Me and Kaminski by Daniel Kehlmann Read Free Book Online

hung over the desk. “All I can say is I love him like a father. Go ahead, make sure you’ve got that on tape. A father. I got to know him at the end of the sixties, Papa was still running the gallery, he was so proud that Kaminski had become one of his artists. In those days, Manuel came by train, he didn’t fly. But he loves to take trips. He’s gone on long journeys, of course he needs someone to drive him. He likes adventures! We handled his great landscape paintings. Probably the best things he ever did. The Pompidou almost bought two of them.”
    “What went wrong?”
    “Nothing, they just didn’t buy them. Mr. Zellner, I have . . .”
    “Zollner!”
    “. . . known many creative people in my lifetime. Good people. But only one genius.”
    The door opened, an assistant wearing a tight blouse came in and laid a message in front of him; Bogovic looked at it for a few seconds, then set it aside. I looked at her and smiled, she looked away, but still I could tell she liked me. She was adorably shy. As she went out, I leaned unobtrusively to one side, so that she had to brush against me as she passed, but she evaded me. I winked at Bogovic, he frowned. He must be gay.
    “I go see him twice a year,” he said, “next week is when I’m due to go again. Strange that he really took himself out of circulation. Papa would have gotten him an apartment here or in London. But that’s not what he wanted.”
    “Is he totally blind?”
    “If you find out, do let me know! He hasn’t been doing so well recently, major bypass operation. I was there myself, at the hospital . . . no, that’s not right, I was there when Papa had the same thing. But I’d have done the same for him. As I said, I love this man. I didn’t love my father. Manuel Kaminski is the greatest. Sometimes I think”—he pointed to the picture of the villa—“David is the greatest. Or Lucian or whoever. Sometimes I even think I’m the greatest. But then I think of him, and I know we’re nothing.” He pointed to a painting on the opposite wall: a bowed figure sat on the coast of a dark ocean, beside it stood a huge dog, twisted peculiarly out of perspective. “You know this one, don’t you?
Death by the Faded Sea.
This I will never sell.”
    I realized Komenev had mentioned this painting. Or was it Mehring? I couldn’t remember what had been said and if I was supposed to like the thing or not. “Doesn’t look like Kaminski,” I said before I had time to think.
    “In what way?”
    “Because he . . . because . . .” I stared at the palms of my hands. “Because . . . of the brushwork. You know, the brushwork. What do you know about Therese Lessing?”
    “Never heard the name.”
    “How good a negotiator is he?”
    “Miriam does all that. She started when she was seventeen. She’s better than a lawyer and a wife combined.”
    “She never married.”
    “And?”
    “She’s been living with him for such a long time. Up there in the mountains, cut off from everything. Right?”
    “Mmmm,” he said coolly. “Now you must excuse me. Maybe next time you should make an appointment instead of just . . .”
    “Of course!” I got to my feet. “I’ll be there next week too. He’s invited me.” Bogovic’s handshake was soft and a little damp. “To Arcadia!”
    “To where?”
    “When I’m rich, I’m going to buy
Death by the Faded Sea
from you. No matter what the price is.”
    He looked at me wordlessly.
    “Just kidding!” I said happily. “No harm intended. It was a joke.”

    “Haven’t a clue what the old idiot said to you. I never lived with Adrienne.”
    It hadn’t been easy to persuade Silva to meet me again; I’d had to emphasize repeatedly that he could choose where we were to eat. He shook his head, his lips were smeared all brown with chocolate ice cream, not a pretty sight.
    “I liked her and I felt sorry for her. I took care of her and the child, because Manuel didn’t want to anymore. Maybe he took it badly. But