“A person can’t just vanish like that. He must have had friends, acquaintances, someone.”
“I was dealing with the most solitary person in the world, Salinger. More so than me,” he murmured. “At least I had three ghosts to keep me company.”
* * *
It had grown late. Max put the files back in the cabinet and locked it, and we got back in the gray Forest Rangers Land Rover, the heat turned all the way up.
“It isn’t true,” I said once we were inside. “You weren’t alone. Verena was with you.”
“Verena’s something else. Verena’s the reason I didn’t end up like Günther.”
He started the engine and we set off. We said nothing more until we got to our destination.
Max parked and switched off the headlights.
I listened to the engine ticking over.
“Verena would have liked children,” Max confessed, looking straight ahead of him. “She would have been an excellent mother. I said we couldn’t afford it, even though it wasn’t true. I said the time wasn’t right for it. I kept putting it off. The real reason was fear. I was scared that what happened to Hannes would happen to me. One fine day, you wake up and go to the woods to recover your son’s body.”
I saw Clara waving at me from the living room window. I waved back.
Time to get out.
I made to open the car door.
Max stopped me. “That day, I called you a murderer. You’re not a murderer. I know what happened on the Ortles. It wasn’t your fault.”
I didn’t reply. Not immediately, at least. I was afraid my voice would crack.
“Thanks, Max.”
It was good to hear myself say that.
“You have that child, Salinger. You can be happy. These aren’t your people. This isn’t your place. Don’t you think . . .”—he pointed to my daughter in the window—“. . . you have something better to fight for?”
* * *
That night I was inside again. Inside the Beast. In spite of the sleeping pills.
I didn’t scream. I woke weeping, with the feeling I had lost everything that was worth living for. Beside me, Annelise was sleeping peacefully, with a placid expression I found enchanting.
I embraced her, clung to her. By the time my heartbeat slowed, I’d even managed to stem the tears. Trying not to disturb Annelise’s sleep, I got up. In the bathroom, I opened the cabinet and looked through the blister packs of drugs I was pretending to take every morning. Those pills weren’t my salvation, they were only a chemical substitute. I closed the cabinet again. I didn’t want to have anything to do with them. I would double the dose of sleeping pills, if necessary. But I wouldn’t let chemistry decide my emotions.
I can do it, I thought. I can do it all by myself.
The First of February
On the first of February, three things happened. There was a blizzard, I nearly killed someone, and I had a phone call from Mike.
* * *
The cold days (the days of the blackbird, as they’re known) wouldn’t let go. That damned little bird, I’d heard Werner say, wanted to kill us all.
If in December the temperatures had conformed to the local average, cold enough to freeze the tips of your fingers even in gloves, but not enough to make you miss the warmth of your house (at least it was that way for me, but I love the cold), January had opened wide the doors to a Siberian low pressure area that seemed intent on turning North-Eastern Italy into a kind of Arctic tundra inhabited only by bears and other furry animals.
Siebenhoch glittered under a layer of ice as hard and treacherous as armor plating.
The locals were used to it, but the village didn’t only contain natives and there were lots of tourists damaging arms and femurs. Even I fell a few times.
I started to think that walking on the ice isn’t a mere skill, but a genuine art that’s transmitted in the genes. That would explain how Clara and Annelise could walk perfectly with the grace of two ballerinas while yours truly seemed like a clumsy cross between a one-legged goose and a clown with chili peppers up his butt.
At night, the reflection of the moon on the mountain glaciers made the use of lamps pointless. Everything was illumined with a ghostly bluish light. Sometimes it was a bewitching spectacle, at other times it verged on the terrifying.
Especially when, in my half-waking state, my mind wandered to the black hole of the Bletterbach.
* * *
When I woke that first of February, my tongue numb from the sleeping pills, I found myself alone, without the touch of Annelise’s body beside me.
I stretched and waited for my mind to clear, then calmly got out of bed and went to the window to gaze out at the landscape. The snow-shrouded forest, the pointed roofs of Siebenhoch blurring into the mist generated by a violent wind raising slivers of ice. The sun was a mere speck on the horizon, to be imagined rather than seen.
A good coffee brought me back to the land of the living.
Annelise had been up for a while. Cleaning day in the Salinger house-hold. Not that I was crazy about doing chores (I was the one who washed the dishes, put clothes in the washing machine and ironed, while Annelise changed the sheets and vacuumed—that was how our agreement worked), but after a quick shower I set to work. By midday, the house was gleaming like a mirror.
At one o’clock, Annelise’s hoarding instinct kicked in. She had that look of hers as she uttered anxiously, “We’re going to starve to death.”
In the cupboard, there were kilos of pasta of various shapes, sugar both refined and cane, sea salt and rock salt, tinned goods (peas, beans, soups of various kinds, tomato paste), a lot of beer, dried fruit (walnuts, hazelnuts, peanuts, figs, prunes, apples, pears, even dates) and everything that a regiment would need to survive a winter twice as long as the one we would have to live through.
“Darling,” I said, “don’t you think you’re exaggerating?”
“Don’t joke, Salinger.”
“I’m only saying that this house won’t turn into the Overlook Hotel until at least 2030.”
“Salinger—”
“Seriously, Annelise. Now you can tell me. Where have you put my axe, darling?”
“Don’t joke about these things.”
I started rolling my eyes and gnashing my teeth. “Wendy, darling, my axe. Where’s my axe?”
Annelise glared at me. She hated that film.
“Isn’t my performance convincing?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to make it better? Then give me my axe.”
“Drop it.”
“OK.”
I kissed the tip of her nose, took pen and paper, and resigned myself to an excursion I hadn’t planned on.
It took me at least ten minutes to jot down everything that Annelise wanted me to buy, and forever to get to the supermarket. An SUV had overturned in the middle of the road, paralyzing the traffic.
When I was a few meters from the vehicle, I saw Max among the road rescue team. I hooted my horn. He turned with the expression of someone ready to bite. When he recognized me, he relaxed.
I lowered my window.
“Salinger,” he said, touching his hat.
“A bit chilly, isn’t it?”
“So they say.”
“Will it last?”
“All week, at least.”
“Is anyone hurt?”
“Tourists,” Max muttered. “They’d be capable of causing an avalanche just by sneezing. You know what’s worse than city people?”
“I have no idea.”
“City people who are convinced they aren’t city people.”
I laughed with him.
We hadn’t had occasion to see each other since Max had opened the filing cabinets in the Krün family home for me. I’d have liked to thank him. But I felt not so much embarrassment as a kind of reticence that prevented me from saying the right thing at the right time.
I missed my shot, as the saying goes.
“Are you
going shopping?”
I showed him Annelise’s list. “My wife’s afraid it’s going to be a long winter.”
“She’s not wrong there.”
“At least I have an excuse for standing still and wasting gas.”
“Get out of here now before I slap a fine on you. You’re blocking the road.”
We shook hands and I closed my window. It really was cold.
Maybe, I thought as I passed the tow truck lifting the overturned SUV, it was better this way.
Maybe what I had seen in the Krün family’s maso should remain something not spoken about, one of those things it’s best not to dig up. Not in the light of day, anyway.
And anyway, the Bletterbach was the last thing on my mind that day. I can swear to that.
That’s why what happened took me by surprise.
* * *
I left the supermarket with three bags full to bursting, put them in the trunk, and got in the car. I switched on the heater and lit a cigarette.
I opened the window just enough not to die of suffocation.
I leaned my head back against the seat and half closed my eyes. I let myself be cradled by the rumbling of the engine and dozed off. Cleaning the house had tired me more than I’d realized. My siesta didn’t last long. The embers of my cigarette touching my fingers startled me awake, cursing. I opened the door wide and threw out the glowing cigarette end.
I didn’t see it vanish into the snow. I looked around, disconcerted. I couldn’t see the luminous sign of the supermarket to my left. I couldn’t see anything. For a moment, I thought I’d gone blind. Above and below were identical.
“Just snow,” I said aloud, trying to calm my heartbeat.
The old ticker had started taking big leaps. I raised a hand to my chest.
“A nasty blizzard, nothing more. Take it easy.”
Werner had told me about the blizzards. The blizzards weren’t just snowfalls. Snowfalls are to blizzards as summer downpours are to self-regenerating storms. Blizzards arrive silently and are worse than fog.
They blind.
I felt a clenching in my stomach. Everything was white.
I closed the door, gasping. I knew what was about to happen, but I didn’t want to accept it. Nevertheless, I had to eat the whole dose of shit that first of February had in store for me.
It came. And how.
PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder.
The hissing.
The voice of the Beast.
It started like a rustling, a radio tuned to a dead station. Within a few seconds, it became as solid as the wheel I was gripping with all my strength. I tried to struggle, controlled my breathing, did everything the doctors advise those who are about to have a panic attack. It didn’t help at all.
Total paralysis.
Get out.
That voice. And its smell. The smell of the Beast. A metallic smell, which left a patina of numbness in the mouth. An ancient smell. So ancient as to turn the stomach. Because the Beast was ancient. So ancient that . . . At last, I screamed.
With my left hand, I found the safety catch on the car door. I threw myself out, banging my knees on the ground. The pain was a blessing.
The hissing faded.
I stayed there motionless on all fours on the asphalt while the snow got into the folds of my clothes. The icy contact helped me to regain control.
I shook my head. I wiped away my tears. I stood up.
“I’m alive,” I said.
Alive and in the middle of a blizzard. Visibility was down to less than two meters.
I got back in the car. I switched the headlights on. I started the engine and set off, hearing the tires skid.
She emerged out of nowhere.
Her mouth was open wide, her arms outspread like Christ on the cross. She was wearing a blue jacket, completely unsuitable for that cold. I slammed on the brakes less than ten centimeters from her legs.
Brigitte Pflantz looked first at me, then at the sky.
Then she fell to the ground.
* * *
I rushed to help her. She was groggy, more from alcohol than from the fall.
I had to drag her into the car, she couldn’t stay on her feet.
“Brigitte? Can you hear me, Brigitte?”
She clutched my wrist. Her eyes were feverish. “Home.”
“I have to take you to the hospital.”
“Home,” she repeated.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. You need help.”
“The only help I need, Salinger, is the Lord’s. But He abandoned me a long time ago. Help me to sit up straight. I’ll guide you.”
I fastened her seat belt. We left.
Brigitte lived in an old house with peeling walls. The rolling shutters were off their rails, swollen by humidity.
The interior was even worse. It was the home of someone in the last stages of alcoholism, I told myself as soon as Brigitte, after ferreting in her handbag, managed to push the keys into the keyhole. There were bottles everywhere. On every surface there was a layer of grease and dust. The place smelled like an animal’s cage.
I laid Brigitte down on the couch. It was only then that I realized she was wearing a pair of spring shoes. I gently took them off. Her feet were blue, as were her hands and lips. Her teeth were chattering. Her eyes were yellow, jaundiced, and her dilated pupils followed every one of my movements. From somewhere I managed to dig out a pair of blankets stained with what could have been dried vomit. By now, I was used to the stench and didn’t pay much attention to it.
I covered her and started rubbing her.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to call a doctor?” I asked after a while.
“I’m feeling better. You can stop now, or God knows what your wife would say.”
I left the blankets on her and lit a cigarette. I realized that I was bathed in sweat. Now that the fear had passed, I was angry. I could have killed her. “What the hell were you doing,” I exclaimed, “coming out dressed like that in this weather? You could have died, dammit!”
“I’m an alcoholic, Salinger,” she murmured. “Haven’t you noticed? This is what alcoholics do. We’re a danger to ourselves and others.”
She smiled.
That’s what rooted me to the spot. It was a sweet smile.
“If you want a drink, help yourself,” she said, her face gradually regaining color. “There’s plenty to choose from. And thank you for not running me over.”
“There’s no need to thank me,” I muttered.
Brigitte sat up, smoothing the blankets as if they were an evening dress. “Oh, but there is. There’s always a need to say thank-you. The night Günther died, I wish I’d said thank-you to him, but I didn’t. Sit down.”
An insistent buzzing started up in my eardrums at these words.
I discovered a chair half-buried under a layer of old newspapers, cleared it, and sat down.
“You know Günther killed himself, don’t you? It wasn’t an accident. He knew the roads around Siebenhoch better than anyone. He could have taken those bends with his eyes closed. And that evening, he hadn’t drunk any more than usual. I know. I was there. I was with him before he ended it all.”
“And why do you wish you’d thanked him?”
“He said he wanted to be done with the story of the Bletterbach and with alcohol. Because he was ruining my life. He was trying to tell me that he was going to kill himself. But I was too drunk to understand. He felt guilty about that, too, he thought it was because of him that I hit the bottle. He loved me, you know.”
She stared at me, defying me to contradict her.
“Were the two of you very much in love?” I asked.
“Not like Kurt and Evi, no. We . . .”—she laughed—“we weren’t Kurt and Evi, unfortunately. But it worked. We loved each other and when we were drinking there were even moments when we were happy. Unfortunately, as the years passed, those moments became few and far between. Pass me that, will you? I’m thirsty.”
“Better not.”
“It’s my medicine, Salinger. Give it to me.”
I could have refused. I could have gotten up from that rickety chair and left without saying another word. She was feeling better, the risk of her dying of exposure had passed, I had no more responsibility toward her. I didn’t do it, though. I didn’t leave.
As usual, I lied to myself.
I told myself I was doing it for her. As long as I was there, as long as she felt it her duty to speak, she wouldn’t get drunk. I would grant her a drop only to warm herself. She was still numb with cold, after all.
B for bullshit.
But I didn’t do it to discover new details about the Bletterbach killings. I did it to ward off the Beast. If I concentrated on the story of the Bletterbach, I wouldn’t think about all that whiteness the blizzard had brought down on Siebenhoch and the speed with which my mind had gone to pieces. One worry drives out another.
I was scared. Scared of what had happened to me in the supermarket parking lot.
What if the attack had come while I was with Annelise? Would she have realized that I was still refusing to take the drugs? What would she have done? Would she have left me as she had threatened to do? And what if the attack had come while I was with Clara? How would my child have reacted?
I handed Brigitte the bottle of beer that was on the table. She knocked it back in a moment.
The eyes of a wounded animal.
“Do I disgust you, Salinger?”
“I feel sorry for you.”
“Why?”
“Because you have a big problem with that stuff.”
“I’m fine, my dear. Now that Günther isn’t here, I’m really fine.”
“Didn’t you love him?”
“Love isn’t as simple as it’s depicted in films. Not in Siebenhoch anyway. I only realized I was really in love with Günther when he killed himself.”
She burst into a guttural laugh and threw her head back.
“He did it to save me, don’t you see? That’s what he was trying to tell me. That he was going to take his own life because he knew he was killing me. And I’m not just talking about the booze. I’m talking about the Bletterbach. It was that story that he was killing me with. Killing himself. That’s why I’m sorry I didn’t thank him.”
Beneath the Mountain Page 18