I needed to call. Even if my children wouldn’t be worried about me, and most probably hadn’t even thought about me, they should at least know where I was. It was between five and six in Europe, too early to wake them. In our family, we did, and still do things by the book: no loud fights, no love fests or orgies of joy, no lazing about, as much work as possible, as much rest as necessary; day is day and night is night. The kids should sleep. But I could call the firm’s manager; he has to work for the firm even when he’s at home.

He was as awake as if it were the middle of the day. “Are you ill? You still don’t know when you can fly? The doctor says there’s no cause for alarm? You’re hard to get hold of.” The connection was bad, and his questions reassured him that he had understood me correctly. “Call your children?” He was ready to take care of that too and was certain he could give me my colleagues’ regards in return for mine.

I turned off the phone. I never had, nor wanted a boat; the sea and new shores and foreign ports never tempted me. But now I had the happy feeling that with that call, I’d cut the line that kept my boat moored.

22

The pilot took over the kitchen. The mushrooms and nuts only needed to be warmed up, the barramundi and kangaroo had to be cooked. I set the table on the balcony, dressed the caviar with sour cream, lemon, onions and eggs, and found a jug that would do as a bucket, in which I placed the champagne with ice from the hotel cooler. On the way from the hotel to the airport I had bought a bouquet of roses, red, yellow and white. I put on my new linen trousers and a new shirt, and as I stood on the balcony at quarter past five, Gundlach and Schwind arrived, one from one direction, the other from the other.

Then Irene came. She hadn’t asked for my help, and I hadn’t offered it; this was her night, her time to shine. She walked serenely onto the balcony, wearing a black top and a long black skirt. She wore her hair up, and lipstick, and a necklace of gray pearls wound twice around her neck. She was radiant and smiling, basking in our admiration. She let Gundlach pass her a glass, let me pour, and let Schwind fix a white rose to her top with a safety pin he conjured up from his pocket. The roe were like pearls, the barramundi juicy, the kangaroo tender, and the conversation skated over trivial things.

Until I asked Irene: “Do you know now? What’s left from those days? Do you see what you once saw in them? And why you left them?”