by Martin Suter
Except a bolt from the blue.
37
Carlos’s parents sent him out onto the streets at the age of four as a shoe-shine boy. They bought him a rough, wooden shoe-shine box, painted black. At the beginning it went very well. He wasn’t terribly skilled at polishing shoes yet, but he was so small and cute he often fought off the competition for the few tourists who wore leather shoes, not sneakers. Some gave him ten quetzals instead of the standard price of one. And occasionally one would buy him something to eat from a snack bar at the side of the road.
But as he got older he needed to excel at the craft. He worked on becoming the best shoe-shine boy in the town, concentrating on regular local trade: officials, policemen, store owners. Carlos conjured up the brightest of shines on a pair of shoes, and cultivated a virtuoso technique with his brushes and polishing cloth. His customers would actually look up from their newspapers or interrupt a conversation to watch the little stylist among the shoe-shine boys perform.
Carlos had maintained these skills and cultivated them to this day. When he polished Allmen’s extensive collection of shoes he insisted, with that polite impertinence of his, that the shoes be on Allmen’s feet. After refusing initially, Allmen had eventually got used to sitting in his glass library on the raised piano stool, one foot on Carlos’s black shoe box, while he polished his shoes—with the drapes closed, naturally.
He switched feet automatically at the sign from Carlos, a rapid tap on the tip of the sole, and reluctantly put another pair on while Carlos put shoe trees in the freshly polished pair.
This ritual was almost the only opportunity to discuss things beyond the usual household questions.
“Carlos, is it alright to do something dishonest when you are in trouble?”
“Cómo no, Don John.”
“Cómo no” was Carlos’s way of saying yes. It meant more than yes. It meant, “of course,” “naturally,” “damn right.” The answer came quickly, like most of Carlos’s answers. It was as if he kept a stock of ready-made answers he could call on as needed, to all the questions of life.
“If there’s nothing honest you can do to get out of trouble.” This qualification didn’t please Allmen. Nor did the following: “But only something dishonest. Not something criminal.”
Allmen watched him for a while, as he whizzed over the toe cap of his black handmade English shoe with the taut polishing cloth, giving it a whack every third time. In all the years Allmen had never found out how he made that noise. “What would you do if I went to prison?”
Carlos looked up from his work. “That would be terrible, Don John.” But after a while he said. “Although it would be less work for me.”
Allmen turned back to his Balzac.
38
The college friend who had lent him a Smart last time, now gave him a BMW. It smelled of new leather and was full of electronics Allmen didn’t understand. On the dashboard was an illuminated map displaying his journey and his current location. Allmen didn’t like the idea that he was constantly being tracked by a satellite. Probably it would be possible later to retrace exactly where he had driven tonight.
It was just after three. Allmen had chosen this time because he reckoned it was the hour after the late-night party people went to sleep and before the early risers awoke. And sure enough there was very little traffic. Above all on this suburban road which ran along the lake.
He concentrated on driving the car. He had caught himself exceeding the speed limit twice already. The vehicle was so quiet and finely tuned Allmen had no sense of what speed he was going.
Concentrating on driving had the advantage that he couldn’t question the decision he’d come to. It was as if someone else had taken control of him and he, Allmen, was just their proxy.
There was still a foehn; it was mild and dry. The moon was full and made the night bright and clear. He would have preferred a few heavy clouds.
Very occasionally a car came the other way, and two or three times one overtook him. Once he had to brake for a cat, and at one point he passed a pedestrian wearing a windbreaker with reflective strips, which caught Allmen’s headlights from a long way off. The villas stood still and dark along the shore of the lake.
As he approached number 328b he dropped his speed even further. The light above the front door was off, but the windows were giving out a weak light. Probably the night lighting in the foyer and on the stairs, which Allmen was familiar with of course.
He drove a few houses on and turned in an entranceway. Then he drove back and left the car opposite the next property. He waited a few minutes, got out and walked along the hedge to the gate.
He could see the spot with the bundle of towels from a distance. It stuck out slightly from the hedge. He’d shoved it in that carelessly—thanks to the state he’d been in. Amazing no one had discovered it.
Just as he was removing it, the light above the front door came on. Allmen ran back to the car, as fast as he could with his injured foot, placed the loot on the backseat and started the engine.
He had been driving only five minutes when Hirt’s limousine overtook him, Boris at the wheel, driving fast.
39
On the way into the city he met a police roadblock. He saw it from some distance. He was waved over with a red-lit traffic baton. A uniformed officer came over to the car and waited by the driver’s door for Allmen to open the window.
Allmen didn’t know how to do that. He fiddled with the various buttons attached to the door but the window remained shut.
The officer called a colleague over. Allmen attempted to explain using gestures that he wasn’t familiar with the vehicle.
Now the first officer reached for his pistol holster. The other was trying to open the door. But there was an automatic safety lock mechanism which prevented the vehicle being opened from the outside. Allmen raised his hands above his head.
He saw one officer say something to the other, laughing, before taking his notebook and writing something on it. “Switch the motor off,” Allmen read, as the officer held the note against the window. He did as told and the officer opened the door.
“Not my car,” Allmen confessed right away.
They asked him to get out. The officers shined their flashlights inside the car. Both beams of light rested on the black towel bundle on the back seat.
Allmen’s heart raced. The officers exchanged glances. Then they switched their flashlights off and turned to Allmen.
They checked his papers and the papers for the BMW. They ordered him to renew his tattered driving license within fourteen days. Then he had to take a Breathalyzer test. He just passed: 0.4 per mill. The wine he’d drunk with dinner must still have been in his system.
Eventually they let him go. “Zero point zero, zero per mill would be better,” they advised, “when you’re driving an unfamiliar vehicle.”
He promised to stick to this in the future and drove home slowly and with extreme care.
40
Earlier Allmen had refused to own a computer for aesthetic reasons. When he needed anything for which a computer was required there was his office. Yes, in the good times, he’d had an office. Anyone calling his number was answered by a woman’s voice saying, “Johann Friedrich von Allmen’s office?” with the accent on the A. He had a secretary deal with his correspondence, book his travel and look after financial matters. After the fall of his empire, as he sometimes called it in a mood of ironic self-deprecation, he had delegated these tasks as far as possible to Carlos.
Carlos owned a computer, which he used mainly to keep in contact with his family in Guatemala. He had an ink-jet printer too, and paid for the Internet connection.
And the next day it was also Carlos who photographed the five dragonfly bowls. He was a keen still life photographer, since in the days when he had looked after Allmen’s orchids, he had also photographed them as a hobby.
On top of the piano he positioned a sheet of pale gray photographic background card in a curve and ph
otographed the five bowls assisted incompetently by his boss.
Carlos climbed up into his attic and returned proudly ten minutes later with the results. The milky light of the cloudy day, and the small spotlight Allmen had been required to direct at the objects, had created images of a more or less professional quality. Only the cheap ink-jet printer left something to be desired.
Allmen put the pictures in a folder and the folder into a small leather briefcase while Carlos cleared away the photographic setup.
Now the five Gallé bowls stood in all their glory on top of the piano, reflected in its black shiny surface. They both gazed at them thoughtfully.
“Don John, una sugerencia, nada más.”
“Yes, Carlos?”
“It might be better if they didn’t stay here.”
Allmen looked at him askance. “You’re afraid they might be stolen?”
“They look valuable.”
“They are valuable.”
“And the whole room is made of glass.”
“What’s your idea, Carlos?”
“I’ll take them to a safe place.”
“Where then?”
“When you need them, Don John, I’ll bring them.”
Allmen reflected. “Agreed, Carlos. I’ll let you know when I need them.”
41
It got dark early that afternoon. The thin sheet of mist had thickened during the day to a thick blanket of fog. It had turned cold too. Allmen had left the house in his raincoat, but returned immediately. Now he was wearing a woolen overcoat, scarf and gloves.
In the shop windows there was already light, and the sensors on the streetlamps had also decided it was nighttime.
Only in Les Trouvailles was it dark. The timer switch must be set for a later hour. But why hadn’t Jack Tanner switched the lights on himself? He must be there. Allmen had made an appointment.
He pressed the doorbell and heard it ring inside. But there was no sound of footsteps on the creaking parquet, which normally came immediately.
Allmen left a little pause, not to seem impatient. Then he rang again.
Still nothing moved in Les Trouvailles.
It was only now that he noticed that the door wasn’t closed as normal, but was slightly ajar. He could push it open without pressing the door handle.
Which he did, and called, “Hallo? Jack? Are you there?”
Silence.
Allmen tried to push the door shut behind him, but it didn’t catch. Then he remembered that Tanner always had to lift it slightly so that it shut properly. He tried this now, and it worked.
It smelled different. There was the aroma of old furniture and wax polish as ever, but another odor was mixed with them. Something Allmen recognized but couldn’t name.
“Jack? Are you there?”
Everything was quiet. The only sound was the creaking parquet floor as Allmen walked to the back room.
There the strange odor was more intense. It was coming from Tanner’s tiny office, the door to which stood half open. Allmen knocked politely on the door frame. “Jack?”
He walked in.
Jack was sitting with his back to the entrance, on General Guisan’s revolving chair. His head was tilted back, like someone asleep on a train.
“Jack?”
Suddenly Allmen realized what the odor reminded him of: the hunting trips his father had dragged him on when he was little. This is what it had smelled like when he fired his shotgun, making little Fritz cry over yet another rabbit or partridge.
He took a few steps around the desk. Far enough to see that Jack Tanner was missing a chunk of his forehead, his face a grimace of clotted blood, mouth gaping wide.
Allmen ran. Out of the office, through the storeroom, through the display room and out onto the street. It was only then that he realized how stupid he’d been. He should have stayed there of course, and called the police.
He tried to go back into the shop. But this time he had instinctively shut the door the way he had always seen Tanner shut it. The lock had caught and it couldn’t be opened from outside any more. He tried the handle a few times. Hopeless. It wouldn’t move.
He was about to reach for his cell phone to call the police. Then he thought of his briefcase.
His briefcase! With the photographs of five stolen Gallé bowls! Was he going to invite the police to look at that?
“Have you tried the doorbell already?” a voice said behind him.
Allmen jumped. An elderly lady carrying a shopping bag was giving him a friendly look.
Allmen nodded. “Several times.”
“Then Herr Tanner probably isn’t there. He often isn’t. Do you have an appointment?”
“Ah, is it by appointment here?”
“Most people make one. Otherwise … well you see how it is.”
“Thanks for the tip.” Allmen turned to go.
“You have the number?”
“Emm …”
“Best to write it down.” The woman pointed to the glass panel in the door. A business card was fixed to it.
Allmen took his gloves off. Only now did he realize he’d had gloves on the whole time. He took a ballpoint and a notebook out and wrote down the number.
The lady nodded, pleased, walked to the neighboring door and fished a bunch of keys from her purse.
Allmen put his notebook away and sauntered past her. “Thank you and good afternoon.”
42
Carlos had lit the wood stove and pulled one of the leather armchairs closer to it. Allmen sat wrapped in a blanket shivering. Carlos was crouched next to him holding a cup of steaming liquid.
“Drink it while it’s hot, Don John,” he said.
Allmen reached his hand out, but it was trembling too much. Carlos put the cup to his lips. Finally Allmen drank, in small, cautious sips.
To make this grog Carlos had sacrificed some of his twenty-year-old Guatemalan rum, which he had been given for a birthday years ago and never opened, so concerned was he about Allmen’s condition.
The latter had returned home earlier than normal, white and silent. “Todo bien, Don John?” Carlos had inquired.
Allmen had nodded. And the nod had turned into uncontrollable shuddering. Since then he had just been sitting there, and wouldn’t say a word about why he was in this state.
But the grog and the fire and perhaps also the words of comfort began to take effect. Allmen relaxed. The shuddering now came only in short bursts, at ever greater intervals.
Once it had subsided completely, and Allmen had drunk the grog, he offered Carlos the other chair.
“I prefer to stand, Don John.”
Allmen had given up resisting Carlos’s obsequiousness. Over time he had come to realize that Carlos felt happy in this role. He was pretty certain it actually gave him a sense of superiority. But for what he wanted to say now, Carlos could not stand next to him like a lackey. “Sit down!” he ordered.
Carlos did so, with an obedient “Muchas gracias.”
“Carlos,” he began.
“Qué manda?” Carlos asked. This Guatemalan expression, literally “what is your command?” had unnerved Allmen at first until he discovered and accepted it was just a meaningless idiom.
“Carlos …” Allmen looked for an appropriate way to begin. Their relationship had always been respectfully distant. Although they had lived under the same roof for years, friendship had never developed between them. Complicity sure. But not friendship. Carlos had a keen sense of the distance, physical and emotional, which he believed was appropriate between them. If Allmen breached it Carlos knew exactly how to reinstate it. This time—for the first time—he let it go.
“Carlos, I have to tell you something.”
Carlos nodded and waited.
And Allmen described his visit to Jack Tanner, and the condition he found him in, and his ill-judged flight. He left no detail out.
Carlos listened attentively. When Allmen was finished, he got up. “Ahorita regreso, be right back.”
>
Allmen heard him climb the stairs and after a minute come down again. He was carrying a transparent file folder holding various sheets of paper. He sat down and handed Allmen one of them.
It had the letterhead of the St. Gallen Cantonal Police and showed the five dragonfly bowls, all in professional studio shots. Beneath this was a text revealing that these were the most famous of the works stolen nearly ten years ago from an exhibition of Gallé glassware. They had been lent by a private collector.
Their value was estimated at several million francs.
The insurers were offering the sum of four hundred thousand francs for information leading to their recovery.
Allmen looked up from the sheet and met Carlos’s searching look. “I never knew that,” he murmured.
Carlos said nothing.
“Where have you put them?”
“When you need them, Don John, I’ll fetch them.”
43
He woke soon after four a.m. from an uneasy sleep and tried to doze off again without success. The image of Jack Tanner rose from the darkness each time.
Had someone found him? Or was he still sitting at his desk like a grotesque specter?
As soon as he succeeded in banishing thoughts of Tanner, the dragonflies took their place. Were they genuine? Or were they fakes? If they were genuine, why were there two of the first one?
Shortly after five he heard Carlos’s footsteps above him, heard him in the bathroom, heard him come down the stairs, heard him clattering about in the kitchen.
Was he right to have confided in him? Could he really trust him implicitly?
Suddenly it hit him with full force: four hundred thousand francs reward! That would keep Carlos and his family in Guatemala comfortable for the rest of their lives! One phone call to the police would be enough. He would have a few problems with the immigration authorities to deal with, but the worst they could do was make him leave the country. With four hundred thousand francs in his pocket that would be bearable. Above all when you considered the alternative here: two jobs, only one of them paid. And a boss he often had to support.