by Melanie Finn
I think about a friend of my father’s and how he had his cancerous larynx removed. He spoke holding an electronic device to his throat. This gave him the ubiquitous, halting voice of a computer. For a long time he kept the old greeting on his answering machine just so that he could listen to his own voice. I don’t know why I think about him now with such sadness: how he hunched over the answering machine, finally, one day, pressing delete.
You hold a blue plastic bag and a roll of duct tape. Is it the same roll you left in Arnau? The bag is from the market in town, a malbolo. You are crying, your bland, wide face completely wet with tears. I might as well have flayed you alive and ripped out your guts. I have destroyed you.
I step into the house and shut the door behind us.
‘She was the good in the world.’
Even if you had not forbidden me to speak, how might I reply? No correction can be made. We talk, we speak, so many millions of syllables spilling from our mouths in a lifetime. And it’s just narration.
Sorry, the most useless fucking word.
But what we do—
Gloria said.
What we make of sorrow and shittiness.
I offer you my life. What you need.
I step toward you.
Kneel down.
You put the bag over my head.
You wind the duct tape around my neck. I hold out my wrists and these you bind. I hear the sucking of my breath against the plastic and the sound of your feet. I see the outline of you fade into darkness. I feel myself begin to panic, the bag clinging to my head like a skin. Lie down, I tell myself, in this embracing dark.
Un-become. Un-be.
Rain, air.
Arnau, March 12
Out of the corner of my eye, to the left, I see a dog leaping, bounding, tail in the air, and a woman yells his name. An English name: ‘William!’ I glance in her direction and the dog is suddenly rushing at my car and I jerk the steering wheel to the right. I slam on the brakes. I feel the weight of the car shift with the swerve and hear the squeal of the tires and I look ahead and see three children and they are looking at me, riveted, faces bright with concern for the safety of the dog. A girl and two boys.
I want to stop the car, I’m certain I do. I’m supposed to. I’ve been a lovely hostess and I’ve spoken carefully and I’ve worn navy blue, I know if I turn the wheel again now there is still time, the merest fraction of a second, for instance Elise stepping up to stand beside Tom on the summer day by the lake and me walking ahead, the boats on the bright water, the fluttering of birds. All that is required is that I turn back to him. All that is required is that I allow the neurological signal from my brain to travel to my hands so that they may turn, turn the steering wheel hard to the left. But there is only Tom leaning in to hear Elise, her hands upon the air, and so I drive on, I keep going, I drive on, straight on.
I drive straight on.
And I see the fluttering dress as the little girl flies into my vision, a demented angel falling from the sky with her mouth rounded into an ‘O’ of surprise, and she hits the windshield and the glass shatters, tinkling, tinkling like bells, sparkling like snow, and the child in the red, flowered dress lifts back up into space; the wires connecting her to heaven retrieve her and she disappears from me and I feel oh a great gurning loss that she has been taken. I saw her face and she did not know that she was dying, did not know I was killing her.
STREBEL
It was raining. It always rained when these things happened, though Strebel knew this was just his impression, that the memories were collecting, cramming together into one rainy day. The benefit of rain was fewer rubberneckers, fewer bystanders, and therefore fewer people to come forward later with completely useless information.
Strebel got back in his car and sat for a moment, the rain battering, obscuring. It had just started an hour ago. If the rain had begun earlier, the accident would not have happened. The woman with the dog would have stayed at home. The rain would have washed away the slick, invisible residue of oil that accumulates on tarmac and the car would have driven—skidded—differently.
He could go on. He knew the parents would. Those itchy little ifs, like earwigs, burrowing into their brains. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be involved—essentially this was a traffic incident. But his boss knew very well what it could turn into, given the driver wasn’t Swiss. Given the victims were photogenic children. At least the driver was American, not a Muslim or an illegal immigrant. He was confident he could control the outcome.
The children had been on their way to the Fun Park, they’d been thinking about sweets and rides that tossed them in the air, they’d been happy, excited. Strebel rubbed his face and turned on the engine. He drove to the hospital in Bern. There had been talk of airlifting one of the children—the little girl—to Zurich. But not any more. The traffic was appalling, due to the rain, and he considered putting on the siren. But there was no rush now, no rush at all.
In the parking lot he looked out at the hospital, a rectangular block, as if the building was trying to hide in blandness. It might not be noticed, might not remind people that there was always a bed with their name on it. He thought about what he needed to say. The words always sounded wrong. It was impossible to convey the sorrow he genuinely felt, a sorrow that never abated. A sorrow that made no difference at all. He looked through his notes at the name. The name had to be right. He had to know ahead of time if there was an odd pronunciation or inflection. Sometimes he had to practice with foreign names so that he didn’t stumble. Sophie. Not Sophia. Sophie Leila Koppler. Was that Ley-la or Lie-la? Was it Middle Eastern? He’d have to ask Caspary.
Strebel got out into the rain and let it pummel him. It was better if he looked wet and bedraggled; his sympathy would appear more authentic. Next of kin didn’t need some wide-eyed optimist.
Inside the hospital, the wet soles of his shoes squeaked on the white floor and a drip from his hair ran down the back of his neck. He knew the way to the trauma unit and wished he didn’t. In the lobby, he saw Caspary who pointed to a middle-aged man in a dark blue raincoat, standing by a potted plant.
‘He only just got here,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t know.’
‘Is there anyone else?’ Strebel asked. ‘The mother?’
Caspary shook her head. ‘She died of cancer last year.’
Child and mother, both in one year. Well done, God, Strebel thought and turned to watch a nurse hand Sophie Koppler’s father coffee in a styrofoam cup. He didn’t drink the coffee, but stood with the cup in his hand. When he finally noticed it, he seemed baffled. Who had given him the coffee? And what was he doing here?
I come into people’s lives at the worst possible time, Strebel thought. He started toward Mr Koppler, then turned back to Caspary. ‘Ley-la or Lie-la?’
‘Lie-la.’
Mr Koppler didn’t notice him approach, even though Strebel was walking directly at him. Strebel gently touched his elbow. ‘Please sit down, Mr Koppler.’
Mr Koppler complied, almost spilling the coffee; Strebel took it from him, placed it on the floor.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Paul Strebel,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry to tell you that your daughter Sophie has passed away.’
‘Sophie?’ Mr Koppler looked at him, bewildered.
‘There was a car accident.’
‘But she wasn’t in a car.’
‘She was hit by a car. On the side of the road. At the bus stop below Arnau.’
‘Sophie?’
‘Yes. Sophie Leila. Your daughter. She’s been killed.’
‘But she wasn’t in a car. We walked.’
‘Mr Koppler, I’m so sorry, but we need you to identify her body.’
‘She was taking the bus.’
Strebel sat quietly. People in these circumstances attacked him. A woman whose young son had been battered to death by her boyfriend hit Strebel so hard that her ring split his cheek and he needed half a dozen stitches. Or people col
lapsed; their internal scaffolding gave way and they fell to the ground like detonated buildings. Or, like Mr Koppler, they seemed not to hear, not to comprehend.
‘She wasn’t in a car.’
‘She was waiting at the bus stand with Mattias Scheffer and Markus Emptmann. A driver coming downhill lost control of her car and hit the bus stand,’ Strebel explained in a soft voice. ‘All three children were killed.’
Mr Koppler nodded vaguely, and after a moment he stood and they walked slowly down another corridor to the chapel, where Sophie lay, cleaned of blood and glass, under a white sheet. But you could never imagine she was asleep. This was always when the pretending stopped, all possibility of error eliminated.
‘But how,’ her father said, looking through the glass. ‘She wasn’t in a car.’
* * *
Ingrid was clearing away the dishes. She said, ‘The downstairs toilet is broken again. The plumber promises to come tomorrow, but you know how they are.’
Strebel glanced over at his wife and felt a sudden rush of hatred, like a blast of wind. He wanted to run over and slam her hand into the rubbish disposal and hear her scream, and pull up the mangled appendage, bloody and battered, then say, ‘Look, look at this, blood and bone and gristle. It’s all we are, all that’s ever left.’
In horror he got up and retreated to the living room, then turned on the TV. People were laughing, he had no idea what about. His whole body felt odd, as though his blood was fizzing. His breath wouldn’t quite come, but knotted in his throat. Was he having a heart attack? He checked himself for symptoms but there was no numbness or pain in his left arm, no tightness in his chest—nothing specific, just this internal heat and profound anxiety at the rage he’d just felt against his wife. He sat on the sofa and tried to make sense of the TV. The actors were running around, chasing someone—something? each other?—laughing. A poor imitation of laughter.
‘Paul?’ He heard his name. Initially he thought one of the actors on TV must be named Paul. ‘Paul?’
‘Paul! Is something the matter?’
He looked up at Ingrid. The rage was gone, but its absence only clarified his profound ambivalence. And in this he felt a further confusion. How could feeling nothing be so intense?
* * *
Leaning over, he turned off her light. For many years her bedside lamp had been a source of irritation. Ingrid liked to read in bed, while he preferred to close his eyes straight away. But she would always fall asleep, the light on, the book open on her lap, her lower lip slack as a moron’s. He was never asleep—could not fall asleep until he knew she was. He was a natural insomniac and bedtime was rife with ritual. The fresh glass of water by the bed, the hot shower, the special pillow, the ridiculous lavender sachet under his mattress: the superstitions of the sleepless.
But he liked to pretend to be asleep—a kind of lie to her; he liked the separation, the isolation, and how he could turn thoughts over in his head without interruption; without: ‘Dear, it’s Beatrice’s birthday next week. The twentieth. You haven’t forgotten? I spoke with Caroline and I suggested we buy a new bicycle.’ He knew he was required to participate—his wife, his child, his grandchild. He did his best.
Ingrid shifted position in her sleep, entering her own fiefdom, dreaming voluptuously. No doubt she would need to refer to one of her books on interpretations. Her dreams were never just dreams but omens, premonitions, signs. She did not tell him about them any more. She knew better. But she kept a ‘dream journal’ on her bedside table. On waking she would scribble at wild speed and he often wanted to suggest she take up shorthand. The pen scratched the paper, scratch, scritch, her face intent and closed to him.
Now she was dreaming of her father coming out of a hole in the bed or a red fish that turned into a woman or a flock of white birds trapped in the kitchen. He did not dream, and he’d once made the mistake of telling her this. ‘Everyone dreams, Paul. You just don’t care enough about what your subconscious has to say.’
He turned on his side, slipping delicately out of bed. His rule. If he had not fallen asleep within an hour, he must get up. He felt not the least bit tired, although he knew the tiredness stored itself away, like bales of hay. Tomorrow they would tumble, bury him with exhaustion.
In the kitchen, he heated milk in a small pan. In the dark, quiet world outside, people were committing unspeakable crimes. Unspeakable, but not unthinkable. He sat down, drank the milk. Was Beatrice old enough for a bicycle? Hadn’t she just started walking?
* * *
Ernst Koppler had put nothing of Sophie’s away. Three dolls sat on the dining table, carefully aligned along a Dora the Explorer plastic placemat. Strebel knew vaguely about Dora because of Beatrice. Dora was supposed to be a better role model for little girls than the numerous princesses—Snow White, Cinderella; Dora was independent and proactive. Her ambitions didn’t involve marriage to a handsome prince.
A number of stuffed animals were stationed or abandoned about the room: a penguin on the floor near the sink, a camel on the sofa; something—a cat? a monkey?—with large plastic eyes and pink fur crouched on top of the TV. On the coffee table were two rubber snakes, a green crayon, a yellow sock, a book about a baby elephant, a plastic spoon, a purple ribbon, a mini handbag decorated with pink and gold sequins, a princess crown, a yellow bath duck, a ladybird key ring, a plastic Swiss cow.
Sometimes it took parents years to put their dead child’s possessions away. By then, Strebel had observed, it was too late: the ability to move on had been forfeited. Objects wielded great power. Left out, they became museum pieces, totemic. Artifacts. Packed away, they became memories—the past. Strebel understood the psychology of grief—not that it was complicated. Detectives were required to take sensitization courses. They had to look at houses as potential crime scenes. Mothers who beat their children to death cried just as hard as those whose children had drowned accidentally in the river. Toys, therefore, could become clues, evidence.
But not here. In this house the toys, the casual mess, suggested the expectation of return. We’ll clean up later. Later hung upon the air with the almost visible density of dust. There was a smell of dried apples. Strebel realized this was coming from Mr Koppler. He had not bathed recently, his clothes were the ones he’d worn at the hospital two days ago. He looked like a tramp.
Mr Koppler sat in an armchair. Strebel took the couch. But as he sat something squeaked. He rescued a doll from under his left buttock, and held it, not sure where to put it. Mr Koppler looked at the doll, and Strebel knew he was seeing Sophie talking to it, seeing the little girl babble. Are you hungry, little baby? There, there, Mummy’ll give you a bottle.
The doll held them captive for long moments, before Strebel finally broke the spell. Very carefully, he put it on the coffee table.
‘Mr Koppler, I know this is very difficult for you. I need to go over your movements that morning.’
Mr Koppler shifted his gaze, passing over Strebel to the pink cat-monkey on top of the TV and out the window. He was a man leagues down, on the bottom of the ocean. He could not move against the pressure of the water, could not see because light did not reach such depth.
‘She didn’t want to go. But I work. My own business. A stationers in Interlaken.’
‘Go? Go to the Fun Park?’
‘Yes. They planned it. They asked me. They’re trying to be kind. After Hamida died.’ Mr Koppler’s expressionless face rotated back toward Strebel. ‘They never spoke to me before, those women. Not to Hamida when she was alive. She was one of those immigrants.’
Strebel let a brief silence absorb this memory. Then he continued: ‘The trip was to the Fun Park. With Simone Emptmann and her children, and Vidia Scheffer’s son, Mattias. Correct?’
‘Yes,’ said Koppler. ‘They were all going to take the bus because Vidia’s car wasn’t big enough.’ Mr Koppler rubbed his hands very slowly against the top of his thighs. ‘The baby. Simone’s little girl. Her car seat was the issue, I believe.’
Outside, the sound of a car. The silence slipping backward. Strebel waited. How many times had he done this? Waited for a parent to recount the last hour of a child’s life. The hour when anything else could have happened.
Mr Koppler began again: ‘We left the house at about eight-fifteen. We crossed the Arnau Bridge. She wanted to stop a moment and watch the water in the ravine. She believes fairies live down there. Hamida told her that. We reached the recycling center, the parking lot, at about eight-thirty. Sophie told me again that she didn’t want to go. We talked about it. She—she started to cry. I said I had to go to the shop and she must understand she couldn’t come with me. She’d be bored. She’d… she’d get in the way. I said that. That’s what I said. “You’ll get in the way.” So she agreed. She wanted to help me. That’s how it’s been between us after Hamida, we help each other. I left her and walked back across the bridge. I got in my car and reached the shop at nine-fifteen. In time to open at nine-thirty. It was busy. There was a conference in town and I had a lot of customers. The phone rang several times but I let it go to the voicemail. That’s why. That’s why when the hospital called…’ He let the sentence drop.
There was nothing else. Mr Koppler rubbed his thighs again, sat back in his chair and shut his eyes. Strebel put away his notebook. He glanced again about the room and saw the pink cat-monkey that longed for Sophie’s touch, longed to nestle in her arm when she fell asleep, her soft breath smelling of bubble-gum-flavored toothpaste.
‘She could have come to work with me,’ Mr Koppler said, his eyes open again, tight and small behind thick glasses. ‘She would have been no trouble.’
Statement by Mrs Alicia Berger; interviewing officer: Sergeant Teresa Caspary
14 March 2015 14:32
I left my home about twenty past eight to walk William.
[Sgt Caspary asks Mrs Berger to clarify who is William.]
He’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback. They are very large dogs, and some people therefore find them intimidating, but they have excellent dispositions and are easy to train. Being a widow for more than five years now, I have taken William to be my best friend.
