The Woman on the Stairs Read online

  I tried to react with the same sangfroid with which she had laid out her plan. “Will Schwind park so I don’t have to turn around?”

  She nodded. “I’ll make sure of it. Don’t worry about the gate either – it’s only closed at night.” She smiled at me. “If you drive off as soon as the door slams, and I run the minute my two men lock horns – we’ll have pulled it off.”

  I didn’t like her talking about her two men, but I said nothing. I pictured the slope of the land outside Gundlach’s house, the driveway to the gate, the greenery, the parking place. Yes, I could probably sneak into the van. I did not know what would happen if things went wrong, I was crossing a line that I’d never crossed. But I was determined. “When you get into the van, where will we go?”

  She ran her hand over my head again. “Where do you think?”

  17

  What could that mean, but that she’d be with me? I was happy. We belonged together. We would act together, succeed together, escape together. We did not even have to escape, we could stay put – what could we be accused of? I dreamed of our life together. Would we get a big apartment, or a small house? Did she garden, did she cook? What did she actually do all day? Did she like to travel, and where? Did she like reading, and what? Did she…

  “I have to go.” She tore me from my dream, and stood up.

  I stood up too. “Can I accompany you?”

  “It’s just a short walk.” She pointed to the Museum of Arts and Crafts.

  “There?”

  “I work there. Design.”

  Suddenly I was afraid. The beautiful woman, with whom I dreamed of a life, already had one. She had a job, she had earned or inherited money, she had been with men, Gundlach and Schwind weren’t accidents, but decisions. “Design” – she said it short and clipped, as if she didn’t want me to know more about her than necessary.

  “When will you give me the key?”

  “I’ll drop it in your mailbox. Where do you live?”

  I gave her my address. “You have to ring the bell. The mailboxes are in the main hallway. When will you come?”

  “I don’t know. If you’re not there, then I’ll just buzz until someone opens.”

  Then she was gone. She walked along the riverbank, crossed the street, and went into the museum. Crossing the street, as she looked left and right to check for traffic, she could have looked back at me and waved. But she didn’t look back.

  I sat back down on the bench. Should I go to the firm? I could still put in a day’s work. I didn’t want to. When, in the Botanic Garden, I remembered that morning by the river, it occurred to me that I had never done that again, fritter away a day. Of course, with my fiancée, then wife, and then with my children, there were days when I didn’t work. But on those days I did what I owed my fiancée, my wife and children, what served our health, education, togetherness. Pleasant activities, certainly, and a nice change of pace from work. But just to sit, and watch the world go by, and close my eyes against the sun, and daydream hour after hour, to find a restaurant with good food and wine, take a little walk, then find another place to sit and watch, and close my eyes against the sun, and dream – I did that only that day, and now again in Sydney.

  I wonder what I was dreaming of back then. Surely, of life with Irene. But surely not just that. Probably I pondered the past, as I do now. Since I seemed on the verge of finding happiness, maybe the past began to look different. Maybe I saw my childhood with my grandparents not as loveless, but as a path to freedom, saw my career not as a pressure to succeed, but as a gift of success; and saw, in my unfulfilled encounters with women, not failure but promise.

  I do not rue my age. I don’t envy the young for the lives they have ahead of them; I do not want mine before me again. But I do envy them their short past. When we’re young, we can survey our past. We can give it meaning, even if that meaning constantly changes. Now, looking over the past, I have no idea what was a blessing, what a curse; whether my career was worth the price; and when my encounters with women succeeded, and when they failed.

  18

  I went to see the painting again on Friday. The Art Gallery was full of students and their teachers. I liked the sound of so many voices, talking and calling out to each other; it reminded me of break time in the schoolyard, of summer days at the pool. A couple of teenagers stood in front of the painting, critiquing the woman’s figure. Were the hips too wide, the thighs too thick, the feet too small? I did not go up to them, but stood close enough that my presence bothered them, and they moved on.

  I saw no flaw in the woman. But I didn’t see her as I had last seen her. Yes, she was softness, seduction, and surrender. She no longer offered up resistance. And yet she had not really given up. The tilt of her head, her lowered eyes and shut mouth bespoke hidden resistance, refusal, spite. She would never belong to the one who had power over her. She would play along, but would remain elusive.

  Could I have seen that already then, and known how things would end? I was only briefly in Gundlach’s drawing room, and had had to listen to what he said, and couldn’t really look at the picture. If I’d been able to take a closer look, would I have known then?

  She didn’t drop off the keys that evening. I took another day off, wanting to be at home if she came. I went shopping early, and was anxious when I got back and looked in the mailbox. But she had not left the keys. I am orderly, even fastidious, and I didn’t have to clean up my apartment for Irene. But I did put flowers in a vase, and fruit in a bowl. Because I was afraid that she might not like pedantic people, I let a couple of apples roll onto the table, scattered some books and periodicals on the floor next to the armchair, and spread out the draft of an article on my desk.

  She came the next day. She rang the bell, and without looking out of the window, I knew it was her. Instead of buzzing her in, I ran down the stairs and opened the main door.

  “I just wanted…” She held the key in her hand.

  “Come up for a minute. We have to talk.”

  She went up the stairs ahead of me, with a quick step, and I took in her feet, her flat shoes, her bare calves, her thighs and bottom in tight pants that ended just below the knee. I had left my apartment door open, and she entered slowly, looking around, completely at ease. She walked into the large room that I used as a living room and work room, walked over to the window, looked down at the street, then looked over the manuscript on my desk. “What are you writing?”

  “The Federal Supreme Court handed down a ruling on copyright law…” I could not continue. I hadn’t taken her into my arms downstairs, and would have liked to do it now, but with my charmless smile, my too-long arms, my too-big hands, and my clunky movements, it seemed so wrong that I didn’t dare.

  “Copyright law…what do we need to discuss?”

  “Don’t you want to sit down? Would you like tea or coffee or…”

  “Nothing, thank you, I need to be off.” But she sat down in the armchair I had surrounded with books and periodicals, and I sat down in the one opposite.

  “When I go to Gundlach’s tomorrow…It’s a wealthy neighbourhood. Will my car look out of place if I park on the street? Will I look out of place there? Do the people all know each other, and will they notice a stranger?”

  “Leave your car in the village you have to drive through to get to Gundlach. From there you walk, it’s half an hour, no more. Are you afraid?” She scrutinized my face.

  I shook my head. “I’m glad. That you and I…What I said two days ago…I ambushed you. I’d like to say it again, this time better, but I’m afraid I’d ambush you again, and I’d rather wait until we have all the time in the world. No, I’m not afraid. You?”

  She laughed. “That it won’t work out? That I’ll be reviled? That I’ll be abducted?”

  “I don’t know. What will you do with the painting?”

  “Nothing, as long as I don’t have it.” She stood up. “I have to go.”

  Where to? I’d have liked to ask, and wheth
er she loved me back, or might one day, and whether she was still sleeping with Schwind, and how it would go on Sunday, when we were sitting in the car. I asked her none of that. I stood up and wrapped my arms around her. She did not nuzzle into me, but neither did she recoil, and when she stepped back, she kissed me on the cheek, and ran her hand over my head. “You’re a good kid.”

  19

  I really was not afraid. I knew what I was getting into was criminal, and that I’d be finished as a lawyer if I were caught. I didn’t care. Irene and I would find a different life, a better life. We could go to America, I would wait tables at night and study during the day, and soon I’d be on top of things again, as a lawyer or doctor, or engineer. If the Americans did not want a convicted lawyer – why not to Mexico? I had found it easy to learn English and French at school; I could learn Spanish easily too.

  But before I fell asleep I was shaking; my teeth chattered. I shivered, even after I’d covered my bed with all the blankets I had. Finally, I fell asleep. In the morning I woke up drenched, in a bed soaked with sweat.

  And then I felt fine again. I felt light, and at the same time I felt a wild, irresistible power. It was a wonderful, unique feeling. I do not remember having felt that way before or since.

  It was Sunday. I ate breakfast on the balcony, the sun was shining, the birds in the trees were singing, and from the church, the bells rang out. I thought about marriage, whether Irene had got married in church, and would want to get married in church, and whether church meant something to her. I dreamed of our shared life in Frankfurt, first on this balcony, then on the balcony of a larger apartment next to the Palm Garden, then in a garden under the old trees on the other side of the river. Then I dreamed of us leaning on the railing of a ship taking us across the Atlantic. I bid farewell to everything: to the firm, to this city, to its people. It was a painless goodbye. For my old life I felt only a friendly indifference.

  I left early but I didn’t arrive too early. There was a village fête; the square and main road were blocked off and the side streets were clogged with traffic. I parked at the cemetery and found a path through the vineyards which I thought was a shortcut but turned out not to be. In the woods I came across the road that led to Gundlach’s neighbourhood. When the first car passed me it occurred to me that Schwind would also take this road, and I could not let myself be seen by him; from then on I followed the road under trees, and through the brush.

  I had dressed inconspicuously, in jeans, a beige shirt, a brown leather jacket and sunglasses. But when I emerged from the woods into the neighbourhood, with empty Sunday streets and the occasional family sitting on their terrace under an umbrella, I felt as if all eyes were trained on me; the eyes of the families and other eyes, concealed behind windows. I was the only person on the streets.

  I avoided the direct route through the neighbourhood where Schwind could have seen me, but I got lost in the winding side streets, and arrived at the Gundlach house a few minutes after five. The parking space in front of the garage was empty. I hid across the street, between garbage bins and a lilac bush, and waited. I had a view of the driveway, the house, the garage with one door open, one closed, the Mercedes parked in the garage, and on the driveway, a cat lounging in the sun. A couple of small pines grew on the lawn that sloped down from the street to the house, and I planned the zigzag I would run over the lawn, from tree to tree to the car. If someone came by, if someone looked out of the house on the other side of the street – I would have to hide behind the car so quickly they could not be sure they had actually seen me.

  I heard Schwind’s VW bus from a way off; the exhaust was broken. The van was going fast, coughing, sputtering, it zoomed in from the street and sped up the driveway, scaring off the cat, and abruptly came to a halt in front of the door. No one got out, and after a while the van backed up, made a wide turn around the parking area, backed up again, then finally parked in front of the door, facing the street. The doors opened and they both got out. She was silent, and he ranted. I heard “What does that mean?” and “You and your ideas.” Then the front door opened and Gundlach greeted his guests and invited them in.

  Now, I said to myself. Anyone who had been drawn to the window by Schwind’s noisy VW would be going back to their business by now. I ran across the street, hid behind the first pine, ran again, stumbled, fell, crawled behind the next pine, stood up and ran, limped, hobbled past the last tree to the bus. I opened the door and crouched on the seat so I could not be seen from outside, but could also not see outside. I put the keys in the ignition. I waited.

  My foot hurt from the fall, and my back from crouching. But I still felt the lightness and power of the morning, didn’t doubt for a second that I was doing the right thing. Then I heard the front door open and Schwind scolding the butler, who wasn’t being quick, careful, or helpful enough. Schwind wasn’t pleased that he had to walk around the van, that he had to struggle to open the door. But he got it open, and cursed as he laid the painting in the back, then slid the door shut. As the door clanked shut, I turned the key in the ignition.

  The engine started immediately, and by the time Schwind caught on, and yelled, and hit the van, I was off; as he started running, I was already driving fast enough that, though he was able to reach the passenger door and fling it open, he couldn’t jump in or even look inside. In the rear-view mirror I watched him running behind me, becoming smaller and smaller until he finally stopped.

  20

  I drove to the bend below Gundlach’s house. After a while I got out and walked around the van, opened and closed the sliding door, and shut the passenger door, which I hadn’t been able to shut after Schwind threw it open. I didn’t want to look at the painting. I don’t know why.

  Then I stood around, waiting. I looked at the wall Irene planned to climb over. It was about six feet high, whitewashed, with a crown of red shingles. The neighbour’s tall, dense conifer hedge formed a green wall next to the white one. The fence on the inside of the bend, it too was tall and completely overgrown with ivy, as forbidding as a wall. I looked at the blue sky and heard birds in the gardens, and in the distance, a dog. Everything had a Sunday calm. And yet I felt trapped between the walls. I was freezing, as in the previous night, and was again afraid without knowing what of. That Irene wouldn’t come?

  Then there she was – light, luminous, laughing, tucking her hair behind her ears, jumping towards me. I caught her in an embrace and thought, now it will all be okay. I was happy and thought she was too. She let me hold her until she caught her breath, then gave me a little kiss and said: “We have to go.”

  She wanted to drive. And because we might get stuck in the traffic of the village fête, and they might follow and catch up with us, it would be better to take the turn-off, into the hills before the village, and circle around into the city from the east. And because they shouldn’t find my car in the village, I should get out before the village and drive my car back to the city.

  “How would they recognize my car?”

  “We don’t want to take any risks.”

  “Risks? If I go to the village fête, drink some wine, leave my car, and take a taxi back?”

  “Do it for my sake, please. I’ll feel better that way.”

  “When will we see each other? What about your things? Don’t we have to get them before Schwind comes back? And get the painting out of the van, and park it before he goes to the police?”

  “Shhhh,” she laid her hand over my mouth. “I’ll be careful. And I don’t need the few things I have at his place.”

  “When will you come?”

  “Later, when I’m finished.”

  She dropped me off with a kiss before we reached the village, and I found my car and drove home. Circling around the city, hiding the painting in the place she must have prepared but didn’t want to disclose, parking the VW bus and taking a taxi – it would easily be two hours before she came to me. But even before two hours had passed, I was anxious; I paced back and forth in my a
partment, looking out the window again and again, and made tea, and forgot to take the leaves out of the pot, and forgot it with the next pot, too. How would she deal with the picture? Wasn’t it way too heavy? Was someone helping her? Who? Or would she manage to carry it? Why didn’t she trust me?

  After two hours I found a reason why she hadn’t come. I found another one after three hours, and another after four. Throughout the night I came up with explanations, and tried to quiet my fear that something might have happened to her. With this fear I tried to suppress the deeper fear that she wasn’t coming because she didn’t want to. The fear that something might have happened – that was the fear of lovers, of close friends, of a mother for her child, and it kept me close to her. When I called the hospitals and police stations before the break of dawn, I claimed I was her husband.

  But as dawn broke, I realized that Irene would not come.

  21

  Gundlach called on Monday. “You may have heard this from Schwind. For the record, I want to confirm that my wife has disappeared, and so has the painting. My people will find out if Schwind has double-crossed me. Either way, your services are no longer required.”

  “I was never in your service.”

  “Think what you like,” he said with a little laugh, and hung up. Several weeks later I received a message that he had no evidence that Schwind had double-crossed him. I thought it was decent of him to let me know. Schwind didn’t get in touch again.