Read Online The Last Weynfeldt by Martin Suter - Free Book Online

drawing. Wherever he was, he drew on whatever came to hand. At Agustoni’s it was the tablecloths. Throughout the meal he would make sketches and studies on the paper surface, document the ever changing still lives on the table, draw portraits of the others or embellish stains with ornamentations. He was like a nervous office worker who decorates everything in reach with doodles, except that he was a virtuoso. For his part Nunzio Agustino forbade his staff from trashing any paper Strasser had drawn on. When the tables were cleared, the drawings had to be carefully detached and handed to Agustino, who added them to his collection, which he was convinced would one day be worth a fortune.
    Weynfeldt and Strasser were united and divided by their shared passion: their love of art. Rolf was the only one of his friends who could hold down a proper conversation about Adrian’s area of expertise. But there were no Strassers in Weynfeldt’s private collection. Friendship notwithstanding, art meant too much to Weynfeldt for that.
    But he supported Strasser’s career in other ways: by editing a catalogue raisonné, published by a press Karin Winter founded for this sole purpose, or—killing two birds with one stone—by financing a website designed by Luc Neri.
    The waiter was already bringing the starters as the professional artist rolled up and grabbed the bottle of Brunello to fill his glass, before he’d even sat down. As always, he wore a suit with a shirt and tie. As a concession to his identity as an artist—if he was an artist—every item was black.
    He nodded once to the whole group, ignoring Weynfeldt. No one would have realized that he had arranged to meet him that night for a tête-à-tête.
    Strasser was happy to go without a first course, but not without the Chesterfield he smoked while the others ate their antipasti and salads. Soon he had a pen in his hand and had begun adding something to Agustoni’s collection.
    Strasser didn’t participate in the conversation, which had now turned to Working Title: Hemingway’s Suitcase . Casutt had raised the subject with the remark: “I once knew someone who was working on a novel for years. Whenever you met him he was either nearly finished, or working on a redraft. He always had to get back home in a hurry because his text was waiting, or he’d arrive late because he couldn’t make the text wait. And one day it was all gone. His wife had wiped the hard disk after an argument.”
    â€œDidn’t he have backup?” asked Luc, who knew about information technology.
    â€œApparently not.”
    â€œThen it’s his fault.”
    â€œThat’s not the point. I reckon he had never written a line.”
    â€œAnd why are you telling us this?” Kando asked suspiciously.
    â€œIn relation to Claudio’s project.”
    â€œ Working Title: Hemingway’s Suitcase will soon be ready to shoot,” she snapped.
    â€œThat’s not what I meant. I’m wondering if Hemingway had really put his entire unpublished works in the suitcase his wife lost.”
    Hausmann chewed on his marinated eggplant with the face of a highly musical person forced to listen to an amateur orchestra rehearsing. Karin Winter tried to involve him in the conversation. “An interesting angle, Claudio, don’t you think? The lost suitcase never contained a single manuscript. Just as an idea to investigate.”
    Hausmann sighed. “That’s not what I’m interested in. The fact that his wife believed they were in there is all that matters.”
    Alice Waldner, the sculptor, chimed in. “I’m sure she knew exactly what was in that suitcase. I don’t think Hemingway was the kind of man who packed his own bags.”
    Unnoticed by the group, the waiter had approached Adrian. “A call for you, Herr Weynfeldt,” he murmured.
    It took a moment for Adrian to realize: the waiter was asking