Night Work (12 page)

All he saw at first were pedalos. When he boarded the nearest one he lost his balance and nearly fell in. Standing up with one foot on the driver’s seat and the other on the passenger’s, he looked around for alternatives. That was how he spotted the electric motorboat. The key was hanging on a hook in the boatman’s hut.

Operating it was simple. He set a switch to ‘1’, turned the steering wheel in the direction he wanted to go, and the boat went humming out across the lake.

The boatman’s hut and the kiosk beside it became smaller and smaller. His tent on the grass was just a pale speck. The mountains on the other side of the lake drew
nearer. Silently, the boat cut a foaming furrow in the water.

Roughly in the middle of the lake he switched off. He hoped the motor would start again. The shore might be too far away to swim to, and he didn’t want to have to try.

Jonas wondered how deep the lake was at this spot. He pictured the water draining away in an instant, as if by magic. A wonderful, fascinating new landscape would be revealed just before the motorboat plunged downwards, a landscape no human eyes had ever seen before.

In a compartment beside the driver’s seat, in addition to a first-aid kit, he found a dusty pair of women’s sunglasses. He wiped them and put them on. The sun glinted on the rippling surface of the water. The boat bobbed gently, then lay still. Far away, on the shore opposite his bathing place, he could make out some cars parked beneath a steep rock face. A cloud slid across the sun.

The cold woke him.

He sat up. He rubbed his arms and shoulders. He was wheezing, and his teeth were chattering.

Dawn was breaking. Naked except for his underpants, Jonas was sitting on the grass ten metres from the tent in which he’d gone to sleep the night before. The grass was wet with dew, the sky overcast. The trees were wreathed in mist.

The tent flap was open.

He circled the tent at a safe distance. The sides were fluttering in the breeze, the rear wall was sagging outwards. Although there didn’t appear to be anyone inside, he hesitated.

He was so cold he groaned out loud. He’d got undressed because he was too hot in the sleeping bag. That was still inside the tent. At least, he assumed it was. His
clothes were lying beside him, as was the shotgun. He’d taken it into the tent with him last night, he felt sure.

He put on his T-shirt and trousers, socks and boots. He pulled on the jumper, pushing his head through the neck quickly.

He went over to the moped. Noticed at once that the fuel tap was open. That meant the machine wouldn’t start until he’d stamped on the kick-starter ten or fifteen times – if he was lucky. He’d sometimes forgotten to turn off the tap as a youngster.

He scanned the area for tracks. Nothing. No strange footprints or tyre marks, no trampled grass. He looked up at the sky. The weather had changed abruptly. The air was so damp it might have been late autumn. The mist hovering overhead seemed to be getting steadily thicker.

‘Hello?’

He called in the direction of the car park, then across the stretch of grass. He ran down to the water’s edge and shouted across the lake at the top of his voice.

‘Hooo!’

No echo. The mist swallowed every sound.

Jonas couldn’t make out the opposite shore. He kicked a pebble into the water. It sank with a dull splash. Irresolutely, he trudged along beneath the trees lining the shore. He looked over at the tent, at the boatman’s hut with the flag flying from its roof. Out across the lake. It started to drizzle. At first he thought it was mist droplets, but then he noticed that the rain was growing heavier. He glanced at the boatman’s hut again. The landing stage was scarcely visible. The mist was steadily blanketing everything.

Not taking his eyes off the tent for a second, he started to repack the rucksack. The underside was wet. He cursed aloud. His other jumper was right at the bottom, worse luck. The moisture had seeped through into it. He wondered where the moisture had come from. It couldn’t have
come from the morning dew and the rain alone, and he hadn’t spilt anything.

He sniffed the sweater. It smelt of nothing in particular.

By the time he mounted the moped the mist had swallowed up the trees along the shore. The restaurant couldn’t be seen any more either. The dim shape in the car park was, he thought, the Opel from which he’d taken the inflatable mattress.

He pounded at the kick-starter until his forehead was streaming with cold sweat. The engine was flooded with petrol. He bounced so madly up and down that he toppled over sideways, taking the moped with him. He righted the machine and tried again. The rain grew heavier still. The tyres slipped on the sodden grass. Mist engulfed him. Rain was beating down on the tent a few metres away. He was no longer able to see what lay beyond it. He mopped his face.

While doggedly trying to kick-start the moped, with his heart beating ever more violently, he debated what to do. All that came to mind was the Opel, but he hadn’t noticed a key in the ignition. He considered pushing the moped up a slope, then coasting down and putting it in gear. There was a chance the engine would catch. But he couldn’t think of a suitable spot. Although the grassy expanse sloped down to the water’s edge, the gradient was far too slight.

The engine roared into life at last. Overcome with delight and gratitude, he hurriedly revved it in neutral. It sounded robust and reliable. Even so, he kept his hand on the throttle in case it died again. Buckling on his rucksack required some acrobatics. He slung the shotgun on, feeling a stab of pain as his shoulder took the full weight of it.

He peered through the rain in all directions, wondering if he’d left anything behind. All that remained was the tent with the sleeping bag inside, but even that was barely visible now.

He rode twenty metres in the direction of the changing cubicles, then turned. The tent was invisible now. He had to follow his tyre tracks.

Cautiously, he opened the throttle. The rear tyre spun, then gripped. He put on speed, saw the tent and headed for it.

The impact made surprisingly little noise. Tent pegs were wrenched out of the ground and flew through the air. One corner of the roof got tangled up in the footrest and was dragged along for several metres. It was all Jonas could do to keep the moped upright on the slippery grass. Once he had it under control, he braked to a halt.

He peered over his shoulder. The mist was so thick, he couldn’t see the tent at all. Even his tyre tracks were being blotted out by the rain, so swiftly that they seemed to dissolve before his very eyes. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his jacket, catching a whiff of wet leather as he did so.

He rode back. The tent wasn’t there. He cruised around but failed to find anything. His exact location escaped him. As he remembered it, the boatman’s hut must be behind him, the car park on his right and his vanished tent somewhere on the left. He made for the car park. To his surprise, the changing cubicles loomed up ahead. At least he now knew where he was. He found the car park without difficulty, but he couldn’t see the Opel. He followed the painted arrows on the asphalt that led to the main road.

Tucking his head in and arching his back, he rode away from the lido at a reassuringly steady speed. He had the feeling that a hand might grab him from behind at any moment. The sensation subsided as the mist thinned. Before long the trees beside the road became visible, and so, eventually, did the flower-bedecked boarding houses he passed.

He debated whether to raid one of them for a change of clothes, perhaps even for a raincoat. He was badly in need
of a hot shower. Soon, if he wasn’t to catch cold. But something prompted him to keep going.

In Attersee-Ort he made his way into a modest little café in a side street. He didn’t park the moped outside but wheeled it into the café and propped it against a plush-covered banquette. If someone was really pursuing him, that would cover his tracks.

He made himself some tea and took the steaming cup over to the window. He concealed himself from view behind a curtain. Blowing on his cup, he stared out at the puddle that extended the full width of the street, its surface whipped into foam by the rain, which hadn’t eased. He could hardly feel his nose and ears. He was soaked to his underpants. The damp patch on the carpet beneath him gradually widened. He was shivering, but he didn’t stir from where he was.

He made himself another cup of tea and looked for something to eat in the cramped back room that seemed to have been used as a kitchen. He found some tins and heated up the contents of two of them in a not particularly clean saucepan, which he stood on a portable hotplate. He ate greedily. As soon as he’d finished he took up his place at the window again.

It was midday by the clock beside the glass cabinet when he roused himself. The door marked ‘Toilets’ led to a flight of stairs. The flat above was unlocked. He went in search of some suitable clothing, but the occupant had evidently been a single woman. He came downstairs empty-handed.

After leaving a message and the date on the menu board he emerged from the café, kick-started the moped and rode it out onto the main road. Rain spattered his face. He looked left, looked right. No movement. Just raindrops drilling the puddles.

In the local sports shop, more to protect himself from
the rain than anything else, he got himself a crash helmet. He also put on an all-enveloping waterproof cape of transparent plastic, not that this repaired the damage already done. He was tempted to break into some other flat and get rid of his wet clothes, but his urge to leave the area was stronger.

Jonas had experienced lonely days like this before. Days of incessant rain and unseasonal cold. Mist hovered over the fields, roads and houses and nobody ventured out who didn’t have to. He had loved such days, when he lay in the warm in front of the TV, hating it when some cruel stroke of fate drove him out into the street. But in this part of the world, with its mountains, severe-looking conifers and deserted hotels and children’s playgrounds, he felt as if the landscape were trying to grab him. And if he didn’t hurry, he’d never escape.

He rode along the main road at top speed. He was so desperately cold, he tried to distract himself by reciting all the nursery rhymes he could remember. Before long, however, reciting them wasn’t enough and he started to sing and shout. He was shivering so much the words often stuck in his throat, and his voice was reduced to a croak. He bounced rhythmically up and down on the saddle. He felt feverish.

He reached Attnang-Puchheim in this fashion. Dashed into the first building he came to, a block of flats. All the doors were locked. He tried a detached house. No luck there either. Dripping wet, he threw his weight against the locked front door. It was solidly constructed and the lock was new.

Although the windows were quite high off the ground, he raised the shotgun and prepared to blow out a pane. Just then he noticed a small, windowless house across the street. Ignoring the puddles, he ran over to it. The door was round the back.

He tried the handle. It opened. He muttered a thank-you.

Without looking left or right, he hurried into the bathroom and turned on the hot tap. Then he peeled off his clothes. They were so sodden they landed on the tiled floor with a loud smack. He wrapped himself in a bath towel, hoping there were some men’s clothes in the house.

A gloomy house. There were windows only on the north side, overlooking a weed-infested garden. He turned on all the lights he passed, many of which didn’t work.

With the sound of running water coming from the bathroom, he turned the kitchen upside down in search of tea bags. He rummaged in all the cupboards and emptied out the drawers onto the floor, but all he found were useless things like cinnamon, vanilla essence, cocoa and ground almonds. The biggest shelf was crammed with cake tins. The occupants of the house seemed to have lived on a diet of cakes and pastries.

On a shelf that had escaped his notice at first he found a packet of soup cubes. Although he would have preferred tea, he put some water on to boil and crumbled five cubes into the saucepan.

A mountain of foam awaited him in the bathtub. He turned off the tap and put the saucepan of soup on a damp flannel on the edge of the bath. Then he threw off the towel and got in. The water was so hot he gritted his teeth.

He stared up at the ceiling.

Foam hissed and crackled all around him.

Bending his knees, he slid beneath the water, ran his fingers through his hair a few times and surfaced again. He opened his eyes at once and looked in all directions, shook the water out of his ears and listened. Nothing. He lay back.

He had loved having baths as a child. The Hollandstrasse flat had no bathtub, just a shower, so it was a treat he could only enjoy at Uncle Reinhard and Aunt Lena’s. He used to sit in their gleaming white tub, listening to the
sound of his aunt clearing the table and sniffing the various soaps and bath cubes. He was familiar with them all. He even recognised the disintegrating labels on the shampoo bottles and regarded them as friends. But what delighted him most of all was the foam. The millions of tiny bubbles that seemed to twinkle in countless colours. That was the loveliest sight he’d ever seen. He still remembered paying little attention to the plastic ducks and boats and staring dreamily at the foam instead, filled with a mysterious wish: this, he thought, was how the Christkind ought to look when bringing the presents at Christmas.

The man who had lived here was short and stout.

Jonas surveyed his reflection in the mirror on the door of the wardrobe from which he’d taken the former occupant’s shirt and Sunday-best trousers. The trousers hung loose about his hips but ended a few inches above his ankles. He couldn’t find a belt anywhere, so he secured them around his waist with some black sticky tape. They felt scratchy, as did the shirt, and both garments smelt of old twigs.

In the dimly lit hallway he walked along the rows of pictures that he hadn’t spared a glance until now. None of them was bigger than an exercise book, and the smallest ones were the size of a postcard. Some words had been scrawled on the wallpaper beneath each of the inappropriately massive frames, evidently their respective titles. Like the pictures themselves, they were incomprehensible at first sight. A dark mass was entitled
Liver
. A double-barrelled shotgun of some indeterminate material was
Lung
. Two crossed sticks
Autumn
. Beneath the face of a man who looked familiar to Jonas were the words
Floor
Meat
.