The Last Weynfeldt Read Free Page A

Don’t do it , he wanted to say, Please, please don’t do it . Instead he just stood there, sensed the indifference his face conveyed, as unable to control this as his speechlessness. It was as if the paralysis which had gripped his tongue had spread to his entire face. As if the skin and muscles had gone limp and taken on an expression of horribly blasé indifference.
    â€œYou don’t give a fuck if I jump or not, do you?” she said.
    Weynfeldt succeeded in raising his eyes and looking her in the face. Even now, in the unambiguous gray light of a Sunday morning, the similarity to Daphne was startling. This face held traces of resignation and lost illusions he had never seen in Daphne’s, not even on the day it all ended. And yet it was as if they had known each other for thirty years.
    â€œYou don’t give a fuck,” she repeated.
    Now he managed to shake his head.
    â€œIt’ll be messy and bad for your reputation. And all the formalities with the police will be a drag of course. But other than that …” she released one hand from the balustrade and raised it in a gesture of apathy.
    He stood there helpless. Like a stuffed dummy, his mother would have said. Then he shook his head once more.
    She let her hand fall, but didn’t return it to the balustrade; she stretched it out behind her, and turned her face that way, as well, looking to the street below, leaning back, holding on with just one hand, like a trapeze artist receiving her applause. “Give me one reason not to let go. Just one reason.”
    He felt his eyes fill with tears, his numbed face creasing up. A noisy sob burst from his chest.
    The woman turned back in surprise and looked at this man in his white pajamas, crying. Then she climbed back onto the balcony, led Adrian back to bed, put her arm around him, and burst into tears herself.
    â€œHaven’t you ever felt like that? That there’s no point in it all? You don’t know how you’re going to get through the next day? You can’t think of a single thing that doesn’t depress you? You can’t think of a single reason to carry on living, but lots of reasons to be dead? Have you really never had that?”
    They were sitting in bed, the pillows shoved between their backs and the walls, a tray placed on the duvet, with reheated croissants, barely touched, soft glossy yellow butter, honey, and two empty cups with chocolate left around their rims, exhausted like a couple who have just had a big, dramatic argument that shook their relationship to its foundations.
    Weynfeldt reflected. There were certainly days when he felt pretty gloomy, dwelt on dark thoughts and didn’t feel like doing a thing. But his only response was to end the day early. Not his life. “Karl Lagerfeld once said, ‘I try to categorize anything I experience which might be called depression as a bad mood.’ Sounds good to me.”
    â€œIf I had a life like Karl Lagerfeld or you I might be more attached to it!”
    â€œWhat kind of life do you have then?”
    â€œA shit life.”
    â€œEvery life is worth living.”
    â€œWhat a load of crap.”
    â€œA few years ago I went traveling through Central America. In a village somewhere—I’ve forgotten the name—the car broke down, something to do with the carburetor. It was pouring rain. A small, muddy track led off the highway, leading to a couple of huts made out of rough planks and corrugated iron. While my driver was fiddling around under the hood I waited in the car. I had the window half open—it was hot and sticky. A couple passed by, very young, almost children really. The man walked ahead, carrying a new-born baby in a cloth. The woman followed, pale, tired but smiling. They turned down the track leading to the huts. Their shoes sank into the mud. Then I heard her say, ‘Now our happiness is complete.’”
    Lorena said nothing. When he looked at her,