Pfitz (Contemporary English Language Fiction) by Andrew Crumey

Author:Andrew Crumey [Crumey, Andrew]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781907650383
Publisher: SCB Distributors
Published: 2012-10-23T02:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Schenck tried to imagine the separate voices which had come together to create Spontini’s work; conflicting, discordant voices which in the end drove Spontini to despair. He consulted yet again the map which fascinated him; the one which showed the Count’s room in the tavern. The name which had been erased was certainly that of Spontini. As if Pfitz had somehow replaced him; this poorly drawn smudge upon the floor, his own name pencilled so hastily that it was barely legible. The stories of Spontini and the Count came together somehow; their intersection a mystery which perhaps only a thorough investigation of the documents in the Biography Department would uncover.

Gruber saw him. ‘You’re very interested in that map lately.’

Schenck made up some excuse about a particular problem he was working on.

‘When you found me that information on Spontini, where did you get it from?’

‘Department of Authorship. I still don’t understand what all this is about, Schenck.’ There was a tone of nervousness in his voice. Did he still hope to win the Biographer?

‘I told you; just a name I came across.’ Schenck was already beginning to feel that he was becoming enmeshed in something; that he was a point on a map of great complexity, surrounded by signs whose meaning he could not fully fathom. He still had to discover the true identity of Pfitz, but could turn to no-one for help. Gruber was his rival, and must be excluded from everything involving the Biographer, while she too must not be allowed to discover the falsehood which he had perpetrated in fabricating the documents he had given her.

He went back again to those infernal rivers of muddy rainwater. They coloured his mind, seeped into his speculations and dampened his every thought. He longed to tear the chart he was making into a thousand pieces.

The hours went by, and the time for his assignation approached. People were leaving; on the stairs, he could hear the brisk descent of other biographers. He waited until there was no one left in his own office, then went upstairs.

She was still at her desk, the only person now in the great room. As soon as Schenck entered she turned round to look at him, startled by the sound.

‘Only me.’

And now she stood up. It was the first time Schenck had seen her rise from her desk, and she was taller than he had imagined. He felt a great urge to hold her. He approached and spoke.

‘I’ve been wanting to ask you … ’ he hesitated. ‘What happened? When I waited for you before, why didn’t you meet me?’

She averted her eyes, as if in shame. ‘I can’t explain now.

‘Then will you tell me your name?

She looked at him again, and smiled as if at a child. ‘My name is Estrella.’

This had not been on Schenck’s list of possibilities, but now that he heard it, he realized that it fitted her perfectly. All those other names which had floated around his memory of her face, like hovering insects, suddenly flew away looking absurd and inappropriate.

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