Others, who had become universally skeptical in recent years, to the point where no proverb or poem could dispel the dark clouds that constantly gathered in their minds, thought it more prudent to drink up their coffee and go see with their own eyes whether this Wanderung was simply an exercise in the German manner or a walk of a different kind.
They came back not long after with a look of triumph on their faces, saying that they had been right: just as they suspected, Judas had made his way to the higher ground, to the place where people believed the deep storage depot of the National Archives was still to be found.
So that’s what was up!
This discovery, which would have sounded quite dramatic only a little while before, was repeated around town, only in a tone of mild disappointment. In recent months, so many people had poked around the area where the Secret Archives were supposed to be stashed that the fact that Judas had been up there as well seemed unsurprising, even banal.
Once the first wave of archive hunting subsided, the fever resumed that spring, together with the seasonal improvement in the weather. The movement was set off by a pair of rascals from the nearby village, who had been stalking a couple of tourists, hoping to see them indulging in open-air frolics. They were disappointed: the tourists took some maps out of their backpacks and started walking around in circles like a pair of simpletons. That was all it took to reignite the old obsession and to revive the memory of its now-distant origin — the visit, many years before, of the newly appointed head of state.
Around the place where the archives were supposed to be hidden, all sorts of people could be seen every day, or almost every day, especially on weekends. There were day trippers pretending to be on a picnic; people from Tirana who claimed to want to admire the view of the early autumn snow on the peaks; others claiming to be there for a rendezvous, or members of religious sects, or even geologists. Some of them seemed agitated and jumpy; others looked desperate, as if suffering some inner torment; and yet others wept in silence. There was no way of distinguishing between those who had come to hide something and those there to find something hidden. Smooth-faced, bespectacled tourists would suddenly drop their amiable smiles and reach into their packs for digging tools they had camouflaged in a variety of unsuspected ways — inside boxes of spaghetti, mountain boots, even a violin!
It was said that the ground around the site was a honeycomb of pits and tunnels, but that was perhaps only the fruit of journalists’ unbridled imaginations. In any case, no one could recall such an invasion of visitors since the time when new chrome ore deposits had been discovered in the area, a moment when, to its great surprise, Albania found itself the world’s third-largest producer. The national daily reported on the excitement gripping the little northern town of B— by recalling the old diggers’ rush with a pun on the word chrome. Under the headline “Chrome Diggers Become Crime Diggers” the paper pointed out that the ex- ploration fever that had now seized the little town for the second time was spreading to other parts of Albania, more specifically to those other areas where there were reasons for supposing that the Secret. Archives might be tucked away. The article ended with a question: Had there really been a deep storage depot at B—? Was it located some- where else? Did it really exist at all?
Mark was highlighting the last sentence in the paper when he heard a child’s stifled scream coming from behind his chair:
“Sir! Sir!”
He turned around and saw a Gypsy boy, of the kind who regularly came to beg in the café. The lad asked for some small change, which Mark gave him. But the beggar boy didn’t go away. He kept trying to say something with his hands.
“Get lost!” Mark ordered. “Enough’s enough!”
The ragamuffin put his mouth to Mark’s ear and whispered a few words. Mark could make out only a few, and those with some difficulty: a girl… on the corner … looking at the poster …
Mark raised his open hand.
“Are you going to get lost, or do you want this across your face?”
Mark was astounded that the Romany didn’t give the slightest sign of being scared.
“Dont be angry, sir, I’m not a pimp. It’s your girlfriend who’s sent me. She’s waiting for you on the corner.”
Mark jumped up, paid for his coffee, strode across the room, and as soon as he was outside, began to run.
He could see the girl from a long way off. She was indeed waiting at the corner, pretending to look at the film posters.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said before he could get a word in. “I’ve been looking for you all over.”
“What’s happening? Tell me quickly!”
“Nothing of what you might think. Only I really need you now. It’s urgent; I just had to see you right away.”
“So tell me!”
“I can’t speak here. I’ll come to your studio this evening.”
“This evening? In other words, tonight?” Mark said, not without surprise.
They had never spent a night together, even though Mark had often dreamed of it.
She nodded.
“Yes, this evening, and until late, as late as possible.”
Mark couldn’t believe his ears.
“So you’ll spend the night with me?”
She sighed deeply.
“I beg you, please, don’t ask for details!”
She seemed to be finding it hard to express herself. Mark said:
“Okay, okay, I won’t ask any more.”
“Good. Wait for me in the studio until late, maybe even after midnight.”
He could barely stop himself from asking her what this was all about, but he had never seen her looking so forlorn.
They started walking side by side without a word. The street was littered with autumn leaves; oddly enough, the leaves seemed to assuage their fears.
“Now I have to go,” she said. She took two steps, and then turned around. “My darling, believe me, I can’t tell you anything else…. When we meet again, you’ll see I’m right.”
He forced a smile, then watched her as she walked away with a gait that, it seemed to Mark, disguised some guilty secret.
“When we meet again, you’ll see I was right,” he muttered to himself, repeating her words over and over.
He expected to be lost in speculation about the nature of the mystery, but to his great surprise his mind — which usually raced off in excitement at the slightest provocation — found itself utterly calm. For the time being, he was even surprised that the scene that had just taken place had not happened much earlier. There had been so many circumstances that could have led her to say, I am in terrible trouble, wait for me on the stroke of midnight!
In his mind, several different scenarios jostled each other clumsily: she was running away from home; her brother had threatened suicide; she was pregnant; her fearsome uncle had returned; she wanted him involved in negotiations to patch up the quarrel; she was trying to get hold of a visa (rather than just making an application) so that her brother could seek refuge in Switzerland…. Mark proceeded slowly along the icy street. The sight of the bare poplars was as restful to his eyes as the dead leaves on the ground, if not even more relaxing.
How ghastly! Mark sighed as he stood in front of the bay window of his studio. He’d never before seen time slowing down in the shape of a fat and dawdling mammoth. He’d used all the regular tricks to make time flee faster — walking around town, puttering about with odd jobs he’d been putting off for ages, painting, rolling his own cigarettes, dropping off for a snooze…. Not only did they have no effect on the mammoth, they appeared, for the most part, to produce the opposite result.