*
The items on display at the gun shop were dusty. Other than that, nothing had changed since his last visit. Taking a pump-action shotgun from the cabinet, he loaded it, went out into the street and fired in the air. It functioned perfectly. He went back into the shop and stocked up with ammunition.
He drove at random through the city centre. Occasionally he stopped and turned off the engine. He sat there, gazing at some familiar or unfamiliar building, drumming on the wheel or looking through the text messages on his mobile.
I’m just overhead.
He dialled her number. It rang. Five times, ten times. He wondered for the hundredth time why her recorded message didn’t cut in. The sound of her voice might have made it easier for him to reach a decision. On the other hand, he couldn’t discount the possibility that he might have reacted to it as he did to music or films. With shock, in other words.
His eye fell on the two guns on the passenger seat. An idea came to him.
From force of habit, Jonas looked in the rear-view mirror as he drove off. He caught a momentary glimpse of his eyes — his eyes. He wrenched the mirror off the windscreen and hurled it out of the window.
There was no sign that anyone had been at Rüdigergasse either. The slip of paper he’d left on the door was still there. He didn’t go inside the flat itself. With his new shotgun at the ready and the rifle slung across his back, he went down to the cellar. The shot-riddled door was standing ajar. He turned on the light.
The tap was dripping.
He stole along the passage. His father’s compartment was empty save for a few boxes. He unslung the rifle and propped it against the wall, stepped back and looked at it leaning, all by itself, against the grimy brickwork.
He had no idea why he did this. It simply pleased him to think that this gun would stand here for all eternity. The rifle that had been slumbering in a cabinet in Kapfenberg until four days ago had spent a long time, certainly weeks, possibly months, in that gun shop. Now it was here. Perhaps it was pining for its former surroundings, perhaps its former neighbours in that shop in Kapfenberg were missing it too. It used to be there, now it was here. That was the way of the world.
‘Goodbye,’ Jonas said softly as he left the cellar.
*
He went into a nearby pub and defrosted a frozen meal. Meanwhile, he wandered round the bar.
The people in the newspaper lying on the bar had been given black beards with a ballpoint. Many of their heads had sprouted horns and some of their backsides were adorned with curly tails. Several of the advertisements had been ringed in pencil, all of them for sexual contacts. The five mistakes in the picture puzzle hadn’t been marked.
Long practice enabled him to spot the differences between the two pictures at a glance. They showed a pair of prison inmates. One was fat and mournful-looking. The other was so thin he’d just squeezed through the bars of their cell and was grinning at his new-found freedom. The mistakes in the right-hand picture were as follows: (1) A finger missing from the fat man’s hand; (2) Five bars over the window instead of four; (3) A criss-cross scar on the thin man’s cheek; (4) The fat man’s extra double chin; and (5) A high heel protruding from one of the thin man’s shoes.
Laying the paper aside, he ate, then looked for the menu board. It was half hidden behind the espresso machine. He was about to wipe it clean with a cloth when he stopped short. Instead of a list of ‘Today’s Specials’ it bore a face drawn in chalk. The draughtsman had been no artist, of course, and the face on the blackboard could have belonged to any number of people. And yet. That prominent chin, that close-cropped hair, that nose. Many men had a chin and hair and a nose like that, but the face on the blackboard displayed no feature that Jonas himself did not possess. It was him.
*
Jonas was still so flummoxed, he nearly drove into a bollard. Looking up, he discovered that he’d strayed down a dead end in the 1st District. He put the car into reverse. The next side street was the Graben. He turned right. A minute later he pulled up in front of St Stephen’s.
The cathedral door was closed. He had to exert all his strength to open it.
‘Anyone there?’
The echoes of his voice sounded strange. He called again, louder this time. Without uttering another sound, he continued to stand in the vestibule for two, three, five minutes.
Silence lay heavy over the pews. The smell of incense was fainter than last time. One or two lights seemed to have failed. The nave was gloomier.
He nodded to left and right as he walked on.
The sacred figures projecting from the walls were more aloof and forbidding in appearance than ever. Neither the sculptures nor the paintings looked at him. They stared vacantly into space.
Puzzled by something that had caught his eye, he bent down to examine St Joseph’s plinth. A little coloured transfer was stuck to the stone. The height at which it had been applied suggested that it had been secretly left there by a child. It showed an old fighter plane. The caption read: FX Messerschmitt.
He sat down on a pew. Wearily, not knowing why he’d come, he surveyed his surroundings.
The pews were old and creaky. How old? A hundred years old, three hundred? Only fifty? Had war widows knelt here? Revolutionaries?
‘Anyone there?’ he called.
‘There-ere!’ came the echo.
He started to walk round again. In St Barbara’s Chapel he visited the meditation room reserved, so a notice board informed him, only for the use of those wishing to pray. Turning round, he passed another notice advertising guided tours of the catacombs. He walked on and came to the lift that took visitors up the North Tower. He pressed the button. Nothing happened. He tugged at the door and a light came on inside.
Hesitantly, he went into the lift. The door closed. The upholstered interior resembled a padded cell. A notice on the wall read, in English: Please put your rucksack down. It made him think of England and what lay ahead of him as soon as he’d rested for a while. He pressed the button. His stomach gave a lurch.
He held his breath without realising it. Up and up he went. The lift should have got there long ago. He looked for a stop button. There wasn’t one.
The lift came to a stop. Jonas got out quickly. The sunlight was dazzling. He put on his sunglasses and set off along the narrow walkway. The view was obscured by grilles intended to thwart potential suicides. A flight of steps led up to the Pummerin, a very big and heavy bell, which was hidden behind another grille. He inspected the bell but found it unimpressive.
On the viewing platform he took a breather. He stretched, rubbed his face, yawned, kicked some pebbles at the parapet. The wind was refreshing. Looking around, lost in thought, he paid no proper attention to the view until something caught his eye.
A telescope had been installed for the benefit of tourists. He inserted a coin in the slot and swivelled it to the north-east. The Danube Tower. The restaurant had stopped revolving and his banner was hanging limp. It must have happened during his absence. A short circuit, presumably.
It didn’t really matter. The word he’d dreamt of and written on the tablecloths had been a red herring. He hadn’t come across UMIROM again, at least.
Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted ‘Umirom!’ and laughed.
He looked at the panorama for a while longer. He saw the slowly revolving Big Wheel. The Danube Tower. The Millennium Tower. He saw UNO City and factory chimneys. He saw the Spittelau incineration plant, the Caloric Power Station. He saw churches and museums. Most of those places he had never visited. Although a small capital city, Vienna was still too big for anyone to become familiar with all of it.