F Read online

  I hear something. It’s all dark around me. What I’m hearing is sobbing. I manage to straighten up a little. Slowly the shadow dissolves. I grope my head: no blood. Now I can see the dirty green threads in the carpeting. The person sobbing in here is me. I don’t know what it is, but something terrible has happened. Something that should never have been allowed to happen. Something that will never come good again.

  I stand up. I’m not the only thing swaying, the elevator cabin is swaying too: seventh floor, eighth floor, ninth floor. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I wipe away my tears and check my watch: fourteen minutes past four. Note the day, note the time: August 8, 2008, fourteen minutes past four. You’ll find out what this means soon enough. The cabin stops, the doors open. At the last moment before they close again, I leap out.

  I have to stay leaning against the wall for a bit, then I walk through the office in a daze. Everything seems different from the way it was before, every desk, every face, every object. I enter the conference room and murmur my excuses, because of course they have started without me. I take off my jacket, throw it over an empty chair, sit down, and manage to look as if everything is in order. At this I am an expert.

  The sight of my colleagues depresses me even more than usual: all that lethargy, all that mediocrity. Possibly it is also to do with the fact that I only hire mediocre people. The last thing I need is someone who sees through me. Lehmann and Schröter are here, Kelling, whose daughter is my godchild, Pöhlke, whom I’d fire in a moment if only he gave me an excuse, because I just don’t like him. Maria Gudschmid is here, and so is the guy whose name I can never remember. And Felsner. I like him, but I don’t know why. When I came in, Lehmann had just been speaking. Now they’re all still, looking at me and waiting.

  I take a breath. I’m hoarse and I feel as if I might burst into tears again, but I still have to say something. So I stammer out a few phrases about pleasurable working conditions and the good things we make, and I quote the Bhagavad Gita: Here you stand, Arjuna, so do not ask, stand up and fight, for God hates the lukewarm. Not a bad address, I think. They don’t know that they will soon be unemployed; some will be suspected of having collaborated, but the truth will come out: they are not criminals, they are merely incompetent.

  The bit about God and the lukewarm, says Maria Gudschmid, isn’t in the Bhagavad Gita, it’s from the Bible.

  The danger, says Kelling, that Triple A bonds could lose a significant portion of their value, can be discounted in practical terms. Triple A’s are and will remain classical value investments and thus risk free.

  A problem arises, says Pöhlke, that it’s a known fact that investment banks invested in the very positions they were actively offering for sale to smaller firms. They thus set the value themselves of what they were selling; in other words, they unilaterally decided how much their customers owed them.

  At some point, Felsner says, there will be a class-action suit against this system. But at the moment the only thing to do is wait. There has been an announcement that Krishna’s next avatar will appear before this epoch of ours is over.

  Which doesn’t mean that it’s certain that the avatar will have to be human, says Maria Gudschmid.

  If for example anyone is holding significant insurance paper, says Lehmann, it would be impossible to calculate the extent of exposure in the event of a collapse of the large derivative conglomerates. There is, he says, no tool to work out a reasonable rate of risk.

  “Kluessen wants to withdraw his money,” I say.

  At a stroke the room falls silent.

  But hopefully it’s not yet a sure thing, says Felsner. And there are certainly things we can still do.

  Not a good moment to lose our most important account, in Maria’s view.

  In an emergency there are tricks, says Lehmann. If for example the value of a set of assets cannot be reliably established because of a legally suspect asymmetry in the market, the trustee has the right to freeze those assets on a temporary basis. Even against the wishes of the owner.

  Pure theory, says Schörter. No court would accept such an argument.

  To get back to the problem with the investment banks, says Pöhlke. His proposal: short a few of them, without great investment.

  Only to him that dares, says Lehmann, will Krishna give.

  Quite a few dare, is Pöhlke’s infuriated retort, and Krishna does not give. The god has freedom of action, because he is freedom itself.

  Which is why bad people sometimes get the lot, says Kelling, while good people get nothing. The risk potential in the lower reaches of the mortgage pool is not good, and—

  “Thank you!” I stand up. Until now I’ve kept a straight face, I’ve stayed sitting with my back straight and haven’t given anything away. Now I’ve had enough.

  “Just one more question,” calls Schröter.

  The door closes behind me.

  On the way to the elevator I wonder about how to establish that I really did hear what I think I heard. But if I ask someone, he could lie, and even a recording can be manipulated.

  “Now it’s happened,” says the man next to me in the elevator. “Now it’s all coming to an end.”

  He’s wearing a hat and his teeth are hideous. I’ve seen him already today, but I can’t remember where. He doesn’t look right at me but talks to my reflection in the mirror on the back wall of the elevator, so that it is not he but his reflection that stares at me fixedly. Apart from us there are two other men standing there with briefcases, but they are looking straight ahead and paying no attention to us.

  “What did you say?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  I turn away.

  “Sometimes every path is the wrong one,” he says.

  I stare at him.

  “The truth will set you free,” he says. “Nice if it were so. But sometimes there is absolutely nothing that can set you free anymore. Neither lies nor the truth.” He straightens his hat with an affected gesture. “At bottom there is no longer any difference between the two, Ivan.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He frowns.

  “What did you just say? About lies and truth? Did you call me Ivan?”

  Now the two men with the briefcases are watching us, concerned. Yes, that’s how it goes, that’s how they shatter your nerves. And then all of a sudden, you grab someone and yell and start hitting them and then they can put you away. But I’m not going to make it that easy for them.

  “Apologies,” I say. “I must have misheard.”

  “You think?” asks the man with the hat.

  The elevator stops, one of the briefcase men gets out and a woman in a black jacket gets in. They’ve practiced really well, everything looks natural. You could watch for hours and never have any suspicion.

  “You’re not going to hold out very much longer,” he says.

  I don’t react.

  “Keep running. Look good in your suit. Keep running for as long as you can. You look the worse for wear.”

  I don’t react.

  “You have to know, today is not a day like any other. Sometimes it’s easier. Death brings us closer.”

  The elevator stops, the doors open, I get out without turning around. I go out to the street, the heat has abated a bit, it will soon be evening. Knut is sitting in the car with the engine running. Did I tell him to wait for me? I get in.

  “Question,” he says.

  “Not now.”

  “Municipal bonds—should you, shouldn’t you, how does it look?”

  How cool and quiet it is in the car. A good make of car, clean, tank full, with a chauffeur at the wheel, all give me more peace than the finest of religions.

  “To be specific,” says Knut. “My aunt. Dead. Bad thing. I told you about it. The building site. The crane.”

  “Yes, I know.” As always, I haven’t a clue.

  “But it was also her fault. She shouldn’t have hidden where she did. Nobody made her do that, did they?”r />
  “No.”

  “In any case, none of us would have thought she had a hundred thousand euros. We just didn’t know. Particularly not after the thing with the innkeeper and the burglars. And also because she was always so stingy. Nothing ever at Christmas. Nor to the children. So now, what do we do? There’s this old guy next door, his son is with the bank. I don’t like him. He doesn’t like me either. Particularly not after the whole thing with his dog. He stated that the beast was never in our garden, but I have two witnesses. So—municipal bonds. His son’s idea. Mitznik.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what the old guy is called. And he stutters! Municipal bonds. Mitznik’s his name. So what now, boss, are they okay? Municipal bonds?”

  “Yes, pretty much.”

  “But do they pay anything?”

  For no apparent reason he brakes sharply; luckily my seat belt is fastened. He hits the horn and then drives on. “I want to make some money! If there’s nothing in it, I’m out!”

  “The more reliable an investment is, the less it pays. The highest wins you can make are in a casino, because the odds there are so terrible. Investing is gambling with good odds.”

  “Can I give it to you, boss?”

  “Me?”

  “Will you invest it for me, boss?”

  “We don’t accept such small investments.”

  “But for me? As a favor? For a friend?”

  Did he really call me a friend? The maneuver is transparent, but it moves me. “A hundred thousand?”

  “Maybe even a bit more.”

  Well, it would be enough to pay the rent on the office space for a while. Later that would make him one joint plaintiff among many, that’s no longer the point.

  I shake my head.

  “Boss!”

  “It wouldn’t be right. Believe me.”

  “Why?” He coughs, then he emits a series of high, sharp sounds. They could be sounds of rage, or they could be sobs.

  “You just have to believe me. It’s better this way.”

  He brakes, opens the window, and screams at someone. I can’t understand it all, but the words animal, pig-ignorant, and child abuser emerge, along with something about strangulation. He’s already driving on.

  “Well, okay,” I say.

  “Really?”

  “For you, I’ll make an exception.”

  “Boss!”

  “It’s fine!”

  “Boss?”

  “Please, it’s fine.”

  But he brakes again, turns around, and reaches for my hand. At first I manage to avoid it, but then he gets hold of my shirt cuff. “I’d die for you.”

  “That’s really not necessary.”

  “I’d kill for you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean it. Just give me a name.”

  “Please—”

  “I’ll kill him.”

  “Keep driving!”

  “It’s not a joke.”

  How can I avoid thinking about Kluessen? A car accident, a suddenly induced and mysterious heart ailment.… Luckily Knut lets it go and keeps driving. I close my eyes and manage to black out his ongoing monologue. It occurs to me that my phone is still switched off. This explains why no one from the office has called me to ask where on earth I’ve gotten to.

  We’ve already reached home. If you drive early, you avoid the rush hour. I evade Knut’s last effusions of thanks, get out, and stride along the gravel path through the garden like the very image of a man accustomed to overcoming obstacles. I unlock the front door, go in, and call, “I’m home!”

  No answer.

  There was no anticipation that I would be back so early. The house is silent, as if I’d caught it getting up to something. So this is what it’s like when I’m not here. I call out again. My voice sounds lost in the large hall.

  Then I hear something.

  Not a knocking, more a scraping noise. It sounds like heavy metal objects being shoved around. I cock my ears, but it’s already stopped. Just as I decide I must have made a mistake, it starts again.

  It’s coming from below me, in the cellar. Should I call someone, a plumber or the fire department? But if someone came and there was nothing to hear, what would that make me look like? I go into the kitchen and wash my hands. And there it goes again. The window shakes, the glasses in the cupboard clink gently. I dry my hands. Now all is quiet.

  And then I hear it again.

  Under no circumstances am I going to go down to the cellar on my own.

  I listen. It’s stopped.

  It starts again.

  I cross the hall and undo the heavy bolt on the cellar door. I’ve never been down there—why would I? It’s where we store our wine bottles, but that’s not my job, Laura’s the one who takes care of all that.

  A flight of stairs leads down; two naked bulbs cast a rather spotted light on the treads. Three old posters are glued up on the brick wall: Yoda, Darth Vader, and some naked woman—I’ve never seen any of them before. At the bottom is a metal door. I open it, grope for the light switch, and locate it. The air is musty. A bulb crackles as it comes on.

  A long space, a low ceiling, a large wine rack against the wall, half empty. That’s my wine collection, that’s what I spent all that money on? In one corner there’s a tin bucket lying on its side, in the opposite wall I see another door. The noise has ceased. I move slowly through the room and push the lever of the door handle down. I feel a rush of cold air: another flight of steps. I feel for the switch: the light goes on.

  This bulb is dirty and flickers badly. It must already be old. The treads are narrow. I put out my right foot and take a cautious step onto the top one, pause for a moment to collect myself, and then go slowly down.

  There it is again. A dull thump, a dragging noise, a sort of squeal, of the kind made by the pistons of a large machine. But I cannot turn around. Succumb to your anxieties too often and you become small and pathetic. This is my house. Perhaps this is the critical test, perhaps now everything will change.

  Silence falls.

  I reach the bottom without a sound to be heard, except for my own breathing and the beating of my heart. It’s cold. How deep is it down here? Another door, which I open; another light switch.

  I hear it again. This room is surprisingly large, at least fifteen by thirty meters. Stone walls, the floor hard earth, two bulbs in the ceiling, only one of which is working. I see a crumpled cloth, and next to it a curved metal rod, one end rounded like the head of a walking stick, the other filed to a sharp point. Two doors: I try one, it’s locked. I rattle it, but it doesn’t budge. But the other one opens and on the other side is yet another set of steps. No light switch.

  I stare down into the darkness, and try to count the treads. I can’t make out more than nine.

  Enough! I’m not going any farther!

  I go farther, one step after the other, my left hand flat against the wall, my right hand clutching the phone with its feeble glow. When did the noise stop? I haven’t even noticed. Another two steps. And another. And yet another. Now I’ve reached the floor.

  In front of me is a door, which I try to open, but it’s locked tight. I can feel the relief. There’s nothing more here, I can go back. I try it once again, and it opens without the slightest resistance.

  I grope my way forward. Under me is a step made of steel, and the wall next to me is curved. After a moment I get it: a spiral staircase. The shaft goes straight down vertically. I search my pockets and find a ballpoint pen made of plastic. I hold it out with my arm and let it drop.

  I wait. No sound of an impact. Probably the pen was too small and too light. I search my pockets again and find a wallet, a metal lighter, a key ring, and coins. I only have the lighter so as to be able to offer it to smokers. I snap it open. The flame, much brighter than the phone, lets me see the steps better. I hold it out over the shaft and it flickers. So air is streaming up from down there. I hesitate, then let it fall. The flame dwindles and is sw
allowed up in the darkness. No sound of an impact.

  But I hear something else. I listen, wait, listen, the vibrations are getting stronger: something is hitting the steps. It takes me a few seconds to realize that someone is coming up the stairs. Toward me.

  Then it goes dark.

  And slowly the light returns. We’re sitting at dinner: Laura, Marie, Laura’s father, Laura’s mother, Laura’s sister and brother-in-law, and two children, all around the table, which has been set.

  “It’s supposed to stay this hot all week,” says Laura.

  “Every summer worse than the one before,” says her sister. “Nobody knows where you can even take the children.”

  “A house in Scandinavia,” says my father-in-law. “Or on the North Sea.” He looks at me. “Like your brother’s. Everyone could use one.”

  “We could visit him,” I am obliged to say. I would like to eat, because I’m really hungry, but my hands are shaking too badly.

  Now my father-in-law is talking about politics. I nod at regular intervals, as does everyone else. He’s an architect, and in the seventies he built one of the ugliest concrete buildings in the country, which earned him the National Medal. He gestures deliberately and makes long pauses before he says anything he thinks is important. That’s how you have to do it, that’s how you have to be, that’s how you have to present yourself, and then you’ll be respected. I admire him, I always wanted to be like him; and who knows, maybe in reality he’s a little like me.

  The trembling has eased up. Very carefully I push food into my mouth. Luckily nobody’s watching me.

  Or? Now everyone’s looking at me. What is it, what did I get wrong, what did I mess up? Apparently Laura has said something about a trip to Sicily. They’re all smiling and being pleased and saying how wonderful.

  “Do please excuse me,” I say. “Urgent call. Be right back.”

  “You work too much,” says Laura.

  “Everyone has to indulge themselves a little,” says my father-in-law. He pauses for thought, and then goes on in a tone that suggests he’s imparting hidden wisdom to us: “A man must know how to live.”

  I ask myself if he’s ever in his entire life uttered one single phrase that isn’t a thousand times well-worn cliché. I envy him greatly.