The Ludwig Conspiracy(42)
THE ROOM WAS about the size of a walk-in closet. It contained a double bed that took up most of the space, a television set, and a wobbly table at which Steven sat hunched over the diary on a chair that was much too low. A dusty bedside lamp was the only source of light. If he looked out the window, he could just make out the mountains on the other side of the valley in the evening twilight. They cast shadows that reached out to the hotel like long fingers. In another few minutes, Linderhof would be in darkness.
The bookseller had taken out the diary and his notepad, and he was now staring in the lamplight at the twining shorthand, which looked to him much more familiar this time. Where had he stopped?
For a long time I could still hear the bark of von Strelitz’s pistol in my ears. It was not to be the last time I heard it . . .
Steven tried to concentrate, in spite of the long, tiring day. Sara had seen to it that there was a plate of ham sandwiches and a bottle of red wine within reach, but he didn’t have much of an appetite. Absently, he let his eyes wander over the worn bedspread beside him, an empty bag of chips, and finally Sara, who was following some kind of soap opera on TV, listening to the sound through headphones, while she leafed through the castle brochures.
Women and multitasking, I’ll never understand how they do it . . .
“That’s garbage you’re watching,” Steven finally said. The faint murmur of conversation from the headphones was getting on his nerves. The falling darkness made him nervous; it reminded him of the dark cellar of his shop where he had killed a man only the night before. Steven felt he had to talk to someone, even if that someone was a chips-munching creature staring at a TV set with blank interest.
“Surfing instructors, barbecues, big-breasted blondes,” he grumbled, pointing to the TV screen. “What subject did you study?”
“What?” Sara took the headphones off. “Are you talking to me?” When she saw his glare of annoyance, she involuntarily had to smile.
“Men don’t understand,” she replied dryly. “We need this sort of thing to put us into a trancelike state that enables us to reach a condition of higher consciousness.” She winked. “Anyway, this garbage is from your native land. Let’s have a little more patriotism from you, Herr Lukas.”
“If that’s America, then I’m glad my parents came back to Germany when I was a child.”
“Back to Germany?” Sara frowned.
“We have German roots.” Steven sipped the hotel’s house red and twisted his mouth. The burgundy, as he expected, was not good, but all the same it gave him a pleasant sense of repletion. It felt good to talk; it had been so long since he had told anyone about the past. The events of the last few days had brought memories of his childhood back to his mind.
No silence, he thought. Silence brings back memories. Silence and darkness. Like being in my bed as a child when footsteps creaked along the corridor.
“My grandfather emigrated during the Nazi period,” he began hesitantly. “But my father, his son, could never entirely rid himself of feeling that he was German. As an adult, he came back here with his family.” He smiled wearily. “My mother was a German student he met at Boston University, where he was her lecturer in English Literature.”
Sara’s right eyebrow shot up. “I assume he read her Shakespeare at home. So a weakness for books runs in your family?”
“Books and a sense of being German,” Steven said. “Sometimes I feel more German than the Brothers Grimm.” He hesitated a moment before going on. “And where do you feel at home, Frau Lengfeld? On the Internet or in Berlin’s Wedding district?”
Sara laughed. “Nowhere, I’m afraid. No one’s proud of coming from Wedding. You feel proud of leaving it behind.”
“And you do that best with TV and the Internet?” Steven inquired.
“Well, they’re both windows to other worlds,” Sara said. “If you only have comics and a Snow White book to read as a child at home, the Internet offers fantastic possibilities.” She put her headphones back on. “Now, go on reading, Mr. Grimm. For a shy bookworm, you’re very inquisitive.”
Steven couldn’t stay annoyed. Sometimes the bristly, outspoken art detective beside him seemed like a being from another world. All the same, he found himself liking her more and more. It had been a long time since he’d been so closely involved with another person for such an extended period. Most of the time he lived with his books and parchments, glad to be left alone. Sara was right to say he could come from another century. Sometimes he felt like an outcast, a scholar from a distant age not yet ruled by cell phones, computers, and text messaging.