The Last Weynfeldt by Martin Suter Page B

long-running, losing battle to prove she wasn’t indispensable.
    He had only just returned with a beer and a glass for Strasser when she arrived with the first tray, and handed him the bottle opener which he had forgotten.
    Strasser took a drink, wiped the froth from his mouth and asked, “How long have we known each other, Adrian?”
    The sentimental stage had begun.
    â€œWhen did you return from Vienna?”
    Strasser emptied his glass as he reflected. “About twelve years ago.”
    â€œWell, that’s how long we’ve known each other.”
    â€œHow long or how short, depending how you look at it.”
    â€œHow do you look at it? Long or short?”
    Strasser poured out more beer. “I feel like we’ve known each other for ages. Longer than just twelve years.”
    â€œStrange how the same period of time can seem short or long depending which vantage point you see it from.”
    â€œYou know what I hate? When time moves on but you stay stuck in a rut. Like me.”
    â€œYou aren’t stuck in a rut,” Adrian protested.
    â€œYou and your fucking politeness. Of course I’m in a rut. I’m just where I was twelve years ago. What the fuck? Twelve years ago I was further ahead. Then I still had a fucking future!”
    Weynfeldt could see that Strasser’s mood was tipping. There was no point arguing with him. But he couldn’t agree with him either. “I know what you’re talking about. You begin the day and immediately realize you’ve begun hundreds of days like that. That it’ll be like all the days before and to come. Pretty depressing, I know.”
    â€œWith me it’s not just a feeling. With me it’s a certainty.”
    â€œWith me too perhaps, but I try to treat it like a feeling.”
    â€œIf I had your life, I might actually be happy that nothing changed.”
    Once people took this tone Weynfeldt was helpless. He didn’t seek to defend his affluence, and for them to broach the subject he found tactless; there was nothing he could say to ease the awkwardness.
    The fact that Rolf had brought it up was a sign to Weynfeldt that he would soon reveal the real reason for his visit. He helped him out: “Do you have any idea what you could do about it? About the stagnation, I mean, whether genuine or perceived?”
    â€œNew impulses. A clean break. New start. Brainwash. Back to square one.”
    Frau Hauser knocked and came straight in with further morsels. She placed the silver tray on the table and wished them bon appétit .
    Strasser had finished the beer and now switched to white wine. “Where was I?”
    â€œA new start.”
    â€œYes. I have to get out of here.”
    This wouldn’t be the first time Strasser had sworn by this remedy. There had been trips to Italy, the USA, North Africa. With Weynfeldt’s support each time. Adrian didn’t mention this, just nodded sympathetically.
    Strasser did mention it: “Not like Italy that time, or North Africa. Then I just wanted to get away from here, anywhere. That was a mistake. I don’t need to get away from here.” He stuffed two salmon canapés into his mouth and swilled them down with wine. “I need to go somewhere!”
    Adrian concurred. “Do you have a specific idea where?”
    â€œHiva Oa.” He sounded irritated at having to explain, as if Weynfeldt had asked a stupid question.
    Adrian risked inquiring nonetheless. “Where is that?”
    â€œMarquesas. The largest of the Marquesas Islands. Gauguin is buried there.”
    â€œOh yes. French Polynesia. Pretty far off the beaten track.”
    â€œGauguin managed to make a new start there.”
    Weynfeldt said nothing—Gauguin was already very established by this point—except, “True.”
    â€œGauguin said, ‘To create something new, we have to go back to our origins, to humanity’s