Dead Calm

by Inge Löhnig

  DEAD

  CALM

  INGE LÖHNIG

  Contents

  Prologue

  Monday, 13 October

  Tuesday, 14 October

  Wednesday, 15 October

  Thursday, 16 October

  Friday, 17 October

  Saturday, 18 October

  Monday, 20 October

  Tuesday, 21 October

  Wednesday, 22 October

  Thursday, 23 October

  Monday, 27 October

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  The Wages of Sin Extract

  Copyright

  For my parents, in gratitude for a wonderful childhood

  Prologue

  Beneath the narrow steps leading down to the basement was a space that had once stored coal. Black dust still clung in nooks and crannies, but it was so nearly dark that the boy, huddled on a pile of old blankets and curtains, couldn’t see it. Instead he smelled the greasy odour.

  He felt cast out from his own world, like a hero in the sagas he loved to read. However insurmountable the task, they always returned victorious, so bold, valiant and strong they never failed to find a way of accomplishing what they set out to do. But he was no hero, and no matter how hard he looked he couldn’t see a way out of his dilemma.

  The chill of the floor crept through the worn fabric; the old curtain he’d drawn around his shoulders – taken, like the blankets, from the box of old clothes – didn’t seem to help. The boy was freezing and hungry. Worst of all, though, was the thirst. The key to the laundry room and hence to the tap was unreachable, on a shelf in the hall upstairs.

  He picked up the empty glass again, hoping it might have caught a few drops of moisture. His dry tongue ran across the smooth surface: it was cold, nothing more. He lowered his arm and the glass rolled across the floor. The dull ache at his temples was intensifying minute by minute. He tilted back his head, close to tears.

  From far above a weak light was visible in the gloom. There, just below the roof, was a barred window that had not been opened for many years. The pane was hidden beneath a layer of dirt and cobwebs. The boy could tell day from night by the presence of a dull glow, but it gave no hint as to the weather, to sunshine or to rain. He imagined it was raining. A summer rain that began with warm droplets, evaporating the moment they hit the sun-warmed paving stones. Leaving no trace, as if they had never been. They were followed by a heavy shower that coloured the sandstone dark and turned small hollows into puddles, in which the next drops splashed excitedly like playing children. Then a warm breeze picked up, driving the rain before it, soaking clusters of flowers until they bent beneath the water’s weight, rippling through bushes and trees, stroking them gruffly like a father runs a hand though his son’s hair, the gesture almost rough, yet communicating all the love and acceptance that binds the two of them together.

  Unconsciously the boy had begun to hum the Adagio from Vivaldi’s ‘Summer’. It was the music that had awoken those images in him, the music he loved more than almost anything else. Almost. Why was this decision so hard?

  His legs had gone to sleep, lying numbly beneath his body. He stood up slowly, stretching, waiting for the blood to come shooting and prickling back into them with a thousand needles. He felt dizzy, cold sweat beading on his skin. Bright spots danced before his eyes, then everything went dark.

  When he came to, the pain in his head was thudding as if some living thing were trying to get out of his skull. His tongue was like a piece of wood in his mouth, his lips cracked and bursting. At the thought of a glass of water he was racked with such terrible pain that he groaned. With the last of his strength he crawled back onto the blankets. He had to make a decision, finally – only then would he be allowed back upstairs. But his mind had been running round in circles for two days. He knew what was expected of him; he just wanted both. And he couldn’t have both. He realised that. Yet still he was trying to find another way out, even without the energy to think. What occupied his mind now was the thought of a sip of water.

  Slowly he got up, his legs trembling with weakness. Lurching over to the stairs, he climbed them stiffly and clumsily, pulling himself up step by step using the banister. He pushed open the door to the hall. The light was dazzling. His gaze shifted across the corridor into the kitchen, and to the tap. His heart began to race. A figure came towards him. His mother. She was about to hug him. He pushed her away. Water. He took another two steps, then collapsed.

  Monday, 13 October

  The glow of the streetlamps fell through the cream-coloured curtains, filling the bedroom with warm light. A glance at the alarm clock told Babs it was just before six. Monday morning. She could sleep another half-hour. But Albert, who’d been tossing and turning for ages, had woken her. For a moment she considered getting up, having a quiet cup of tea and reading the paper. Normally she enjoyed the period of calm while her twins and husband were still asleep, when nobody was asking her for anything, when she didn’t yet have to be in work mode and could lose herself in her thoughts.

  Today was different. She was nervous. At eleven o’clock, at the age of thirty-five, she had the first job interview of her life. It didn’t matter how many times Caroline assured her that it was solely about her ability to style a room and that nobody would ask to see a diploma. Babs had left university shortly before finishing her interior design degree and possessed no practical experience – unless you considered the help she’d occasionally lent friends and relatives with their homes. Like Albert’s sister, Caroline, who earned enough money as an executive to fill her house with designer furniture but had neither the time nor the knack to actually do it. She’d been so pleased with the result that she’d used her network to hunt down a job for Babs. An editor at Interiors & Design was looking for a designer to write the column they called ‘One Problem: Three Solutions’. ‘It’s ideal for you,’ Caroline had said. ‘It’s not a permanent role – you’ll be paid by the column, so you can work from home. And it’s not the kind of job that demands forty hours a week, more like twenty a month. You’ll not get rich on it, but it’s a foot in the door, and who knows what will come of it?’

  Albert flipped over in bed, muttering something in his sleep that sounded like sweetheart. Sweetheart? He always called her pet. Was he . . . for a while Babs had been harbouring an anxiety she preferred not to examine more closely: that Albert might be like his father in this respect, too. Like the man who’d been his idol in all aspects of life, the man who’d cheated on his wife, Elli, throughout more than forty years of marriage. Until death us do part. Elli had kept up her end of the bargain. But Babs really couldn’t imagine Albert being unfaithful to her. He must be dreaming randomly.

  It was cosily warm in bed. Perhaps she could doze for a bit. Just as she was nodding off, Albert flipped back round. He usually slept deeply and peacefully. Was he still upset about that argument on their anniversary? It was a week ago now. Babs wasn’t one of those women who made a fuss about celebrating anniversaries, nor did she expect a gift. Still, it was a special day, and sometimes – when she wished Albert would show her that he still loved her, that he was still committed to her and the children, that his family was important to him – such days held more significance for her than she felt they were really due. After all, if her marriage was doomed to fail, a stylish anniversary wasn’t going to rescue it.

  Was it a bad sign that it was their thirteenth, of all anniversaries, that had ended in such a fiasco? Babs sighed. She wasn’t superstitious, and in any case she was exaggerating. It hadn’t been a fiasco, just a big disappointment.

  When, at breakfast last Monday, she’d suggested booking a table at La Bretagne for dinner, Albert had been delighted. She’d arranged it that afternoon, then called
his practice to let him know. The boys would be staying over with friends, and Babs had planned an evening of champagne aperitifs, exquisite food and light wine, accompanied by good conversation and lingering glances. She hoped it would kindle a spark in the fire she sensed glimmered only weakly inside him, if it hadn’t gone out entirely. She’d bought new lingerie, nothing hideous in black or red, and without any frippery like garters or peepholes – my goodness, the things they had these days! – but garments in which she felt both comfortable and desirable; simple, with a bit of lace and creamy fabric that flattered her bronzed skin. But then, at around half six, Albert had called. His father had a problem with a blocked pipe in the kitchen sink at his weekend cabin. ‘I’m just going to nip out and repair the drain,’ he’d said. It took forty-five minutes to get over there: he’d never be back by eight.

  ‘Aren’t there any plumbers in Münsing?’

  ‘He asked me, and I don’t want to refuse after all he’s done for us. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in time.’

  She didn’t bother to ask whether the repair could wait until morning. Albert was not to be dissuaded. He never was. And not just when it came to his father. Babs didn’t let her irritation show. ‘Drive carefully,’ was all she said.

  After all he’s done for us! He was the one who’d wanted Albert to take over the practice. Dr Heckeroth’s paediatric clinic, her father-in-law’s life’s work, had been preserved, and that meant a lot to him.

  Albert rang shortly before eight. The repair was finished, and he’d have a quick bite to eat with his dad before setting off.

  ‘A quick bite to eat.’ She sounded like his echo.

  ‘Sorry, but I’m absolutely starving. And you don’t really care about anniversaries anyway, do you? We can have dinner another time.’

  Babs cancelled their booking, but ordered a bottle of champagne, an appetiser of salmon terrine, crème de canard and baguette as well as two helpings of crème brûlée to be delivered. Perhaps Albert would be in the mood by dessert.

  By the time he finally arrived she’d emptied half the bottle and eaten both desserts. Stuffing herself out of frustration, she thought, but she was slim enough to get away with it. Her disappointment over Albert’s thoughtless behaviour had gone, leaving resignation in its place. She didn’t reproach him for once again having put his father first.

  At the beginning of their relationship, Babs had envied Albert’s closeness with his father. She was mostly at loggerheads with hers, since he hardly ever approved of her decisions and was constantly finding fault. But once Babs had realised how much space Albert’s father occupied in his life, and that she would always take second place in his affections, admiration quickly turned to shame-faced jealousy.

  She heard the front door. A few moments later, Albert came into the living room and gave her a peck on the cheek. He glanced at the champagne flutes in surprise, poured himself one and clinked it against hers. ‘Please don’t make a scene.’ He collapsed onto the armchair and massaged his shoulder with one hand. ‘I’ve had a long day, and I’m in no mood for emotional outbursts.’ He emptied the glass in two gulps, while Babs tried to suppress the rage boiling up inside her.

  ‘Sorry, darling. I didn’t mean it like that.’ Albert put his arm round her.

  Then why did you say it? she thought, resting her head on his shoulder.

  ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. I didn’t mean to upset you. Do you forgive me?’ Of course she forgave him – but he rebuffed her advances, her half-hearted attempts to make up; he was too tired, he said. His behaviour upset Babs, and again she wondered whether her husband had ever loved her, or whether he’d only married her because of his father’s urging. The father he so admired. At some point he was bound to follow in his footsteps and seek satisfaction elsewhere.

  Ten past six. Outside an engine howled, and a car tore off with a squeal of tyres. Sighing, Babs gazed at the ceiling. Albert flopped onto his left side with a snort, babbling something in his half-sleep. She could tell by his breathing that he was waking up. Slowly she turned her back.

  Wasn’t it crazy to love someone, especially for so many years, if you thought they didn’t love you back? At first she’d almost overlooked Albert. Pia had introduced him to their little clique during their student days, and it had taken Babs a while to notice how much she liked his calm, thoughtful manner. He wasn’t a show-off. Not the kind of man who always had to be the centre of attention, or who had something to say on every topic. Albert was an introverted person who gave off precisely the air of melancholy she found attractive. When they’d been caught in the rain at a barbecue on the Iser River, Albert not only chivalrously lent her his jacket but sheltered with her underneath an old chestnut tree. They got soaked to the skin but never really noticed, discovering the attraction they felt for each other as suddenly as the summer rain had rolled in.

  Albert turned over again, and she felt the warmth of his body against hers, his breath on her neck and his arm round her hips. He buried his head in the hollow between her neck and shoulder, resting it there for a moment before he began to kiss her. Babs’s pulse accelerated, her breath quickening, her body filled with a desire she hadn’t felt for a long time. She wanted to turn towards him, but the pressure on her hips increased. Albert pushed his other arm underneath her body and pulled up the T-shirt she used as a nightie. His hand felt cool on her breast. She tried to turn round, look him in the eye, feel his lips on hers. But he was holding her tightly. His body pressed closer to hers; she felt his arousal grow with her inner resistance.

  With a vigorous shove he turned her onto her stomach, pulled off her underwear and forced his body between her legs. ‘Albert, please . . .’ His left hand tangled in her hair, he jerked back her head, while his right hand wandered over her breasts and stomach, down to her vagina. His unexpected speed and directness confused her. She didn’t want it, not like this. They hadn’t made love in months. But she’d been longing for it – surely she couldn’t turn him down now? Lifting her hips, he thrust into her and fell into a rapidly accelerating rhythm. In that position she couldn’t budge, not even to try and match his movements.

  When he was finished and they were lying next to each other, it seemed to Babs that the act had nothing to do with her at all. She didn’t recognise this aggressive side of Albert; until now he’d always been gentle and considerate. She looked at him. He was lying on his back, his eyes closed. On his face was an expression that made him look like a stranger, a new aspect she couldn’t identify. She bent over him. He opened his eyes.

  ‘I really needed that. A proper fuck,’ he said.

  Babs flinched as if he’d hit her.

  Laughing, he pulled her close. His stubble was scratchy as he pressed a kiss onto her lips. ‘Oh, pet. It was a joke. You should’ve seen your face.’

  ‘What was so funny about that?’

  ‘Well, you looked like a prudish convent schoolmarm who’s just been doing naughty things. A mixture of shock and the desire for more.’

  Did he really not know her at all? Could he seriously think she’d enjoyed that? The alarm clock went off. Babs rolled onto her side and switched it off. After months of no interest, at least Albert had remembered he had a wife. Perhaps this was the beginning. But she wasn’t going to let him be the only one to decide how it would continue. ‘Well, your next tryst with the novice will have to wait,’ she said, and went into the bathroom.

  She then woke the boys and laid the breakfast table in the spacious kitchen. She liked their old building in the heart of Schwabing, where they’d lived since their marriage. Large rooms; high, stuccoed ceilings; creaky parquet floor and white-framed windows signified quality of life to her, and she much preferred them to a functional building of glass, steel and concrete. She glanced out of the window onto Kaiserstraße. It was shortly after seven, and still fairly dark. Lone stars shone palely in the brightening, cloudless sky. It was turning out to be a lovely autumn day.

  Noel and Leon stormed
into the kitchen and plumped down onto their chairs. ‘Good morning, Mum,’ they said, as if with one mouth. They wore the same clothes: jeans and grey hoodies. That was unusual. Since hitting puberty they’d become more and more individual. The decision to put them in separate classes at school had been the right one, for more than one reason. It hadn’t just made it easier for the teachers to tell the twins apart; it had also given the boys the opportunity to develop independently, and little by little their different strengths were crystallising. While Noel was good at scientific subjects, Leon’s gifts were in music and language. He’d been learning the flute for several years, making considerable strides, and had already appeared in a few school concerts. At the music school’s summer festival he’d been the star of the evening, thrilling everyone with Vivaldi’s Flute Concerto in D Major. Everyone but Albert. Babs didn’t like to think of it. She ran a hand through Leon’s hair and sat down at the table with the boys. While they drank tea, Noel threw Leon a conspiratorial glance. Leon grinned like an altar boy planning to hide the Communion wafers. Babs briefly wondered what they were hatching, but then it occurred to her that Noel had a Latin test that day. She hoped he’d learned his vocabulary. He’d made a hash of the first Latin exam of the year. Relatively speaking, at least – he’d got a C. In Albert’s eyes that was a bad mark, so he’d threatened to cancel Noel’s membership of the volleyball club if his grades didn’t improve.

  ‘Did you learn your Latin yesterday?’

  Noel nodded and held her gaze until a smile crept across the corners of his mouth. Leon was grinning ear to ear.

  ‘Did Leon test you?’ He had no problems with Latin; he was the best in his class, in fact. Again Noel nodded, hastily shoving a spoonful of cornflakes into his mouth. There was something fishy going on here. Babs scrutinised the two of them.

  Noel spluttered, spitting cornflakes back into his cereal. ‘Sorry, Mum,’ he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin.