Late at night, when Mother is already asleep, I open the study door and the heat from the living room immediately flows in. It's a small room and warms up quickly. It is there that I change into my pajamas and bathrobe before starting to write. That way, after I have finished writing all I have to do is go to my room and climb into bed.
Tonight I pace around the house. I stop several times in the kitchen. Then I go into the children's room. I look at the garden. The bare branches of the walnut tree brush against the window. A fine snow settles in thin, frosted layers on the branches and on the ground.
I walk from one room into the other. I've already opened the study door; it is there that I will see my brother. I will close the door as soon as my brother comes, the cold be damned; I do not want Mother to hear us or for our conversation to wake her.
What will I say if that happens?
I will say, "Go back to bed, Mother, it's only a journalist."
And to the other one, to my brother, I will say, "It's only my mother-in-law, Antonia. She's been living at our house for a few years, ever since she was widowed. She's not completely right in the head. She confuses everything, gets things mixed up. She sometimes thinks that she's my real mother because she raised me."
I must keep them from seeing each other or they will recognize each other. Mother will recognize Lucas. And if Lucas doesn't recognize Mother, she will say when she recognizes him, "Lucas, my son!"
I want no "Lucas, my son!" Not anymore. It would be too easy.
Today, while Mother was taking her nap, I moved all the watches and clocks in the house forward by an hour. Luckily night falls early this time of year. It's already dark at five in the afternoon.
I make Mother's dinner an hour early. Carrot puree with potatoes, meatloaf, and crème caramel for dessert.
I set the kitchen table and go call Mother from her room. She comes into the kitchen and says, "I'm not hungry yet."
I say, "You're never hungry, Mother. But you have to eat."
She says, "I'll eat later."
I say, "Later everything will be cold."
She says, "All you have to do is reheat it. Or maybe I won't eat at all."
'I'll make you some herbal tea to whet your appetite."
Into her tea I dissolve one of the sleeping pills she usually takes. I put another next to her cup.
Ten minutes later Mother falls asleep in front of the television. I pick her up, carry her to her room, undress her, and put her to bed.
I go back into the living room. I turn down the television and mute its screen. I reset the hands on the alarm clock in the kitchen and on the living room clock.
I still have time to eat before my brother arrives. In the kitchen I have a bit of carrot puree and meatloaf. Mother has difficulty chewing despite the dentures I had made for her not too long ago. Her digestion isn't very good either.
When I've finished eating I do the dishes and put the leftovers in the refrigerator; there's just enough for tomorrow's lunch.
I settle down in the living room. I put two glasses and a bottle of brandy out on the little table next to my armchair. I drink and wait. At eight o'clock on the dot I check on Mother. She's sleeping deeply. The detective movie begins and I try to watch it. Around eight-twenty I give up on the movie and take up a post by the kitchen window. The light inside is off and it's impossible to see me from outside.
At eight-thirty exactly a big black car pulls up in front of the house and parks on the sidewalk. A man gets out, walks up to the gate, and rings.
I return to the living room and say into the intercom, "Come in. The door is open."
I turn on the veranda light, sit back down in my armchair, and my brother comes in. He is thin and pale and walks toward me with a limp; a portfolio case is tucked under his arm. Tears come into my eyes, and I rise and stretch out my hand to him. "Welcome."
He says, "I won't disturb you for long. A car is waiting for me."
I say, "Come into my study. It will be quieter in there."
I leave the television sound on. If Mother wakes up she will hear the detective show, as is usual every night.
My brother asks, "You're not switching off the television?"
"No. Why? We cannot hear it in the study."
I take the bottle and the two glasses. I sit down behind my desk and motion to a chair across from me.
"Have a seat."
I pick up the bottle.
"A glass?"
"Yes."
We drink. My brother says, "This was our father's study. Nothing has changed. I remember the lamp, the typewriter, the furniture, the chairs."
I smile. "What else do you remember?"
"Everything. The veranda and the living room. I know where the kitchen is, the children's room, the parents' room."
I say, 'That is not so difficult. All these houses are modeled on the same pattern."
He goes on: "There was a walnut tree outside the window of the children's room. Its branches touched the glass, and a swing hung from it. With two seats. We kept our scooters and tricycles in the shed at the back of the courtyard."
I say, 'There are still toys there, but not the same ones. These ones belong to my grandchildren."
We are silent. I refill the glasses. When he sets his down Lucas asks, "Tell me, Klaus, where are our parents?"
"Mine are dead. As for yours, I do not know."
"Why so formal with me, Klaus? I'm your brother, Lucas. Why don't you want to believe me?"
"Because my brother is dead. I would be very happy to see your papers, if you wouldn't mind."
My brother pulls a foreign passport out of his pocket and hands it to me. He says, "Don't believe too much of it. There are one or two errors in it."
I examine the passport.
"So you are called Claus, with a 'C.' Your date of birth is not the same as mine, and yet Lucas and I were twins. You are three years older than I am."
I hand him back his passport. My brother's hands are shaking, as is his voice.
"When I crossed the frontier I was fifteen. I gave a false birthdate to seem older, of legal age, in fact. I didn't want to be put under a guardianship."
"And the first name? Why the change in first names?"
"Because of you, Klaus. When I filled out the questionnaire at the border guards' office I thought of you, of your name, which had been with me for the whole length of my childhood. So instead of Lucas I wrote Claus. You did the same thing when you published your poems under the name Klaus Lucas. Why Lucas? In memory of me?"
I say, "In memory of my brother, actually. But how do you know I publish poems?"
"I write too, but not poems."
He opens his portfolio and takes out a large schoolboy's notebook, which he places on the table.
"This is my last manuscript. It's unfinished. I won't have time to complete it. I'm leaving it for you. You'll finish it. You have to finish it."
I open the notebook but he stops me with a gesture.
"No, not now. When I'm gone. There's something important I'd like to know. How did I get my wound?"
"What wound?"
"A wound close to the spinal column. A bullet wound. How did I get it?"
"How would you suppose me to know? My brother, Lucas, did not have a wound. He had a childhood illness. Poliomyelitis, I believe. I was no more than four or five when he died and cannot remember exactly. All I know is what I was told later on."
He says, "Yes, exactly. For a long time I too thought I had had a childhood illness. That's what I was told. But later I learned that I had been wounded by a bullet. Where? How? The war had only just started."