*
Jonas finished off the bottle of water around midnight. He felt sure he’d heard noises in the living room a short while before. Huge ball-bearings rolling across the floor. A door closing. A table being shifted. He had a sudden vision of Frau Bender. It occurred to him that she’d never been inside this flat. He would have liked to get up and look.
*
He was cold. The air smelt foul and he was terribly cold. He heard a voice. Opened one eye. It was almost totally dark. Coming from a tiny window was a ray of light just bright enough to reveal that dawn was breaking. His eye closed again.
The smell was familiar.
He massaged his arms. Everything hurt. He had the feeling he was lying on stones. Again he heard a voice, even heard footsteps quite close at hand. He opened his eyes, which gradually grew accustomed to the gloom. He saw a wooden fence. Protruding from between the uprights was a walking stick decorated with carvings.
He really was lying on stones. Beaten earth and stones.
From close at hand came the sound of voices and the chink of glasses. A door slammed, the sounds ceased. Soon afterwards the door creaked open again. A woman’s voice said something. The door closed, silence fell.
He stood up and made for the source of the sounds.
He got there at exactly the right moment. Standing in the middle of a dark passage, he heard the door creak open again just beside him. A man called out something that sounded like a toast. Cheerful laughter rang out in the background. There must have been dozens of people there. A shrill female voice joined the man’s in a lively conversation. Then the glasses chinked once more.
Although he was standing nearby, he couldn’t see a thing. Neither the door, nor the woman, nor the man.
The door closed. He positioned himself at precisely the right spot: on the threshold. Nothing.
The door creaked open. He felt a faint draught on his face, heard a babble of voices. Somebody tapped a glass and cleared his throat. Silence fell. The door closed again.
‘Hello?’
*
When he awoke around noon he couldn’t breathe through his nose. His throat was raw and his thirst seemed unquenchable. But the fever, he sensed at once, had left him.
He pushed the mattress off him, sat up and drained the second bottle of water without putting it down. In the kitchen he found some rusks. Although he wasn’t in pain, he didn’t want to subject his organism to unnecessary strain. He blew his nose.
The fresh air made him feel dizzy when he emerged into the street. He leant against the wall, holding his head. The sun was shining and a gentle breeze was blowing. The depression had moved on.
He got into the passenger seat, lowered the sun visor and examined his face in the vanity mirror. His cheeks were pale and blotchy. He put out his tongue. It was thickly furred.
He cupped an assortment of pills in his hand and tossed them into his mouth, put his head back and dripped some echinacea straight onto his tongue. Leaning back against the headrest, he stared at the dashboard. His legs were very weak, he could feel, but he no longer had a temperature.
He debated how to spend the day. He didn’t want to lounge around idly. He couldn’t watch films because they upset him, couldn’t read because any form of reading matter seemed superfluous and unimportant. If he opted for a day’s bedrest, he’d do nothing but stare at the ceiling.
On his way back to the flat he suddenly, without thinking, made for the stairs that led down to the cellar. He raised the shotgun.
‘Anyone there?’
He pushed the door open with the gun barrel, turned on the light and paused.
The tap was still dripping.
He went inside. A cool draught stroked his cheeks. The smell of insulating stuff was still as pervasive. He buried his nose in his shirtsleeve.
Halfway along the passage he stopped short.
‘Hello? Anyone there?’
He lowered the gun. His musical box came to mind.
*
Although he carried no more than five boxed video cameras at any one time, shuffling along like an old man, he broke out in a sweat on the way from the car to the lift. He pressed the button with his free little finger. When the door slid open, he added the boxes to the others already inside. The lift was too small to take them all at the same time, so he had to make two journeys.
He sprawled on the sofa, breathing hoarsely through his mouth. As soon as he’d recovered he squeezed some menthol gel up his nose, straight from the tube. It stung, but he could breathe freely soon afterwards.
He unpacked. Twenty cameras and twenty-six tripods had to be removed from their bubble wrap, twenty battery packs inserted in the charger and connected to the mains. He was also conscientious enough to recharge the old batteries he’d obtained from the shopping centre, including those in the cameras in front of the bed and next to the TV.
Should he watch the tape of the night before his departure for the Mondsee? He still had no idea why he’d woken up in the living room that morning. Perhaps the tape would enlighten him. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure it was something he was looking forward to. He removed the tape from the bedroom camera and put it on one side.
He spread some liver pâté on a slice of pumpernickel. He didn’t like it, but he could sense how short of energy he was. He made himself another slice and followed it up with an apple and a few drops of echinacea washed down with some vitamin-enriched fruit juice.
He looked at the musical box, which he’d put beside the phone. He could remember the tune it played, but not the one-eyed, one-eared bear itself.
He pulled the string and the tune played. It was as if he were touching something that no longer existed. As if he were seeing some long-extinguished heavenly body whose light was reaching him only now.
*
He spent several hours playing a computer game, breaking off just long enough to hang up the washing. By evening he was feeling tired but better than he had that morning. He blew his nose, gargled with camomile tea and took an aspirin.
The batteries were fully charged. He collected them together and put them on the sofa with the rest of his equipment. He pushed a battery into its holder and put a tape in the deck, then screwed the camera to a tripod. When he’d got two cameras ready, he took them into the empty flat next door. He unfolded the tripods and set them up side by side.
When he was finished he surveyed the semicircle of cameras confronting him in the spacious living room. Most of their lenses were trained on him. There were so many of them it seemed unreal. He felt they were crowding around him like extraterrestrial dwarfs at feeding time.
*
The Sleeper was tossing and turning as usual. An occasional snore could be heard.
Jonas wondered how to stay awake. It was almost midnight. He put the thermometer under his armpit.
How should he spend tomorrow? He was still too weak to load the furniture into the truck. He would look for suitable flats in which to set up the cameras, restricting himself to buildings with lifts.
The Sleeper threw off the duvet.
Jonas leant forwards. Without taking his eyes off the screen, he felt for his teacup. The thermometer beeped but he took no notice. He couldn’t understand what he was seeing.
The Sleeper was wearing a hood.
Jonas hadn’t looked as closely before. Now he noticed that the Sleeper’s head was enveloped in a black hood pierced with little holes for the eyes, nose and mouth.
The Sleeper was sitting upright on the edge of the bed. Motionless, supporting himself on his hands. He seemed to be staring at the camera. The lighting wasn’t strong enough to reveal the eyes in the midst of the black material.
He just sat there. Unmoving.