“Kaminski. Manuel K-A-M-I-N-S-K-I. Did you know him?” “Manuel. Yes, yes, yes.” The old lady smiled expressionlessly. “When was that?” “Was what?” She turned a waxy shriveled ear toward me. I leaned forward and screamed, “When!” “My God! Thirty years.” “It must be over fifty.” “Not that many.” “Yes it is. You can count!” “He was very serious. Dark. Always in the shadows, somehow. Dominik introduced us.” “Madam, what I actually wanted to ask . . .” “Have you heard Pauli?” She pointed to a birdcage. “He sings so beautifully. You’re writing about all that?” “Yes.” Her head drooped of its own accord, for a moment I thought she’d fallen asleep, but then she twitched and straightened herself up again. “He always said he’d be unknown for a long time. Then famous, then forgotten again. You’re writing about all that? Then you should also write . . . that we had no idea.” “About what?” “That you can get so old.” “What was your name again?”
