The ring hung motionless.
Started to swing.
Started to move in a circle.
Jonas let out an oath and rubbed his arm. He repeated the experiment. With the same result.
He found a picture of his mother. The ring moved in a circle above her this time too. Above his father, on the other hand, it started to swing after remaining motionless for some time. Above Leonhard it moved in a circle, above Ingo it swung gently to and fro, above the unidentified boy it didn’t move at all. The next time he held the ring above a photo of himself it hung motionless above the box with the crumpled corners.
He was getting inconsistent results.
They were the results he’d expected of such hocus-pocus before he tried it out in the cellar. He ought to be glad. It was a graphic demonstration of how meaningless his experiments at Rüdigergasse had been. But he was more confused than ever.
He hurried into the bedroom and pulled Marie’s shoebox of photos from under the wardrobe. They were recent pictures taken with a single-lens reflex camera, none more than four years old. Most were of Jonas himself. In summer in bathing trunks and flippers, in winter in anorak, bobble hat and boots. He pushed them aside.
Photos showing him with Marie. They were taken from too far away. He put them to one side.
A large close-up of Marie’s face, one he wasn’t familiar with.
He held his breath. He was seeing her for the first time since she’d planted a kiss on his lips on the morning of 3 July and run, stumbling, out of the door because the taxi was waiting. He’d often thought of her since then and pictured her face, but he’d never seen it.
She was smiling at him. He looked into her blue eyes, which were observing him with a mixture of derision and affection. Her expression seemed to say: Don’t worry, it’ll all come right in the end.
That was how she’d been, how he’d known her, how he’d fallen in love with her at a friend’s birthday party. That look was her. So optimistic. Challenging, endearing, smart. And brave. Don’t. Worry. Everything’s. Fine.
Her hair.
Jonas recalled the last time he’d stroked it. He imagined the feel of it, imagined holding her close. Resting his chin on her head, inhaling her fragrance. Feeling her body against his.
Hearing her voice.
He saw her doing her hair in the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and looking over her shoulder as she told him the latest gossip from work. Standing at the stove frying her Catalonian courgettes, which were always a bit overseasoned. Swearing at CDs that had been put in the wrong sleeves. Slurping hot milk and honey on the sofa at night and commenting on what was on TV. Lying there, when he tiptoed into the bedroom two hours after her. With the book that had slipped from her hand beside her and one arm draped over her eyes to shield them from the bedside light.
For years he had taken all this for granted. It was simply the way things were: Marie was at his side, where he could hear, smell, feel her. Whenever she went away she returned a few days later and lay beside him once more. It had been the most natural thing in the world.
Not any more, though. Now he merely came across an odd stocking of hers, or picked up a bottle of nail varnish, or discovered one of her blouses hiding at the bottom of the laundry basket.
He went into the kitchen and pictured her standing there, clattering saucepans and drinking white wine.
Don’t worry.
Everything’s fine.
Jonas lay down on the floor beside the sofa with her photo in front of him. He twisted the ring between his fingers, feeling cold and nauseous.
He flung the chain aside.
After a while he stretched out his arm as if the ring were still in his hand. He swung an imaginary pendulum to and fro, then pulled back his arm.
He opened the window and breathed deeply.
He took the photo back into the next room and tossed it into the shoebox without looking at it again. Removing the tape from the camera in the bedroom, he put it in the one connected to the TV and rewound it.
He looked out of the window. Many of the lights that had been on for the first few weeks had gone out. If it went on like this, he would soon be looking out into darkness. And if he didn’t like that, he could always call in at selected flats during the day and turn on all the lights. That would enable him to postpone the night when darkness would take over. It would come in the end, though.
The window of the flat he’d visited after that nightmare was still lit up. On the other hand, many of the street lights that were on now had been off for the first few days. In other streets the lights came on one night and were off the next. Many thoroughfares were unlit every night, one of them being the Brigittenauer embankment.
Jonas shut the window. When he glanced at the blue TV screen, his stomach clenched. He had programmed the video camera with the timer. He might well have to listen to the Sleeper snoring for three whole hours. Equally, he might see something else.
Snoring would be preferable.
He went into the kitchen and drank a glass of port. He felt like another but put the bottle away. He emptied the dishwasher, although there wasn’t much in it. The cardboard boxes containing the video cameras had already been flattened. He gathered them up, dumped them in a neighbouring flat and locked the door again.
Never mind, he thought, as he reached for the remote.
*
The Sleeper lay there, staring at the camera.
Jonas couldn’t see what time it was because the alarm clock had fallen over. He’d forgotten what time he’d set the timer for: 1 a.m., he seemed to recall.
The Sleeper was lying on the edge of the bed, on his side, with his head propped on his hand. Hoodless this time, he was staring intently at the camera. Now and then he blinked, but mechanically and without averting his gaze. His face remained immobile. He didn’t move an arm or a leg, nor did he toss and turn. He simply lay there, looking at the camera.
After ten minutes Jonas felt he couldn’t stand that piercing gaze any longer. He didn’t understand how anyone could lie there like a statue for so long. Without scratching, without sniffing, without clearing his throat or adjusting his position.
After a quarter of an hour he took to shielding his eyes like a cinemagoer when some gruesome scene is being shown. Occasionally he peeped at the screen through his fingers, only to see the same thing.
The Sleeper.
Staring at him.
Jonas couldn’t interpret the look in those eyes. He saw no hint of kindliness or friendliness. Nothing that might have inspired confidence or conveyed intimacy. But he also saw no anger or hatred. Not even dislike. The expression was one of cool, calm condescension and a sort of emptiness that clearly related to himself. It became so intense that he noticed he was displaying signs of mounting hysteria.
He drank some more port, nibbled crisps and peanuts, did a crossword puzzle. The Sleeper continued to look at him. He refilled his glass, fetched himself an apple, did some exercises. The Sleeper was still looking at him. He dashed to the bathroom and threw up. And returned to meet the Sleeper’s unwavering gaze.
The tape ran out after three hours two minutes. The screen went dark for a moment, then switched to the pale blue of the AV channel.
Jonas roamed around the flat. He examined some marks on the fridge. He sniffed door handles and shone his torch behind cupboards, where it wouldn’t have surprised him to find letters. He tapped on the wall the Sleeper had tried to squeeze into.
He put a new tape in the bedroom camera, looking at the bed as he did so. That was where the Sleeper had been lying. And staring at him. Less than forty-eight hours ago.
He lay down, adopting the same position as the Sleeper, and looked at the camera. Although it wasn’t recording, a shiver ran down his spine.