The boy follows his usual routine, crawling around his mother and vanishing at intervals. He is timid and holds himself at a safe distance from me, and I sense his wariness. I also sense a growing curiosity in him, which gradually subdues his fears. I notice he has a keen interest in the toolbox and eventually he steps in to hand me a screw. It’s difficult to establish any eye contact with him and if I show any interest or try to talk to him, he runs away. When he draws nearer I see he has a large scar over his eyebrow.
“A rat,” says his mother. “He was bitten by a rat when we were sleeping on a mouldy floor in a basement for a few months, on the run.”
As soon as I pick up the drill, the boy covers his ears and scurries under the table. There he sits with his chin pressed against his knees, blocking both ears.
“He thinks that’s a gun,” says his mother.
A few moments later, he is up again and has dragged a chair into the centre of the room and sits on it, at a comfortable distance, to watch us work. I hear him talking to himself.
“He’s started talking again,” May says. “He didn’t speak for a whole year.”
The boy isn’t happy not to understand what we are saying. His mother says something to him and I get the feeling she is giving him a summary of our conversation because he is nodding and looking at us, alternately.
I notice that when she talks to him he tilts his head and turns his left ear to her. She confirms my suspicion that the boy has damaged hearing.
“Almost everyone who lived through the air raids lost some or all of their hearing. At first it was the sound of gunfire in the neighbourhood, then the exploding bombs.”
She seems to have grown pensive, there is a distant look in her eyes.
“At first there was a whistle, then a yellow flash in the sky, then a shock wave like something slamming against the walls. Even if it was night it was blindingly bright for one moment. There was a constant pounding in our ears and all our muscles tensed up for days, weeks, and months on end.”
Svanur comes to mind.
“In any case, it’s clear that a man dies alone,” he had said as we were standing on the pier under the sinking red sun. “Unless one lives in a country of air raids. Then there’s a good chance of an entire family being wiped out at the exact same moment.”
What appears before the eyes
I wonder if something else could be found for the boy to do other than run about with a towel-cape around his shoulders looking for hiding places. I mention it to May.
“He finds it difficult to sit still,” she says.
It occurs to me that he could draw, I seem to remember spotting a drawing pad and a box of coloured pencils in the hotel shop.
While I’m waiting for Fifi to show up, I notice that the postcard stand has been reinstalled in the reception area. I give the stand a twirl and glance at the cards: a carefree couple sits on a bench in a flower-adorned square eating ice cream, young women sunbathe on the beach while muscular thighs play in the breaking waves. What strikes me are the bright colours, the vibrant blue sky and golden sand; the world was still in colour back then and people didn’t know what was in store, they’re alive, both their legs are still of the same length, they have plans for the future, maybe they’re going to change cars or kitchen units or take a trip abroad. Above all, though, my attention is drawn to the postcards that show a large mosaic mural from different angles, several with details of it or as a whole. The subject matter is naked women wrapped in thin transparent veils; one woman is fetching water from a stream, another is bathing, and another again is stooping over the closed petals of a flower. I turn one of the cards over, it says on the back in three languages that the work is to be found at Hotel Silence. It all fits with the information I read online.
I brandish the card when the young man appears.
“This is the mosaic I was asking about.” He bends over and seems to be carefully examining the card, clutching its corner between his index finger and his thumb, and I realise that he’s pondering something, to gain time.
“Yes, May and I have been wanting to talk to you about the mosaic wall,” he finally says.
He chooses his words carefully and speaks slowly.
“The thing is, at first, May and I thought you’d come here for the artwork. And that that was why you had a toolbox with you.”
He hesitates.
“You see, ancient artefacts have actually been disappearing from the country.” And he explains to me that he has been instructed not to talk about antiquities to foreigners.
“We had to be sure you weren’t on the same kind of mission as the other guest.”
“The other guest” is presumably the man in the room next to me. “After a war everything is up for grabs,” he’d said.
“I told May you’d bought a razor. And taken a ballpoint pen. And that you’d come back three times to return a book and take another out of the box.”
He turns the stand to put the postcard in its place.
“But now that you’ve virtually become a staff member at the hotel, the situation has completely changed,” he adds, lowering his voice. “My sister and I have decided that you can take a look at the mosaic mural, if you like. Whenever it suits you.”
