Me and Kaminski Page 0,4

made a brief gesture that meant: Come in. “We weren’t expecting you until the day after tomorrow.”

“I was able to get here sooner.” I followed her through a bare hall, at the other end of which a door stood open, emitting a babble of voices. “I hope it won’t cause you any problems.” I gave her time to confirm that it wouldn’t indeed cause any, but she didn’t take me up on it. “You could have told me about the road. I came up here on the path, I could have gone right over the edge. You’re the daughter?”

“Miriam Kaminski,” she said, quite coolly, and opened another door. “Please wait.”

I went in. A sofa, two chairs, a radio on the windowsill. On the wall, an oil painting of a dark hilly landscape, probably Kaminski’s middle period, early fifties. The wall above the heating unit was streaked with soot, in a couple of places dust hung down from the ceiling in threads that moved in some air current that was otherwise undetectable. I was going to sit down, but right then in came Miriam and, I recognized him at once, her father.

I hadn’t expected him to be so small, so tiny and shapeless compared with the slim figure in old photographs. He was wearing a pullover and impenetrable dark glasses, one hand was on Miriam’s arm and the other on a white walking cane. His skin was brown, creased like old leather, his cheeks sagged loosely, his hands seemed enormous, his hair a chaotic halo. He was wearing threadbare corduroys and gym shoes, the right one was undone and the laces dragged behind him. Miriam led him to a chair, he groped for the armrests and sat down. She remained standing and watched me.

“Your name is Zollner,” he said.

I hesitated, it hadn’t sounded like a question, and I was struck, quite inexplicably, by a momentary shyness. I held out my hand, met Miriam’s stare, and pulled it back again; of course, stupid mistake! I cleared my throat. “Sebastian Zollner.”

“And we’re waiting for you.”

Was that a question? “If it’s okay with you,” I said, “we can start right now. I’ve done all the preparation.” Literally, I’d been traveling for the better part of two weeks. I had never spent so much time on a single project. “You’ll be amazed how many old acquaintances I’ve found.”

“Preparation,” he repeated, “acquaintances.”

I felt a stirring of unease. Did he understand what I was saying? His jaws were working, he laid his head to one side and seemed, but this was obviously a mistake, to be looking past me at the picture on the wall. I looked at Miriam for help.

“My father has very few old acquaintances.”

“Few is misstating things,” I said. “Let’s just take Paris . . .”

“You must excuse me,” said Kaminski. “I’ve just got out of bed. I spent two hours trying to get to sleep, then I took a sleeping pill, and then I got up. I need coffee.”

“You’re not allowed coffee,” said Miriam.

“A sleeping pill before you get up?” I asked.

“I always wait till the very end, in case I can do it on my own. You’re my biographer?”

“I’m a journalist,” I said. “I write for several major newspapers. Right now I’m working on your life story. I’ve got a couple more questions, then as far as I’m concerned we can start tomorrow.”

“Article?” He lifted one of his enormous hands and ran it over his face. His jaws worked. “Tomorrow?”

“You’ll be working mostly with me,” said Miriam. “He needs his peace and quiet.”

“I don’t need peace and quiet,” he said.

Her other hand laid itself on his other shoulder. She smiled at me over his head. “The doctors see it differently.”

“I’m grateful for any help,” I said cautiously, “but naturally your father is the most important person to talk to. The source, quite simply.”

“I’m the source, quite simply,” he said.

I rubbed my cheeks. It wasn’t going well. Peace and quiet? I needed my own peace and quiet, everyone needs peace and quiet! Ridiculous! “I’m a great fan of your father, his paintings have changed art . . . the way I see it.”

“Rubbish,” said Kaminski.

I began to sweat. Of course it was rubbish, but I’d never yet met an artist who didn’t believe this sentence. “I swear it!” I laid a hand on my heart, reminded myself that such a move would have zero effect on him, and quickly yanked it away again. “You have no greater admirer than Sebastian Zollner.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

“Oh, right.” He