“Maybe she doesn’t want to see. Maybe she is so afraid of the wolf that she wants the wolf to think she believes him. She’s fooling herself, thinking he won’t hurt her if she plays along.”
“It’s baby stuff.”
“No, no, it’s actually quite grown-up. Say hello to the others, Alissa. Tell them I called. Sleep well.”
Alissa hangs up without saying goodbye. She probably nodded her head. She doesn’t understand that people can’t pick that up over the phone. She holds pictures up to the phone. Once she even held up a piece of cake. “Smell that,” she said. “Fresh out of the oven.”
I walk down the hall to the bathroom. It’s gigantic, gleaming, covered in mirrors. I feel like the hooker in the movie “Pretty Woman.” It’s an unsettling feeling. I lock the door, throw my clothes onto the bathmat, and get into the shower. I stand under the piping hot water for half an hour—until my skin is all red. Afterwards I wrap myself in a towel and comb my hair.
With my clothes in my arms, I walk back toward my room in my pajamas. I hear the strange noise again. It also sounds as if people are talking upstairs. Quiet, distant voices, but I can’t tell whether it’s two or more.
I’m relieved when I make it into my room and close the door.
There’s a pile of books on the bureau. I look through them: the autobiography of Marcel Reich-Ranicki, John Irving’s latest novel, Max Frisch’s Homo Faber, and Der Schwarm by Frank Schaetzing. Next to the books are two apples.
There’s a bottle of mineral water and a glass on the round table now, too.
I look around more closely. I even kneel down and look under the bed, to see if anything has wriggled its way under there. I’m not sure what I’m looking for—or perhaps I don’t want to admit what it is to myself.
But there’s nothing else to find. So I lie down in bed, stick my mobile phone under my pillow, pull the covers over my head, and close my eyes. I don’t cry.
I fall asleep quickly. When I wake up again it’s dark outside. I grab my mobile and look to see what time it is. Three-thirty in the morning.
I sit up.
I know exactly where I am. But suddenly I’m frightened and uneasy—much more so than earlier. The blossoming cherry tree in the garden spreads its ghostly boughs across the window.
I’m cold. My hair is still not completely dry.
Maybe they have a hair dryer in the bathroom. Of course they do.
I push aside the covers and put my jean jacket over my pajamas.
I can’t find my socks in the dark—or the light switch. I tiptoe into the hallway.
Right now I wish from the bottom of my heart that I were home. It’s so intense my eyes almost well up with tears. Maybe next time you should think of that before you do something like this. Thinking first is probably a good idea in general.
Upstairs must be the bedroom where the owner sleeps. Or owners? I heard multiple voices. Or were they just voices coming from a TV?
I turn the corner and find myself in the living room. I have to shield my eyes because there’s a bright TV on. The sound is off. Christina Aguilera is dancing on the screen, her blond dreads flying around and her mouth straining. She seems distraught that she’s unable to make a sound.
Against the wall is a couch, long and oddly shaped, like a giant shrimp. There’s a mound on the couch.
Shit, I think, trying to back out of the room.
But the mound begins to rise. It sheds its husk—a blanket. I retreat, startled, and step on the remote. Christina Aguilera’s voice blasts through the air at full volume.
The noise is so jarring that I squat down and put my hands over my ears. My eardrums feel like they’ve just burst. And it’s still loud as hell. The mound on the couch morphs into a human shape, jumps onto the floor, and pounds a button on the remote.
The TV screen goes dark. I can hardly believe how immediate the silence is. I stand up again. In the dark, I can’t tell who is standing in front of me.
But one thing is clear: It’s not a woman.
“You can stop covering your ears. I turned it off.”
“What?” I ask.
The person in front of me grabs my wrists and pulls my hands away from my ears.
“Hello,” I say, pulling my wrists out of his hands.
“Hello.”
He takes a step back and sits back down on the couch. Throws the blanket over his legs and looks me up and down. It’s a guy, skinny, but tall—must have been a head taller than me when he was standing. I have no idea how old he is. His hair falls to his shoulders in scraggy strands.
“You must be the . . . ,” he says, knitting his brows.
“Sascha.”
“Right. Volker told me about you. You stayed out of sight all evening. I was wondering where you were hiding.”
“I was tired. I fell asleep.”
“Aha.”
I lean against the wall and examine him. He’s still eyeballing me unapologetically.
“I’m Felix,” he says. “Can you understand me?”
“Can you understand me?”
“Don’t be insulted. Volker said you were Russian.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Why are you so pissed off?”
“I’m not pissed off.”
“You speak good German.”
“Thanks. You, too.”
“I fell asleep out here, too,” he says. I can see his teeth in the dark as he smiles. “I was lying awake for ages. So I came out to watch TV and fell asleep at some stage. Until you decided you needed to wake me up by cranking the speaker up full blast.”
“You were already awake. You sat up—that’s what startled me.”
“True, I was half awake. But I only really woke up after that jolt.”
I smile despite myself.
“My name is Felix,” he says.
“You said that already. I’m not that forgetful.”
“Seriously? I am.”
“I think I heard you earlier,” I say. “Voices upstairs. Was that you?”
“I only have one voice. But it could only have been me or Volker. Or the computer or the TV.”
“Only you or Volker?” I ask.
He looks at me quizzically.
“Yes,” he says. “Nobody else lives here. Other than a few friendly ghosts. Haven’t you seen any of them? There’s a swarm of them under the bed in the guest room.”
I smile back at him.
“Do you know Calvin and Hobbes?” he asks.
“No.”
“It’s a comic strip. Calvin’s a little boy and Hobbes is his stuffed animal—a tiger. In one strip Calvin is sitting on his bed, scared, and asks, ‘Are there ghosts under the bed?’ And from under the bed comes a speech bubble saying, ‘No.’ Then Calvin, trembling, asks, ‘If there were ghosts under my bed, would they be big or small?’ And the speech bubble from under the bed says, ‘Very small.’”
“Hmm,” I say. “Funny.”
“You want to see my room?” Felix asks after a pause.
“Why?” I ask.
“Why not? Volker said you’d be staying a few days. Said you had your reasons. But he didn’t say what they were.”
“I’m sure he had his reasons.”
“How old are you?” he asks distrustfully.
“Seventeen.”
His face relaxes.
“I’m sixteen,” he says. “I thought you were more like fifteen.”
“Tough to tell in the dark.”
“True. You could be in your late twenties.”
“Yeah, thanks a lot.”
“No, I mean, it really is tough to tell. Lots of girls look older than they are and lots of adult women look young.”
I shrug my shoulders. I’m not interested in discussing this topic. But Felix apparently is.
“Recently Volker brought one home,” he says, “who looked to me like she was in her early twenties. But she was thirty-six! Somebody from the office. Susanne.”
“Mahler?” I ask
meekly.
“Do you know her?” he asks, elated. “How? Do you have something to do with the paper?”
“No, not really,” I say. “Is she here a lot?”
“Susanne? Twice. About three months ago. Then never again. Why do you ask—is she married or something?”
“No idea,” I say wearily. “I don’t give a shit about Susanne.”
“Got it,” he says. “I don’t either. Do you want to see my room now?” he asks again. It seems childish to me.
But I like children.
“Fine by me,” I say.
As we walk down the hall, his size strikes me again. He’s wearing a crumpled T-shirt and baggy dark pants.
“Do you guys have electric lighting?” I ask.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because we seem to be constantly in the dark.”
“It’s nice.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Really?” He starts to feel around on the wall.
I wave my hand. “Forget it. It can’t be too many more miles to your room, right?”
“Nope. It’s walking distance.” He stretches his arm out and opens a door right in front of me.
“Here’s where I live,” he says. “Have a look.”
I’m impressed and stand there taking it in.
It is a gigantic room—at least five times as big as my room at home. The bed is a wide, low space piled high with blankets and pillows. On his desk is a computer. There are two keyboards in front of the computer, and two video game consoles. The stereo display blinks. There’s a TV hanging above the bed—right now it’s showing news.
“Not bad,” I say. “But all these electronics—don’t they give off radiation?”
“What do you mean?”
“Electromagnetic radiation. Isn’t it supposed to be bad for you?”
“I’m unhealthy enough already,” he says, laughing. “A bit of radiation isn’t going to kill me.”
“And such a massive bed—you could play soccer on it.”
“Yeah—and other games.” He grins at me.
I turn away.
“I’m going back to my room,” I say and then correct myself. “To the guest room.”
“Yeah?” he says, disappointed. “And then what?”
“Then I’ll go to sleep,” I say, even though I think I’ll go read.
“Hmm,” he says. “Should I show you the way?”
“Thanks, but I’ll find it, I think.” Now that I know I’m not going to bump into a woman in a negligee, I feel much more at ease. It occurs to me that maybe I don’t only hate men. Maybe I hate women, too.
I can’t get up the courage to ask him where the other bedroom is.
“Is Volker your father?” I ask timidly.
“What did you think?”
“I didn’t think anything. Goodnight.”
“Sleep well,” he says. I have the impression he’s following me with his eyes as I walk out.
I wander around the house a little. The wood floors creak underfoot. Here and there a carpet muffles the sound of my footsteps. The place smells like dust and vanilla.
I think I’ve figured out which door is his. Just a feeling. I stand in front of it and try to think. Then I realize how stupid I’d look if the door opened and I was standing there. So I go back downstairs quickly and quietly and slip into my bed. I look at my phone. No calls and no text messages.
I fall asleep with a half-eaten apple in my hand.
In the morning, sun pours through the slits of the blinds.
I know this feeling from when I was five years old and stayed with my grandmother—pure, unadulterated joy, when everything you sense hints at even more happiness. The clatter of dishes, the light, the buzz of bees, voices in the kitchen, the scent of fresh-brewed coffee and warm cinnamon on the rolls my grandmother had just taken out of the oven.
I lie there for a long time taking it all in. It’s different from that time, but somehow very similar. I look at my phone. It’s just after ten.
I get dressed and comb my hair. It’s finally dry. There’s a mirror on the wall above the armoire. I look warily at myself in it. I don’t look anything like my mother. Even ignoring the difference in hair color, she was stronger looking and had different facial features. Everything about her was different. Not even my eye color is right. And my eyes are small, and I squint a lot because I’m a little shortsighted—and when I get upset.
I toss my hairbrush into my backpack.
It doesn’t take me long to find the kitchen. I had stumbled upon it last night. It’s one of those kitchens that opens onto the living room. There’s a guy sitting at the table with a T-shirt on that reads “Apocalyptica” on the back. I have a hard time squaring him with the guy I met last night. I have to think for a moment before his name comes back to me. Felix. Latin for “happy.”
I’m surprised to see that in the light he has strawberry blond hair and freckles. With the sun on it, it looks like his hair is on fire.
I stare at him in wonder for a few seconds. Then he flinches and starts to turn around toward me.
“Good morning,” I say. I clear my throat and try again. “Good morning.”
“Hello,” he answers quickly.
Something about him is different from last night. He looks at me for a second and turns back away from me. He seems tense.
“Have a seat,” it occurs to him to say. “What would you like to eat?”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, there’s the butter and jam, there’s the cheese, and here’s the milk. Do you drink coffee?”
“Yes.”
“And here’s the orange juice.”
“Thanks.” I sit down. He passes everything to me—the basket of bread, the plates, a knife, the coffee pot, a cup—until the area in front of me is totally packed. I take my elbows off the table.
“Thanks,” I repeat.
“We also have Nutella.”
“I don’t eat it. Thanks.”
“You don’t eat Nutella?” Now he sounds a little bit like he did last night. “How is that possible?”
“I’m not big on sweets.”
“You’re lucky.”
“Why?”
“I can eat half a jar of Nutella in one sitting.”
“Go ahead then. What’s so bad about that? I’ve heard alcoholics don’t like to eat sweets. And the other way around—that people with a sweet-tooth have a lower risk of becoming boozers. So be happy.”
He looks surprised. “Where did you hear that?”
“I can’t remember. Read it somewhere.”
As I’m spreading butter on a piece of bread, I notice him stealthily trying to check me out. I look up and he glances away.
“Where is . . . ”
“Volker?” volunteers Felix.
“Yeah.”
“He has a meeting this morning. Said I should look after you.”
“And you are.”
“Yep.” He stares at the tabletop.
Then I get it.
“Felix,” I say, “what did your father tell you about me?”
He looks away. Bingo.
“Go ahead,” I insist. “I’m not going to flip out. I won’t even get a bit upset.”
He remains silent.
“Come on, Felix. Did he tell you about . . . about my mother?”
Felix nods and looks over at me. “Why are you laughing?” he says, appalled.
“I always laugh when I shouldn’t,” I say. “Let me guess what he told you. He said that my mother was shot by my stepfather. That it created quite a furor. A huge story that made headlines all across the country. That I’m a poor little orphan—but a smart one, and one whose story is well known. And that you shouldn’t bother me with questions. Am I right?”
Felix goes so pale that his freckles stand out. “That’s not the way he said it,” he mumbles hoarsely. “It was that you . . . that your . . . that . . . there was a family tragedy or something. What you said
. . . is that . . . is that all true?”
I sigh. “Where was the cheese again?” I ask. “I’m not into jam.”
Felix jumps up and nearly knocks his chair over.
“Here,” he says, still looking at me in shock. “I . . . uh . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s the same for most everybody,” I say. “You’re in good company.” I smile encouragingly at him. He grimaces back.
“Hey,” I say. “Life is beautiful. Sometimes. You know who you look like?”
“Yeah, I know,” he murmurs. “The guy who plays Ron Weasley in the Harry Potter movies.”
“Yes, but more in the later movies. When he had long hair.”
“Have you seen them?”
“Yeah,” I say seriously. “Because of my mother. She loved Harry Potter. Like loads of people. She couldn’t wait for each new installment. And then . . . you know . . . I had to watch the last movie . . . without her.”
I stand up and walk to the window.
When I turn around, big Felix looks very small sitting in his chair. He looks at me fearfully. I sit back down. Felix fidgets in his seat like Anton.
I try to imagine what Anton is doing right now.
“I have to make a quick call,” Felix says, getting up.
I nod, lost in my thoughts, trying to picture the scene at home.
A few minutes later I grab the John Irving book out of the guest room, lean it up against the juice bottle and read while finishing my breakfast.
That’s how Volker Trebur finds me.
He really scares me. I don’t hear him come in. He’s carrying a big box of groceries, puts them down on the table with a sigh, and bends to see what book I’m reading.
I jump.
“Did I startle you?” he says, smiling. “Enviable concentration power.”
“Hello. No, not startled.”
“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, very well.”
He sits down opposite me and shakes his hands. “Heavy box,” he says. “I’m Volker.”
“Sascha.” I close the book, suddenly thinking it’s rude to have it open with him there. I start to load the dishes into the dishwasher.
“Sascha,” he repeats pensively. “I don’t want to pry, but what was wrong at home?”
“What do you mean?”
Broken Glass Park Page 8
