The Shadow

by Melanie Raabe

  Balder spread his arms, but said nothing.

  ‘Why me?’ Norah asked. ‘Why do you hate me so much? Because I attacked you in the press? Is that it? Because I took Coco’s side?’

  ‘Please! That would be despicable.’

  ‘Then why?’

  Balder’s look of amusement gave way to a more pensive expression.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said at length. ‘Who can say why one topic interests us more than another. Why we prefer Mahler to Mozart. Why we’re drawn to one person in a room of thirty. I’m an artist; I trust my instincts.’

  ‘You call this art—this sick game?’

  ‘Sick game,’ Balder repeated, smiling indulgently, like a fond father disappointed by his daughter. ‘You say that now because you’re so close-up. If you want to see the work as a whole, you have to take a step back. Well worth it, I must say. It’s great art.’

  He stopped for a moment and considered.

  ‘Hasn’t death always been the greatest work of art?’ he added at length.

  When Norah didn’t reply, he continued.

  ‘You once wrote in an article that you wished you lived in a work of art. For three weeks now, I have made your wish come true. Yes, I have documented Curse. I have shared my art with the world. But large parts of it were for your eyes alone. Only you felt the pull of the curse; only you saw the birds that had fallen from the sky; only you pulled the trigger. If I’d thought you had no appreciation of art, I would never have chosen you to take part in my performance. My art would have been wasted on a philistine.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ Norah shouted. ‘Complete bullshit. All you care about is power. Nothing else—except perhaps your wounded ego.’

  Balder raised bushy eyebrows.

  ‘I’ve shot an innocent man because of you,’ Norah cried.

  ‘As I told you,’ Balder said, and Norah saw him glance at the camera, ‘I wasn’t interested in the man’s death; all I was interested in was what you might call the experimental aspect.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Norah said again. ‘That’s nonsense, Balder, and you know it. Tell me how you did it.’

  She saw Balder glance at Theresa.

  ‘Shall I switch off the cameras?’ Theresa asked softly.

  Balder nodded.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay.’

  He took a deep breath, evidently wondering where to begin.

  ‘Okay,’ he said again. ‘We started planning Curse about five months ago. We began by casting various characters—notably Cassandra, who was to utter the curse. Then we watched you, Miss Richter—your habits, your preferences. Amat victoria curam—victory loves preparation.’

  ‘Watched me,’ she repeated dully. She hadn’t noticed anything—not in Berlin, anyway.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Balder airily. ‘But your social media accounts, your blogs and emails were, frankly, more fruitful. Like most people, you have no idea how much you reveal about yourself.’

  Norah suddenly recalled an old blog post she’d written about Valerie’s death after the suicide of a Hollywood actor. She felt dizzy.

  ‘We bought the rest of the data,’ Balder said matter-of-factly. ‘In the end I knew more than enough about you to be able to steer you. It didn’t cost much, only a bit of skill and time.’

  ‘You wanted me to kill him,’ Norah insisted. ‘Because you knew that my worst fear was to be responsible for somebody’s death.’

  Balder smiled, but said nothing.

  ‘You stole my phone,’ Norah said, ‘hacked my email account…’

  Balder gave a brief nod.

  ‘Your friends’ accounts, too.’

  ‘You bugged my phone and—’

  He gave a laugh of satisfaction.

  ‘Please, Miss Richter, I’m not the CIA! Only an artist. All it took was ingenuity, chutzpah and a little social engineering.’

  Norah said nothing.

  ‘I couldn’t resist a few symbols and allusions. The white rabbit in your flat and my top hat here—both part of the conjuror’s stock-in-trade. The vanitas still life, the dead birds—I admit that I’ve always had a weakness for the melodramatic.’

  He was crowing.

  ‘I think that’s something we have in common.’

  Norah stared at him. Not five metres away, Arthur Grimm was lying struck down on the ground—and Balder laughed.

  As if he’d read Norah’s thoughts, he turned to look at Grimm’s motionless body. Then he looked at Norah again.

  ‘I said something similar to you once before, do you remember?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That we’re not so very different, you and I,’ said Balder.

  He looked at her, sizing her up, and Norah began to feel that she was getting to the root of things.

  ‘Do you remember what else I said to you that day?’

  There was a glint in his eyes. Whatever he was about to say, he’d clearly been looking forward to saying it for a long time.

  ‘I said that women like you always try to convey an impression of superiority. You think you’re better than everyone else. But you’re not.’

  He laughed softly, then grew serious and leant forwards to whisper in her ear.

  ‘You’re not,’ he repeated. ‘Just look at yourself.’

  He leered into her face. Then he took a step back—and another, and another, and another, as if to view his work in its totality. He wasn’t in any hurry, but stood and looked at Norah, who was standing motionless. Eventually, he picked up his top hat and dusted it down. He spread out his arms and took a slow bow. When he’d straightened himself, he set the hat on his head, smiled at Norah and turned to leave, retreating into the darkness beyond the floodlights.

  Norah gripped the gun so hard that the metal cut into her hand.

  ‘You made one mistake,’ she called after him.

  Balder stopped and turned slowly, eyeing her with a combination of curiosity and amusement.

  ‘Oh, did I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘Your brilliant orchestration leaves me standing in front of you with a loaded gun in my hand.’

  Norah raised her arm and aimed the gun at him. Balder coughed out a laugh.

  ‘There was only one bullet in the cylinder,’ he said.

  ‘How do you know I didn’t add more?’

  Balder bared his teeth.

  ‘You’re bluffing. That revolver is extremely rare. Where would you get hold of—’

  Norah shot into the air and the grin vanished from Balder’s face.

  ‘You’ve stalked me, intimidated me, manipulated me,’ Norah said. ‘You broke into my flat. You made me panic and then pressed a loaded gun into my hand. That wasn’t an experiment. You had a clear goal. You wanted me to kill Arthur Grimm. Here. Today. Supposedly of my own free will.’

  Balder raised his fleshy hands placatingly.

  ‘Say it,’ she demanded. ‘Into the camera.’

  ‘The cameras were switched off ages ago,’ Balder muttered.

  ‘No,’ Theresa said. She’d been standing in the shadows all this time, listening to everything, her phone pointed at Balder. ‘The cameras are on.’

  Balder looked at her aghast.

  ‘What the hell—’

  ‘You got me to plant a real gun on her,’ said Theresa. ‘Fuck you, Balder.’

  ‘You sneaky little bitch,’ Balder shouted at her. ‘You won’t be going anywhere in life, I can tell you. I shall make quite sure of that.’

  ‘If I put a bullet in your head now,’ Norah said, ‘she won’t have to worry about that, will she?’

  Balder blinked.

  Under different circumstances, Norah would have laughed; there was something comical about his facial expression. You could almost see the cogs whirring. Then his entire face seemed to drop a centimetre. A surprised old man. Only his cold eyes retained their menace.

  ‘Say it,’ Norah repeated.

  Balder said nothing.

  Sh
e was still clutching the gun in both hands, the way she’d been taught, pointing it at Balder’s chest. Now she raised her arms and aimed at his head.

  ‘Okay,’ he said soothingly. ‘Okay, nice and calm.’

  ‘Okay, what?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I wanted it,’ Balder said.

  ‘What did you want?’

  ‘I wanted you to kill him so that the curse would come true,’ he cried. ‘Death as a work of art. The ultimate artwork.’

  ‘Where did you get the gun?’

  ‘Anton got it for me.’

  ‘Who’s Anton?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Did Theresa know that the gun was real and loaded?’ Norah asked. Balder took a deep breath, as if Norah were beginning to bore him.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘She didn’t.’

  He glared icily at Theresa.

  There was a pause and for a moment all was silent; even the waltz music had died away. Suddenly Norah noticed that Balder was no longer looking at her, but staring past her into the darkness, an expression of bewildered astonishment on his face. Norah lowered the gun a little and, without taking her eyes off him, took two steps back and looked about her. In the darkness, just outside the beam of the floodlights, something was stirring. It looked as if a dark shape were growing out of the floor.

  Grimm.

  ‘I think it’s all right for me to get up now, isn’t it?’ he said into the silence.

  Norah watched him stand and brush the dirt from his clothes. Then she turned to Balder again.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, fixing him with her gaze. ‘I don’t see why not.’

  A whole sequence of emotions came and went on Balder’s face.

  ‘He isn’t…?’ he stuttered. ‘You didn’t…?’

  He gave a bewildered laugh.

  ‘Fuck, I really thought you’d… God, you gave me a shock. I—’

  ‘Get on your knees,’ said Norah.

  Balder stared at her in disbelief.

  ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘Now!’ Norah said.

  She jerked the gun a second and Balder began to move, kneeling down ponderously. Beads of sweat glinted on his brow, in spite of the cold.

  ‘This is your chance to apologise,’ Norah said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Balder said quickly. ‘Miss Richter, Dr Grimm—I’m sorry. I didn’t want this to happen. It was an experiment. That was all. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. It wasn’t supposed to be anything but—’

  ‘Quiet!’ Norah said. ‘God, the man’s unbearable. He can’t open his mouth without lying.’

  Balder looked up at her.

  ‘Anyway, you’re not supposed to say sorry to us, but to Nicolette Thiel.’

  Balder’s mouth fell open and snapped shut again. Then Norah saw the muscles at his massive chin tighten. He looked as if wanted to argue with her.

  ‘Into the camera,’ Norah said.

  Balder’s jaws ground.

  ‘Come on!’ Norah said.

  ‘Coco,’ Balder said. ‘Coco. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to inflict pain on you, I swear. All I was ever interested in was art. I always saw it as my duty to sound out the limits and…’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Norah, and he did. ‘That’s the worst apology I’ve ever heard.’

  Balder looked at her like a dog eager to do a new trick for its mistress, but not quite up to the challenge.

  Norah was silent for a long time. She had all the answers. Now all she had to do was make a decision. And she did. Balder must have seen it in her eyes because a look of absolute horror spread across his face. Theresa must have seen it too.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked and there was panic in her voice.

  ‘I’m going to put an end to this.’

  ‘That’s not what we agreed! We only wanted to give him a scare!’

  ‘Shut up,’ Grimm shouted at her. ‘The bastard thought she’d killed me and he didn’t give a fuck.’

  Theresa ignored him.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ she said. Her voice was trembling. ‘Let’s call the police. They’ll take care of him.’

  Norah didn’t reply, but only gripped the gun tighter. She could feel the sweat breaking on her upper lip.

  ‘Norah,’ Theresa said, desperately. ‘You can’t do this.’

  Norah ignored her.

  She gripped the gun in both hands and aimed.

  58

  22 HOURS EARLIER

  When I get off the train and see the time on a display board, I know that the day I have been fearing for weeks has finally come. I fight my way through the station, a mixture of fear and relief surging through my body—afraid of what the day will bring, but at the same time glad that it will all be over in twenty-four hours. I could jump on the next train that pulls into the station, but I don’t; I go to meet the day.

  Fucking February 11.

  As I approach the station concourse I hear music. I find myself thinking of death and of Valerie and realise that someone is playing a requiem, but I resist the temptation to stop and listen—to let the music swallow me like the dark waters of a pond at night. I just want to get home. I keep going. The lingering sounds of the piano drift over to me and I fight my way forwards as if through a snowstorm, my arms wrapped around my body. Then the music falls quiet and a new piece begins. I know at once that something isn’t right. And although I don’t know what’s troubling me, I stop. I recognise the piece. It’s the ‘Moonlight Sonata’.

  Suddenly the feeling of being watched is back. Then that revolting smell rises to my nose. And all at once I know what it is that I associate with the smell of pipe tobacco—not pipe smoke as such, but a particular old-fashioned aftershave. I have just caught a whiff of it—sweet and bitter at the same time. Nauseating. And then it comes to me. I know who it reminds me of: Professor Wolfgang Balder, Coco’s ex. The nastiest man I have ever met. The man who destroyed Coco’s life. The man who lost me my job, my relationship, all my old life.

  And suddenly it’s raining blood. It’s dripping from the roof and streaking the ground, covering people’s skin and matting their hair. I can smell it. I can feel the sickly-sweet metallic taste on my tongue, and all over the station people have collapsed like marionettes and are lying in their blood in crumpled heaps. Only the pianist and I are left. He is still playing his melancholy little tune, just for the two of us, and everything is drowning in black and red.

  Then I blink and the station is just a station again; people are hurrying to the platforms or the exit and there is no blood, only everyday life. The whole thing can’t have lasted more than two or three seconds.

  I know where I’ve seen the scene before—or something similar. It was in a museum in Berlin. One of those provocative installations that brought Balder criminal complaints—and world fame. A station, innocent passers-by and gallons of fake blood.

  I leave the station, the music ringing in my ears, and suddenly that, too, brings back a memory. I remember when I last heard it. Not something similar, but exactly the same music.

  It was also in Berlin—in the bar of the Adlon Hotel. Halfway through my first interview with Balder, he got up, sat down at the grand piano and suddenly began to play. And now it hits me: the man sitting at the station piano is Wolfgang Balder.

  All at once I know everything. I don’t understand, but I know. Wolfgang Balder followed me to Vienna. Because the havoc he wreaked in Berlin wasn’t enough for him. Because he wasn’t satisfied with destroying my job and my relationship. Because he thought I’d got off too lightly.

  I think of violent blows. I think of electric shocks and a scalpel.

  I think of the way he destroyed Coco. The way he isolated her from her friends and family. The way he seduced and manipulated her, chipping away at her, inside and out—with words, with fists and finally with a scalpel. I think of Coco’s face before she met him, beautiful and girlish and innocent—a naïve Alice in a grisly Wonderland.

  Professor Balder called such treatment art.
Conceptual art. A performance. No court was willing or able to prosecute him.

  I think of Coco’s face today, one side untouched, the other ruined—not only by the ridges of scars left by the scalpel, but also by the deep incision that severed her facial muscles and left her unable to move her face. Two sides. ‘Dr Jekyll and Ms Hyde’ was Balder’s name for this ‘work of art’.

  That is the man I am up against.

  That is the man I loathe more than anyone else on the planet.

  Professor Wolfgang Balder.

  I take a cab. I drink a vodka. I try to calm down. Then I head for home. As I trudge up the stairs I think of Valerie. I think of Arthur Grimm and the woman who told me about him on the phone. I think of Sandra, the most scrupulous, reliable person I know, who assured me that Grimm was innocent. And I see myself, pointing a gun at Grimm. I see the terror in his eyes and—

  Suddenly I no longer feel insecure and frightened; I feel sure of myself. I feel hate.

  Grimm is innocent. He did nothing to Valerie. He has probably never done anything to anyone. Sandra was right.

  It was all an illusion.

  A set-up.

  A performance.

  Just another of Balder’s sick games.

  I go into the kitchen for a glass of water and when I see the gun, the identical twin of the revolver I threw in the canal, it seems to me that my hatred has drawn it there, as if by some strange magnetic force.

  All right, I think, picking it up.

  If my hunch proves right, I really am going to kill a man tonight.

  59

  Once I have calmed down a little, I open my laptop and google Balder’s name. Directly underneath his Wikipedia entry I find his homepage and click on it.

  The screen goes black. Then a countdown appears.

  20 h 58 min 32 s

  A quick sum tells me that the countdown will end at 10 p.m. I scroll up and down, then realise that I have to click on the numbers themselves. Words appear.

  Curse, it says. And underneath, Performance. And then, † 11.02.2017. I stare at the screen.

  Curse.

  Next I google ‘Balder + Curse’ and although I’m not particularly hopeful, I find something immediately: an interview with a German newspaper, less than two weeks old. I quickly scan it and soon find what I’m looking for.