Me and Kaminski Page 10
“During that week I got my first gray hairs. When I went out again, I had the first sketches for the 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 Velázquez 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, bumped into a table, apologized, bumped 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 passenger 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?”
“God 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, advertisements, 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, advertisements, 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 circumstances I would certainly have been there. A pity nobody 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. HELLO. 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 glasses, and made way for him.
“Quilling must really have made it!” cried Eugen Manz, the editor-in-chief of 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 glass down.
“Hello, 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.
“What?” said Kaminski.
“Eugen Manz of 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.”
“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 glasses 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 glasses.
“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.
“I’m writing a book on Manuel,” I said, “which is why we naturally have to . . .”
“I’m an admirer of your early work,” said Quilling.
“Really,” said Kaminski.
“I have some issues with the later things.”
“Is that grass piece in the Tate one of yours?” asked Manz. “It blew me over.”
“That’s by Freud,” said Kaminski.
“Freud?” asked Verena Mangold.
“Lucian Freud.”
“My mistake,” said Manz. “Mille pardons.”
“I want to sit down,” said Kaminski.
“The thing is,” I said meaningfully, “the two of us are just passing through. I can’t say any more.”
“Good evening,” said a gray-haired man. It was August Walrat, one of the best artists in the country. The connoisseurs all valued him, but he’d never been a success; somehow it had never happened that one of the major magazines had done a piece on him. Now he was too old, and it was just impossible, he’d been around too long and the right moment had passed. He was better than Quilling, everyone knew that. He knew it too, even Quilling knew it. All the same, he’d never get a solo exhibition in Hochgart’s gallery.
“This is Manuel Kaminski,” said Manz. The thin woman laid her hand on his shoulder and pressed herself against him. He smiled at her.
“But isn’t he dead?” said Walrat. The talking head inhaled sharply. Manz let go of the woman. I looked at Kaminski, shocked.
“If I don’t sit down soon, that’s going to come true.”
I took Kaminski by the elbow and led him to one of the chairs lined up against the wall. “I’m writing Manuel’s life story!” I said loudly. “That’s why we’re here. Him and me. Us!”
“Please forgive me,” said Walrat. “It’s just that you’re a classic. Like Duchamp or Brancusi.”
“Brancusi?” asked Verena Mangold.
“Marcel was a poseur,” said Kaminski. “An imbecile and a showoff.”
“Could I interview you some time?” said Manz.
“Yes,” I said.
“No,” said Kaminski.
I nodded to Manz and held out my hand to say: Just wait, and I’d sort it out. Manz looked baffled.
“Duchamp is important,” said Walrat. “You can’t just avoid him.”
“Importance isn’t important,” said Kaminski. “Painting is important.”
“Is Duchamp here too?” asked Verena Mangold.
Kaminski groaned and let himself down onto a folding chair, and I supported him while Manz bent over my shoulder inquisitively. “You know all about him, yes?” I said quietly.
He nodded. “I wrote his obituary.”
“What?”
“Ten years ago, when I was culture editor of the Evening News. Stocking up on obituaries was my main job. Thank God that time’s over.”
Kaminski pulled his stick close to him, his head was sagging and his jaws worked; if there had been less noise, the smacking noise he made would have been audible. Above him, one of Quilling’s collages showed a TV set with a thick stream of blood pouring out of it, all spray-painted with the words Watch It! Next to it were three of his Advertisement Papers:posters from the soap manufacturers DEMOT, onto which Quilling had glued cutouts of figures by Tintoretto. For a time they’d been all the rage, but since DEMOT themselves had started using them as ads, nobody was so sure anymore what to make of them.
Hochgart pushed me aside. “Someone’s just let on that you’re Manuel Kaminski.”
“I told you that already!” I cried.
“I didn’t take it in.” Hochgart squatted down so that his face was level with Kaminski’s. “We must take some photos!”
“Perhaps he could have an exhibition here,” the slender woman suggested. Up till now she hadn’t uttered a single word. We all stared at her in surprise.
“No, seriously,” said Manz, wrapping an arm around her hips. “We must seize the opportunity. Maybe a portrait. In the next edition. Are you still in town tomorrow?”
“I hope not,” said Kaminski.
Professor Zabl came wobbling up and tripped over Hochgart, who was still squatting on the floor. “Whatizit?” he said, “whatizit? What?” He’d had too much to drink. He was white-haired, with a lamp tan and, as always, a screaming tie.
“I need a taxi,” said Kaminski.
“That’s really not necessary,” I said, “we’re about to leave.” I smiled at everyone and explained, “Manuel is tired.”
Hochgart got to his feet, dusted off his pants, and said, “This is Manuel Kaminski.”
“We’ll do an interview tomorrow,” said Manz.
“Delighted, I’m sure,” said Zabl, advancing shakily on Kaminski. “Zabl, professor of aesthetics.” He squeezed between us and sat down on a vacant chair.
“Can we go?” said Kaminski.
A waitress came by with a tray, I took a glass of wine, drank it all in one go, and took another.
“I am, am I not, correctly informed,” asked Zabl, “that you are the son of Richard Rieming?”
“Something of the sort,” said Kaminski. “Forgive my question, but which paintings of mine are you familiar with?”
Zabl looked at us all, one after the other. His neck trembled. “Just right now . . . at this moment . . .I’ll have to pass on that.” He exposed his teeth in a grin. “Not basically my thing.”
“It’s late already,” said Manz. “It’s not fair to lean on the professor like that.”
“Are you a friend of Quilling’s?” asked Zabl.
“I wouldn’t claim that,” said Quilling, “but it’s true that I will always see myself as Manuel’s pupil.”
“Well, you certainly pulled off that surprise,” said Manz.
“No,” I said, “he’s here with me!”
“Mr. Kaminski,” said Zabl, “may I invite you to attend my seminar next week?”
“I don’t think he’s here next week,” said Quilling. “Manuel travels a lot.”
“Is that a fact?” asked Ma
nz.
“He manages incredibly well,” said Quilling. “Sometimes his health worries us, but right now . . .” He touched the dark-stained frame of the Watch It!collage. “Knock on wood!”
“Has anyone called for a taxi?” asked Kaminski.
“We’re about to leave,” I said. The woman with the tray came past again and I took another glass.
“Would ten o’clock tomorrow morning suit you?” said Manz.
“What for?” said Kaminski.
“Our interview.”
“No,” said Kaminski.
“I’ll sort it out with him,” I said. Zabl tried to get up, had to grab on to something, and collapsed back onto the chair. Hochgart suddenly had a camera in his hand, and clicked; the flash threw our shadows against the wall.
“Can I call you next week?” I said quietly to Manz. I had to act while he still had some vague memory of the evening.
“Next week’s no good.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Week after.”
“Great,” I said. Across the other side of the room, under three of Quilling’s neon tubes glued over with newspaper clippings, I could see Walrat and Verena Mangold standing. She was talking a mile a minute while he leaned against the wall and stared sadly into his glass. I took Kaminski’s elbow and helped him to his feet; Quilling immediately did the same from the other side. We led him to the door.
“It’s fine,” I said, “you can let go!”
“No problem,” said Quilling. “No problem.”
Manz tapped me on the shoulder, and I let go of Kaminski for a moment. “Let’s say the end of this week instead. Friday. Call my secretary.”
“Friday,” I said, “very good.” Manz nodded absentmindedly, the thin lady laid her head on his shoulder. As I turned around, I saw Hochgart in the process of taking a photograph of Quilling and Kaminski. The conversation died away. I hastily grabbed Kaminski’s other arm, but too late: Hochgart had finished already. We moved on, the floor felt uneven, and the air seemed to quiver faintly. I’d drunk too much.
We went down the stairs. “Careful, a step!” said Quilling with every tread. I looked at Kaminski’s wild hair, his right hand gripped the stick tightly. We got out onto the street. It had stopped raining, and the streetlights were reflected in the puddles.
“Thanks!” I said. “I’m parked over there.”