THE GREEN KING (part 38)
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The Photographer
from Salzburg
‘He is dead,’
she said. ‘Right before Christmas of that year. He was run over by a military
truck.’
And no one else
from the former staff? No one else. She and the four other servants had been
engaged at the same time. By Epke?
‘Yes’
She had
unhooked a piece of bacon from a beam in the ceiling, had cut off a slice, then,
after a moment’s hesitation, a second one.
‘One more,
please,’ said Reb. ‘One for each child. And I think they could eat three or
four more potatoes.’
And how was the
Klimrod house furnished the day she had entered it for the first time? She
didn’t understand the question. ‘Furnished? Yes, of course,’ she said,
surprised.
‘The potatoes,
please,’ said Reb. ‘Not too small.’
And did she
remember the books, thousand of them, if you could them paintings; and also
things in fabric, hanging on the walls; yes, tapestries. And statues.
Reb moved. His
last walk had drained his remaining strength. He was afraid that this
exhaustion, showing on his face, might weaken his position with this woman. He
moved to a darker area and, to make himself taller, raised his arms, grabbing
the beam that held the bacon.
‘In the
library, where there were all the books, there was a small elevator. Do you
remember it?’.
She had just
finished peeling the potatoes. Her fat hand that held the sharp knife, thumb
pressed against the tip of the blade, stopped moving. She frowned, searching
her memory.
‘A thing like a
dumbwaiter? Which was hidden behind a board with drawings on it?’.
The ‘board’ was
the tabernacle shtter. ‘Yes,’ said Reb.
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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