Me And Kaminski Part 10

"For example, I wanted to do a series of self-portraits, but not using my reflection in a mirror or photos, just drawing on the image I had of myself. n.o.body has any idea what they really look like, we have completely false pictures of ourselves. Normally you try to even things out, using whatever you can. But if you do the opposite, if you intentionally paint this false picture, as accurately as possible, in every detail, with every characteristic trait . . . !" He banged on the table. "A portrait that isn't a portrait! Can you imagine such a thing? But nothing came of it."

"You tried."

"How do you know that?"

"I-I'm a.s.suming."

"Yes, I tried. But then my eyes . . . or maybe it wasn't my eyes, maybe it just wasn't going well. You have to know when you're defeated. Miriam burned them."

"Excuse me?"

"I asked her to." He laid his head back, blew smoke straight up in the air. "Since then I haven't set foot in the studio."

"I believe you!"

"There's no reason to be sad. Because that's what everything's about: your estimate of your own talent. When I was young and hadn't yet painted anything useful . . . I doubt if you can imagine it. I locked myself up for a week . . ."

"Five days."

"I don't care, five days, to think. I knew that I hadn't yet produced anything that mattered. n.o.body can help with stuff like this." He groped for an ashtray. "I didn't just need a good idea. They're a dime a dozen. I had to find what kind of painter I could become. A way out of mediocrity."

"Out of mediocrity," I repeated.

"Do you know the story of Bodhidarma's pupil?"

"Who?"

"Bodhidarma was an Indian sage in China. Somebody wanted to become his pupil and was turned away. So he followed him. Silent, submissive, year after year. In vain. One day his despair overcame him, he planted himself in Bodhidarma's path and cried, 'Master, I have nothing.' Bodhidarma answered, 'Throw it away!'" Kaminski stubbed out his cigarette. "And that's when he found enlightenment."

"I don't get it. If he had nothing left, why . . ."

"During that week I got my first gray hairs. When I went out again, I had the first sketches for the Reflections. Reflections. It was still a long time before the first good picture, but that was no longer the problem." He was silent for a moment. "I'm not one of the greats. I'm not Velazquez or Goya or Rembrandt. But sometimes I was pretty good. And that's not nothing. And it was because of those five days." It was still a long time before the first good picture, but that was no longer the problem." He was silent for a moment. "I'm not one of the greats. I'm not Velazquez or Goya or Rembrandt. But sometimes I was pretty good. And that's not nothing. And it was because of those five days."

"I'll quote that."

"You shouldn't quote it, Zollner, you should pay attention to it!" Once again I had the feeling that he could see me. "Everything important has to be reached in sudden leaps."

I signaled to the waiter and asked for the check. Leaps or no leaps, this time I wasn't going to pay for him.

"Excuse me," he said, reached for his stick, and stood up. "No, I can manage." He went past me, taking little steps, b.u.mped into a table, apologized, b.u.mped into the waiter, apologized again, and disappeared into the toilet. The waiter set down the check in front of me.

"Just a moment!" I said.

We waited. The houses increased, their windows reflected the gray of the sky, cars made traffic jams on the street, the rain grew heavier. The waiter said he didn't have all day.

"A moment!"

An airplane rose from the nearby airport and was swallowed by the clouds. The two men at the next table gave me filthy looks and left. Outside I saw the main street, the illuminated sign of a department store, and a fountain despondently dribbling water.

"So?" asked the waiter.

Wordlessly I handed him my credit card. A plane made its blinking descent, more and more tracks started coming together, the waiter returned and said my card was blocked. Not possible, I said, try again. He said he wasn't an idiot. I said I wasn't so sure about that. He stared down at me, rubbed his chin, and said nothing. But the train was already braking and I had no time for an argument. I threw down some cash and grabbed the change. As I was getting to my feet, Kaminski came out of the toilet.

I picked up both bags, mine and the one with his dressing gown, took him by the elbow, and led him to the door. I yanked it open, suppressed the impulse to push him out, jumped down onto the platform, and helped him gently off the train.

"I want to lie down."

"At once. We take the subway and . . ."

"No."

"Why?"

"I've never been on one and I'm not starting now."

"It's not far. A taxi's expensive."

"Not that expensive." He dragged me along the jam-packed platform, avoiding people with remarkable skill; he stepped into the street as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and raised his hand. A taxi stopped, the driver got out and helped him into the pa.s.senger seat. I got in in front, my throat dry with anger, and gave the address.

"Why the rain?" said Kaminski pensively. "It's always raining here. I think it's the ugliest country in the world."

I threw the driver a nervous look. He was fat, with a big mustache, and looked pretty strong.

"Except for Belgium," said Kaminski.

"Were you in Belgium?"

"G.o.d forbid. Would you pay? I have no change."

"I thought you had no money at all."

"Exactly."

"I've paid for everything else!"

"Very generous of you. I have to lie down."

We stopped, the driver looked at me, and because I felt awkward, I paid him. I climbed out, the rain lashed my face. Kaminski slid out, I held on to him tight, his stick clattered onto the ground; when I picked it up, it was dripping wet. The marble in the entrance hall bounced the noise of our footsteps back at us, then the elevator whisked us silently upstairs. For a moment I panicked that Elke could have changed the locks. But my key still worked.

I opened the door and listened: not a sound. Two days' worth of mail lay under the mail slot. I coughed loudly, listened again. Nothing. We were alone.

"I don't know if I'm getting this right," said Kaminski, "but I have a feeling that we've found our way into your past, not mine."

I led him to the guest room. The bed was freshly made. "Needs air." I opened the window. "Medicines." I lined them up on the night table. "Pajamas."

"The pajamas are in the suitcase and the suitcase is in the car."

"And the car?"

I didn't reply.

"Ah," he said, "well. Leave me alone."

In the living room my two suitcases were standing, fully packed. So she'd really done it! I went out into the hall and picked up the mail: bills, advertis.e.m.e.nts, two envelopes addressed to Elke, one from one of her boring friends, the other from a Walter Munzinger. I tore it open and read it, but it was only a customer of her agency, very formal, very correct, must be some other Walter.

There was also some mail for me. More bills, advertis.e.m.e.nts, Drink Beer!, Drink Beer!, three royalty payments for reprinted articles, two invitations: a book launch next week and an opening tonight, Alonzo Quilling's new collages. Important people would be there. In any normal circ.u.mstances I would certainly have been there. A pity n.o.body knew that Kaminski was here in my apartment. three royalty payments for reprinted articles, two invitations: a book launch next week and an opening tonight, Alonzo Quilling's new collages. Important people would be there. In any normal circ.u.mstances I would certainly have been there. A pity n.o.body knew that Kaminski was here in my apartment.

I stared at the invitation and paced around. Rain exploded against the window. Well, actually, why not? It could change my standing completely.

I opened the larger of the two suitcases and began to sort through my shirts. I would need my best jacket. And different shoes. And, of course, Elke's car keys.

X.

"SEBASTIAN. H h.e.l.lO. Come in."

Hochgart clapped me on the shoulder, I punched his upper arm, he looked at me as if we were friends, and I smiled as if I believed it. He was the gallerist here, also sometimes wrote reviews, including some of his own exhibitions, which didn't bother anyone. He wore a leather jacket and had long, straggly hair.

"Can't miss Quilling," I said. "May I introduce you?" I paused for a moment. "Manuel Kaminski."

"A pleasure," said Hochgart and held out his hand; Kaminski, tiny, standing beside me leaning on his stick in his woolly pullover and by now very rumpled corduroys, didn't react. Hochgart froze, then clapped him on the shoulder, Kaminski winced, Hochgart grinned at me, and disappeared into the crowd.

"And who was that?" Kaminski was rubbing his shoulder.

"Pay no attention to him." Disconcerted, I stared after Hochgart. "He's not important. But there are some interesting pictures."

"And why should I be interested in interesting pictures? You don't mean you've schlepped me to an exhibition? I took a sleeping pill only an hour ago, I'm not sure whether I'm even alive or not, and you bring me here?"

"It's the opening night," I said nervously, and lit a cigarette.

"My last opening was thirty-five years ago and it was at the Guggenheim. Are you out of your mind?"

"Just a couple of minutes." I pushed him along, people saw his stick and his gla.s.ses, and made way for him.

"Quilling must really have made it!" cried Eugen Manz, the editor-in-chief of ArT ArT-Magazine. "Now even the blind are showing up." He thought for a moment, then said, "Let the blind come unto me," and laughed so hard he had to put his gla.s.s down.

"h.e.l.lo, Eugen," I said carefully. Manz was important; I was hoping for a permanent job on his magazine.

"Let the blind come unto me!" he said again. A slender woman with prominent cheekbones stroked his head as he wiped away his tears and peered at me blearily.

"Sebastian Zollner," I said. "Do you remember?"

"Of course," he said, "I know."

"And this is Manuel Kaminski."

He fixed a watery eye on Kaminski, then on me, then on Kaminski again. "No, seriously?"

I felt a glow. "Of course."

"Oh," he said, and took a step back. A woman behind him let out a yelp.

"Please, what's going on?" said Kaminski.

Eugen Manz went up to Kaminski, bent forward, and held out his hand. "Eugen Manz." Kaminski showed no reaction. "ArT."

"What?" said Kaminski.

"Eugen Manz of ArT, ArT," said Eugen Manz.

"What's going on?" said Kaminski.

Manz looked at me, disconcerted, still holding his hand out. I waved my arms up and down and rolled my eyes at the ceiling.

"Can't you see I'm blind?" said Kaminski.

"Of course!" said Manz. "I mean, I know. I know everything about you. I'm Eugen Manz of ArT. ArT."

"Yes," said Kaminski.

Manz decided to withdraw his hand.

"What brings you here?"

"I'd like to know too."

Manz burst out laughing, wiped more tears away, and cried, "This is unbelievable!" Two people with gla.s.ses in their hands stood still: the female talking head from one of the TV programs and Alonzo Quilling himself. Last time I'd seen Quilling, he'd had a beard; now he was clean shaven and had a ponytail and gla.s.ses.

"Look, everybody!" said Manz. "Manuel Kaminski!"

"What's with him?" asked Quilling.

"He's here," said Manz.

"Who?" said the talking head.

"I don't believe it," said Quilling.

"I'm telling you!" cried Manz. "Mr. Kaminski, this is Alonzo Quilling, and this . . ." he looked blankly at the talking head.

"Verena Mangold," she said hastily. "Are you a painter too?"

Hochgart came up to us and laid his arm around Quilling's shoulders. He jerked back, then remembered this was his gallerist, and let it happen. "Do you like the pictures?"

"Forget the pictures right now," said Manz. Quilling gaped at him. "This is Manuel Kaminski."

"I know," said Hochgart, looking this way and that. "Has anyone seen Jablonik?" He put his hands in his pockets and left.