Strangers

by Ursula Archer

  “You were lucky,” says the doctor, indicating the fresh bandage on my upper arm. “Something with a very sharp edge did that. If it had been your chest or your neck it went into when you crashed…”

  I’m fully aware of what would have happened if Joanna had caught me in the chest or neck with that sharp knife. But he doesn’t know anything about that. Thank goodness.

  Yeah, I was lucky, when you stop and think that it could have been worse. Things could always be worse.

  Two men appear just as I’m about to leave the room. They identify themselves as police detectives and ask their questions. I say that I can’t tell them any more than I told their colleagues right after the crash. We agree that it was probably some drunk who forced me off the street.

  They’re going to go look for witnesses, they tell me. Put a notice in the local section of our daily paper. Then they note down my personal details and bid me good-bye.

  Outside the hospital, I get into a taxi and have the driver bring me home.

  Home.

  After paying and getting out of the car, I pause in our driveway and contemplate the white housefront. For the whole time we were here, I saw this house as being exactly what it was supposed to be: a temporary solution until Joanna and I either bought or built our own place together. Nonetheless, it was our home, and I was always happy to come back here, be it in the evenings after work or after business trips. Because I lived in this house together with her. Because she’d almost always been there waiting for me.

  Now I’m standing here in front of it, and it feels unfamiliar. Not just this house, but also the fact that I’m standing here at all. Thoughts about what happened here only a few hours ago are blanketing everything that defined my existence over the past months. Everything about my life with Joanna now seems to be so far away.

  I hesitate briefly before putting the key into the lock. Is Joanna still here? Could she be lying in wait for me, to finish off what she failed to do yesterday?

  Nonsense. I asked Ela to take care of her. Did she take Joanna back to her place? Or could both of them still be here, even?

  The clicking sound when the latch of the lock snaps back, something I’ve probably never taken note of before … now seems overly loud to me. I enter the hall, listen while holding my breath. Nothing.

  A few minutes later I’m certain: Joanna’s not here. I enter the living room, open the bottom right door on the cabinet. That’s where we keep our liquor. I can’t remember when this door was last opened during daylight hours.

  I opt for vodka, half-filling one of the heavy whiskey glasses from the shelf above the bottles. The alcohol leaves a fiery trail as it makes its way down into my stomach. It tastes disgusting this early in the day, but it still helps.

  My eyes sweep over the entrance to the kitchen and linger there. Without thinking much, I approach it, the glass still in my hand.

  Bewildered, I stop for a second when I see the sparkling clean countertop. I walk closer, carefully inspect the spot where Joanna attacked me.

  I don’t know if I still expected there to be blood everywhere. I don’t know if I expected anything at all, but still, the meticulous cleanliness leaves me stunned. Joanna tries to kill me, then she just up and cleans the place as if she had all the time in the world …

  Stop! I tell myself. Joanna’s in an exceptional situation; her actions can’t be explained by logic. And it might just be that Ela cleaned up the place. Or helped Joanna. I push aside the thought, flickering in my mind, that maybe Joanna cleaned up the crime scene to erase any traces of it.

  I go back into the living room, collapse onto the sofa, and take another sip from the glass. When I lean forward to put it back on the table, needles of pain jab me in the back. The aftereffects of the accident. If it was an accident. Was it really that some drunk had lost control over his car? And first crashed into the back of my car, then into the side of it with his second go? How likely is that?

  Or did someone ram me on purpose to push me off the road? And not long after Joanna … Hang on. Is there a link between what happened in the kitchen and the car crash? Was that her plan B in case she didn’t manage to kill me?

  But that would also mean her attack on me wasn’t in the heat of the moment, triggered by her confused state and without any conscious intent on her part, but a well-devised plan instead. One including a backup plan.

  I fight these thoughts back, search for a counterargument, but my mind refuses to let me lose sight of the logic. I feel like screaming. Just sitting there and screaming until the despair, anger, and disappointment are gone.

  I want my life back. I need an anchor.

  Work. Gabor. I’m going to have to report back at some point anyway.

  I’m just about to lean to the side to grab my telephone when I pause. Is this the right thing to do right now? Things have changed for me at G.E.E. as well. This project, the one I’m not supposed to be part of, the one Gabor’s excluding me from. With the help of some of my so-called workmates as well, apparently. Is that really going to help me right now?

  Plus, it’s Sunday today. Which means I’d have to call Gabor at home. Not that it’s a problem; just like every other department head I have his cell number. For emergencies.

  I pull myself together. Fuck it, why not? Right now. If all this shit isn’t an emergency, I don’t know what is. And if anyone has some explaining to do around here, it’s definitely Gabor. I’ll tell him what I think of all this secrecy bull-crap about the big contract; I’m going to give it to him straight. Now or never.

  Gabor picks up after a single ring. I make an effort to greet him in a halfway normal manner.

  “Herr Thieben!” he calls down the phone line. “How nice to hear from you.”

  I don’t buy his cheerful manner. He’s overdoing it.

  “How are you doing? Have you recovered at all from that awful business? My goodness, what a terrible affair. The boiler … Just like that. How’s your partner doing? I heard from Herr Bartsch that you were a bit … displeased that I sent him to your home.”

  I’m so fixated on the project that I need a moment to remember what he’s talking about. Then it comes flooding back. The company psychologist, at our house. Funny, I’d completely blocked that out.

  “Well, his behavior wasn’t that great either,” I curtly explain. I don’t feel like talking to him about Bartsch right now. “I’m calling about something else.”

  “But you haven’t answered my question yet. How are you doing?”

  I take a deep breath. “Not so good. I was in a car accident yesterday. Someone forced me off the road.”

  “Good Lord. Everything’s happening to you all at once, isn’t it? I’m sorry to hear that. Were you hurt? Were you in the car on your own?”

  “Yes, I was on my own,” I explain, feeling irritated. “Must have been some drunk. The police are looking for him. I’m doing OK.”

  “Things really don’t seem to be going well for you at the moment.”

  “Certainly seems that way. That’s also the reason I’m calling.”

  “Oh, do you need more time off? That’s no problem, take as many days as—”

  “It’s about the big contract,” I cut in. “I’d like to know why I’m being overlooked.”

  Gabor only hesitates a couple of seconds. “Come on, what do you mean overlooked? It’s perfectly normal not to involve you in every new deal—”

  “No, it isn’t normal. As head of IT I’ve been involved in every new project from the very beginning.”

  “Not every project. Only those where IT support was necessary.” It sounds halfhearted.

  “And it’s not necessary for this one? The way I see it, this is the biggest fish G.E.E.’s reeled in yet. Someone from my department will have to be involved in some way.”

  He hesitates. “I reckon you should recover before you do anything else, that’s the most important thing. And once you’re fully back with us in two or three weeks’ time, we’ll see what�
�s what. I’ll put you on paid leave until then. What do you say to that?”

  You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

  “I feel well enough to work. Sitting around at home just makes me jumpy.”

  Gabor seems to be thinking, and I let him. The ball’s in his court. It takes quite some time, but then I hear him breathe heavily.

  “Very well then, Herr Thieben. If you really want to work instead of recovering, that’s fine with me. Honestly, I only meant well.”

  He pauses. I don’t know if he’s waiting for me to say something, and I don’t really care. I say nothing.

  “You wanted in, so you’re in. For starters, you can go pick up our two business partners from Munich central station tomorrow. I was actually planning to do it myself, because the two of them are probably the chief negotiators. But you can do that just as well. As my representative.”

  Tomorrow’s my birthday. The date from the email. OK then.

  “So where are the two of them coming in from, if they’re arriving by train?”

  Gabor clears his throat. “They’re in Stuttgart for some other business first, and they’ve set their minds on making their way here on the express train instead of in a comfortable limousine.” He lets out a quick laugh. “Don’t forget, these people invest in environmental protection.”

  “What’s the project about?”

  “Something big.”

  “I realize that, but when do I find out the details?”

  “Tomorrow morning, before you drive to Munich. Make sure you’re here at nine. The two of them will be arriving in Munich just after one. You can’t afford to be late, at any cost.”

  I can’t claim to be feeling good again all of a sudden, but … at least I’m part of the project. And it was much easier than I’d expected. Maybe Gabor’s even telling the truth and he really didn’t mean any harm when he left me out at first. At least the professional part of my life seems to be slowly getting back on track.

  “I’ll be there. And … thank you for reconsidering.”

  “Come on, Herr Thieben, stop it. Reconsider … I never had any intention of shutting you out. I didn’t realize it was so important to you to be involved in every project. Especially at the moment, since things in your private life aren’t exactly…”

  “Now’s the perfect time,” I respond.

  “All right, see you tomorrow morning then. And do be on time.”

  He ends the call.

  I absentmindedly put the phone down next to me on the couch, reach for the glass, and drink the rest of my vodka in one gulp. All of a sudden, my thoughts are revolving around Joanna again. Against my will and against all reason, but I can’t help it.

  Is it because of the conversation with Gabor? Because of the glass of vodka? No idea, but I want to know how she’s doing. Right away.

  Unlike Gabor, Ela takes a fairly long time until she finally picks up.

  “It’s me,” I say. “I’m at home. How’s Jo?”

  Ela doesn’t respond right away, and my hand clenches the telephone. “Ela? Is everything OK with her?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that, after everything that’s happened. But she’s decided to have herself admitted to a clinic. I think she’s very afraid of what she could do to herself.”

  25

  The night on Ela’s couch is the worst I can ever remember having. Worse than the one in the pantry, worse than the one I spent hooked up to the oxygen tank in the hospital. It feels as though I only sleep for a few seconds each time before waking up again. Every time I start to drift off, I see Erik before me, with his arm raised and an expression of disbelief on his face; and every time, the knife slices that silvery arc into the air. Except sometimes I don’t plunge it into his arm, but into his chest, his stomach instead. Sometimes even into his face. And every single time I jolt upright, my heart racing, feeling like I’m losing my mind.

  At least I know I don’t scream when I wake up, otherwise it would have roused Ela in the adjoining room by now. My horror is a silent one.

  By the time I finally give up on sleep, the blue light display on the Blu-ray player is showing 3:16 a.m. I sit up, pull the blanket tightly around my shoulders, and try to make a plan for the day.

  Except that it’s Sunday. I won’t be able to get hold of Dr. Schattauer, nor, probably, any other leading doctor. Ela’s assertion that the psychiatric unit in her hospital is particularly good doesn’t convince me. If I’m going to check myself into a clinic, then I want it to be the one with the best experts in amnesia that this country has to offer.

  And before that, I want to see Erik one more time. Apologize to him and make sure he’s doing as well as can be expected.

  There’s just one problem: I don’t know where he is.

  I must have fallen asleep again, because when I next open my eyes it’s already light outside, and I’m no longer sitting, but lying slumped on the couch, the pillow pressed against me like a talisman. I can smell coffee.

  Shortly after, Ela comes in and puts a tray down on the table. A basket of bread, marmalade, butter, and a little bit of cheese.

  The memory of yesterday’s breakfast comes back to me against my will. Of Nadine’s surprise visit and the way Erik stood behind me. Without any hesitation.

  And of the kiss afterward. And the wonderful afternoon that followed.

  And then …

  Every step I take to Ela’s breakfast table is unbelievably arduous. The thought of eating is almost unbearable, but the coffee helps. Black, hot, strong.

  “Are you taking me home?”

  She looks at me, aghast. “I thought we were driving you to the clinic. Yesterday you even said yourself that it was the only right thing to do!”

  Her abruptness makes me feel defensive and contradictory. “Yes. I did. And I still think so, it’s just that I’d like to pack my things in peace today, make a few calls. I’ll go to the psychiatric clinic tomorrow, and by then hopefully I’ll know which one as well.”

  Ela stirs her coffee, a little too forcefully. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. At the moment you’re feeling relatively OK, right? But that could change very quickly if you’re confronted with the place where it happened so soon after…”

  It sounds like an excuse. She avoids eye contact, confirming my suspicion.

  “It’s because of Erik, isn’t it? He doesn’t want me to come home; he doesn’t want to see me.”

  Ela denies it at first, but when I persist, she eventually shrugs. “And can you blame him? Do you know what he’s gone through this past week? He’s in a really bad way, Jo, and he needs to get his feet back on solid ground again.” She gives me a warning look. “Without you crossing his path, knife or no knife.”

  Hopping yellow smiley faces grin up at me from my coffee cup. If it didn’t belong to Ela, I’d smash the thing. What are a few more broken shards in my life right now, after all? “He called you?”

  “No. But I’ve known him longer than you have.” She takes a sip of coffee and reaches for the sugar. “Is it so hard to believe that he might want to have some peace if he’s discharged today? Not another confrontation with the woman who went from loving him to no longer recognizing him, then let him come close again, only to almost stab him to death.”

  I lower my gaze to the stupid smilies.

  “If you need some things from the house, I can get them for you. And you can make your calls from here; I’ll give you all the privacy you need.”

  I agree to everything, acquiesce completely to what she says, finish my coffee, and then curl up on the couch again. I pretend to be asleep. Ela’s phone rings three or four more times during the morning, and each time she goes out of the room to talk. Is she talking to Erik? I’m longing to ask her, but don’t dare to. I sit on the sofa until just before two o’clock, then I can no longer bear it.

  I shower, change, throw everything into the small travel bag. I call a taxi from the bathroom.

  “I’m sorry, Ela. I’ll tell Erik you d
id your best. But I have to see him and apologize before I go into the clinic.”

  She shakes her head, but doesn’t try to stop me. She’ll probably call Erik as soon as I leave.

  The closer the cheerful taxi driver brings me to my destination, the more nervous I become. Do I really want to see Erik? What’s the point of apologizing for something that’s inexcusable? No matter what I do, it’s not going to undo what happened.

  It’s the fear of being rejected, of the repulsion in his eyes; I realize that shortly before we turn onto my street. I’m afraid of seeing my feelings toward myself reflected in his face.

  I give the taxi driver an overly generous tip, partly to compensate for my bad mood and partly from my desire to make at least somebody’s day a little better.

  Only my car is in front of the house. Of course. Erik had an accident with the Audi. Totaled.

  My hand trembles as I take the key out of my bag; I can barely get it in the lock.

  Maybe Erik isn’t even there. Maybe they’ll only discharge him tomorrow. But as I walk into the hall, I see his shoes on the floor and his jacket hanging on the hook.

  The door to the living room is ajar. Before I lose the courage and simply turn around and leave, I push it open.

  Erik is sitting on the sofa, staring straight ahead, toward the terrace door. He doesn’t turn his head to look at me as I walk in; it’s as though he didn’t even hear me coming. There’s an empty whiskey glass on the coffee table in front of him.

  “Hello.” Two syllables, and they sound so pathetic. Like I’m about to burst into tears.

  He doesn’t answer. Nor does he move; he just keeps staring outside, where it’s just started to drizzle lightly.

  Fine then. I’ll say what I have to say and then disappear upstairs, into the bedroom. Get out of his way and out of his sight.

  “I know you don’t want to see me, and I understand that, but I really wanted to tell you once more how sorry I am about what happened.”

  No, not about what happened.

  “About what I did,” I correct myself. “I’ve tried to understand what was going on inside me, but I simply don’t know. I realize that I need help. I’m going to check into a psychiatric clinic tomorrow and only leave again when the doctors say I can.”