Night Work

8

He awoke from a nightmare. It took him a few seconds of bemusement to grasp that it was early in the morning, and that he was lying beside the phone. He sank back onto the mattress.

He had dreamt that people were streaming back into the city. He went to meet them. They straggled past him in ones and twos and small groups, like people going home after a football match.

He didn’t dare ask where they’d been. They took no notice of him. He heard their voices. Heard them talking, laughing, joking together. Never closer to them than ten metres, he walked down the middle of the street. They passed him on either side. Every time he tried to attract their attention, his voice failed.

He was feeling worn out. Not only had he spent another night beside the phone, but he hadn’t got around to undressing.

He checked to see if the receiver was on properly.

While looking for some pumpernickel in the bottom drawer of the kitchen cupboard, he caught his backside on the fridge. The mobile in his hip pocket took a knock. Although it was unlikely to have been damaged, he fished it out and checked. His mobile had to be preserved at all costs. He couldn’t afford to lose the SIM card, at least.

No sooner had he pocketed it again than a terrible suspicion came over him. With trembling fingers he accessed the list of outgoing calls. The most recent entry was his own home number, dialled at 16.31 on 16.07.

He dashed to the phone. Trampling around on the mattress, he rummaged in a heap of paper until he discovered the note lying, clearly visible, on top of the address book.

16.42, 16 July.

*

Although he’d intended to do some work at his father’s flat, he drove aimlessly around the city. He headed south along the Handelskai. When he passed the Millennium Tower he looked up. Dazzled by the sun, he swerved and braked sharply, then drove on more slowly. His heart was thumping.

He saw from afar that his banner was still revolving around the Danube Tower. He drove up to the entrance but didn’t dare get out. He looked for some indication that the banner had lured someone there. High overhead, the café continued to rotate with a rhythmical hum that was drowned at regular intervals by ominous splintering sounds. It wouldn’t be long, he imagined, before the whole superstructure disintegrated.

He drove across the Reichsbrücke into Lassallestrasse. A minute later he pulled up beside the Big Wheel. He made a brief tour of the area, gun in hand. It was hot. There was no wind. Not a cloud in the sky.

Satisfied that there were no nasty surprises outside, he walked past the café and into the Big Wheel’s administrative offices. The control room lay beyond an inconspicuous door in the shop that sold miniature models of the Big Wheel and other tourist tat.

He looked at the console, which was the size of a school blackboard. Although the controls weren’t marked, as they were in the Danube Tower, he quickly grasped that the yellow button turned the entire system’s power supply on and off. He pressed it and some lights came on. An indicator started flashing. He pressed another button. The lowest gondola, which he could clearly see through a window from his place at the console, began to move.

A marker pen was lying on one of the desks. He used it to write his phone number on a computer screen. He also left a message on the door. Then he put the marker pen in his shirt pocket.

He walked to the nearest hot-dog stand, the one he’d eaten at on his last visit. He found a packet of biscuits on a shelf and breakfasted on them, never taking his eyes off the gondolas.

Should he board one?

*

He combed the amusement park on foot, turning on all the rides he could. Although he couldn’t always get the controls to work, he managed to do so often enough to fill the fairground with music and movement. The din wasn’t as loud as it used to be, of course. He hadn’t started enough roundabouts and Flying Carpets for that. Besides, there weren’t any people. If he shut his eyes, though, he could still, by a stretch of the imagination, yield to the illusion that all was as it always had been. That he was standing beside the fountain surrounded by half-drunk strangers. That he would soon buy himself some grilled corn on the cob. And that Marie would be back from Antalya tonight.

*

Jonas carried the mattress back into the bedroom and changed the sheets. The floor beside the phone needed tidying up. He stuffed the empty crisp packets and half-eaten bars of chocolate into a plastic sack, tossed the drink cans in as well and swept the floor. Last of all, he scrubbed off the rings the glasses had left on the floorboards. While doing this, he resolved not to let things slide again. He must at least keep order within his own four walls.

He set up the video camera facing the bed and turned it on. The view wasn’t inclusive enough. Although he would later be able to observe every flicker of expression on his face, this videotape would be of use to him only if he could manage to lie still all night. Quite a challenge.

He zoomed out as far as he could. Still not enough. He moved the tripod back a metre and peered at the miniature screen again. This time the image was satisfactory. The whole of the bed was in shot. Not wanting another surprise, he made sure the camera and tape weren’t damaged.

He was still too on edge to go to sleep, so he sat down in front of the TV with a bag of popcorn. He’d exchanged the Love Parade video for a feature film — a comedy — with the sound on. He hadn’t watched a feature film since his first few days of solitude, so he hadn’t heard a human voice other than his own.

At the first words of the female lead, such horror gripped him that he wanted to turn the film off. He resisted the urge and hoped it would pass.

It got worse. His throat tied itself into a knot. He got goosebumps. His hands started to tremble. His legs were so weak he couldn’t stand up.

He switched off with the remote and crawled over to the video recorder on all fours. He substituted the Love Parade tape for the feature film. Crawled back. Hauled himself onto the sofa again.

Pressed ‘Play’.

Turned off the sound.

*

In the night he woke up. Half dreaming, he shuffled into the bedroom. He didn’t bother brushing his teeth and was past undressing, but he turned on the camera.

REC.

Flopped down on the bed.

*

On his way to Matzleinsdorf goods yard, where Machine Park South was situated, he passed the church on the Mariahilfer Gürtel. He read the poster on its façade as he drove by:

There is One who loves you: Jesus Christ.

He stepped harder on the accelerator.

Apart from the Central Cemetery, Machine Park South was Vienna’s biggest walled enclosure. Jonas had never been there before. It took him five minutes to find the entrance. He was amazed when he rounded the corner. He’d never seen such a concentration of heavy goods vehicles parked at regular intervals as if about to be photographed for an advertisement. There must have been hundreds of them.

Many were articulated lorries. However, handling those took a certain amount of practice, and the trailer had first to be connected to the cab. He wanted an ordinary HGV. A truck with some space.

He threaded his way between the vehicles, annoyed with himself for having forgotten to put on any sun cream. He was so afraid of getting sunburnt he interrupted his search several times to mop his face and drink some mineral water in the air-conditioned Spider. He took a swig, drummed on the steering wheel. Looked in the rear-view mirror.

At last he thought he’d found what he needed. A DAF of around sixty tons. Unfortunately, the key wasn’t in the ignition. He didn’t feel like searching the offices for it, so he plumped for a somewhat older but even bigger model, which was likewise equipped with all the indispensable extras. It had a radio, a small TV, air-conditioning, and, in the spacious sleeping place behind the driver’s seat, a cooker.

His spirits rose when he started the engine. It was a long time since he’d heard anything like it. The truck had power to spare. He liked the view from the cab, too. In the Spider he seemed to be only a few centimetres above the road, whereas here he felt he was on the first floor of a house with picture windows.

The papers were in the glove compartment, as were some of the former driver’s possessions. These he threw out of the window unexamined, together with two T-shirts that had been lying on the bunk.

He fetched two metal ramps from a repair shop. Then he used the marker pen from the Big Wheel office to write Dear Jonas, 21 July. Yours, Jonas on a notice board on the wall.

He drove over to the Spider and lowered the tailboard. Having gauged the distance between the wheels, he placed the ramps in position. The Spider was aboard the truck a minute later.

*

He parked the truck outside his father’s flat. With a metallic clatter, he backed the Spider down the ramps and onto the roadway. Dutifully, he checked the flat. All was as it had been on his last visit, the smell included. The place still smelt of his father.

He looked at the phone in the hall.

Had it rung a few days ago, when he’d called and pictured it ringing? Had this phone actually been here? Had the flat been filled with the sound?

He surveyed the street through the bedroom window. The mopeds were obscured by the truck. So was the dust-bin with the bottle protruding from it.

The wall clock was ticking away behind him.

He felt an urge to leave the city. For a while. To convince himself, once and for all, that he would never come across another soul anywhere. Even if he encountered no one in Berlin or Paris, he might find a way of getting to England. On the other hand, he couldn’t imagine spending long in unfamiliar surroundings. He felt he had to fight for every metre, laboriously adapt to every place he came to.

Jonas had never understood how people could maintain two homes. How, in the long run, could they bear to spend a week or a month here and a week or a month there? In his new home he would think of his old home, and after a month the former would become the latter, and he wouldn’t be able to find his way around when he returned. He would roam around the rooms and see things that were wrong. A wrong alarm clock, a wrong wardrobe, a wrong phone. Although the coffee cup he drank from at breakfast would belong to him, he would still find himself thinking of the cup he’d used the day before. And of where it was at that moment. In a crockery cupboard. Or an unemptied dishwasher.

The bathroom mirror in which he looked at himself after showering wouldn’t show him anything different from the mirror he’d looked in the day before. Yet he would feel that something about the reflection was wrong.

He could lounge on the balcony and leaf through magazines. He could watch TV or use the vacuum cleaner or do some cooking. But he would inevitably think of his other home. Of the other balcony, the other TV, the other vacuum cleaner, the other pepper mill in the other kitchen cabinet. He would also think of the books on the shelves in his other home. Of the sentences in those unopened books and the stories those sentences conveyed to those who were able to interpret them.

And before going to sleep he would lie in bed and think of the bed in his other home, and he would wonder if he was about to go to sleep at home or had slept at home the night before.

*

Jonas connected the video camera to the TV. He lowered the blinds while the tape was rewinding, so as not to be dazzled by the setting sun. The room lay in twilit evening gloom.

He pressed ‘Play’. Turned the sound up full.

He saw himself walk past the camera and flop down on the bed. He turned over on his stomach as usual. He couldn’t go to sleep in any other position.

The subdued glow of the bedside light was bright enough to illuminate everything clearly. The Sleeper lay there with his eyes shut, breathing deeply and evenly.

Although Jonas wasn’t one of those who looked in the mirror more than twice a day, he was familiar with his outward appearance and had a vague idea of the expression he usually wore. But the thought of watching himself with his features entirely relaxed made him rather nervous.

He took the mobile from his hip pocket and put it on the table so he wouldn’t call himself again. He looked at the display. For once, he’d thought to lock the keypad.

After a few minutes the Sleeper turned his face away from the camera. There was a rustle as he buried his head under the pillow. Some time later it reappeared. He turned on his side. Shortly afterwards he rolled over on his back and drew a hand across his eyes.

Now and then Jonas stopped the tape and listened for sounds outside the door. He walked round the room, swinging his arms. Poured himself a glass of water. It was all he could do to start the tape again.

Twelve minutes before the tape ended the Sleeper turned over again with his face towards the camera.

*

Jonas had the fleeting impression that one eye had opened. The Sleeper was looking at the camera. Looking at it in full awareness of being filmed. Then the eye snapped shut again.

*

The second time he watched this sequence he wasn’t so sure. The fourth viewing convinced him that he’d been mistaken. It made no sense in any case.

After fifty-nine minutes the Sleeper muttered a few sentences. He didn’t get their meaning. He flung his arms about and turned away from the camera. The screen went black, the tape whirred. Jonas felt annoyed with himself for only putting in a one-hour tape.

He rewound it and watched the last minute in slow motion. He noticed nothing out of the ordinary. He listened to the four sentences. The second was the most intelligible. He thought he picked out three words: ‘Kaiser’, ‘wood’ and ‘finish’. Not very informative.

He watched the whole tape again from the beginning.

Nearly fifty minutes went by without incident. Then came the sequence that had puzzled him the first time.

It happened again.

For a fraction of a second, the Sleeper’s eye looked sharply into the camera. Without a trace of drowsiness. Then it shut.

Jonas scanned the sofa table for the remote. Didn’t see it. He was holding it in his hand. It was a while before his trembling thumb pressed the stop button.

He mustn’t drive himself crazy. If he wanted to, he was sure he could find some other disconcerting details on the tape. Just as he could hear imaginary noises on the audio tapes. If he wanted, he could find a dozen potential pointers to any number of things. Why had that bus driver eyed him so oddly on 1 July? What had Martina and their peculiar new colleague been whispering about at the office party? Why, on 3 July, had leaflets advertising a pizza delivery service been stuck to the door of every flat in the building except his? Why had it rained so seldom? Why, after ten hours’ sleep, did he sometimes feel as if he hadn’t slept a wink? Why did he think he was being watched?

He must cling at all costs to what existed. To what was definitely verifiable and beyond dispute.

He raised the blinds and opened the window. Made sure the door was locked and bolted. After checking all the rooms, he glanced into the wall cupboard.

With the shotgun beside him, he watched the whole tape again, frame by frame. When he reached the sequence that puzzled him he looked out of the window. Before coming to the muttered sentences he switched to normal play.

Those three words were all he could catch. He didn’t get the impression that the Sleeper had wanted to tell him something. Nevertheless, he felt he was watching something important.

He set up two cameras in the bedroom. One he positioned a couple of metres from the bed, the other so that only the head of the bed was in shot. Although there was a risk that he would roll out of shot while asleep, he was anxious to watch his face in close-up, if only for a few minutes.

He put in two three-hour tapes.