Me and Kaminski Read Free Page A

face. His jaws worked. “Tomorrow?”
    “You’ll be working mostly with me,” said Miriam. “He needs his peace and quiet.”
    “I don’t need peace and quiet,” he said.
    Her other hand laid itself on his other shoulder. She smiled at me over his head. “The doctors see it differently.”
    “I’m grateful for any help,” I said cautiously, “but naturally your father is the most important person to talk to. The source, quite simply.”
    “I’m the source, quite simply,” he said.
    I rubbed my cheeks. It wasn’t going well. Peace and quiet? I needed my own peace and quiet, everyone needs peace and quiet! Ridiculous! “I’m a great fan of your father, his paintings have changed art . . . the way I see it.”
    “Rubbish,” said Kaminski.
    I began to sweat. Of course it was rubbish, but I’d never yet met an artist who didn’t believe this sentence. “I swear it!” I laid a hand on my heart, reminded myself that such a move would have zero effect on him, and quickly yanked it away again. “You have no greater admirer than Sebastian Zollner.”
    “Who?”
    “Me.”
    “Oh, right.” He lifted his head, then let it droop again, for a second I thought he’d really looked at me.
    “We’re glad you’ve taken over this project,” said Miriam. “There were several applicants, but . . .”
    “Not that many,” said Kaminski.
    “. . . your publisher recommended you highly. He thinks a lot of you.”
    Hard to believe. I had met Knut Megelbach precisely once in his office. He had walked up and down, wringing his hands, when he wasn’t using one hand to pull books out of the bookcase and stick them back again while the other was groping the coins in his pants pocket. I had been talking about the imminent Kaminski Renaissance: new dissertations were going to be written, the Pompidou Center was working on an exhibition, and there was also the sheer documentary value of his memories, one mustn’t forget everything he’d seen and whom he’d known; Matisse had been his teacher, Picasso his friend, Richard Rieming, great poet, his mentor. I was, I told him, well acquainted with Kaminski, a friend of his, actually, there was no doubt he would talk to me candidly. Only one small thing was lacking to ensure that everyone’s interest would land on him, there would be articles in all the magazines, the price of his paintings would soar, and the biography would be a surefire success. “And what is that?” Megelbach asked. “You mean, what’s missing? He needs to die, of course.” Megelbach walked back and forth, thinking. Then he stood still and smiled at me.
    “I’m glad,” I said. “Knut’s an old friend.”
    “What’s your name again?” asked Kaminski.
    “We need to get a couple of things straight,” said Miriam. “We’d like . . .”
    The sound of my cell phone interrupted her. I pulled it out of my pants pocket, saw who was calling, and switched it off.
    “Who was that?” asked Kaminski.
    “We would like you to show us everything you want to publish. In return for our cooperation. Agreed?”
    I looked her in the eyes. I was waiting for her to look away, but oddly she didn’t blink. After a few seconds I looked down at the floor and my dirty shoes. “Naturally.”
    “And as for old acquaintances, you will not use them. You have us.”
    “Got it,” I said.
    “Tomorrow I have to be away,” she said, “but the day after tomorrow we can start. You will put your questions to me, and if necessary, I’ll get further information from him.”
    For a few seconds I didn’t say anything. I heard Kaminski’s whistling breath, his lips smacked as they moved. Miriam looked at me.
    “Agreed,” I said.
    Kaminski bent forward and had a coughing fit, his shoulders shook, he pressed a hand to his mouth, and his face went red. I had to restrain myself from giving him a thump on the shoulder. When it was over, he sat there stiffly, seemingly drained.
    “Then everything’s settled,” said Miriam.