THE GREEN KING (part 31)
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The Photographer
from Salzburg
In the ravaged
library, fantastically resonant, daybreak began filtering through the closed
shutters. He walked towards the elevator the way you go towards a last
resource..
To reach Vienna
this dawn of June 19, he had travelled the almost one hundred miles separating
Mauthausen from the capital on foot, moving only at night, sleeping during the
day, stealing foot from farms. He had covered the last twenty-two miles in one
stretch.
Many years
later, David Settiniaz asked him the reason for his frenetic, solitary
rush-when he and Tarras would certainly have helped him return to Vienna- and
he replied, in his faraway tone: ‘I wanted to find my father, and find him by
my town means.’
When the
elevator had been build, in order to conceal it a tabernacle panel from some
Parish church in the Tyrol of Bohemia had been fastened to a simple wood panel,
and that to the grille. It dated from the fifteenth century, and those who had
ransacked the house hadn’t missed it; the panel had disappeared, leaving only
the ash one.
He opened it.
The metallic cage was narrow, the exact size of the wheelchair. And the
wheelchair was there, empty.
Reb Klimrod was
certain that his father was dead. Standing before the empty chair, he cried.
The bookshop
was on a curving street between the cavalcading statuary of the Daun-Kinsky
palace and the Burgtheatre.
One entered it
by going down three steps, which have since disappeared. There were three
arched rooms in a row, each lit by a small window. The man’s name was Wagner,
he was over sixty years old, and he had spent twenty years working at the
Hofburg National Library before going out on his own. No without reason, since
he prided himself on being one of the foremost authorities on rare editions and
the incunabula of Vienna.
TO BE CONTINUED
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I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
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