He thumbed through some sports papers. Tried to fathom the content of an article in a Turkish newspaper. Played with the buttons on the lighting console. Wheeled a wire trolley filled with containers of engine oil in front of the filling station and looked at it on the CCTV screen. Planted himself in front of the camera and pulled faces. Went back to the monitor. Saw the trolley standing there.
He got back in the cab before dawn could be seen in the sky. It was so light by the time he neared Passau, fortunately, that he spotted the road maintenance depot just as he drove past it.
At the Austrian border he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He had often felt this in the past, but only when driving in the opposite direction. Now he was almost through. Two more cameras, then on to Vienna. To complete his work.
He glanced at the suitcase lying on the bunk behind him. That had been her, the woman with whom he’d felt a part of something great. Although he hadn’t needed anyone’s confirmation that Marie was right for him, he could have done with such an oracle in other respects. When in his life had he been in extreme danger without realising it? The answer might have been: On 23 November 1987, when you very nearly touched a live wire. Or on 4 June 1992, when you were tempted to make some truculent remark to that uppity type in the bar but swallowed your annoyance, thereby avoiding a lethal punch-up. But Jonas would have been interested in more mundane questions as well. Like: What profession should he have taken up in order to become rich? Which women would have come home with him like a shot, and where and when? Had he met Marie before their first conscious encounter without remembering it? Or: Did there exist, somewhere in the world, a woman who was looking for a man exactly like himself? Answer: Yes, Esther Kraut of such and such a street in Amsterdam. One look, and she would have pounced on you.
No, that was cheap of him. The answer would probably have been: You’ve already found her.
Question: Which well-known woman would have fallen in love with me if I’d done something? Answer: The painter Mary Hansen, if you’d spontaneously, without saying a word, presented her with a lucky charm in the foyer of the Hotel Orient, Brussels, on the night of 26 April 1997.
Question: Who would have become the best friend I could ever have had? Answer: Oskar Schweda, 23 Liecht-ensteinstrasse, Vienna 1090.
Question: How often has Marie cheated on me? Answer: Never.
Question: On whom would I have fathered the nicest children? Answer: Your masseuse, Frau Lindsay. The two of you would have produced Benjy and Anne.
Well, who knows?
He squeezed another tablet out of the pack and washed it down with some beer.
28
Jonas went round the flat. He didn’t notice any changes. It looked as it had before his departure. He returned to the truck.
He sat down on the sofa and stretched his legs, then stood up again. It seemed unreal to him that his trip was over. He felt as if he’d made it years ago, as if the drive to Smalltown were something that hadn’t taken place, properly speaking, but had existed within him for ever. Yet it had happened, he knew. That mug with his name on it had fallen over and he’d had to mop coffee off these pieces of furniture. But it was as if those objects had lost some of their character. The armchair in a truck parked on a motorway in France was something other than the armchair he saw here now. The TV on which he’d watched that awful video was the same as the one in the cabinet over there, but it seemed to have lost something. Importance, perhaps. Significance, magnitude. It was just a TV. And he was on the move no longer. He was back.
*
His flat smelt stuffy. He went through the rooms in silence. No one had been here. Even the inflatable doll was still lying in the bath, which was grimy with plaster and brick dust.
He set up a camera in front of the wall mirror in the bedroom. Checked the light and looked through the lens. Saw the reflection of the camera facing the mirror and his figure bending over it. Put in a tape and started filming.
He shut the door. Outside it, right in front of the keyhole, he stationed the second camera. He looked through the lens. The camera position needed adjusting. The chest of drawers with the picture of the washerwoman above it was clearly visible now. He pressed the record button.
He was just leaving when he caught sight of a videotape on top of the TV in the living room. It was the one that had recorded his circuit of the Danube Canal. He took it with him.
*
He walked through the Belvedere Gardens to stretch his legs, which were stiff after the drive. His thoughts were becoming muddled again. He slapped his face. It was still too soon for the next tablet. Better to set to work.
With the aid of a furniture trolley, he took twelve TVs from a nearby shop to the Upper Belvedere Palace. Steadily, slowly, he put them down one after the other on the gravel path. He didn’t want to hurry. He never wanted to do anything quickly ever again.
He placed the fifth set on the first, the sixth on the second, the seventh on the third. The eighth went on top of the fifth, the ninth on the sixth, the tenth on the eighth, the eleventh on the tenth. The twelfth he deposited facing the rest to act as a seat. Cautiously, he sat down to see how it looked. The TVs in front of him formed a handsome sculpture.
He plugged dozens of extension leads together and connected the TVs to sockets inside the Upper Belvedere Palace. Then he turned them on. They all worked. An elevenfold hiss filled the air.
He connected the video cameras to the TVs. The screens turned blue one after another. Then he connected the cameras to mains adaptors, which he also plugged into sockets inside the palace.
It was just before half past two. He programmed all eleven cameras to switch to ‘Play’ at 2.45. Although he took his time, he was ready five minutes after the half-hour.
With impressive precision, all the cameras clicked on together. A moment later, the eleven screens were displaying eleven different images.
St Pölten, Regensburg, Nuremberg. Schwäbisch Hall, Heilbronn. France.
4 p.m. on 11 August eleven times over. Eleven times the same moment recorded in different parts of the world. At St Pölten clouds had gathered, at Rheims a strong wind was blowing. At Amstetten the air shimmered with heat, at Passau it was drizzling.
At precisely that moment Jonas had been standing on the roof of the cab near the mouth of the Channel Tunnel, thinking of these cameras. Of the one at Ansbach — that one there, hi! Of the one at Passau — that one there. Of the one at Saarbrücken. Of the bit of Saarbrücken he was seeing now. Of the bit of Amstetten he was seeing now.
He shut his eyes, recalling those minutes on top of the truck. He felt the roof of the cab beneath him, sensed the heat, smelt the smell. At that time
this
— he opened his eyes –
had been there.
This.
Had been
there.
And now that time was over. It existed only on these tapes. But it was there for ever, whether or not it was shown.
He switched all eleven cameras to pause.
*
At Hollandstrasse he sat down on the floor and unzipped the suitcase. He had packed Marie’s things higgledy-piggledy, so the contents spilled out. He buried his fingers in the soft material. Pulled out one garment after another. Sniffed them. Smooth, cool blouses. Her fragrance. Her.
He weighed her mobile in his hand. There was no object he associated with her more closely. Not her keys, not her blouses, not her panties, not her lipstick, not her identity card. This phone had sent him her messages. She had taken it everywhere with her. And stored in it were the messages he’d sent her. Before and after 4 July.