He was walking by the Limmat, then down the Mythen Quay toward the dock, for being the harbor master he was obliged to review the situation when the freezing shore presented a possible hazard, particularly to check that the service craft provided in the dock around boats anchored on the lake for the winter were doing their duty by breaking up the thin but potentially dangerous ice, in other words, he said to old cronies at the butcher’s near his home, he was going along on foot, seeing it was nice weather, when in the middle of the Arboretum he suddenly notices that someone is following him, not that he bothers about this, because he thinks it’s probably coincidence, or that the man has some business down there, who knows, it’s perfectly possible, let him dog his steps if he wants, soon enough he’ll turn off somewhere and disappear, but the man did not turn off or disappear, the harbor master raised his voice, nor did he fall behind, no, on the contrary, once they reached the steps down to the dock he comes up to him, addresses him as Mister Captain, and pointing at something on the coat of his uniform begins to gabble in a foreign language, Danish he reckoned, and when he tries to push him aside telling him to spit it out, to speak so he can understand or to leave him alone, the man, with considerable difficulty, manages to put a sentence together, a sentence he takes to mean that he wants to take a boat out, the dope, and when he answers that that is out of the question, it’s winter and there is no water traffic in winter, the man simply keeps on, saying he absolutely must go out, not giving up but taking a load of dollars from his pocket, pressing him to take it, to which he can only answer that it’s not a matter of money, it’s winter and no amount of dollars will alter that, come back in spring, in spring it will be fine — well said, Gusti, one remarked, and how they laughed there at the butcher’s — but wait, the harbor master gestured to his listeners, because by this time he had started to get a little curious himself, and asked the man what on earth he wanted with a boat on the lake, and then the guy — and here he looked around to make a proper effect and told them all to listen closely, hesitating a moment — this guy says he wants to write something on the water, well, he thought he had misheard or misunderstood him, but no, just imagine, it seemed the guy really did want to do all that, to take a boat out and use it to write something on the water, on the water, for godssake! he clapped his hands together as the laughter once again rose around him, well, naturally, he should have realized immediately that the man was some kind of nut, the way he was gesturing and explaining and waving his hands about, his eyes like some crazy terrorist’s flashing all the time, indeed, well of course, this should have been enough to give him a clue, but, there it was, now he saw him for what he was, and for sheer entertainment, the harbor master winked at his growing audience, he decided to get to the bottom of this and to ask him what could be so very important, very important, he said in English, that it had to be written on water, what, he asked him, and then he started babbling again but he couldn’t understand a word of it despite the fact that the man was trying everything to communicate something with him, trying to make Herr Kapitan, as the man insisted on calling him, understand; and then he drew a diagram in the snow with his foot, with here the boat, here how it leaves the dock, here showing it in the middle of the lake, the boat moving like pencil on paper, like a pencil on the paper, he had said in English, which was the way of writing on water, the message, in English again, being way that goes out—this at least was how he tried to get his message across at first, keeping his anxious eyes on the harbor master’s face, looking for signs of understanding, and when he saw he was getting no reaction, he said, outgoing-way, without any more success than before, finally suggesting that they should agree on the formula, way out, that the boat would write these words on the water, all right? he asked hopefully, and grabbed hold of the other man’s coat, but the man shook him off and set off down the steps to the dock leaving him, Korin, standing there, out of ideas and utterly helpless, finally seeing the melancholy truth of the situation, before shouting after the man, no traffic on the lake? on hearing which the harbor master took a few steps then stopped, turned and shouted back, as any reasonable man might, having finally understood, replying, yes, this was indeed the situation that there was, quite right, no traffic on the lake, repeating it, no traffic on the lake, and this clearly registered and continued reverberating in Korin’s brain as he turned away from the lake and started walking back, his progress very slow, as if he were weighed down by a terrible burden, his back quite bent over, his head hanging as he passed along Mythen Quay, saying to himself aloud, well, all right, but now you all have to come with me, the whole lot of you, to Schaffhausen.
It wasn’t so difficult now to find the central railway station because he had made the journey once by tram and somehow he managed to remember it, but inside, once it was all made clear, once he had understood that he would have to pay for the tickets in francs, and once he actually had the tickets and had found the right platform, it had grown dark and there were hardly any other passengers on the car he had got onto, and those few there were did not answer Korin’s requirements for it was perfectly obvious that Korin needed someone having gone up and down the train two or three times sizing up people and shaking his head because none of them seemed right to him, but then, at the very last moment before they started, that is to say just before the guard at the end of the platform sounded his whistle, a highly agitated and worried-looking woman appeared in the last car, a tall, very thin woman of about forty to forty-five, who practically exploded through the door, it being obvious from the furious expression on her face that she had undergone various trials and tribulations before getting on the train, that she had lost all hope of ever doing so but had nevertheless had to try, and had, by some miracle, succeeded only at the last moment, and to make it worse her arms were laden with packages she could hardly carry so that when the train started immediately and the engine gave two mighty jerks she almost fell over, partly because of the weight of the packages and partly because of the effort of rushing, and came close to striking her head on the luggage rack, and no one came to help her, the only one in a position to do so being a young Arab man who, judging by the angle of his body, must have been fast asleep in the next seat, or that was how it looked from her position, so she could do nothing but grab hold of something to steady herself, then throw her first packages into the nearest seat, then drop into it herself, sitting there with closed eyes, gasping and sighing for several minutes, simply sitting, trying to calm down as the train cut through the suburbs — which was the point at which Korin reached the last car and glimpsed her sitting with closed eyes among her parcels, asked in English, can I help you, and hurried to lift her luggage onto the rack — suitcase, handbag, packages and all — then dropped into the seat opposite her and gazed deep into her eyes.