Someone was there. But she only glimpsed a pair of dark eyes and a pale face before whoever it was vanished out of sight and down the stairs. Norah heard footsteps.

He—or she—was running away. That triggered something in Norah. She turned the key frantically in the lock and opened the door. The footsteps were downstairs now and Norah flew after them. She heard the front door being flung open, reached the ground floor before it fell shut again, flung it wide again and was out on the street. A truck roared past, drowning out any sounds. Norah looked left. Nothing. She looked right. Nothing. Left again. This time she saw something. Almost at the other end of the square. A narrow figure. But it wasn’t running; it was walking away at a comfortable, leisurely pace. Norah could see it only from behind. Was it the figure from the stairs? Or just a passer-by? Norah looked about her again. A young couple were coming along on the right and a cyclist was emerging from the street opposite—but apart from them and the retreating figure, there was no one in sight.

When she looked again, the figure had vanished.

30

Norah woke to a beautiful, clear day, bright and vivid.

She’d felt better since deciding to report things. Whatever else happened, she’d head for the nearest police station as soon as she got off work.

On the stairs she met her mute neighbour on his way to the dustbins with a bunch of wilted flowers. He glared disparagingly when she said good morning and, as usual, didn’t return her greeting. Who’d buy flowers for that old boot face?

Norah lit a cigarette and set off. Old ladies walking their fluffy little dogs, locals drinking their first espresso of the day at the coffee stall by the church, schoolchildren, students, ordinary life, unconcern, routine.

She left the church behind her and as she took a right, her eye was caught by a fluorescent pink poster, not much bigger than A4, pasted onto the wall of a house. Thick, black letters.

A PREOCCUPATION WITH DEATH

IS THE ROOT OF CULTURE

Death was everywhere in this fucking city, Norah thought—this beautiful, strangely unbearable city. She wondered whether the posters would turn out to be guerrilla advertising for a play or a film or some product or other; they were all over Vienna.

As she turned into the pedestrian precinct with a takeaway cappuccino in her hand, she thought for a moment of Dorotea Lechner.

That afternoon, when she left the office, the weather had turned. The crisp frost had given way to a chill damp. Norah walked briskly towards a police station she had found on Google, not far from her flat.

Hurrying along the street with other cold-looking people, she went over the conversation she’d had that afternoon with the property management office. The woman who’d taken Norah’s call had told her that the landlord was away with his family in Florida. No, of course he didn’t go in the flats without the tenants’ permission. No, nobody else had keys to the flats. And no, she couldn’t tell Norah where he kept his keys—what a question; no one had ever complained before. And why did she want to know all this? If something had gone missing, that was a matter for the police. Nothing missing? Well, then. It would be best if she rang again when the landlord was back from his holiday. Goodbye.