the next step. Would you like to sit here? Mind the seat.”
Very shortly the train is racing through a green landscape of hills and valleys. This time Rosalie is determined not to doze off.
She wakes as the train is stopping at some little provincial station. Fog hangs over the roofs of hideous houses. Out on the platform a child is whimpering while his mother next to him stares wildly as if she’d just trodden in a mound of turds. Rosalie rubs her face. Then the conductor comes onto the loudspeaker: there’s been an accident, bodily injuries, please disembark!
“Someone’s committed suicide,” a man says cheerfully.
“Jumped in front of the train,” says a woman. “That makes a mess of you. Nothing left!”
“Maybe a shoe,” says the man. “It’ll turn up miles away.”
They all nod in concert, then they get out. A man helps Rosalie down onto the platform, and she stands out there in the drizzle. Not knowing what to do, she goes into the station buffet. A Madonna smiles down from the wall next to a general in black and white next to a mountain guide with a pickax. There are four Swiss flags in the room. The coffee is disgusting.
“Dear lady, do you wish to get to Zurich?”
She looks up. There’s a thin man with horn-rim glasses and greasy hair at the next table. Rosalie has already noticed him on the train.
“If so, I could give you a lift.”
“You have a car here?”
“Dear lady, there are many cars.”
She’s silent, nonplussed. But what does she have to lose? She nods.
“If you would be so kind as to come with me. I take it time is tight.” In a grand gesture he pulls out his wallet and pays for her coffee. Then he goes over to the coat stand, takes a bright red cap that’s hanging there, puts it on his head, and slowly adjusts it. “Forgive me if I don’t assist you, but alas my back hurts. What is your name?”
She introduces herself.
He takes her hand and—she pulls back involuntarily—presses his lips to it. “Charmed!” He doesn’t tell her his own name. He holds himself very straight, his movements are supple, and there’s no sign that he has a bad back.
She follows him into the parking lot. He walks quicklywithout looking back and she can hardly keep up with him. He stops first in front of one car, then another, his head to one side and his lips pursed.
“What do you think about this one?” he asks in front of a silver Citroën. “I think it will do the job.” He looks questioningly at Rosalie. As she nods, disconcerted, he bends over and does something to the door, which springs open after a moment. He gets in and does something to the ignition.
“What are you doing?”
“Dear lady, won’t you get in?”
Rosalie hesitantly sits down in the passenger seat. The engine starts. “Is this your car, or did you just …”
“Of course it’s my car, dear lady! You wouldn’t wish to insult me?”
“But the ignition! You …”
“A new patent, very complicated, why don’t you tilt your seat back, it’s not going to take long, even if I can’t drive at top speed, too much fog and I don’t want to expose you to the slightest danger.” His laugh sounds like a bleat and Rosalie feels a shiver down her spine.
“Who are you?” she asks, her voice hoarse.
“A friendly fellow human being, dear lady. A seeker, a helper, a voyager. A shadow and a brother. As each of us should be to others.”
They’re already on the Autobahn. The guardrails glisten at the side of the car and the speed pushes Rosalie into her soft leather seat.
“The old riddle,” he says with a sidelong glance at her face.“Oedipus and the Sphinx. In the morning, four; at midday, two; in the evening, three. So profound, dear lady.” He turns on the radio, alpenhorns groan, in the background someone yodels. He whistles along and bangs out the rhythm on the steering wheel, completely off the beat. “A thinking reed, most venerable lady, un roseau pensant , what else is man? I will take
Very shortly the train is racing through a green landscape of hills and valleys. This time Rosalie is determined not to doze off.
She wakes as the train is stopping at some little provincial station. Fog hangs over the roofs of hideous houses. Out on the platform a child is whimpering while his mother next to him stares wildly as if she’d just trodden in a mound of turds. Rosalie rubs her face. Then the conductor comes onto the loudspeaker: there’s been an accident, bodily injuries, please disembark!
“Someone’s committed suicide,” a man says cheerfully.
“Jumped in front of the train,” says a woman. “That makes a mess of you. Nothing left!”
“Maybe a shoe,” says the man. “It’ll turn up miles away.”
They all nod in concert, then they get out. A man helps Rosalie down onto the platform, and she stands out there in the drizzle. Not knowing what to do, she goes into the station buffet. A Madonna smiles down from the wall next to a general in black and white next to a mountain guide with a pickax. There are four Swiss flags in the room. The coffee is disgusting.
“Dear lady, do you wish to get to Zurich?”
She looks up. There’s a thin man with horn-rim glasses and greasy hair at the next table. Rosalie has already noticed him on the train.
“If so, I could give you a lift.”
“You have a car here?”
“Dear lady, there are many cars.”
She’s silent, nonplussed. But what does she have to lose? She nods.
“If you would be so kind as to come with me. I take it time is tight.” In a grand gesture he pulls out his wallet and pays for her coffee. Then he goes over to the coat stand, takes a bright red cap that’s hanging there, puts it on his head, and slowly adjusts it. “Forgive me if I don’t assist you, but alas my back hurts. What is your name?”
She introduces herself.
He takes her hand and—she pulls back involuntarily—presses his lips to it. “Charmed!” He doesn’t tell her his own name. He holds himself very straight, his movements are supple, and there’s no sign that he has a bad back.
She follows him into the parking lot. He walks quicklywithout looking back and she can hardly keep up with him. He stops first in front of one car, then another, his head to one side and his lips pursed.
“What do you think about this one?” he asks in front of a silver Citroën. “I think it will do the job.” He looks questioningly at Rosalie. As she nods, disconcerted, he bends over and does something to the door, which springs open after a moment. He gets in and does something to the ignition.
“What are you doing?”
“Dear lady, won’t you get in?”
Rosalie hesitantly sits down in the passenger seat. The engine starts. “Is this your car, or did you just …”
“Of course it’s my car, dear lady! You wouldn’t wish to insult me?”
“But the ignition! You …”
“A new patent, very complicated, why don’t you tilt your seat back, it’s not going to take long, even if I can’t drive at top speed, too much fog and I don’t want to expose you to the slightest danger.” His laugh sounds like a bleat and Rosalie feels a shiver down her spine.
“Who are you?” she asks, her voice hoarse.
“A friendly fellow human being, dear lady. A seeker, a helper, a voyager. A shadow and a brother. As each of us should be to others.”
They’re already on the Autobahn. The guardrails glisten at the side of the car and the speed pushes Rosalie into her soft leather seat.
“The old riddle,” he says with a sidelong glance at her face.“Oedipus and the Sphinx. In the morning, four; at midday, two; in the evening, three. So profound, dear lady.” He turns on the radio, alpenhorns groan, in the background someone yodels. He whistles along and bangs out the rhythm on the steering wheel, completely off the beat. “A thinking reed, most venerable lady, un roseau pensant , what else is man? I will take
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