After he had been talking like that for a while, I finally realized what was going on. At the end of the year, when he was due to retire, Biefer was planning to emigrate to Canada and open a bed-and-breakfast there. Why Canada? I asked, but Biefer ignored me. He talked about the visa application he had submitted a few months ago, some points system in which his training and knowledge of French and English all counted in his favor, along with his age and financial status. Then he had got a letter back from the Canadian embassy in Paris, which he didn’t understand. He said he hadn’t spoken French since school, which was now fifty years ago. For a few months he had been taking English lessons, but he was probably too old to learn a new language. He opened the buff folder, pulled out the top sheet of paper, and hurriedly slammed the folder shut. He handed me the letter. In fussy legal French, the applicant was required to complete his dossier by supplying an itemized account of his personal wealth, complete with documentary proof, all to be supplied on the same day. When I explained to Biefer what it was about, he seemed relieved. He asked me not to breathe a word of his plans to anyone, and least of all to Sandoz.
I had almost forgotten this when Biefer hailed me the next time, a couple of weeks later. He was looking terribly mysterious, and waved me to follow him into the porter’s lodge. It was shortly before Christmas, on the desk was a frail assemblage of fir twigs, two shiny silver Christmas tree ornaments, and a stout candle that hadn’t been lit. Beside it was the buff folder. Biefer opened it, pulled out a sheet of paper, and, beaming, handed it to me. His visa application had been approved. He thanked me for my help. I said I hadn’t done anything. He hesitated, then he opened the folder again and left it open between us. On top was a red envelope from a photo shop. Biefer pulled out a sheaf of pictures and laid them carefully side by side on the table. The photographs—which were barely distinguishable one from the next—showed forest, low trees and bushes, and sometimes a gravel track in the foreground. Biefer’s hands hovered over the prints, he was like a soothsayer trying to predict the future from a deck of cards. This was his land, he said finally, in Nova Scotia. He took some papers out of the folder and spread them out in front of us, a contract of sale, a passport and flight ticket, tourist brochures, and postcards. At the bottom of the folder lay a poor photocopy of a surveyor’s map, on which a lumpy-looking lake and a few plots of land were sketched in. One of the plots was carefully marked in red. In the middle were two rectangles in pencil, under them were the smudged traces of earlier outlines that had been rubbed out. This was where he was going to build his house, said Biefer, a blockhouse with ten guest bedrooms and a big day room, and his apartment upstairs. The smaller rectangle was the garage.
I was standing beside him, and I couldn’t see the expression on his face while he told me about his project, but his voice sounded enthusiastic and full of energy. He had bought the land some years before, he said, ten thousand square meters for thirty thousand Canadian dollars. He had no direct access to the lake, but then again the land was on the main road, and that was good for trade. At the end of January he would be flying to Halifax. From there it was another two hours by car. He had been to look at it already, last year. The countryside was amazingly beautiful, a bit remote, true, but with bags of potential. A paradise for hunters and fishermen.
I couldn’t imagine Biefer in the wilds of Canada. He was pale and puffy-faced, and didn’t strike me as particularly healthy. But he went on enthusing about his property and about Nova Scotia. The area was on the same latitude as Genoa, he said, in summer it got into the nineties. The winters admittedly were snowy and cold. Building permits were no trouble to get, he said, and gas cost barely half of what we paid here.
I asked him why he wanted to emigrate in the middle of winter, wasn’t it cold enough for him here? He said that way he would have time to get everything ready for the tourist season in summer. First the forest would have to be cleared, and then the house built. There was a lot to get done. He said the movers were coming after the holidays. His whole household would be packed into a single container and put on a ship. It would have to remain in storage until such time as the house was built. I asked him what he was going to do with himself until it was time to go. He looked at me as though it hadn’t occurred to him. What about your wife? I asked. What does she think of your plans? He said they weren’t plans, they were decisions already taken. Before I left, he asked me again not to breathe a word of this to anyone.
When I came out of the porter’s lodge, I saw Jana, a young artist who had her studio on the same floor as me. She rode up on her bike, braked at the very last moment, and squeaked to a halt a few inches from my feet. She grinned, and asked if I was taking over as porter now. Sure, why not, I said. There are worse jobs, it’s not too strenuous, and there’s a regular paycheck at the end of it. I’ll miss those two just the same, she said. Albert especially.
She got off her bike and we walked to the lab building together. She had been one of the first to move to the site. Back then, nothing worked, the heating failed all the time and the electricity most of the time. She saw a lot of the two porters then. Albert had been really helpful. He was an incredibly nice person.
THE EMPTY PORTER’S LODGE had something depressing about it. I couldn’t exactly say I missed either Biefer or Sandoz, but I’d always been pleased to see someone there when I got to the office in the morning, someone who unlocked the gate and turned on a few lights, someone to start the day. Now the site seemed dead, the facades of the old buildings were even more austere than usual, and all the windows were dark. Sooner or later it would all be demolished, we were only guests here, our days were numbered, even if we carried on like the new masters.
The violin maker parked his car. I waited for him outside the entrance, and we chatted. He asked me if I felt good here, and I said it was probably just temporary for me, and I would probably leave one day. He wanted to stay here as long as he could. He would probably never find such a perfect place to work again. We were still talking when Jana came along with a journalist who had moved in to a downstairs office just a couple of weeks ago. We talked about Biefer and Sandoz. The journalist said he’d never been able to tell them apart. I asked what our retirement present had been to them. No one seemed to know.
I was meeting a client for lunch. It was about a double garage, my first proper commission for months. We ate in a restaurant in the city center. When I got back to the site at two o’clock, the fog was just beginning to clear. I went down to the lakeshore and gazed out at the water, which was smooth and perfectly clear. I suddenly felt pretty certain that I would never leave, and would stay until the end of my days, building garages or single-family homes, and if I was lucky, the odd kindergarten or tenement building. We all would stay here, the violin maker, the journalist, Jana, and the rest. Biefer was the only one who would have managed to get away.
Jana was sitting on her own in the weigh-house bar, reading the paper. I picked up a coffee and joined her. She went back a couple of pages, folded the paper in the middle, and passed it to me.
Have you seen this? she asked, pointing to an item on the obituary page.
Gertrud Biefer, I read aloud, dearly beloved wife, mother and grandmother, left us on December 27, after a long illness, borne with patience and fortitude. Family only.