Midday.
Keller sat in a bus that was puffing and chugging under its load of Bau’rn, worried-looking holidaymakers, layabouts with alcohol-reddened cheeks and women in headscarves. There were also a couple of kids looking around, turning their heads here and there like owls perched on a branch.
On the seat next to him, a little girl sat on her mother’s lap, staring at him, her fingers in her mouth, snot coming out of her nostrils. Her mother, a tall, slim woman, was asleep with her forehead against the window, snoring softly.
Keller had his black hat on his lap and his holdall tight between his shins. Each time the bus jolted, pain shot up his leg. He could not find a comfortable position. He tried not to think about it and just concentrate on the surrounding landscape.
The road wound halfway up the mountain. Every now and then, Keller would catch sight of a maso, high up. More often, there were tiny clusters of houses gathered snugly around long, pointed belfries. The bus would stop long enough to allow passengers to get on or off. The same expressions, the same faces. There was not much traffic despite the time of day. Partly it was the snow, he heard two men saying three rows away, but mainly it was the economic crisis. What with unemployment and rising taxes, how many people could afford the luxury of travelling by car?
The bus stopped for the umpteenth time, braking suddenly and waking the little girl’s mother with a start. Whispering gently, the woman wiped her daughter’s face. She looked up at Keller in embarrassment, as if he had caught her red-handed neglecting her duties as a mother and, judging by her clothes, as a Bäuerin. What was a Bäuerin doing on her own, on a bus?
Maybe times were changing, Keller thought. Then he took a closer look at the little girl’s face and understood. She had a fever. She was ill. Her mother was probably taking her to see a specialist. That was why she had left the shelter of the maso. Many things were changing, but the mountains were not among them.
The engine rumbled. There were still kilometres of snow and deserted roads to go. His leg was hurting. It was as though he had a red-hot iron stuck under his kneecap. He chewed some more poppy.
“Opa?” the little girl stammered.
Keller smiled. Opa: Grandpa. Nobody had ever called him that.
“What’s that?” the little girl asked, pointing at the pouch of poppy seeds.
“It’s my medicine.”
“Is it nice?”
“It’s medicine. It’s not supposed to be nice.”
“Are you ill, Opa?”
“Don’t be rude to the gentleman, Anna,” her mother cut in.
“Anna,” Keller said. “What a beautiful name.”
“Thank you,” her mother replied for her. “Please excuse her. She’s little and she wants to know everything.”
The woman was young, not much more than twenty. A girl, in Keller’s eyes.
Opa. Grandpa.
“That’s a sign of intelligence,” he said. “An intelligent child is a precious gift.”
The woman blushed, uncomfortable speaking to a stranger, uncomfortable receiving compliments.
“Are you better now, Opa?”
“Much better, little Anna.”
The girl smiled.
Keller bent forward and untied the strings of his holdall. He spread it open with his hands until he found what he was looking for. He knew it was there.
“A tribute to a polite little girl,” he said, handing her a wooden figurine.
“You shouldn’t . . .”
But the little girl had already grabbed her new toy, eyes wide open and glistening with joy.
“It’s just a pastime. I have dozens of them in my maso.”
“What do you say, Anna?”
“Thank you, Opa.”
Slipping out of her mother’s arms, the little girl shifted closer to Keller and kissed him on the cheek. He was as surprised by this as the young woman.
“Did you see, Mamma?” the little girl said, beaming. “Opa gave me a little pig.”