Strangers

by Ursula Archer

  Her voice sounds so impersonal that, in this moment, she really does seem like a stranger to me. It hurts.

  I start to drive, eyes on the road, but my thoughts are on us. On Joanna and me. Will there ever be an us again? Will it be possible to reverse whatever happened to her yesterday? What if everything we had between us is irretrievably lost?

  “Will you tell me what you talked to the doctor about?”

  “I told her everything that’s happened since yesterday evening. From my point of view.”

  “And? What did she say?”

  “That there are various possibilities.”

  “Like what?”

  She seems to think for a moment. “I can’t say just yet. Maybe later. Once I know more about you.” Once she knows more about me? We haven’t been together for a full year yet, but there’s barely anyone who knows as much about me as Joanna does.

  I feel another, new feeling pushing away the emptiness inside me. It’s faint at first, but when I glance over and see the delicate, familiar contours of Joanna’s face, which all of a sudden I can no longer caress, no longer kiss, the feeling surges through my entire being like a wave of heat.

  Defiance. Rebellion. Anger. At this twist of fate, which is screwing up our lives.

  There’s no way in hell I’m going to just roll over and accept this, no matter what else may come. I love this woman, and she loves me. Even if, right now, she has no recollection of it.

  I’m going to tell her everything. Describe every single day we’ve spent together. Every hour if need be. I’m going to …

  “What are you thinking about?” Joanna asks me all of a sudden. She does that often. Usually I have a hard time answering the question. Now, though, it’s easy. I quickly glance over at her again, our eyes meet.

  “I was thinking that I’d like to tell you about us. Everything, from the very first day. Maybe that will help you remember again.”

  “Everything, really?” she asks, a strange undertone in her voice.

  “Yes, everything I can remember myself.”

  “All right. I’m eager to hear.”

  I’d give the world to know what’s going on in her head right now. Maybe it’s the same for her, too.

  I eventually turn into the driveway to our house and park the car. We get out, walk to the front door. It’s almost the same as it always was when we came back home together. If only it weren’t for this pervasive, nagging sense of fear inside me, a feeling that even my defiance can’t suppress.

  My eyes wander to the place where the cockatoo used to be. I resist the temptation to go see if any traces of it can still be seen in the soil.

  We enter the house. I take care to do everything in the exact same way I always do. Keys onto the shelf, in the same place as always. Shoes next to the dresser, in the place where my black sneakers had been until yesterday morning. Rituals. They might just help.

  Joanna goes into the kitchen. That’s almost always the first thing she does when she comes home. I’m waiting for the buzzing sound of the coffee machine being switched on, and, sure enough, hear it only a few seconds later.

  I walk over to her, sit down at the small breakfast bar where we always eat together in the mornings. I look at her, feeling like I’m watching a film I no longer play a role in. This silence as we’re in the kitchen together … it’s so alien. Joanna usually can’t go a single minute without telling or asking me something.

  “We met at a flea market.” Did I really just say that so loudly? Joanna takes her mug and sits diagonally across from me. Not too close.

  “Uh-huh,” she mutters, taking a cautious sip of the steaming coffee.

  She sounds so uninterested I have to force myself to keep talking. “Yes. I bought a little box right from under your nose. You were pretty angry with me.”

  “That, at least, I can imagine quite well.”

  “I gave it to you afterward as a gift. You didn’t want to take it at first. Until I told you I’d bought it for you.”

  Another sip from the cup, which Joanna is now clutching with both hands as if she was trying to warm them on it. “When was that?”

  “Nine months ago.”

  “And how long have we allegedly been living together?”

  Allegedly … “For six months. You had a one-room apartment, and my place was too small for the two of us. We went looking for somewhere new and finally found this house.” Even as I’m uttering the last sentence, something occurs to me. “The lease! Joanna. We both signed the lease. It’s in the green file, in the cabinet in the living room with all the other documents.”

  Without even waiting for her to react, I slide off my stool and practically run into the living room. My heartbeat quickens. If Joanna sees both of our signatures on the tenancy agreement …

  Except—what if that’s disappeared as well?

  I open the top right cabinet door, and find the green file right away. Joanna wrote IMPORTANT on the white tab at the back of the file in permanent marker. My hand is shaking as I reach for it and pull it out of the cabinet. The lease must be somewhere in the middle, in between the other documents. With nervous movements, I leaf through the papers, already fearing that the document’s gone, but then I finally have it in front of me. I take it out of the plastic sleeve, hastily flip it over and heave a deep sigh of relief. Our signatures are there on the lower third of the last page, next to the date.

  Joanna looks at me warily when I hold the agreement out toward her.

  “There, look at it,” I prompt her, unable to suppress the triumph in my voice. I put the paper down in front of her and point at the spot. “Here, you see?”

  Joanna only eyes the document for a moment then looks back up at me. “The signatures were added with two different pens.”

  This can’t be happening. “Christ, Jo, we both had our own pens. That’s not exactly unusual.”

  “Do I really have to point out that you could have added it at any time after the fact?”

  This is driving me crazy. My hand slams down on the breakfast bar with a bang. “Yes, damn it. At the end of the day you can question everything, even when you see it with your own eyes. Come on, think about it. If everything really was phony, the photos, the contract, evening visitors, even your friendship with Ela … just think about how much of a hassle it would have been to set it all up? And what could possibly justify all of this? Jo? Why would I be doing it?”

  Again, I get one of those strange looks from her. One full of suspicion, mixed with anger. But now it seems there’s a new element in the mix. Something I can only read with difficulty. Like she knows more than I do. It almost seems disdainful.

  She must have inherited it from her father. From the stories she’s told me, he’s a … A thought flashes through my head. Why am I only thinking of it now? “Your father!”

  “What? What about my father?” She looks irritated.

  “You told him about me, Jo. You put it off for a long time, but … Call him. Please. He’ll confirm it.”

  This next look irritates me even more. She’s hiding something from me, I can feel it. But right now it’s more important for her to speak to her father. She’d believe him.

  “All right.” She gets up. “I’ll call him.”

  I’m so relieved I could kiss her. “Thank you.”

  I’m tempted to jump up as Joanna, very matter-of-factly, walks over to the shelf behind her where her phone is, but I decide not to. She picks it up and tosses it back down again seconds later.

  “Battery’s empty. Can I use yours?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I fish my smartphone out of my pocket and hold it toward Joanna.

  To my surprise, she sits back down on the stool as she’s dialing. I was expecting her to leave the room for the call to her father. Like she usually would.

  I nervously wait for someone to answer. This should be the breakthrough moment. If Joanna’s father confirms that we live together, there’s no way she can have any more doubts. Then, of course, t
here will still be the problem that she can’t remember me, but once this awful mistrust she holds against me is gone, things will look totally different. I feel like we can get through this.

  “Hi, Dad, it’s me, Jo.” Her voice sounds harder than usual. Is it because she’s speaking English rather than the German she speaks with me, or because it’s her dad she’s on the phone with?

  “Good, thanks, and you?” She laughs briefly.

  “Same old, same old … Oh, thanks. Tell him I said hi.… No, he hasn’t been in touch. But that’s fine.” There’s a longer pause, during which she’s only listening. “I don’t know yet.” She looks over toward me. “I’ll discuss it with Erik.”

  My heart is pounding. I watch her face carefully. Another strange look, then Joanna gets up and leaves the kitchen. I watch her go, perplexed. Why is she leaving now?

  She pulls the door to the hall shut behind her. If she leaves the house now … I push the thought aside, try to calm myself down, tell myself her father must have said something about me that she wants to talk over with him in private. Maybe he’s trying to convince her to come back to Australia. After all, that Matthew guy is waiting for her over there.

  Man, how long is this going to take? I consider following her, but discard the thought. I want her to feel that I trust her.

  Finally, the door opens. The way Joanna looks at me brings my world tumbling down even before she opens her mouth.

  “My father didn’t know who I was talking about when I mentioned your name. He doesn’t know any Erik.”

  11

  It’s just after nine in the evening in Melbourne, and Dad only picks up after the seventh or eighth ring. That probably means they have guests, because then my father only answers the phone very reluctantly.

  “Hi, Dad, it’s me, Jo.” I try to hide my nerves.

  “Jo, sweetheart.” Yes, I can hear voices in the background. Laughter. “How are you?”

  “Good, thanks, and you?”

  He clears his throat. “Everything’s fine. The McAllisters are here right now, and Max Cahill with his new wife—do you remember Max?”

  Yes. A bald-headed lawyer with buckteeth and a laugh that could make milk curdle. “Mom’s away for a couple of days,” Dad continues. “The usual charity stuff. She’ll be sorry to have missed your call, you know how much she likes to hear about your adventures in her homeland. Paul had a fight with Lisa but then they sorted things out again; other than that…”

  “Same old, same old,” I finished his sentence for him.

  “Yes. And Matthew sends his best.”

  “Oh, thanks. Tell him I said hi.” Matthew. The fiancé who I definitely can remember, maybe even a little too well. The man whose life consists of a steady stream of fulfilled wishes, the man for whom I—everyone agrees—am the perfect match. One empire marrying another, just like it was two hundred years ago. The fact that I had felt the need to put a few continents between us hadn’t particularly fazed Matthew—after all, he would get me for the rest of my life once I was back, he had told me as we said good-bye.

  The match is very close to Dad’s heart too, unfortunately. “Have you heard from him?” he asked.

  “No, he hasn’t been in touch. But that’s fine.” Erik doesn’t take his eyes off me even for a second. He’s following our conversation, no question about it. He works as a computer technician, so his English must be better than average.

  “You could give him a call yourself sometime, you know.” Dad’s tone sounds accusatory. “Or come here for a surprise visit! Or even better, just come back. Seriously, Jo, this Europe nonsense has gone on for long enough. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s fine that you want to experience things—in every sense—but don’t lose sight of your real life in the process. Right then.” His voice has taken on the tone he usually uses for business negotiations. The George Arthur Berrigan tone, which it’s advisable not to argue with. “So I’ll just send you a plane. When?”

  This is my chance to leave all this nonsense behind me. If I hand the reins over to Dad, I’ll be out of this situation in a few hours. Except then I would never understand it. And I would be his Jo again, irreversibly. Daughter, heiress, business capital that can be married off.

  “I don’t know yet.” I rest my gaze on the stranger sitting opposite me at the kitchen counter. Then I summon up all of my courage. “I’ll discuss it with Erik.”

  Silence, one or two seconds that seem to last forever. Then my father’s voice again, dangerously quiet now. “With whom?”

  I manage to stop the smile from appearing on my face as I slip down off the barstool and leave the kitchen. I shut the door behind me, stand there in the hallway. The paperweight is back in its usual place.

  “Erik. I told you about him, remember?” My father is the last person who would deceive me, or anyone else for that matter. He would regard such a thing as being miles beneath him. So I wait for his answer like it’s a judgment from God.

  “No you didn’t, not once, I would have remembered. So who in God’s name is Erik?”

  If only I knew, I feel the urge to yell into the phone. I have no idea, but he’s sitting in my kitchen and he cosigned my rental contract, and my best friend here says that we’re in love.

  It’s too late to backtrack now. “A man I met a while back.”

  “Goddamn it, Jo.” Dad doesn’t shout, but lowers his voice to a tone so deep it resembles the sound of distant thunder. “You remember what we agreed, don’t you? You can have your fun, but only to the extent that it doesn’t endanger your relationship with Matthew.”

  Oh yes, I remember the conversation. That unbelievably embarrassing conversation.

  “So I really didn’t mention Erik to you?”

  Now Dad does raise his voice after all. “No, and I never want to hear about him again! End it and come back home! And without any gold-digging Germans running after you!”

  He hangs up before I can.

  For a moment, I stand there indecisively holding the stranger’s cell phone in my hand; then I open the contacts list. Yes, there’s my number, as well as Ela’s. And the number of the photography studio. Other than that, just names I don’t know, apart from the Chinese restaurant in the pedestrian zone, and my favorite pizzeria.

  I go back to the kitchen. Only once I’ve opened the door and see Erik’s expectant expression do I realize it would have been much better to check the text messages instead of the contacts list.

  Too late now. I stay at a safe distance and look him directly in the eyes. “My father didn’t know who I was talking about when I mentioned your name. He doesn’t know any Erik.”

  He doesn’t look surprised; he must have known, of course he did. For a moment he just closes his eyes, as if he’s exhausted. When he opens them again, there’s not a single trace of guilt. Just anger.

  “You promised me. I know how afraid you were of having the conversation, but I thought you’d gotten it over with.” He turns his head to the side, slams the palm of his hand down on the bar. The spoons in the coffee cups clink.

  “You said you had, anyway. You said it was hard but that in the end your father accepted it. Unwillingly, but he did.” He laughs. “You also said that we still had a lot of hard work ahead of us. Well, Jo, maybe I should have asked you what you meant by that.”

  I open my mouth to retort, but he doesn’t give me a chance. “So you already lied to me when your memory was still intact, and about such an important thing at that. But who knows—maybe you’re just pretending not to know me? If that’s the case, there’s no need to go to all this effort. If you’re so eager to get rid of me, you can just tell me.” Erik gets down from the barstool and stretches his hand toward me. He wants his phone back. I give it to him. And all of a sudden I’m picturing the knife again, long and shiny and sharp. It’s not just in my thoughts, it’s actually close to hand. I would only need to take five steps into the kitchen and I could pull it out from the wooden block, eleven inches of Japanese steel, and pl
unge it into the stranger’s body.

  I instinctively edge back to the door, which makes Erik shake his head in resignation. “No, I’m not going to hurt you. Maybe you’ll finally realize that.” He puts the phone into his jacket pocket and raises his hands, looking dejected. “If you want to run away, then run. If you want to call the police, do it. I’m going to the office to get some things, I’ve got a change of clothes there.” He gestures down at his body. “I don’t have anything to wear here anymore, you know? Not even any underwear. So I’m going to go shopping, that could take a few hours. If you’re still there when I get back, I’ll be very happy. If not…” He takes a step toward me, warily, and brushes his hand across my cheek. “If not, then have a good life, Joanna.”

  He goes without locking the door after him. He left my cell phone here too; I plug it into the charging cable and turn it on.

  Seven missed calls. Once the battery has started to fill up again, I listen to my messages. Five of them are from Manuel, each one angrier than the last. Why didn’t I show up to the photo studio when I had clients booked in? Don’t I realize that it’s his business and his reputation that I’m damaging if potential clients leave disappointed? The last two messages are from Darja, who’s also working as an assistant for Manuel, and she sounds much more concerned than he did. Is everything OK, she asks, adding that I was usually so reliable.

  I decide to call her back instead of Manuel. I tell her I woke up with a migraine so bad that I couldn’t get up and use the phone.

  “And are you better now?” she asks.

  “Yes. Please tell Manuel I’m very sorry. And that I’ll be there on time tomorrow.”

  I spend the next two hours turning the house upside down, searching for some clue that I don’t live here by myself. There’s not a single text message from Erik on my phone, nor any emails on my computer. There are no photos of him on either of the devices, nor on any of my SD cards, and of course there’s also no trace of Antigua. But there are at least fifty pictures of Matthew. Playing polo, at the wheel of his damn yacht, in the enormous waterscape he calls a pool. Always grinning and tanned. I’m itching to delete the photos, but I stop myself. It’s possible that my memory is uncertain territory, so I shouldn’t destroy anything that I might later forget.