Strangers

by Ursula Archer

  Drive, as if. People are walking around all over the expressway, in between the stationary vehicles. I get out, too, and take my phone with me.

  Twenty past twelve. Damn. I have to call Gabor and tell him I won’t make it on time. He’s going to be furious and will probably kick me off the project again. That was that, then. All right, just a few more minutes.

  I break into a sweat, even though the temperature outside is anything but warm. If the Arabs really take a lack of punctuality as an insult, maybe the entire project will fail because of me. Gabor pointed out several times just how important it was for me to be there on time.

  I get back in the car, fidget around on the seat. Damn it, I have to call him now. I select his name from the contacts, I have my finger on the call button already … and I pull it back again.

  Twelve twenty-six, and we’re moving again. Hallelujah. I can still make it if nothing else comes up now. Nothing else can come up, surely; I’ve been through enough bullshit these past days.

  But on the outskirts of Munich, the traffic is at another standstill. Twenty-one minutes left. I stop and start from traffic light to traffic light, cursing, hitting the steering wheel. Why the hell aren’t these idiots driving? Are there only brain-dead people on the road today, or what? Finally things start going at a quicker pace. Right up until the next red light.

  A minute past one. This is going to be pretty damn tight. But come on, surely they’re not going to make a fuss if I’m late by just three or four minutes? If the train’s even on time, that is. Yes, exactly, who’s ever heard of the German railway being on schedule?

  Ten past one. I turn into the street leading to the station. The last turn, I can already see the large building in front of me. Just two hundred, maybe three hundred yards and I’m in the parking area and actually find a space near the entrance. I snatch the name sign, leap out of the car—it’s twelve past one—and sprint into the building. I’m almost on time.

  I feel a tinge of elation spreading through me …

  Then the world is torn apart.

  27

  Yet another terrible night’s sleep. I wake up with a start at what seems to be thirty-minute intervals, and every time I do it takes forever before the pounding of my heart subsides again.

  Is Erik asleep? Is he even still here?

  Maybe he called Nadine to come and pick him up. After all, he no longer has the silver Audi at his disposal. And he has an ally in his ex-girlfriend, one who’s available at any hour of the day or night, one who would willingly assure him that he was doing the right thing in cutting me out of his life as quickly as possible.

  I could go downstairs and see if he’s still here.

  It feels good to stand up and move around a bit. First I creep into the study, which occasionally serves as a guest room, to see if Erik has pulled out the sofa bed. But the room is empty.

  Then he must be in the living room. Or gone.

  The uneasy feeling in my gut as I make my way down the stairs brings back the memories of that evening a week ago; no, it wasn’t even a whole week yet, when I saw Erik for the first time. According to my memory, in any case.

  I feel my way over to the living room door. It’s locked. So is the door to the kitchen. So he’s still here, and smart enough to lock himself in, out of reach of the knife-swinging maniac.

  So maybe at least he can get some sleep. I catch myself stroking the wood of the living room door with my hand. Wishing I was on the other side of it. In Erik’s arms, or in the arms of anyone who cares about me and can convince me that everything’s going to be OK.

  Maybe tomorrow. After all, Erik is still here, so there’s a chance we could have breakfast together, talk. That is, if I can bring myself to look him in the eyes; I’ve never felt so ashamed before.

  Last Monday I would have given anything to get the strange man out of my house. Now, the thought that he really could go was painful.

  If someone really had manipulated me into this situation, then they’ve pulled off quite a feat.

  I start to formulate sentences in my mind for tomorrow, things I can say to Eric so we can engage in a sensible conversation. But I must have fallen asleep in the process, because the next time I look around, it’s already light. I glance at the alarm clock; it’s almost eight.

  I walk down the stairs once again, hoping that Erik is already awake and that he’s unlocked the doors …

  Yes. They’re wide open, and Erik is not just awake, but gone.

  I don’t know why I hadn’t considered that possibility. I had assumed he would take it easy today. Recuperate. But from the look of things, his priority was getting away from here.

  Maybe he went to the police, to report me.

  I realize that, without even registering my actions, I’ve turned on the espresso machine, filled it with fresh water, and grabbed a mug from the cupboard. My body is going through the motions while my thoughts are somewhere else. Was that how it was with the knife?

  No. With that, part of me had been paralyzed and condemned to just watch while another part of me was highly active. It wasn’t the same feeling. Not this … zoned-out feeling.

  I need to find a clinic. That’s the priority for today. I take my coffee and go up into the office, turn on the computer, and type Amnesia specialist Germany into Google.

  The result with the most hits is a Prof. Dr. Hendrik Luttges from Hamburg, who, I read, has been involved in memory research for years.

  Hamburg. If I were there, Ela wouldn’t be able to visit me, nor would Darja, my colleague from the photography studio, nor … Erik. All the other acquaintances I’ve made in Germany don’t really matter; I don’t know them well enough to be able to share even half of my problems with them anyway.

  But—I could have Professor Luttges come to Munich. For a price, of course. I could finance his next research project in exchange for him finding out what’s wrong with me.

  No. Stop. It’s though I can hear my father thinking. He always solves his problems with money. After all, we have more of it than we have of anything else. One of the reasons why I had come to Germany in the first place was because I was so sick of this mind-set.

  But it would be foolish not to use all the tools at my disposal. Wouldn’t it?

  I search the Internet for more experts—there was someone in Bielefeld, but that’s not exactly just around the corner either.

  Should I just entrust myself to any old neurologist? Or to a psychiatrist? Should I take Ela up on her suggestion after all, and get treated in the clinic at her hospital?

  I rest my forehead on my hands and close my eyes. I’m still too accustomed to other people solving my problems for me, and that’s coming back to haunt me right now.

  But I can organize it myself; I just need some time. If Erik really is gone, then there’s no immediate hurry.

  My research and the reading of a few complicated academic articles lasts over an hour; the coffee that I barely even touched is now ice-cold.

  So, back downstairs to make another one. I keep glancing at my phone while waiting for the machine.

  I wish I could speak to someone, right now. Is there some kind of hotline for amnesia patients?

  I sink onto the living room couch with my phone and coffee, but that turns out to be a mistake. The surroundings are enough to bring the scene from yesterday back into my mind. Erik, confronting me with every last bit of his justified distrust. Accusing me of having hired a killer. Which I would be able to afford, after all. The sentence had been lying in the air between us, unspoken.

  Had money been an issue for us before? This nonsensically large fortune which I’ve never earned, which is far too much for one single person? Had I picked up the checks in restaurants or had he? Had we shared? Assuming, of course, that this before really did exist.

  I turn on the TV in search of distraction; I’m so fed up with the dead-end thoughts running through my mind. The first channel is showing cartoons; the second has one of those unavoidable poli
tical interviews which are just as omnipresent in Germany as they are in Australia whenever there’s an upcoming election. I zap through the channels until I find an animal documentary—about the rearing of orphaned otter babies.

  Just watching something and no longer having to think feels good. A program about penguins comes on after the otters. My thoughts begin to drift away again.

  It’s almost half past twelve. Did Erik maybe go back to the hospital in order to have the dressing changed? My phone is in front of me on the coffee table, and, without stopping to think, I’ve typed Erik’s name into the contacts search box. If he doesn’t want to speak to me, he doesn’t have to pick up.

  A ringing tone. Once, twice, then a crackling sound after the third ring.

  “Yes?”

  “You were gone, just like that.” I try not to let it sound like an accusation, but instead it comes out as though I’m afraid of being alone in the house. My God.

  “Yes.”

  “How … well—are you all right? Your arm?”

  “As can be expected under the circumstances.”

  OK, so calling him was a bad idea. I’m desperately searching for words, and Erik clearly has no desire to talk to me. Maybe he’s already on his way back and will be here soon.

  “Will you tell me where you are?”

  He sighs, as though my question is the last thing he needs right now. “In the car, I’m driving to the station in Munich for work, to pick up some VIPs. Well, if this goddamn traffic jam breaks up in time, that is.”

  And then on top of it all I have to deal with you. The words he’s clearly thinking remain unsaid.

  “OK.” At the very least my guilty conscience is gone. “I won’t keep you then. Drive safe.”

  The conversation hasn’t made anything better, in fact very much the opposite, but that’s my own fault. What did I expect, really?

  I lean back on the sofa, ready to spend the day with the documentary channel. To not have to think. Or make any decisions.

  A new program has just started, and I find myself unexpectedly moved by it. A documentary about dingoes in New South Wales.

  Home.

  The pictures of the Australian mountain landscape and Sturt National Park awaken within me, for the first time in months, a sense of burning homesickness. Is my father right? Do I belong there after all?

  I hardly know the places rushing past me on the screen, but they still feel so familiar.

  Here, on the other hand, if I’m completely honest, I still feel like an outsider. Especially given my current situation.

  Suddenly, I know who I really want to talk to.

  It’s half past ten at night in Melbourne now. It’s late, but I still want to try my luck. If there’s anyone in the world who’ll be there for me, then it’s her.

  The phone rings three times, four times, then someone picks up.

  “Hello?”

  “Mama.” I’m filled with such a sense of relief, I almost start to cry. No. I can’t do that. I don’t want her to worry.

  “Hey, sweetheart! How wonderful to hear your voice.” Her transition from English to German no longer sounds quite as effortless; she briefly pauses at times and has a soft, light accent. Maybe it’s because of the late hour, or the fact that she only rarely speaks her native language these days.

  “How are you?” I try to sound cheerful. “Is everything OK there with you guys?”

  “Oh yes. We miss you of course, so much—but other than that we’re good. Daddy’s blood pressure counts are finally OK, and I’m going to give a presentation about my projects at the nutritional congress in Sydney soon. Isn’t that … fabulous?”

  “That’s wonderful, Mama.”

  “But now tell me: how are you doing? What’s the news?”

  Well, the day before yesterday I almost stabbed someone to death. Imagining how my mother would react to such a revelation almost makes me break out in hysterical laughter.

  “Really good. Although, health-wise I’m a little run down at the moment, but…”

  “Ah yes, the German autumn.” She sighs in a way that sounds nostalgic. “You just need a few more layers, darling; buy yourself a few chic jackets.”

  “I will.” If I don’t get to it soon, we’ll drift off into small talk. “Mama, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have I ever had problems with my memory before? Like, gaps in it?”

  There are thousands of miles between us, but I know exactly how her face would look right now, in the three or four seconds she stays silent. Her forehead wrinkled in thought, her lips pursed just a little. She is trying both to find an answer to my question and to figure out why I’m asking in the first place.

  “No, Joanna. On the contrary, you always had the best memory of all of us. Do you still remember that time when Dad forgot the code for the new pool house? You were the only one who could remember it, even though you’d only used it once or twice, and it had six figures. Or that time in the hotel in Sydney…”

  I let her talk, let her tell one anecdote after the other. Soon the conversation is no longer about my memory, but simply about shared memories. Beautiful, familiar snapshots from a world in which I thought I was invulnerable.

  My mother is enjoying the conversation, I know that. With Dad, she doesn’t get that many chances to talk; he likes the sound of his own voice too much.

  But after a while I interrupt anyway. “Have I mentioned an Erik to you at any point over the past few months?”

  “No.” She didn’t pause for even a second before responding. “Why? Who is he?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”

  “Aha.” Seldom has anyone placed so much weight on just two syllables. A short pause follows.

  “It would be lovely if you’d come back home soon, Jo,” she says then, hesitantly. She knows that I don’t want to be put under pressure. “I mean, Germany can still be your second home, you could spend a few months there every year, perhaps I might even come with you someday.”

  I don’t respond, so she hastily goes on to say what I’d feared she would. “We’re not complete without you, Dad especially; he really suffers from not seeing you.”

  I’m unable to hold back a snort. If there’s anything he’s suffering from, then it’s not having me under his direct control. After all, here I can make my own decisions, ones that could go against his interests.

  “I don’t want to push you into anything.” Now she sounds sheepish and it makes me feel bad. “But you know how happy we would be if you were back with us.…”

  I’m only listening with one ear now; my gaze is drawn back to the TV screen. There’s a news ticker announcing a special report in five minutes.

  “… just spoken with Jasper and Ashley, they send their best—”

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” I say as I read the words running along at the bottom of the screen, read them again and again. Unable to believe them. Unwilling to believe them. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”

  I hang up without another word, and the phone slips from my hand. Instead of picking it up, I go over to the television and kneel down in front of it.

  The news ticker is still running. And then the first pictures come.

  28

  There’s a deafening explosion; something throws me to the ground, compacting my lungs, making it difficult to breathe. Air … I need air. I feel sharp pain. In my back, in my arm, everywhere. Pieces of debris are raining down on me, a strange hail of destruction. I curl up my body, protect my head. Suddenly it stops. A brief moment of muffled silence, then chaos. Screaming, shouting, grinding and crashing noises. Dark clouds are all around me, shards of glass, shredded objects. And dust, everywhere. It settles in my nose and my throat; the need to cough becomes unbearable and I give in to it. I’m lying there, coughing, wheezing, gasping for breath, trying to understand what has happened. An explosion, maybe gas … maybe a bomb?

  I have to get away from here. Get out of this building. M
aybe there are more explosions to come? I carefully raise my head. The world is nothing but dust now, gray and grim. And in the middle of it all, scenes straight out of a nightmare. Shadowy figures appear as though out of nowhere, hunched over, climbing clumsily over the rubble. Some of them stumble, others run past, some fall over again, crying … And all this screaming. Coming from everywhere. Some of it from very close by.

  Someone trips over my foot, falls to the floor next to me. A man. Covered in dust. He groans, forces himself back to his feet, limps onward.

  I tuck in my legs, move my arms. A thought comes to me, of major importance: I have to get out of here. Slowly I straighten up, until eventually I’m standing in an expanse of shattered glass, chunks of concrete and mortar, wood … A man is next to me. Gray dust on his coat and his hair, his face covered in tiny dark marks. He’s looking at the rubble with his eyes widened in fear. Motionless. In shock.

  And on top of it all, these awful screams. A woman shouts out, very close by. “Oh God! Oh my God!”

  More and more people are crawling out of the devastation. I see blood on their hands, their arms and legs. Another woman staggers toward me, her face nothing but an expanse of gray. Her dress is torn; a long, dark wound gapes open on her forearm. Black blood. Everything here is black and gray. The explosion has blasted all the color out of the world.

  The woman’s knees buckle. I take a step toward her, try to catch her, but get caught on something and topple down to the floor with her. I nearly black out from the pain. The wound on my upper arm …

  The woman lands on top of me. Absurdly, I ask her, “Is everything OK?” as I twist out from under her.

  “Gerhard. My … my husband.” Her voice sounds hoarse. “I was dropping him off at the train.”

  I manage to get back on my feet. My gaze keeps falling on her blood-smeared arm. She’s looking past me, over to where the exit is. A bright speck in this gray dusty hell. “I want to get out of here, please.” I help her get up. Once we’ve managed it, she walks away without another word, and vanishes seconds later.