Me and Kaminski Read Online Free

of apple and cucumbers. “Anna is an expert in my diet!” said Kaminski.
    I began to tell them about my journey, the insolent conductor this morning, the clueless railroad employees, the incredibly changeable weather.
    “Rain comes and goes,” said Bogovic. “That’s what it does.”
    “Keeps it in training,” said Clure.
    Then I told them about the proprietress at the boardinghouse, who really didn’t know who Kaminski was. Could they imagine? I banged the table, glasses jingled, my mood was infectious. Bogovic slid his chair back and forth, the banker talked quietly to Miriam, I spoke louder, he fell quiet. Anna brought peas and cornbread, very dry, almost impossible to swallow, evidently the main course. There was a wretched white wine to go with it. I couldn’t remember ever eating so badly.
    “Robert,” said Kaminski in English, “tell us about your novel.”
    “I wouldn’t dare call it a novel, it’s a modest thriller for unspoilt souls. A man happens to find out, by mere chance, that a woman who left him a long time ago . . .”
    I began to tell them about my difficult climb. I imitated the man driving the tractor and the way he looked, and how the engine had made him shake from head to foot. My acting made everyone merry. I described my arrival, my shock when I discovered the road, my investigation of the mailboxes. “Imagine! Glinzli! What a name!”
    “What do you mean?” asked the banker.
    “Listen, nobody can have a name like that!” I described Anna opening the door to me. At that very moment, she came in with the dessert; of course I jumped, but I knew instinctively that it would have been a major mistake just to stop talking. I imitated her gaping, and how she had slammed the door right in my face. I knew for sure that the person being imitated is always the last to recognize the imitation. And indeed, she set the tray down so hard that everything clattered, and left the room. Bogovic was staring out of the window, the banker had his eyes closed, Clure rubbed his face. Kaminski’s lip-smacking seemed deafening in the silence.
    Over dessert, a chocolate cream that was far too sweet, I told them about a piece I’d written on Wernicke, the artist who died so spectacularly. “You know Wernicke, surely?” Curiously, none of them did. I described the moment when his widow threw a plate at me, just like that, in her living room, it hit me on the shoulder, and it hurt quite a lot. Wives, I explained, were the absolute nightmare for any biographer, and one of the reasons this new job was such a pleasure to me was the absence of . . . well, you know!
    Kaminski moved his hand, and as if on command, everyone stood up. We went out onto the terrace. The sun was sinking on the horizon, and the mountainsides glowed dark red. “Amazing,” said Mrs. Clure, and her husband stroked her gently across the shoulders. I finished the wine in my glass and looked around for someone to refill it. I felt pleasantly tired. I should really go home now and replay the tapes with the conversations of the last two weeks. But I didn’t feel like it. Maybe they’d invite me to spend the night up here. I went to stand next to Miriam and inhaled. “Chanel?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Your perfume.”
    “What? No.” She shook her head and moved away from me. “No!”
    “You should leave while there’s still light,” said Bogovic.
    “I’ll be fine.”
    “You won’t be able to find your way back!”
    “Do you know that from experience?”
    Bogovic grinned. “I never go anywhere on foot.”
    “The road isn’t lit,” said the banker.
    “Someone could drive me,” I proposed.
    There was silence for a few seconds.
    “The road isn’t lit,” the banker said again.
    “He’s right,” said Kaminski hoarsely. “You need to start down.”
    “It’s much safer,” said Clure.
    I held my glass tighter and looked from one to the next. They were silhouettes against the sunset. I cleared my throat, now was the moment