was taking them to a place where everything smelt different, where the sun shone differently, where the sky seemed a little denser and the air more treacly.
Those two weeks at the seaside were wonderful. He adored the waves, the seashells, the sand, the hotel meals and glasses of fruit juice. He was allowed to go for a ride in a pedalo. He made friends with youngsters from other countries. Like all the other tourist kids, he was photographed on the corso with a tiger cub in his arms. He was presented with toy pistols and helicopters. It was fun, going on holiday with the whole family. No one was bad-tempered, no one argued, and at night they lingered so long over their Lambrusco that even he didn’t have to go to bed too early. They were glorious, those holidays. Yet his fondest memory was of the few hours prior to departure. The holidays were lovely, but not as lovely as his sense of anticipation, the feeling that anything might happen.
Jonas had passed Herr Fuchs on the way to school a few months later. He said hello, but there was no response. No friendly smile. Herr Fuchs hadn’t recognised him.
*
His stomach tensed as he inserted the videotape.
The Sleeper walked past the camera, got into bed and went to sleep.
Since when had he gone to sleep so easily? In the old days he often used to stare into the darkness for an hour, tossing and turning so violently that he woke Marie. Then she too would get up and drink some warm milk or bathe her feet or count sheep. These days he lay down and passed out as though anaesthetised.
The Sleeper turned over. Jonas poured himself some grapefruit juice, staring absently at the sell-by date on the carton. He tipped some pistachio nuts into a bowl and put it on the sofa table. Then he took the camera’s operating instructions from the lower shelf.
They weren’t complicated. Turn a switch to ‘A’, press a button and key in the required start time. So he wouldn’t have to look it up again, he briefly noted the programming procedure on the back of a stray envelope.
‘What a restless night we’re having,’ he remarked to the screen as the Sleeper turned over for the third time.
Jonas took a swig of juice and sat back. He put his feet up on the table, knocking over the bowl of pistachio nuts. His immediate impulse was to pick them up, but he made a dismissive gesture instead. He rubbed his shoulder, which was sore from carrying the gun around.
The Sleeper sat up. He covered his face with his hands. Then, standing with his back to the camera, he raised his arms. His outstretched forefingers were pointing to his temples.
He remained standing like that.
Until the tape ran out.
Jonas needed a pee, but he felt as if he’d become part of the sofa. He couldn’t even reach for his glass. He rewound the tape with the remote, which felt like a lead weight in his hand. Watched the back of the Sleeper’s head a second time. A third.
He had an urge to throw all the cameras out of the window. All that stopped him was the realisation that this would change nothing. It would merely destroy any chance he had of understanding his predicament.
There was an answer, there had to be. The outside world was a big place. He was just himself. He might never be able to find the answer outside, but he must look for the one within himself. And go on looking.
Gradually, he regained control over his limbs.
He went straight into the bedroom without a detour to the toilet and put in a new tape. He set the alarm. It was nine o’clock. Tonight he had no need to use the timer.
He pressed the record button. He went to the toilet, then into the bathroom, where he brushed his teeth and took a shower. Naked, he walked past the softly humming video camera and wrapped himself in the duvet. He hadn’t dried himself thoroughly. The sheet beneath him became damp.
The camera’s steady hum carried to his ears. He was tired. But his thoughts were racing.
12
The alarm clock beeped from somewhere far away. It was an exasperating sound that gradually penetrated his consciousness. Jonas groped for the clock on either side of him. His fingers closed on thin air. He opened his eyes.
He was lying on the bare floor of the kitchen-cumliving-room.
He was cold. No bedclothes. A glance at the display on the microwave informed him that it was 3 a.m. He had set the alarm clock for that hour. Its monotonous beeping continued to fill the flat.
He went into the bedroom. His duvet was lying on the bed. Thrown back, as if he’d just gone to the bathroom. The camera was on its tripod, the floor strewn with dirty clothes. He brought his fist down on the alarm clock, silencing it at last.
He looked at his naked form in the bedroom mirror. For a moment he thought he’d shrunk.
He turned and leant against the wall, frowning up at the ceiling. All he could remember were the thoughts and mental images that had passed through his mind just before he fell asleep. He couldn’t account for his presence in the living room.
*
While riding out of Vienna on the rattling DS, heading west, he was reminded of the night he’d set off in the same direction eighteen years ago. It had been just as dark and cold. But pairs of headlights had regularly zoomed past him. Today, the roads were deserted. All he’d had with him then was a rucksack on his back, no pump-action shotgun. And his head had been protected by a crash helmet.