Summer Lies by Bernhard Schlink

days. So that a branch would break under it and tear down the new phone line. So that no one could tell Kate she’d won and invite her to the awards ceremony, and no one could pull her into the city to burden her with interviews, talk shows, and receptions. When the thaw came, the prize would find its way to Kate, and she would be no less delighted than she would be now. But the hubbub would have come and gone, and her world would remain unchanged.
    When the sun had gone down he drove on, from the main road to the local road and then the dirt road up the long valley, until he stopped and got out. New, pale, unseasoned poles ran along the roadside carrying the phone line ten feet in the air. Some trees had been felled to make room and some branches cut back. But others stood close to the line.
    He found a pine with bare branches, tall, leaning, dead. He threw the work rope around the tree and hitched it to the tow bar, put the car into four-wheel drive, and then into gear. The engine howled and died. He put it into gear again, and again the engine howled and died. On the third try the wheels lost traction. He got out, took the folding spade from the emergency kit, and dug into the cracks in a rock in which the roots had taken hold. He tried to loosen them, grubbed at them, shook them, and pulled. His shirt, his sweater, his pants—everything was soaked with sweat. If only he could see better! It was getting dark.
    He got back in the car, put it in gear, and eased forward until the rope was taut, let the car roll back, then accelerated again. Forward, backward, forward, backward—sweat poured down into his eyes to join the tears of rage at the tree that wouldn’t fall and the world that refused to leave him and Kate in peace. He drove forward, back, forward, back. He hoped Kate and Rita couldn’t hear him. He hoped Kate didn’t call the farmer or the general store. He had never come home this late. He hoped she didn’t call anyone else.
    Without the tree giving any signal by beginning to tip, it fell. It struck the line right next to one of the poles, and both tree and pole bowed forward until the lines tore loose. Then they crashed to the ground.
    He switched off the engine. Everything was silent. He was exhausted, drained, empty. But then he began to be filled witha sense of triumph. He’d done it. He would do the rest of it too. What strength he had! What strength!
    He got out of the car, untied the rope, loaded it and the spade, and drove home. From far off he could see the lighted windows—his house. His wife and daughter were standing out in front as they always did, and as always Rita flew into his arms. Everything was good.
6
    It was the following evening before Kate asked him why the phone and the Internet weren’t working. In the mornings and early afternoons she allowed nothing to interfere with her writing, and didn’t pay attention to her e-mails until late afternoon.
    “I’ll take a look.” He stood up, went to check the boxes and wires for the phone and computer, and found nothing. “I can drive into town tomorrow and arrange for the technician to come.”
    “Then I’ll lose another half a day—why don’t you wait? Sometimes the technical stuff straightens out by itself.”
    After the technical stuff still hadn’t straightened itself out several days later, Kate pressed him: “And if you go tomorrow, ask if there’s a cell phone network we can access here. We can’t cope without a cell phone.”
    They had both been delighted to find that there was no cell phone reception either in the house or on the property. That they weren’t reachable and available at all times. That from time to time they didn’t pick up the landline either, and had no answering machine. That they didn’t have the mail delivered, but went to collect it. And now Kate wanted a cell phone?
    They lay in bed together and Kate switched off the light. Heswitched it on. “Do you really want it to be like it was in New York