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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?

My foot hurt from the fall, and my back from crouching. But I still felt the lightness and power of the morning, didn’t doubt for a second that I was doing the right thing. Then I heard the front door open and Schwind scolding the butler, who wasn’t being quick, careful, or helpful enough. Schwind wasn’t pleased that he had to walk around the van, that he had to struggle to open the door. But he got it open, and cursed as he laid the painting in the back, then slid the door shut. As the door clanked shut, I turned the key in the ignition.

The engine started immediately, and by the time Schwind caught on, and yelled, and hit the van, I was off; as he started running, I was already driving fast enough that, though he was able to reach the passenger door and fling it open, he couldn’t jump in or even look inside. In the rear-view mirror I watched him running behind me, becoming smaller and smaller until he finally stopped.

20

I drove to the bend below Gundlach’s house. After a while I got out and walked around the van, opened and closed the sliding door, and shut the passenger door, which I hadn’t been able to shut after Schwind threw it open. I didn’t want to look at the painting. I don’t know why.

Then I stood around, waiting. I looked at the wall Irene planned to climb over. It was about six feet high, whitewashed, with a crown of red shingles. The neighbour’s tall, dense conifer hedge formed a green wall next to the white one. The fence on the inside of the bend, it too was tall and completely overgrown with ivy, as forbidding as a wall. I looked at the blue sky and heard birds in the gardens, and in the distance, a dog. Everything had a Sunday calm. And yet I felt trapped between the walls. I was freezing, as in the previous night, and was again afraid without knowing what of. That Irene wouldn’t come?

Then there she was – light, luminous, laughing, tucking her hair behind her ears, jumping towards me. I caught her in an embrace and thought, now it will all be okay. I was happy and thought she was too. She let me hold her until she caught her breath, then gave me a little kiss and said: “We have to go.”

She wanted to drive. And because we might get stuck in the traffic of the village fête, and they might follow and catch up with us, it would be better to take the turn-off, into the hills before the village, and circle around into the city from the east. And because they shouldn’t find my car in the village, I should get out before the village and drive my car back to the city.

“How would they recognize my car?”