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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?

It wasn’t my business. I’ve got a sense for when something is or isn’t, and I knew what was happening here was Irene, Gundlach, and Schwind’s business, not mine. They could present themselves however they wanted; I was just a chance observer. I don’t know why I suddenly felt guilty – not because I had helped Irene steal the painting back then, nor because today I’d butted in to the game between her and the two men, or because my wife had driven the car into the tree, or because I hadn’t seen my children in a long time. My children were adults, my wife had been too; I had mostly kept my mouth shut today and back then, done nothing that Irene couldn’t have found others to do. My feeling of guilt wasn’t about any one thing. It was like angst, although there was nothing to fear; sadness, although nothing had happened. It was a physical sensation, and although I said to myself that the body can only feel good or bad, but not guilty, it was a feeling of guilt. I was getting cold and swam back.

The house was dark and quiet. Kari was perched at the bottom of the stairs; we gave each other a nod, and I smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back. There were still glasses and an open bottle of wine on the balcony, I poured myself some and sat down. Tomorrow, I could call my firm from Rock Harbour and have a colleague find out what the terrorist with dyed hair, sunglasses and a bowed head was accused of. But maybe Gundlach was right, and whatever Irene had done was part of a vanished world that had nothing in common with ours.

As I lay in bed I listened to the rush of the waves, and the rustle as they washed back through the pebbles. It was soft, I could barely hear it. I couldn’t hear the house breathing either. There was a peculiar restlessness in the house, as if Irene couldn’t keep her hands and legs still, as if Gundlach was tossing and turning in bed, as if Schwind was talking in his sleep and the pilot was pacing his room, smoking. As if the house were trembling, not shaken by the wind or a tremor, but under the burden of hosting incompatible people. I lay completely still.

Part Three

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