Its getting dark, p.5
It's Getting Dark, page 5
There was a quote printed on the sugar packet. If thou art a man, admire those who attempt great things, even though they fail. Lucius Annaeus Seneca, 4 BCE–65 CE. David was still astonished at the way someone like him, who wouldn’t help himself to a cookie without asking his mother’s permission, had come upon this plan. For weeks now, for months, he had been thinking about it, imagined pulling the squirrel mask over his head, walking into the bank and going up to the counter. He pulled his father’s army pistol from the plastic bag, pointed it at the one customer in the bank, and in a disguised voice, demanded the money from the cashier. Money, he would say. All of it. Fast. He had meant to practice disguising his voice at home, but it made him feel so silly that he soon gave up.
Eleven thirty-nine. Couple leaves the bank. Young woman walks up and down the pavement, smoking a cigarette. David put his notebook away. The woman seemed nervous. If the police questioned her, what would she tell them? She wouldn’t be able to furnish them with a description of the young man, she wouldn’t even have noticed him going into the bank. Only when the alarm went off would she have taken a step in the direction of the bank, and then several the other way. Then she would see him, a lean young man in squirrel mask, jeans, and black T-shirt, getting on a bike and disappearing around the corner.
David imagined himself driving the Merc down a country road, the woman in the passenger seat, he laid his hand on her knee and smiled. What’s the plan? she asked. France, he said, the Côte d’Azur. You’re crazy, she said, and laughed, I’ve brought nothing to wear. Then we’ll just have to buy you some new stuff, he said, money no object. How much was there in his plastic bag? A hundred g’s? Two hundred? And what happened when it was gone? They have banks on the Côte d’Azur as well. You’re crazy, she said again. You only live once, said David, and put his foot down on the accelerator. His first concern wasn’t really money, it was taking charge of his own life, being able to decide himself what he did with it.
The young woman looked at her watch. David looked at his. Ten to twelve. He mustn’t stay here too long, he didn’t want the waitress and the other clients to remember him when the police came around later, asking about any suspicious individuals. He got up and crossed the street. In the bank window was a table of currency exchange rates, with Euros, US, Denmark, UK, Norway, Sweden, Australia, Canada, Japan, all of them countries where David had never been. And now he remembered that he had forgotten to pay for his coffee, and he ran back across the street. The waitress seemed not to have noticed that he had gone.
The next day it rained. David went into the city again. He had heard of bank robbers who scoped out their prospective targets months in advance, took down every detail, drew up plans of the building, took secret photographs of it. He sat in the bus, thinking what he still needed to do. Security cameras, he wrote in his notebook. Opening times. Counter room, escape route. He was so engrossed that he missed his stop, and got out the one after. Along one side of the street were small, rather decrepit-looking single-family homes, on the other was a large project with five-story apartment blocks from the fifties or sixties. Instead of heading back into town, David walked on out. The rain came softer, then harder. The road crossed a highway, and David leaned over the parapet of the bridge and watched the cars and trucks racing by below, and wondered where they were all going. How long did it take to get from here to the Côte d’Azur anyway? But he couldn’t drive in any case, he had only turned eighteen a couple of months ago, and he couldn’t afford a car, heck, he couldn’t even afford driving lessons.
He left the main road and walked through side streets that led between the apartment blocks. In the covered entryway of one building stood a young woman smoking. In spite of the cool weather, she was just in jeans and a skimpy T-shirt; she seemed to be watching him. David looked the other way. This would be a good place to hide if I had to, he thought. He stopped and looked back. The woman was still looking his way, and on an impulse he went up to her. Her expression didn’t alter, she looked at him with complete indifference. He asked if there was an apartment free somewhere here. The woman didn’t reply, and finally said: Haven’t you got an umbrella then? No, said David. You see, I’m looking for a place to live. Just for you? asked the woman. How old are you anyway? Her T-shirt was very light material, and David could see the lines of her bra through it. I’m not from here, he said. Nor am I, said the woman. A silence ensued, as though everything had been said, or nothing. Finally, the woman stamped out her cigarette and said, Well, bye, and turned away. It would be nice to live here, I reckon, said David. I don’t think so, said the woman, and disappeared into the building without looking at him again. Through the glass door, David watched her go up the stairs. He hoped she felt his eyes on her and that she might turn and look his way. She would smile and go back downstairs, and let him in. Why don’t you come in? It would be cool and a bit dark in her apartment. We should take off our wet things, she said. Even though hers weren’t.
The tables were again out in front of the café, but the chairs had been folded away, and were stacked up against a wall. David stepped into the tiny interior that had no room for anything beyond a counter, a cigarette machine, and a couple of tables. The air was warm and somehow heavy from the rain outside. At the table by the entrance sat two old men and a woman with a little dog, but different from yesterday’s—it was as though the same parts had been taken by different actors. The waitress behind the bar was a different one too, a plump woman of some indeterminate age. Could I get a coffee? said David. The woman hesitated briefly, then said, Yes, I think we have that. The other customers laughed uproariously. That was a good one, said the woman with the little dog.
David sat at the table at the back. There was a crocheted window hanging, and he couldn’t see the bank from where he was, but it would have drawn notice if he’d got up and left right away. He drank his coffee in small sips and looked around. There were postcards on the walls, no doubt sent by regulars here, views of Ibiza, Bangkok, Kenya. On a barstool lay a fluffy dog, the kind of thing you might win at a fair, and on another a pile of cushions. On the bar was a display for lottery tickets. Small price—big win. Is today your lucky day? Win up to 250,000 right away. When David left, he saw a hairdresser from the salon next door drink an espresso outside. Clouds, he wrote in his notebook, also the way all sounds seem to be magnified by the wet surfaces, whether it’s cars or birdsong or church bells.
Back in the village, David headed straight home, he had to take care not to be seen by anyone from work. Once home, he turned on the TV, and ate the sandwiches he had made this morning for his lunch. In the afternoon he went out on his bike in the woods. He had the army pistol with him and wanted to try it out. He didn’t have any ammunition, probably it wouldn’t have been difficult getting hold of some, but it would have attracted attention and complicated matters. He stood in the middle of the woods and pulled the pistol out of the plastic bag, and in his disguised voice he repeated gruffly: Money. All of it. Right now. Money. All of it. Right now. The weather was due to improve on Thursday, Friday at the latest. Did that favor him? Was it easier to rob a bank in rain or shine?
This time David went a stop too far on purpose. More rain, he wrote in his notebook, and gusting wind. The middle of town smells like a pine forest. Feeling happy, a touch solemn, God knows why. It took him a while to find his way back to the tenement. There was no one around, and David read the names by the doorbells: Marra, Reisacher, Wittwer, Garofalo, Nahtigal. He settled on Nahtigal. And what was her first name? The first one that sprang into his head was Renata, he didn’t know why. He didn’t know anyone with that name. Renata Nahtigal, he said the name over a few times, wrote it in his little notebook. She didn’t live here, she had said. Perhaps she was visiting her parents. David walked up and down the street, but she didn’t appear. It started drizzling again, and he took shelter in the entryway where he had seen her the first time. You’re all wet, said Renata, you’ll catch cold. Her father was on vacation or in the hospital, she had come down to empty the letterbox, to water the plants. You can help me, she said, my father has a lot of plants. They sat on the sofa together, and Renata showed him snaps of her childhood. They sat huddled close, and the hand with which Renata was holding the album open was on David’s thigh. You’d better be careful you don’t get a cold, she said. Have you ever been to the Côte d’Azur? David asked.
It was noon. The trainees were sitting on benches in the town center, eating pack lunches or takeout. David looked at them and was envious of the placid rhythm of their daily life, which he had put at risk. They had good chances of getting ahead, of having a decent living like their parents and grandparents as a part of something bigger. He himself had been lost for such a life, even if he had shared in it up until a week ago. He couldn’t put his finger on when he had realized there had to be a decision, it was as though he had only realized when it was too late. And everything that had happened or was yet to happen led him to this moment. He would stand outside the bank, take a couple of deep breaths, then pull the squirrel mask over his head and walk in and do what he had to do.
The secretary had called his mother and asked after David. What’s the matter with you? his mother asked. You can’t just call in sick and then go gadding about town. I really didn’t feel well, said David. His mother laid her hand on his brow and said: Well, you’re not running a temperature. And you’re going in to work tomorrow. The day after, said David, it’s not as though we were doing anything there anyway. His mother sighed and went into the kitchen to fix supper.
In bed, later, David went over every move he would make, every word he would say. He browsed through his notebook, read his notes. On the last page with writing, there was just the name, Renata Nahtigal. He turned out the light and tried to picture her face. At first he had thought she was his sort of age, but then when he stood in front of her, he saw from the fine lines in her face that she was older, maybe thirty or thirty-five. He went to the bathroom to take off his wet clothes. He took the plastic bag with him. Are you afraid I’ll rob you? Renata called after him with a laugh. When he returned to the living room five minutes later, naked but for the squirrel mask over his head, she screamed, then her scream turned to laughter, and after that she couldn’t stop laughing.
But that wasn’t what he remembered thirty years later. It was that moment on the following day when he stood in front of the bank. Ten twenty-three. Two minutes earlier, an elderly woman had entered the branch, she would leave shortly. David stood there, holding in his hand a sports bag containing the squirrel mask and pistol. The weather had taken a turn for the better, but it was as though summer had broken over the two previous days of rain. The light had changed, the air was clearer, and there was a smell of autumn. A breeze was enough to make him shiver. He stood there, looked at his watch, ten twenty-four, took a couple of deep breaths. It felt like the moment on a swing when you’re on top of the curve and are hanging there weightless for an instant, thinking you’re on the point of taking flight, before gravity asserts itself and pulls you back into life.
The Most Beautiful Dress
The first time I saw Felix, I had been working for him for several months, and had heard all sorts of stories about him. He was the George Clooney of dendrochronology, said Nicole, our boss, after their first meeting. Daniela, the project manager, also had the most amazing things to say about our chief archaeologist. During coffee breaks the two vied with one another to tell the most outrageous stories. Felix was incredibly good-looking, he was fit, well educated and intelligent, and a perfect gentleman. He goes swimming in the lake at lunchtime every day, said Daniela. She had a meeting with him and was wearing her bathing suit under her light summer dress. Are you going swimming with him? asked Nicole incredulously. In that case, I’ll come too.
When they came back to the office at two, it turned out that things hadn’t progressed beyond lunch. They were both a bit irritable. I wouldn’t mind meeting him myself, I said. I hardly think that’s necessary, said Nicole.
Then, two weeks later, I did meet Felix after all. I had finished the draft texts for the information boards that were going to be put up around the diggings, and because neither Nicole nor Daniela were around, the boss said I should take them around myself and talk them over with the chief archaeologist. He could give me his views in person. I called him, and we agreed to meet at eleven.
* * *
—
Hi, I’m Felix, he said, putting out his hand. He was tanned and was wearing a white plastic helmet, and I have to say he did look good. Brigitte, I said, I’m the graphic designer. If it was up to him, Felix said, then he wouldn’t have all this onsite communication. We’re here to dig. If it upsets people, we can’t help it. He showed me into his office, which was in a shipping container, and I laid the folder in front of him on the table. He looked through the draft material without displaying much interest. Does the agency employ only women? he asked casually. No, I said, but all the women want to be working on this project. He looked up quickly and asked if it was because we were all so passionately interested in archaeology. Archaeologists, I’d say, and I smiled. He didn’t seem to get it and closed the folder. You decide. You’re the specialist. The specialista, I said, even though I wear my hair short. He looked at me and forced a smile. So you’re interested in archaeology? The others couldn’t make it, I said curtly, and could have smacked myself. Felix’s cellphone rang and he took the call without speaking. As he listened, his expression darkened. It’s the man in charge of the dig, he said, pocketing his phone. I’ve got to go down.
There were advanced plans for an underground parking area, but when traces of stilt houses were found, the construction was delayed by a year. A sheet of concrete—which later would be used as the roof of the carpark—was laid over the excavation, and let in it was a square opening, below which a metal staircase led down. Felix scuttled down the steps, and I followed him with the folder jammed under my arm. It was a warm day, and I was wearing sandals and had to take care not to slip on the metal steps. Felix got into some dispute with a squat little man with a ponytail and tattooed lower arms. An engineer was crouching in front of them, struggling with a big pump and cursing. I stopped just behind Felix. The other man stared at me unpleasantly and asked what I was doing there. I’m waiting for a decision, I said. Felix turned around and looked at me in annoyance. You can’t come here dressed like that, he said, and took off his hard hat and draped it on my head, as though I was a child.
He introduced me to the man in charge of the excavation and said they were experiencing problems with the pump. If we didn’t keep pumping water out, we could be doing our archaeology underwater.
He had a brief discussion with the head of the excavation, then waved me away, and I followed him down the vast hole to a group of young people who were squatting on the ground and scraping away a foot-deep layer of humus, using little trowels. Most of the stuff they just dropped behind them in a heap, but some small bits were carefully placed in cardboard boxes. I repeated that I needed a decision from him. This layer is around five thousand years old, said Felix. It’s from the Neolithic period. He talked about pieces of material they had found, potsherds, bones and other food waste. The din from the drills was deafening, and there was a smell of exhaust fumes and damp earth. I picked up a scrap of blackened wood on the ground and asked if I could keep it. Why not, said Felix. What will you do with it? He said I had to put it in water when I got home, otherwise it would rot in no time. He walked on, then suddenly grabbed me by the arm and pulled me in with a quick movement. Watch out, he said. A digger passed close by me. This is where we found the skeleton, he said, under the layers of occupation. It was a young woman. She must have died over five thousand years ago. Maybe she fell in the lake and drowned. It was fascinating to listen to him, and slowly it dawned on me what Daniela and Nicole saw in him.
After about an hour, we went up again. My sandals were filthy, and my legs were splashed with mud. Well? I asked, did you decide which draft you wanted? You can be pretty obstinate, can’t you? said Felix, and took the hard hat off my head.
* * *
—
He complimented me on my dress, said Nicole during our coffee break a couple of days later. The only females he’s interested in are skeletons, said Daniela with irritation. In that case you’re probably in with a good chance, aren’t you? said the polygrapher with a grin. I asked if Felix had said anything about my designs. Nicole gestured dismissively. How do you like this: You dig history? We dig it up. Daniela pulled a face and left the kitchen. What’s the matter with her? I asked. Nicole said she was probably upset that she had taken over the project.
A couple of weeks later, the boss said Felix had asked after me. He asked me where the little graphic designer was, he said, with a wink at me. I think Nicole schedules meetings with him deliberately on days when I’m not working.
Early in June, Felix sent a circular email to everyone involved with the project. They had collected some twenty thousand pieces of wood and processed ten thousand micro-sites, and wanted to celebrate with a little party tomorrow night. When I walked into the ladies’ room at the end of the day, Nicole and Daniela were just getting themselves ready. Nicole was putting her hair up. She was wearing a dress of lime-green taffeta silk and heels. Daniela was got up like a princess as well. She looked me up and down and asked if I was going to the reception dressed as I was? I had just a simple cotton wrap dress and flats and next to the two of them I felt quite the ugly duckling.
I was about to leave when the boss called me in and gave me something that needed doing right away. By the time I got out of the agency, it was nine o’clock. I took the streetcar as far as the opera. The lakefront was full of nicely dressed people strutting up and down, all making an exhibition of themselves. I seemed to be the only one who was on my own. I had a strong sense of exclusion, and felt the stares of the men and the scowls of the women.
