“You’re a poet, Mr. Snevar,” I remarked, growing more and more distracted. Watching Kaisa, I understood what Zgut had meant. Stretched out against the bed like she was, this dumpling looked pretty tempting. There was something about her, something strange and as yet unknown…
“Well, here you are,” the owner said. “Settle in, relax, do as you like. Skis, wax, equipment—everything you want can be found downstairs, and if you need anything feel free to contact me directly. Dinner is at six, but if you decide you’d like something to snack on or refresh yourself with right away—I mean drinks, of course—just ask Kaisa. Welcome.”
And he left.
As Kaisa continued to work the bed to a level of unimaginable perfection, I took out a cigarette, lit it, and went over to the window. I was alone. At last, thank God in heaven and all his angels, I was alone! I know, I know: you’re not supposed to say this kind of thing, or even think it—but how difficult it is in this day and age to get a week, or a day, or even just an hour alone! I mean, I love my children, my wife, I get along well with my family, and the majority of my friends and acquaintances are quite polite and pleasant. But to have them coming around one after the other, and there’s no possibility—not even the smallest one—of getting out of it, detaching myself, disconnecting, locking myself away… I’ve never read this myself, but my son maintains that the greatest struggle man faces in the modern world is with solitude and alienation. I don’t know. I’m not so sure. Maybe all of this is just a romantic myth, or maybe I’m just unlucky. Either way, for me two weeks of solitude and alienation sounds like exactly what I need. So long as the only things I have to do here are things I want to do, not things I have to do. A cigarette, for example, which I smoke because I want to, not because someone shoved a pack under my nose. And which I don’t smoke when I don’t want to smoke it—but only because I don’t want to, not because Madame Zelts doesn’t like the smell of tobacco smoke… A glass of brandy by a roaring fire: now that’s all right in my book. That would definitely not be a disaster. Apparently things here won’t be that bad. Which is just wonderful. I’m doing all right, alone with myself, with my body, which isn’t too old yet, it’s still strong, I can still put on some skis and dash off, all the way across the valley, towards those purple spikes, over the whistling snow, and then everything will be absolutely perfect…
“Can I bring you anything?” Kaisa asked. “Anything you like?”
I looked at her, and once again she shrugged and covered her face with her hand. She was dressed in a closefitting, multicolored frock, which puffed out in the front and back, and a tiny lace apron. A necklace of large wooden beads hung around her neck. She tilted her feet slightly inward; she didn’t look like any of the women I knew. This was also good.
“Who’s here right now?” I asked.
“Where?”
“Here. At the inn.”
“The inn? Who’s staying with us right now? Plenty of people…
“Who exactly?”
“Well, let’s see. There’s Mr. Moses and his wife. They’re in one and two. And three—except they’re not staying there. Or maybe it’s his daughter. It’s hard to figure out. She’s a beauty, giving them all the look…”
“Is that so?” I said, egging her on.
“Then there’s Mr. Simone. He’s in the room across from yours—a scientist. He’s always playing billiards and crawling up the walls. A troublemaker, but dull. Mentally speaking, I mean.” She blushed and shrugged her shoulders again.
“Who else?” I asked.
“Mr. Du Barnstoker, the hypnotist who performs in circuses…”
“Barnstoker? The Barnstoker?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. He’s a hypnotist… And then there’s Brun…”
“Who’s that—Brun?”
“The one who rides the motorcycle in those pants. Another troublemaker, but young.”
“Is that all?”
“No, there’s someone else. He came not long ago. Only it’s just… He’s just here. He doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t eat. All we know is that he’s here…”
“I don’t understand,” I confessed.
“Nobody understands. He exists—that’s all I know. He reads newspapers. The other day he stole Mr. Du Barnstoker’s shoes. We looked everywhere, but we couldn’t find them. He’d taken them to the museum and left them there. And he leaves footprints everywhere…”
“What kind of footprints?” I wanted to understand her.
“Wet ones. Up and down the hallway. And he always calls me. First I get a call from one room, then it’s from another. I go, and there’s no one there.”
“All right,” I said with a sigh. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Kaisa. But that’s all right. I think I’d better take a shower.”
I put out my cigarette in the virginally clean ashtray and went into the bedroom to get underwear. Once there, I put a stack of books on the side-table at the head of the bed, thought briefly that maybe I’d brought them along with me in vain, kicked off my shoes, stuffed my feet into a pair of bathroom slippers, grabbed a bath towel and went to the shower. Kaisa had already left, and the ashtray on the table once again shone with cleanliness and purity. The sound of billiard balls clicking reached me from somewhere down the deserted hallway—that must be the “dull troublemaker.” Mentally speaking. What had she said his name was? Simone.
The door to the shower was at the top of the stairs. It appeared to be locked. I stood there indecisively for a few minutes, carefully twisting the plastic doorknob back and forth. Heavy, unhurried steps were coming towards me down the hallway. You could always use the one downstairs, I thought. Or, come to think of it, you could do something else. You could try a few runs on those skis. I stared absentmindedly at the wooden staircase, which appeared to lead all the way up to the roof. Or you could go up on the roof and take a look at the view. They say that the sunsets and sunrises here are indescribably beautiful. And then again, what the hell was with the shower door being locked? Or is someone sitting in there? It’s quiet… I tried the handle again. All right. Never mind the shower. There’s no need to hurry. I turned around and went back.
I could tell immediately that something was different in my room. After a second I understood: there was a smell of pipe smoke, the same one I’d smelled in the inn’s museum. I glanced quickly at the ashtray. There was no burning pipe—just a tiny mound of ash with particles of tobacco in it. He’s just here, I remembered. He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t eat—he just leaves footprints.
And then someone nearby yawned loudly. The sound of clicking claws came lazily from the bedroom, as Lel the St. Bernard gave me a look and then stretched with a grin.
“So you’re the one who’s been smoking?” I said.
Lel blinked and wagged his head. Like he was shaking a fly off.
2.
Judging by the footprints in the snow, someone had already tried to ski here. They’d made it fifty meters, falling at every step, and then turned around, sunk to their knees by this point, and lugged their skis and poles back, dropping them, picking them back up and dropping them again. Their frost-covered curses had not yet settled over the blue gouges and scars in the snow. But the rest of the snow-covered valley was clean and untouched, like a new starched sheet.
I took a few hops to test the ski bindings, and then sped off with a whoop in the direction of the sun. I increased my pace gradually, squinting from the glare and from pleasure, throwing off with every breath I exhaled the boredom of smoke-filled offices, musty papers, teary perps and grumpy bosses, the stale jokes and tedious political arguments, my wife’s petty bustling, the demands of the younger generation… The dull, slush-filled streets, the hallways reeking of sealing wax, the empty safes gaping like wrecked tanks, the dining room with its faded blue wallpaper and bedroom with its faded pink wallpaper and the yellowish ink-stained wallpaper of the nursery… With every breath I left myself further behind… left the tightly wound moralist who followed every law to the last letter, the man whose shirt buttons shone, the attentive husband and exemplary father, hospitable to his friends and friendly with his relatives… I was overjoyed to feel all this leaving me, I hoped that it would never return, that from this point forward everything would be light, elastic, crystal-clear, that it would proceed at this same furious, happy, youthful pace, and how good that I’d come here… Well done Zgut, clever Zgut, thank you Zgut, although the rumors are that you bust your safecrackers in the chops during interrogations… And I’m still that tough, quick, strong—I can do it like that, straight as a razor, a hundred thousand kilometers along a perfectly straight line, or I could do it like this, a sharp right, a sharp left, a ton of snow spraying out from under my skis… And then I haven’t been on a pair in three years, could it be three years since we bought that damned new house, and what kind of devil made us do that, a place to grow old in, you work all your life to grow old… Well damn it, I don’t want to think about that, damn old age, damn the house, and damn you Peter, Peter Glebsky, you pencil-pushing clerk, and bless you…