carefully enough, and the pain was unendurable. Possibly unaware of his cruelty, Jakob had ripped the parcel open at a stroke. If you donât open it, he was saying, Iâll open it for you, and its effect was as potent as a snakebite. Its venom had reached Erneste from thousands of miles away. A letter. Letter after letter from New York addressed to him, who very seldom left Switzerland. His memories of Giessbach, which he had believed buried by Jakobâs persistent silence since the end of the war, were still alive. The passing years had not impaired the clarity of those memories. His wounds hadnât healed; they were open and smarting.
The letter he found reposing in his mailbox on October 5, 1966, sandwiched between a leaflet advertising cheap flights to Paris and London and the local weekly giveaway, had been posted in New York a week earlier, on September 29. Like the first letter, this one had been airmailed. The thin envelope was pale blue in color, the postmark crisply impressed.
Erneste did not possess a telephone, although he might sometimes have felt tempted to check the weather forecast, the latest news, or the time. But whom should he have called? He had no friends, maintained no personal contact with his colleagues at work, and had nothing to say to his fleeting acquaintances except on the rare occasions when he sought their company. He couldnât recall their voices or what they looked like. Once out of sight, each was indistinguishable from the next. His cousin in Paris? Yes, heâd like to have spoken with Julie, but foreign calls were expensive. Discounting Christmas or New Yearâs, they wouldnât have called each other very often. A telephone was a luxury.
Had he possessed a telephone, Jakob would have discovered his number. Jakob wasnât just sitting there waiting. Having found out Ernesteâs address, he certainly wouldnât have found it hard to discover his phone number. Had he possessed a telephone, Jakob would have called him long ago. His future was at stake, so saving on phone bills was beside the point. Would the consonants and vowels that assailed Ernesteâs ear have combined at once into an unmistakably familiar voice?Would he have recognized it? No, Jakobâs voice was unfamiliar to him. He wouldnât have recognized it because, if there was one thing he couldnât recall, it was Jakobâs voice. It had utterly slipped his mind. All that he ever heard, and only very rarely, was a whisper in his ear. A faint whisper, and whenever he heard it he gave a start and looked around.
Ernesteâs considerations differed from Jakobâs, that much was certain. Over in America, Jakob obviously didnât think it necessary to put himself in Ernesteâs shoes. He might be in despair but he wasnât devoid of courage, and he didnât show it even if he was. He would get his way. Even if his wishes werenât met in the end, he would have done his utmost to fulfill them. There was always a way out, and to find it he now needed Erneste just as he had needed him in Giessbach, as he had later needed Klinger, and as he had doubtless needed other people in America. Anyone who helped Jakob was entitled to a few moments of his attention and, with a little bit of luck, to his commendation; anyone unable to help him was dismissed without another thought. Jakob was indomitable, heâd allowed for everything. He was giving Erneste no peace, no time to think.
Heâd managed to discover Ernesteâs address. Having discovered it, he knew that Erneste was still alive, and since Erneste was still alive he could be useful to him. Erneste could approach Klinger on his behalf. He would find some way of helping him out of his predicament, some way of wheedling money out of Klinger, and Klinger, for old timeâs sake, would surely do all thatwas necessary. That was how Jakob had figured it out, and he was probably right. Erneste and Klinger would
The letter he found reposing in his mailbox on October 5, 1966, sandwiched between a leaflet advertising cheap flights to Paris and London and the local weekly giveaway, had been posted in New York a week earlier, on September 29. Like the first letter, this one had been airmailed. The thin envelope was pale blue in color, the postmark crisply impressed.
Erneste did not possess a telephone, although he might sometimes have felt tempted to check the weather forecast, the latest news, or the time. But whom should he have called? He had no friends, maintained no personal contact with his colleagues at work, and had nothing to say to his fleeting acquaintances except on the rare occasions when he sought their company. He couldnât recall their voices or what they looked like. Once out of sight, each was indistinguishable from the next. His cousin in Paris? Yes, heâd like to have spoken with Julie, but foreign calls were expensive. Discounting Christmas or New Yearâs, they wouldnât have called each other very often. A telephone was a luxury.
Had he possessed a telephone, Jakob would have discovered his number. Jakob wasnât just sitting there waiting. Having found out Ernesteâs address, he certainly wouldnât have found it hard to discover his phone number. Had he possessed a telephone, Jakob would have called him long ago. His future was at stake, so saving on phone bills was beside the point. Would the consonants and vowels that assailed Ernesteâs ear have combined at once into an unmistakably familiar voice?Would he have recognized it? No, Jakobâs voice was unfamiliar to him. He wouldnât have recognized it because, if there was one thing he couldnât recall, it was Jakobâs voice. It had utterly slipped his mind. All that he ever heard, and only very rarely, was a whisper in his ear. A faint whisper, and whenever he heard it he gave a start and looked around.
Ernesteâs considerations differed from Jakobâs, that much was certain. Over in America, Jakob obviously didnât think it necessary to put himself in Ernesteâs shoes. He might be in despair but he wasnât devoid of courage, and he didnât show it even if he was. He would get his way. Even if his wishes werenât met in the end, he would have done his utmost to fulfill them. There was always a way out, and to find it he now needed Erneste just as he had needed him in Giessbach, as he had later needed Klinger, and as he had doubtless needed other people in America. Anyone who helped Jakob was entitled to a few moments of his attention and, with a little bit of luck, to his commendation; anyone unable to help him was dismissed without another thought. Jakob was indomitable, heâd allowed for everything. He was giving Erneste no peace, no time to think.
Heâd managed to discover Ernesteâs address. Having discovered it, he knew that Erneste was still alive, and since Erneste was still alive he could be useful to him. Erneste could approach Klinger on his behalf. He would find some way of helping him out of his predicament, some way of wheedling money out of Klinger, and Klinger, for old timeâs sake, would surely do all thatwas necessary. That was how Jakob had figured it out, and he was probably right. Erneste and Klinger would
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