The Girl Who Wasn't There by Ferdinand von Schirach Read Free Book Online

the furnished room where he was still living. He sat at the window and watched the passersby in the street. He thought of the photographer’s large pictures and the truth that they showed. The pictures would long outlast the photographer who had taken them. He had not wasted his life; as a young man he had been very good, and in his old age he was still better than most others.
    Eschburg wrote the photographer a long letter. He sat at his desk for many hours, but in the end he tore the letter up and threw it away.

12
    Eschburg rented a two-storey factory building in the yard of a house in Berlin-Mitte. The factory used to make umbrellas, but the building had been standing empty since German reunification. It had tall windows, the walls were reddish-yellow brick, and it was not expensive.
    He set up his studio on the lower floor, and moved into the living quarters on half of the upper floor with his private possessions. As he was carrying his cartons of books up, he met his neighbour for the first time; her apartment occupied the other half of that floor. They introduced themselves to each other in the corridor.
     
    Eschburg called all the editors and architects he knew, saying he had set up on his own. Gradually commissions came in, photographs for sales catalogues, small illustrated news stories about new buildings, sometimes photos for one of the city’s museums. He had spent very little money while he was working for the photographer, he didn’t need much, and he enjoyed his independence.
    There was an old armchair in his apartment; someone had put it out on the street to be taken away with the rubbish. Its black upholstery had worn thin, but it was still comfortable. Apart from that, he had nothing but two iron chairs, a rough-hewn wooden table, shelves for his books and a bed.
     
    The editor of a cinema magazine asked Eschburg to take a photograph of a well-known actress for an article. She arrived wearing no makeup, warm from riding her bicycle to his studio, and wearing a plain white shirt. He photographed her just as she was; it took him hardly a quarter of an hour.
    Eschburg was in luck. The actress was pleased with the photo and put it on her website. She recommended Eschburg to her colleagues and friends. Soon he was taking photographs of directors, actors, sports stars and singers. Then came the politicians, managers and entrepreneurs. Eschburg made a name for himself because the people he photographed were well known. Three years later he had published two volumes of photographs. He had taken hundreds of black and white portrait photos, there were exhibitions of his work in various cities, his pictures featured on music CDs, on posters and in magazines, and they hung in restaurants. He could charge high prices for his work. Eschburg was only twenty-five years old.
     
    His world changed. It took him an hour every day to answer his emails, and two hours to organize his engagements diary. An agency looked after the exploitation of rights to his pictures, another agency took care of his website. He had an advertising contract with a camera manufacturer. He travelled a great deal, and often woke up in hotels not knowing what city he was in. Sometimes that made him think it would be better to lie in bed and wait until all this was over.

13
    Four years after Eschburg’s move to Linienstrasse, a woman called his studio and asked if he had time to see her. She was quite close, she said, and would like to look in. She gave the name of a French energy company to which she was adviser. Half an hour later she rang his doorbell. She was wearing a thin yellow dress and had pinned her hair up on top of her head.
    ‘Just call me Sofia, my surname’s far too complicated.’ Her hand was warm. Her business card told him that she was managing director of a public relations firm. She said that the energy company she was advising wanted to launch an advertising campaign with the face of a woman, and asked whether he would