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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?

I approached the painting slowly. I felt awkward, just as I had back then. Then, it was because the woman who, a day before, had sat in my office in jeans, blouse, and jacket approached me in the painting naked. Now I felt awkward because the painting brought up what happened back then, what I’d gotten myself into, and what I had soon banished from memory.

Woman on Staircase, the label read. The painting was on loan. I found the curator and asked him who had lent the painting. He said he couldn’t disclose the name. I told him I knew the woman in the painting, and the owner of the painting, and that its ownership would likely be contested. He furrowed his brow, but again said he couldn’t tell me the name.

2

My flight back to Frankfurt was booked for Thursday afternoon. Since the negotiations in Sydney finished up on Wednesday morning, I could have rescheduled for Wednesday afternoon. But I wanted to spend the rest of the day in the Botanic Garden.

I wanted to eat lunch there, lie on the grass, then see Carmen at the Opera House. I like the Botanic Garden, its Art Gallery, its Conservatory, the way it is bordered by a cathedral on the north, the Opera House on the south – its hills with their view onto the bay. It has a palm garden, an herb garden, and a rose garden; ponds, arbours, statues; many lawns with huge trees; grandparents with grandchildren; lonely men and women with their dogs; picnickers, lovers, people reading, people napping. On the veranda of the restaurant in the middle of the Garden, time stands still: old iron columns, an old cast-iron railing, trees filled with fruit bats, a fountain full of colourful birds with long, curved beaks.

I ordered food, and called my colleague. He had handled the Australian side of the merger, I, the German. We were, as is the case with mergers, partners as well as opponents. But we liked each other: we were the same age, both widowers, both senior partners at one of the last law firms that hadn’t been taken over by the Americans or the English. I asked him which detective agency his firm used and he gave me the name.

“Is there a problem we can help with?”

“No, just something I’ve always been curious about.”