At that moment Paul moved slightly and the wood groaned under his feet.
“Is there someone up there?” said the landlady, outraged.
“Let me check!” replied Alys, racing up the flight of stairs that separated her from Paul and ushering him toward her apartment. She put the key in the lock and had just managed to get the door open and push Paul inside before the old woman-who had hobbled after her-poked her head up the staircase.
“I’m sure I heard someone. Do you have a man in there?”
“Oh, nothing for you to worry about, Frau Kasyn. It’s just a cat,” said Alys, closing the door in her face.
“Your trick with the cat works every time, eh?” whispered Paul, putting his arms around her and kissing her long neck. His breath burned. She shivered and felt goose bumps rising up her left side.
“I thought we’d be interrupted again, like that day in the bathtub.”
“Stop talking and kiss me,” he said, holding her shoulders and turning her toward him.
Alys kissed him and moved in close. They then fell onto the mattress, her body beneath his.
“Stop.”
Paul stopped abruptly and looked at her with a shadow of disappointment and surprise on his face. But Alys slipped between his arms and moved on top of him, taking over the tedious task of freeing them both from the rest of their clothes.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” she replied.
“You’re crying.”
Alys hesitated a moment. To tell him the reason for her tears would be to bare her soul, and she didn’t think she could do that, not even at a moment like this.
“It’s just that… I’m so happy.”
32
When he received the envelope from Sebastian Keller, Paul couldn’t help shuddering.
The months that had gone by since his admission to the Masons’ lodge had been disappointing. At first, there had been something almost romantic about entering the secret society almost blindly, the thrill of adventure. But once the initial euphoria had faded, Paul began to wonder about the point of it all. For a start, he’d been forbidden to speak at the lodge gatherings until he’d completed three years as an Apprentice. But that wasn’t the worst of it: the worst thing was performing the extremely long rituals, which seemed to be a waste of time.
Stripped of their rituals, the meetings were no more than a series of conferences and debates on Masonic symbolism and its practical application in improving the virtue of the brother Masons. The only part Paul found even vaguely interesting was when the members decided which charities they would donate to with the money gathered at the end of each meeting.
For Paul, the meetings became an onerous duty, which he endured each fortnight in order to get to know the members of the lodge. Even this aim wasn’t easy to achieve, as the older Masons, those who undoubtedly would have known his father, sat at different tables in the great dining hall. On occasion he’d tried to get close to Keller, wanting to press the bookseller about his promise to hand over whatever it was his father had left for him. In the lodge Keller treated him with distance, and in the bookshop he brushed Paul off with vague excuses.
Keller had never written to him before now, and Paul knew at once that whatever was in the brown envelope the owner of his boardinghouse had given him was the thing he’d been awaiting for so long.
Paul sat on the edge of his bed, his breath labored. He was sure the envelope would contain a letter from his father. He couldn’t hold back his tears when he imagined what must have driven Hans Reiner to compose a missive to his son, then just a few months old, attempting to freeze his voice in time until his son was ready to understand it.
He tried to imagine what his father would want to tell him. Perhaps he would offer wise advice. Perhaps he would embrace him across time.
Perhaps he’ll give me clues about the person or people who were going to kill him, Paul thought, his teeth clenched.
With extreme care he tore open the envelope and put his hand inside. In it there was another, smaller envelope, white, together with a handwritten note on the back of one of the bookseller’s business cards. Dear Paul, Congratulations. Hans would be proud. This is what your father left for you. I don’t know what it contains, but I hope it will help you. S.K.
Paul opened the second envelope and a small sheet of white paper printed in blue fell to the ground. He was paralyzed with disappointment when he picked it up and saw what it was.
33
The Metzger pawnshop was a cold place, colder even than the early November air. Paul wiped his feet on the mat before entering, as it was raining outside. He left his umbrella in the stand and looked around curiously. He vaguely recalled the morning, four years ago now, when he and his mother had gone to a shop in Schwabing to pawn his father’s watch. That had been a sterile place, with glass shelves and employees wearing ties.
Metzger’s looked more like a large sewing box and smelled of naphthalene. From the outside, the shop seemed small and insignificant, but on crossing the threshold its enormous depth was revealed, a place filled to bursting with pieces of furniture, galena crystal radios, porcelain figures, and even a golden birdcage. Rust and dust overwhelmed the various objects that had dropped anchor there for the last time. Astonished, Paul considered a stuffed cat caught in the act of snatching a sparrow in flight. Between the feline’s extended leg and the wing of the bird, a spider’s web had formed.
“This isn’t a museum, lad.”
Paul turned, startled. A thin, hollow-faced old man had materialized beside him, wrapped in blue overalls that were too large for his frame, and which accentuated his thinness.
“Are you Metzger?”
“I am. And if whatever you’ve brought me isn’t gold, I don’t want it.”
“The truth is I haven’t come to pawn anything. I’ve come to collect something,” replied Paul. He had already taken a dislike to this man and his suspicious behavior.
A flash of greed crossed the old man’s tiny eyes. It was obvious that business wasn’t going too well.
“Sorry, lad… I have twenty people coming in here every day who think their great-grandmother’s old copper cameo is worth thousands of marks. But let’s see… let’s see what you’re here for.”
Paul held out the blue and white piece of paper that he’d found in the envelope the bookseller had sent him. In the top left corner was Metzger’s name and address. Paul had rushed there as fast as he could, still recovering from the surprise of not finding a letter inside. Instead, there were four handwritten words: Art. 91231
21 marks
The old man pointed at the slip. “There’s a bit missing. We don’t accept damaged slips.”
The top right-hand corner, which should have shown the name of the person who had made the deposit, had been torn off.
“The article number is perfectly readable,” said Paul.
“But we can’t hand over objects deposited by our customers to the first person who walks through the door.”
“Whatever it is belonged to my father.”
The old man scratched his chin, pretending to study the slip with interest.
“In any case the number is very low: the article must have been pawned many years ago. I’m sure it will have gone out to auction.”
“I see. And how can we be certain?”
“I suppose if the customer were prepared to recover the article, taking into account inflation…”
