BooksBarbecue
Back The Woman on the Stairs Save as PDF
Chapters (83)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Bernhard Schlink
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Part One
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. Part Two
  33. 1
  34. 2
  35. 3
  36. 4
  37. 5
  38. 6
  39. 7
  40. 8
  41. 9
  42. 10
  43. 11
  44. 12
  45. 13
  46. 14
  47. 15
  48. 16
  49. 17
  50. 18
  51. 19
  52. 20
  53. 21
  54. 22
  55. 23
  56. 24
  57. 25
  58. Part Three
  59. 1
  60. 2
  61. 3
  62. 4
  63. 5
  64. 6
  65. 7
  66. 8
  67. 9
  68. 10
  69. 11
  70. 12
  71. 13
  72. 14
  73. 15
  74. 16
  75. 17
  76. 18
  77. 19
  78. 20
  79. 21
  80. 22
  81. Author’s Note
  82. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  83. What’s next onyour reading list?

“She was not blonde, she was dark, and she was not called Irene, which is what I was about to call her, but Barbara. For two or three weeks we walked home together hand in hand, then she was gone, and I had forgotten all about her until you asked me about school. If it had been you, and you hadn’t moved away, but had stayed…” I took Irene’s hand.

“Yes.”

16

We made it to the boulder at the end of the cove. Then she couldn’t go on. I carried her back to the stairs, and up them, and laid her on the bed on the balcony. It was so early that the sun was still shining on the bed; I opened the sun umbrella and positioned it.

“Do you smell something?”

“No. What do you smell?”

“Fire. But maybe I’m imagining it.”

I went through the house and checked the gas oven and the boiler and the candles that in the past few days we had sometimes lit. I checked our provisions; in two or three days I would have to drive into town. I would have liked to have had some morphine on hand in case Irene was in real pain. Maybe Kari could get hold of some – or some heroin?

When I got back to the balcony, Irene was asleep. I sat next to her, and watched her. The hair, combed away from her face and bunched at the nape of her neck. Her forehead lined with wrinkles, and the deep grooves in her cheeks. The mouth with lips grown thin, the round, prominent chin, the empty skin beneath it at her throat. She looked severe. I made all sorts of faces, but couldn’t find one that would have etched the grooves in her cheeks, nor carved the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes – laughing joy at the world, or a fearful rejection of it, with squinting eyes? It wasn’t a sweet face. And yet it was precious to me. It held the joys, and fears, and ruptures in Irene’s life.

The longer I looked at it, the more I thought I understood her face. There was both: joy and fear around the eyes; harshness and softness in the cheeks; and the thin lips were ready to break into an enchanting smile.

She opened her eyes. “What are you looking at?”

“I’m just looking at you.”

She didn’t like the answer and shook her head, smiling.

“When I look at your face, I see what I know about you, and what I still don’t know. I’m putting it together. Each time I look at you, I know you better. Each time, I love you more.”