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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 am in nobody’s debt. Nor do I owe anyone a debt of gratitude. When I get something, I find a way to reciprocate. When someone is generous to me, I return the favour double or threefold. I can safely say that I don’t profit from my relationships with friends and acquaintances. At work it’s different, but there you don’t have anyone’s generosity to thank for the profit on your balance sheet, only your own hard work.

It was raining. I stood in the doorway and listened to the rain. But then I heard a strange noise upstairs, and went up. The wind had blown the curtain in Irene’s room away from the window, and the wet fabric was slapping against the outside wall. I pulled the curtain back in and struggled to close the warped window.

Irene slept fitfully. I lit the candle next to the bed, and I saw the same restless hands and fluttering eyelids, and the sweat on her brow and above her upper lip. Occasionally she murmured something that I did not understand. I wiped the sweat from her face. As I shook out the blanket to cover her better, I saw that her T-shirt and underpants were soaked through with sweat. Find pyjamas and a towel, get her out of those wet things, dry her off and get her into the pyjamas – that’s what needed to be done. But I stood there looking at her and thought, What do I have to do with this woman?

I did what needed to be done anyway. I found pyjamas in the wardrobe and towels in the bathroom. When I lifted Irene and took off her T-shirt, she put her arms around my neck without saying a word, without opening her eyes, without waking up. When I slipped on the pyjama top she did the same. She probably just wanted to make it easier for me to lift her, as she had learned as a nurse and had taught her patients. But it touched me as a childlike, tender gesture. I got her out of her undergarments, and, before putting her pyjamas on, dried her off: her shoulders, her chest, her belly, her thighs. She must have weighed more, once; her skin was too big for her body. Once again I smelled the scent of illness.

Occasionally, I catch sight of my naked body in the mirror and pity it. All it has been through, how it has struggled, the pain it has endured. I have no self-pity, I despise that. It’s not me I pity, it’s my body. Or decay in general. Now, I pitied Irene’s body. So frail, vulnerable, needy, so trusting when she laid her arms around my neck. I felt sorry for it. Still, I was annoyed that she hadn’t invited me to stay longer.

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