by Martin Suter
He tried to listen to the messages on his answering machine. Also without success. He searched for the instructions, couldn’t find them and pressed various bits of the device so many times that eventually a red light started blinking incessantly on the display and couldn’t be stilled no matter what he did.
22
ADRIAN WAS WAITING FOR LORENA TO CALL, AND WAITING was not an activity for him; it was a state, not such an unpleasant one. Like flying.
As soon as he boarded an airplane, he was placed in a state of absolute passivity. Of course he ate the food served him, and read a newspaper, or a book. But he was passive as far as flying itself was concerned. He knew there was nothing he could do to influence it and delegated it unconditionally to those who could.
He approached Lorena’s call in the same way. He was leaving it entirely up to her and her ability to pick up the phone and call him whenever it seemed appropriate to her. She had done it before, so she would do it again.
Véronique, who happened to be in the office that Saturday morning, had taken a call from her. “From the lady I was definitely to give your new number to if she called.”
That meant it was Lorena who had called during the burial. He handed his phone awkwardly to Véronique. “Could you look to see if she called?”
His assistant pressed a couple of buttons. “You had a call from an unknown number on Saturday morning. And a few missed calls over the weekend, and also ‘number unknown.’ If I was waiting for a call I would pick up when my phone rang.”
“It didn’t ring.”
Astonishingly slender compared to her body mass, Véronique’s fingers darted over the keypad once more. “Rocket science,” she smiled. “You had it on silent mode. Voilà. Now it will ring again.”
It had taken longer till the answering machine started working again. It was two days before Frau Hauser realized that not only had there been no new messages on the machine, the telephone itself had stopped ringing. The technician she called informed them that someone had managed to wipe out the outgoing message then program the machine so it answered before the first ring, playing a silent message.
In the same way that Adrian Weynfeldt could read newspapers and eat when he was in the flying state, he could get on with his everyday life during the state of waiting.
The final preparations for the auction took up most of his time. Adrian and Véronique proofread the catalogue and, for the first time since they had begun working together, it was she who took the proofs to Murphy’s headquarters in London.
Normally Weynfeldt took the opportunity to make a few purchases in Mayfair and stay at the Connaught—at his own expense; Murphy’s travel budget would not nearly have covered it. The discreet establishment had been his father’s favorite hotel. Sebastian Weynfeldt never forgot to mention that the hotel butler there even knew what temperature he liked his bathwater.
The Connaught had lost much of its style since then, and now lured guests with the promise of nonslip mats in the bathrooms and two rooms for the price of one for families with children. But Weynfeldt still liked it. It reminded him of his childhood. He had stayed there sometimes when his parents took him to Royal Ascot.
But now Adrian decided to stay home to wait for the call. He put his mind to organizing the exhibition of selected works from the auction in St. Moritz, only to find that there was nothing left to be organized, thanks to Véronique. He spent a lot of time on the phone to collectors and curators he knew would be interested in certain lots from the auction to add to their collections.
When she returned after three days, Véronique’s office was as chaotic as his. He welcomed her with a box of chocolates and a bouquet of lilacs, her favorite flower, and decided it really was time to talk to the director about her salary.
While he was waiting for a sign of life from Lorena, the long awaited cold spell arrived.
Weynfeldt saw the cold front coming. He was at Diaco’s for the final fitting of the two suits he’d had made for the unusually warm winter, when it went dark in the fitting room. A dense layer of cloud, like gray felt, slid in front of the sun, which just now had still been shining cheerfully—from an admittedly streaky sky. At the same moment an icy wind billowed through the tulle curtain at the half-open window. Giuliano Diaco shut it.
“I think you can take your time with the suits now,” Weynfeldt observed.
As he got into a taxi outside Diaco & Sons, tiny sharp snowflakes bit at his face.
“Fucking winter,” the driver snarled.
“Good for business though,” Adrian said jovially.
“How’s that? Are you a ski instructor?” the driver spat caustically.
“I meant your business.”
“I don’t own the business. I’m just a badly paid taxi driver who can’t afford custom suits.”
Neither of them said a word for the rest of journey through the dark snowstorm. Weynfeldt punished the man with a humiliatingly big tip.
It was the same as ever: everyone was expecting it, it was a foregone conclusion and yet the cold snap still unleashed chaos. It overwhelmed the city’s street-sweeping teams, blocked the roads with the abandoned vehicles of optimists who had changed to their summer tires, caused delays on public transport, formed the main topic of conversation in offices, businesses and restaurants and pushed global politics out of the headlines.
The waiting Weynfeldt viewed adjusting to the extreme weather as one of the many tasks that would shorten his wait. Others included making an appointment with Gabriel Talberger, the film producer he went to school with years ago. Weynfeldt invited him for lunch at the Bel Étage, the restaurant at the Grand Imperial Hotel. Talberger was a little surprised at the invitation, and it hadn’t been easy to find a window in his diary. But he had succeeded on short notice, undoubtedly out of curiosity.
The Bel Étage was not a place you could get reservations on short notice, either, but as Murphy’s used the Imperial’s ballroom, the impossible was always made possible for Dr. Weynfeldt. He was given one of the tables the hotel kept in reserve for their VIP guests. He waited at it for Talberger, much too early, as usual.
He hadn’t seen the producer for several years, and only recognized him as he came close. He had put on weight, and gone bald in an old-fashioned way. His nose, once a landmark of his physiognomy, was less marked now that his face was more rounded; more in proportion, but less distinctive. Only his eyes, ice blue and light-sensitive, still gazed critically and haughtily as ever.
Talberger worked his way through the gourmet menu; Weynfeldt stuck to the business lunch. This meant he had longer pauses between courses than his guest. He felt obliged to dig through his scant reminiscences of their shared school days.
Only after the dessert and cheese could Weynfeldt get to the real point of the invitation.
“A friend of mine, Claudio Hausmann, known throughout the industry, I’m sure”—Talberger’s nod didn’t look promising—“… has recently finished a script.”
“… Working Title: Hemingway’s Suitcase,” Talberger said.
“Ah, you know it?”
“Known throughout the industry.”
Weynfeldt had no option but to ask, “And? What do you think of it?”
Talberger pushed the empty plate of cheese aside and leaned back. “Can I be honest?”
“Best not,” Weynfeldt said.
“What exactly did he say?” Kando wanted to know. She had called frequently since their drink in Südflügel, and had pressed for the meeting with Talberger. He had barely returned from lunch at Bel Étage when she was on the line again.
They arranged to meet for an aperitif next day, in Südflügel again. Although he was over-punctual as ever, Kando and Claudio were waiting for him, glasses almost empty.
Weynfeldt felt terrible. He was dreading this meeting more than the meal with Talberger.
“How did it go?” Kando asked, as soon as he sat down. Hausmann acted as if the whole business was immaterial to him.
“Not badly,” Weynfeldt replied, “in principle.”
“He’s read the script?”
“He knew it.”
“And?”
“He finds the project interesting”
“You see,” Kando said to Claudio. “I knew it. Talberger was the one to contact.”
“The project,” Hausmann muttered. “Obviously the project is interesting. I’d like to know how he found the script.”
“How did he find the script?” Kando gave Weynfeldt a severe look.
“As I said, I got the impression he thought it wasn’t bad in principle.”
To which Kando asked, “What exactly did he say?”
Adrian had an answer prepared for this: “He feels it needs more flesh on the bones in some places.”
Hausmann rolled his eyes. “That’s what really makes me sick. You add the flesh during shooting. I hope you told him that.”
Adrian had an answer here too. “I think it’s purely a question of financial tactics. The atmosphere and the dialogue help attract funding. After that you’re free again.”
Instead of giving an answer Claudio made a dismissive wave with a weary hand and reached for the dregs of his Campari.
Kando, the more pragmatic of the two, asked, “And what does he suggest?”
“A script doctor and a dialogist.”
“And a director,” Hausmann added sarcastically.
Talberger had indeed suggested this, but Adrian refrained from saying so.
It was Kando again who bit the bullet: “And who will pay for all that?”
Now the conversation had returned to Weynfeldt’s home turf.
March, and it was still winter. The uppity foretaste of spring had made it hard for people to cope with the cold, wet and gray again. Adrian Weynfeldt didn’t care; he wasn’t susceptible to the weather. He participated in conversations about the weather, of course, but in the same way he participated in any conversation he wasn’t remotely interested in: with polite interest.
Not only that, the weather’s return to normality fitted his preference for regularity. At the Alte Färberei for instance, where, disconcerted by the spring-like weather, they had replaced the Saturday Berner Platte with something lighter, everything was back to normal: the restaurant was overheated, the coat stands hung with overcoats and the mountain of sauerkraut wheeled by on the serving trolley was again crowned with steaming tongue, bacon and sausages.
Adrian Weynfeldt stuck to the tradition of meeting his elderly friends there on Saturday nights. Mereth Widler and Remo Kalt, his family’s former asset manager, were the only others present. The old lady was doing her best to switch from her lifelong role of shocking lady to that of disgraceful widow. But she couldn’t pull it off. She was as lost as the funny half of a comedy duo whose straight man has died. And she no longer had the energy to put away impressive quantities of the Berner Platte. Perhaps, Adrian thought, this had also just been part of her act. Without an audience she would just have eaten the modest portions presumably required to maintain her slender physique.
At Agustoni’s too it was cozier with real winter weather. The ceramic coal stove, piled with napkins in summer, was used to boost the central heating in winter. At busy times Agustoni insisted on stoking it with coal briquettes, personally and ceremonially. The windows remained closed, and it was left to the ventilation system, continually damned by the relevant authorities, to extricate the mixture of smoke and kitchen vapors. The waiters had to negotiate the hems of coats dangling on the ground from the backs of chairs. It was louder and people drank more; the guests postponed, again and again, the moment they would have to return to the chilly streets.
Rolf Strasser had skipped the Thursday lunch club only once; now he was back, surly and drunk and late as ever. Weynfeldt had never challenged him about his commission for Baier. Not only because he preferred to avoid conflict. He had other reasons too.
As Strasser was always one of the last to arrive, and thus sat far away from Weynfeldt, it was easy to avoid talking to him. They waved noncommittally to each other from a distance, and that was that.
Aside from Alice Waldner, no one noticed that their relationship had cooled; she asked, “What’s with Rolf? Did he ask you for money and you said no?”
“The other way around is more like it,” Adrian said. She thought this was a good joke, and let out one of her childlike laughs.
During one of the Thursday meals Weynfeldt made an appointment with Kaspar Casutt to discuss another activity which would shorten the waiting period.
For various reasons they met in Weynfeldt’s apartment, and for reasons relating to these reasons, he asked Frau Hauser simply to prepare a cold buffet with a few Grison specialties—dried meats, cheese, Salsiz, Birnbrot, Nusstorte. They would serve themselves.
As always in winter, Casutt came without a coat, simply wearing a red wool scarf over his black jacket. Adrian was convinced Kaspar felt as cold as he did, the city boy. But Casutt clearly wanted to express his disdain for the pathetic winter down here in the valley.
He was visibly disappointed by the frugal meal—he was used to finer things from Frau Hauser. But given that everything was from his Alpine home, he helped himself and suppressed any objections to what was on offer. And he showed growing enthusiasm for the Veltliner, an unusual, outstanding example of the genre.
When he then discovered that the reason for the invitation was a job, his mood rose to those rare peaks of warmth which reminded his friends why they were friends with him in the first place.
Each holding a glass, they inspected the future building site, and Kaspar said, “Fitness studio? Why a fitness studio? Having a midlife crisis? Just get more exercise—go jogging, walking, climbing. Or try tennis, golf. Yes, golf, that would suit you. And we’ll make a multimedia room here. Or a home movie theater. Yes, a movie theater. Eight seats. Or twelve. Dolby five point one.”
“I’d prefer a fitness room, Kaspar,” Adrian succeeded in asserting.
Casutt thought for a second. Then he surprised Adrian with the words, “Okay, you’re the boss.” And switched from movie theater to fitness studio in an instant. “Rubber, black rubber surface, good cushioning. Elastic sports flooring. Perhaps continuing up the walls, ten or twelve inches. Maybe not though. And here perhaps mirrors down the entire wall. At the beginning you can pull a curtain across,” he grinned, “but after a few months’ training …”
Casutt was good at that: he could conjure up a space so graphically, with just a few words and gestures, that you saw it in front of you, felt you were in it and viewed the transitional phase from reality to dream as a minor detail.
And this was how Weynfeldt felt now, although really he knew that a building project with Casutt meant an eternal series of delays, arguments with contractors and suppliers and fundamental discussions about architecture, architectural rigor and the social significance of building to humanity.
In the middle of his enthusiastic explanation, the architect stopped short. “I wouldn’t be able to handle that,” he said.
“What?” Weynfeldt asked.
Casutt pointed to the painting above the sofa: “She doesn’t take her eyes off you for a moment.”
23
EVERY RUN OF BAD LUCK COMES TO AN END, LORENA thought, as she finished the conversation with Barbara and threw her cell phone on her unmade bed.
Mallorca! Wow!
Barbara. Of all people. Barbara: last time she’d seen Barbara, Lorena had called her a filthy whore. She had no idea how long ago that was.
They had once been best buddies, as far as it’s possible for two catalogue models to be buddies. Barbara was the only one who hadn’t sucked up to the photographers and clients, and hadn’t obeyed the ban on smoking joints and drinking during working hours. The only one aside from Lorena.
They’d had a lot of fun together. The falling out, like most in that milieu, was bedroom related. Barbara had done exactly what they’d despised their colleagues for; she had s
lept her way into special treatment. She had started something with the mail order company’s head of advertising and had become the star of the troupe overnight. It was no use Barbara pleading that she really had fallen head over heels in love: Lorena called her a filthy whore.
And now she had called to ask, “How do you feel about two weeks on Mallorca? We fly in two days. But you have to decide now. Last minute.”
“No cash,” Lorena said.
“You don’t need any. My husband will pay.”
“You’re married?”
“Guess who?”
“No!”
Two weeks on Mallorca was exactly what she needed now. Two weeks in the Caribbean would have been better, but Mallorca was fine. She had never been there, but a Mediterranean island at the end of February was always good, particularly just before a cold spell here. Not many tourists, long walks on empty beaches, discos closed, healthy living.
She considered who she could tap for money. Even if the flight and hotel were paid, she couldn’t travel with no money at all. The only person who came to mind was the man with the signet ring, Adrian Weynfeldt. She found his card and called his apartment. Answering machine. She hung up.
She tried his office. Without high expectations; it was Saturday.
But her streak of good luck held; his secretary answered. Weynfeldt now had a cell phone, and the woman actually gave her the number.
She called and let it ring for ages. Finally he answered. “Hallo?” she said. Nothing. Just murmuring voices. “It’s me, Lorena!”
Still nothing but murmuring. Then the line suddenly went dead. She called again. The person she was trying to call was unavailable, a voice said. Weynfeldt had switched his phone off. He was probably at a meeting.
On a Saturday morning? At a meeting? It had sounded like some other kind of gathering.
She would try again in an hour; in the meantime she started packing.
An hour later Weynfeldt’s phone was still switched off. But now Lorena knew she needed shoes for Mallorca. And a bathing suit, in case it was at all summery there. And other bits and pieces.