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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?

As suddenly as the wind had picked up, it died down. The fire was no longer bent forwards, like someone running a race, but stood upright, as if awaiting instruction.

“You can go. If it becomes dangerous, I’ll try to come. If I don’t come, but the fire gets over the mountain, get in the boat and head out to sea. Don’t wait for me. If the path to you gets cut off, I’ll find another one.”

19

Irene was lying as I had left her. I told her about the fire in the plain, about the wind, about Kari. She listened, but her eyelids were heavy. “Could you clean me up?” I fetched a new mattress and made up a bed, undressed Irene and washed her, then dressed her and moved her to the new bed. As I did so, she again put her arms trustingly around my neck, and it made me happy.

“If the fire comes over the mountain during the night, we’ll get in the boat.”

“I won’t get in the boat.”

That was so stupid that I had no idea how to respond. “Do you want to die in the fire? You aren’t going to die when you want, you are going to die when it’s your time.”

“If the house burns down, it’s my time. I won’t burn, the smoke will suffocate me. It’s an easy death.” She said it mournfully and stubbornly, like a child clinging white-knuckled to the railing. “I don’t want to go to Rock Harbour and to Sydney and to hospital. I don’t want to die in a white room. I want to die here.”

I leant over her and took her in my arms. “I won’t let you die in a white room. You’ll die here. When it’s time. We’ll get in the boat when the fire comes, and when it’s gone, we’ll move back into the old house and we’ll have some more time together. We wasted so many days, we can’t lose any more.”

“Promise me that I’ll die here? Whatever happens?”

I promised, and she let go of the balcony railing and fell asleep in my arms. Black smoke drifted over the mountains and rolled over the cove. Everything went dark, although the dull white disc of the sun could still be made out behind the smoke. Then I saw fire coming over the mountaintop. I lifted Irene up, carried her to the boat, soaked the towels and sheets in the old house and plastered them on the wood. A powerful wind came down from the hills. It bent and buffeted the trees, made the upper house groan and tremble, and whipped up the sea so the waves slapped the jetty. The air tasted of smoke and salt.