‘Hello?’
He called in the direction of the car park, then across the stretch of grass. He ran down to the water’s edge and shouted across the lake at the top of his voice.
‘Hooo!’
No echo. The mist swallowed every sound.
Jonas couldn’t make out the opposite shore. He kicked a pebble into the water. It sank with a dull splash. Irresolutely, he trudged along beneath the trees lining the shore. He looked over at the tent, at the boatman’s hut with the flag flying from its roof. Out across the lake. It started to drizzle. At first he thought it was mist droplets, but then he noticed that the rain was growing heavier. He glanced at the boatman’s hut again. The landing stage was scarcely visible. The mist was steadily blanketing everything.
Not taking his eyes off the tent for a second, he started to repack the rucksack. The underside was wet. He cursed aloud. His other jumper was right at the bottom, worse luck. The moisture had seeped through into it. He wondered where the moisture had come from. It couldn’t have come from the morning dew and the rain alone, and he hadn’t spilt anything.
He sniffed the sweater. It smelt of nothing in particular.
By the time he mounted the moped the mist had swallowed up the trees along the shore. The restaurant couldn’t be seen any more either. The dim shape in the car park was, he thought, the Opel from which he’d taken the inflatable mattress.
He pounded at the kick-starter until his forehead was streaming with cold sweat. The engine was flooded with petrol. He bounced so madly up and down that he toppled over sideways, taking the moped with him. He righted the machine and tried again. The rain grew heavier still. The tyres slipped on the sodden grass. Mist engulfed him. Rain was beating down on the tent a few metres away. He was no longer able to see what lay beyond it. He mopped his face.
While doggedly trying to kick-start the moped, with his heart beating ever more violently, he debated what to do. All that came to mind was the Opel, but he hadn’t noticed a key in the ignition. He considered pushing the moped up a slope, then coasting down and putting it in gear. There was a chance the engine would catch. But he couldn’t think of a suitable spot. Although the grassy expanse sloped down to the water’s edge, the gradient was far too slight.
The engine roared into life at last. Overcome with delight and gratitude, he hurriedly revved it in neutral. It sounded robust and reliable. Even so, he kept his hand on the throttle in case it died again. Buckling on his rucksack required some acrobatics. He slung the shotgun on, feeling a stab of pain as his shoulder took the full weight of it.
He peered through the rain in all directions, wondering if he’d left anything behind. All that remained was the tent with the sleeping bag inside, but even that was barely visible now.
He rode twenty metres in the direction of the changing cubicles, then turned. The tent was invisible now. He had to follow his tyre tracks.
Cautiously, he opened the throttle. The rear tyre spun, then gripped. He put on speed, saw the tent and headed for it.
The impact made surprisingly little noise. Tent pegs were wrenched out of the ground and flew through the air. One corner of the roof got tangled up in the footrest and was dragged along for several metres. It was all Jonas could do to keep the moped upright on the slippery grass. Once he had it under control, he braked to a halt.
He peered over his shoulder. The mist was so thick, he couldn’t see the tent at all. Even his tyre tracks were being blotted out by the rain, so swiftly that they seemed to dissolve before his very eyes. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his jacket, catching a whiff of wet leather as he did so.
He rode back. The tent wasn’t there. He cruised around but failed to find anything. His exact location escaped him. As he remembered it, the boatman’s hut must be behind him, the car park on his right and his vanished tent somewhere on the left. He made for the car park. To his surprise, the changing cubicles loomed up ahead. At least he now knew where he was. He found the car park without difficulty, but he couldn’t see the Opel. He followed the painted arrows on the asphalt that led to the main road.
Tucking his head in and arching his back, he rode away from the lido at a reassuringly steady speed. He had the feeling that a hand might grab him from behind at any moment. The sensation subsided as the mist thinned. Before long the trees beside the road became visible, and so, eventually, did the flower-bedecked boarding houses he passed.
He debated whether to raid one of them for a change of clothes, perhaps even for a raincoat. He was badly in need of a hot shower. Soon, if he wasn’t to catch cold. But something prompted him to keep going.
In Attersee-Ort he made his way into a modest little café in a side street. He didn’t park the moped outside but wheeled it into the café and propped it against a plush-covered banquette. If someone was really pursuing him, that would cover his tracks.
He made himself some tea and took the steaming cup over to the window. He concealed himself from view behind a curtain. Blowing on his cup, he stared out at the puddle that extended the full width of the street, its surface whipped into foam by the rain, which hadn’t eased. He could hardly feel his nose and ears. He was soaked to his underpants. The damp patch on the carpet beneath him gradually widened. He was shivering, but he didn’t stir from where he was.
He made himself another cup of tea and looked for something to eat in the cramped back room that seemed to have been used as a kitchen. He found some tins and heated up the contents of two of them in a not particularly clean saucepan, which he stood on a portable hotplate. He ate greedily. As soon as he’d finished he took up his place at the window again.
It was midday by the clock beside the glass cabinet when he roused himself. The door marked ‘Toilets’ led to a flight of stairs. The flat above was unlocked. He went in search of some suitable clothing, but the occupant had evidently been a single woman. He came downstairs empty-handed.
After leaving a message and the date on the menu board he emerged from the café, kick-started the moped and rode it out onto the main road. Rain spattered his face. He looked left, looked right. No movement. Just raindrops drilling the puddles.
In the local sports shop, more to protect himself from the rain than anything else, he got himself a crash helmet. He also put on an all-enveloping waterproof cape of transparent plastic, not that this repaired the damage already done. He was tempted to break into some other flat and get rid of his wet clothes, but his urge to leave the area was stronger.
Jonas had experienced lonely days like this before. Days of incessant rain and unseasonal cold. Mist hovered over the fields, roads and houses and nobody ventured out who didn’t have to. He had loved such days, when he lay in the warm in front of the TV, hating it when some cruel stroke of fate drove him out into the street. But in this part of the world, with its mountains, severe-looking conifers and deserted hotels and children’s playgrounds, he felt as if the landscape were trying to grab him. And if he didn’t hurry, he’d never escape.
He rode along the main road at top speed. He was so desperately cold, he tried to distract himself by reciting all the nursery rhymes he could remember. Before long, however, reciting them wasn’t enough and he started to sing and shout. He was shivering so much the words often stuck in his throat, and his voice was reduced to a croak. He bounced rhythmically up and down on the saddle. He felt feverish.
He reached Attnang-Puchheim in this fashion. Dashed into the first building he came to, a block of flats. All the doors were locked. He tried a detached house. No luck there either. Dripping wet, he threw his weight against the locked front door. It was solidly constructed and the lock was new.