In the middle of the room stood a kitchen chair with the back missing. Dangling from a beam above it was a noose.
*
Jonas got hold of a small tent and a sleeping mat in Attersee-Ort, then drove to the Mondsee. After straying down two farm tracks by mistake, he found the spot where he’d camped in the old days. Thirty metres from the shore of the lake and formerly covered with scrub, it now formed part of a public bathing place. Jonas dumped his kit and reconnoitred the area on the moped.
Modern times had arrived. The lido consisted of a tree-fringed expanse of grass the size of a football pitch. In addition to changing cubicles and toilets, it boasted open-air showers, a children’s playground, boats for hire and a refreshment kiosk. The terrace of an inn lay invitingly on the far side of the car park.
He started to put up the tent. The instructions were incomprehensible. Wearily, he staggered around the grass with diagrams and poles, but he got it up in the end and tossed the mat inside. He deposited the rest of his kit beside the entrance. Then he sank onto the grass.
He wasn’t wearing a watch. The sun was high, it had to be past midday. He peeled off his T-shirt and removed his shoes and socks. Gazed out across the lake.
It was nice here. Trees rustling in the breeze. Lush green grass. Shrubs dotted along the shore. The surface of the lake glittering in the sunlight. Distant mountains rising into a deep blue sky. For all that, he had to force himself to realise that he was enjoying a magnificent view. Perhaps he was short of sleep.
He recalled an idea he’d often toyed with in the old days, one to which he’d surrendered in a variety of forms, especially in idyllic spots like this. It was that some historical figure, Goethe for instance, could not see what Jonas himself was seeing. Because he no longer existed.
There had been days like this in times gone by. Goethe had roamed the fields, seen the sun, admired the mountains and bathed in the lake when there was no Jonas, yet to Goethe they had all been there in the present. Perhaps Goethe had thought of his successors. Perhaps he had pictured the changes to come. Goethe had experienced a day like this one, and Jonas hadn’t existed. The day had dawned nonetheless, Jonas or no Jonas. And now Jonas was experiencing this day, but without Goethe. Goethe had gone. Or rather, he wasn’t there any more, just as Jonas hadn’t been there in Goethe’s day. Jonas was now seeing what Goethe had seen, the scenery and the sun, and it made no difference to the lake or the air whether Goethe was there or not. The scenery was the same. The day was the same. And all would be the same in 100 years’ time. But without Jonas.
That was what had bothered him: the idea that there would be days without him, days perceived without him. Scenery and sunlight and ripples on the lake, but no Jonas. Someone else would see them and reflect that others had stood there in earlier times. That someone might even think of Jonas. Of his perceptions, just as Jonas had thought of Goethe. And then Jonas pictured the day, 100 years hence, that would go by without his perceiving it.
But now?
Would someone perceive this day in 100 years’ time? Would someone roam the countryside thinking of Goethe and Jonas? Or would the day be a day without observation, a day that simply existed? If so, would it still be a day? Was there anything more nonsensical than such a day? What would the Mona Lisa be on such a day?
All this had existed millions of years ago. It might have looked different. That mountain might have been a hill or even a hole in the ground and the lake a peak, but no matter. It had existed, and no one had seen it.
*
Jonas took a tube of sun cream from his rucksack and rubbed some in. Then he stretched out on a towel in front of the tent and shut his eyes. His eyelids twitched nervously.
Half asleep, he listened to the rustle of leaves mingling with the sibilant sound of canvas caressed by the wind and the murmur of wavelets breaking on the shore. From time to time he sat up with a start, imagining that he’d heard a birdcall. He peered in all directions, blinking in the sunlight, then lay down again on his stomach.
Later he thought he heard the voices of hikers enthusing about the view and calling to their children. Although he knew he was imagining it, he could see their rucksacks and checked shirts, the children’s lederhosen, the grey stockings and long-laced hiking boots.
He crawled out of the sunlight and into the tent.
It was late afternoon by the time he felt he’d caught up on his sleep. He had a snack at the pub. On the return trip he passed an Opel with Hungarian number plates. There were towels and inflatable mattresses lying on the rear seat. He topped up his sun cream back at the tent, then walked down to the boatman’s landing stage.
Various types of craft were moored there. He gave a pedalo a shove with his foot. It thudded into the boat alongside. The water gurgled beneath their keels. Each had a few inches of rainwater in the bottom with leaves and empty cigarette packets floating in it.
All he saw at first were pedalos. When he boarded the nearest one he lost his balance and nearly fell in. Standing up with one foot on the driver’s seat and the other on the passenger’s, he looked around for alternatives. That was how he spotted the electric motorboat. The key was hanging on a hook in the boatman’s hut.
Operating it was simple. He set a switch to ‘1’, turned the steering wheel in the direction he wanted to go, and the boat went humming out across the lake.
The boatman’s hut and the kiosk beside it became smaller and smaller. His tent on the grass was just a pale speck. The mountains on the other side of the lake drew nearer. Silently, the boat cut a foaming furrow in the water.
Roughly in the middle of the lake he switched off. He hoped the motor would start again. The shore might be too far away to swim to, and he didn’t want to have to try.
Jonas wondered how deep the lake was at this spot. He pictured the water draining away in an instant, as if by magic. A wonderful, fascinating new landscape would be revealed just before the motorboat plunged downwards, a landscape no human eyes had ever seen before.
In a compartment beside the driver’s seat, in addition to a first-aid kit, he found a dusty pair of women’s sunglasses. He wiped them and put them on. The sun glinted on the rippling surface of the water. The boat bobbed gently, then lay still. Far away, on the shore opposite his bathing place, he could make out some cars parked beneath a steep rock face. A cloud slid across the sun.
*
The cold woke him.
He sat up. He rubbed his arms and shoulders. He was wheezing, and his teeth were chattering.
Dawn was breaking. Naked except for his underpants, Jonas was sitting on the grass ten metres from the tent in which he’d gone to sleep the night before. The grass was wet with dew, the sky overcast. The trees were wreathed in mist.
The tent flap was open.
He circled the tent at a safe distance. The sides were fluttering in the breeze, the rear wall was sagging outwards. Although there didn’t appear to be anyone inside, he hesitated.
He was so cold he groaned out loud. He’d got undressed because he was too hot in the sleeping bag. That was still inside the tent. At least, he assumed it was. His clothes were lying beside him, as was the shotgun. He’d taken it into the tent with him last night, he felt sure.
He put on his T-shirt and trousers, socks and boots. He pulled on the jumper, pushing his head through the neck quickly.
He went over to the moped. Noticed at once that the fuel tap was open. That meant the machine wouldn’t start until he’d stamped on the kick-starter ten or fifteen times — if he was lucky. He’d sometimes forgotten to turn off the tap as a youngster.
He scanned the area for tracks. Nothing. No strange footprints or tyre marks, no trampled grass. He looked up at the sky. The weather had changed abruptly. The air was so damp it might have been late autumn. The mist hovering overhead seemed to be getting steadily thicker.