The Stranger Upstairs

by Melanie Raabe

  ‘You see?’ I said, more argumentative than ever. ‘That’s what I mean—it was the same with that name.’

  Philip groaned.

  ‘Really, Sarah? I can’t believe you still hold that against me. We bet—you lost. Do we have to keep coming back to it?’

  ‘You tricked me,’ I said.

  ‘Okay, now you really are being ridiculous. You can’t cheat at that game—that’s the whole point.’

  ‘I don’t know how you did it,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure you cheated.’

  ‘You think I’d do a thing like that?’ he asked, honestly indignant.

  ‘The thing is, you’re used to getting your own way, whatever happens. It probably isn’t even your fault.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  I didn’t reply.

  I just told myself that my son would definitely be called Leo.

  Fight or no fight, I wish I could stay forever in my memory of that day on the North Sea. But I have to face up to reality.

  Maybe I shouldn’t be sitting here—maybe I should get up and go in search of the strange man wandering around my house.

  No, I think. No rushing into things.

  I have no idea what the stranger wants from me, but it’s not going to be my problem for much longer. I only have to hang on a little while—only until Barbara Petry gets here. It’s best if I stay exactly where I am until then.

  I don’t know how long I stare at the wall like that, waiting. The stranger doesn’t reappear. In the end my whole body is quivering with impatience. I can stand it no longer.

  Where has he gone?

  The stranger

  She’s in the next room.

  She’s on the phone. I’ll wait for the moment.

  The boy isn’t here. That’s a good thing.

  I’m in the kitchen.

  I drink a glass of water.

  I take food out of the fridge.

  I don’t feel hungry, but I eat anyway.

  Chew, swallow, keep going.

  It was a long journey. But now I’m here. I can find out the truth.

  I feel strong.

  Whatever she does, I’m not going to be put off my plan.

  Sarah

  I find him in the kitchen. The place where I read the paper and drink coffee, where I make jam, cut sandwiches for Leo and sit at the table with him in the evenings while he tells me about school—that a certain teacher is stupid, that the new boy in his class seems all right, who’s been in a fight on the playground, which of the children in his class have smartphones, how many goals he’s shot.

  When I enter the room, the stranger looks at me, completely relaxed. He has obviously had a shower and got changed—his hair is wet and shining, and he’s dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt. He’s leaning back in the chair, feet on the table, hands behind his head. I know that male pose—take up space, flaunt your dominance. He has a bottle of cold beer in front of him and is eating ham from a packet that Miriam brought when she came for breakfast the other day. I feel sick at the smell of it, and now that I’m standing in front of the stranger, I’ve forgotten what it is I wanted to say.

  ‘Sarah,’ he says, playing the host, ‘come and sit down.’ He takes his feet off the table and pushes the ham across to me, then folds his arms behind his head again. ‘Hungry?’

  I shouldn’t answer, but instead I say, ‘I don’t eat meat. Neither does my husband.’

  The stranger laughs. ‘A vegetarian with ham in her fridge,’ he says.

  Before I can reply, the doorbell rings. The stranger starts and his eyes narrow to slits.

  Hugely relieved, I head for the front door to let in Barbara Petry, almost tripping over my handbag in the hall. I gather it up, hang it on a coat hook, smooth my clothes and open the door.

  In spite of the searing heat, Barbara Petry looks as if she’s stepped out of a fashion magazine. She seems to be one of those people who never sweat.

  ‘Mrs Petry,’ I say, giving her my hand, ‘thank you for coming so quickly. Come on in.’

  I lead her into the kitchen, trying to put my thoughts in order. She got off the plane with the stranger, so she must have accompanied him on the flight, and presumably met him some days before that. She will have read reams of information to familiarise herself with his history, with the details of his case, and then, in an emotionally charged moment of high drama, met the spurious Philip, never once doubting that she was dealing with a hostage who had been through terrible things and needed protecting. I am curious to see how they greet one another.

  ‘He’s in here,’ I say as we reach the kitchen—and then stop in disbelief.

  At the kitchen table is an exhausted-looking man who bears the marks of a long journey. He seems weak, almost fragile, sitting slumped in his chair, smiling wanly but warmly at Barbara Petry. The beer and ham have vanished—only a faint whiff of smoked meat lingers.

  ‘Barbara,’ he says, so charmingly that I almost retch again.

  He gets up, carefully, as if in pain. Crows’ feet appear at the corners of his eyes as he gives Petry his hand, and she smiles back, obviously bowled over by his charisma, his warmth, his charm. She too is dressed in black, I notice—two black figures, and me in my white frock. Chessmen.

  ‘Have a seat,’ I say, in an effort to take control of the situation.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Barbara Petry. She sits down, hanging her elegant black handbag over one of the kitchen chairs and momentarily turning her back to the stranger. His glare then is like ice, but as soon as Petry turns to face him again, he resumes his friendly mask and busies himself fetching her a glass of water—playing the host again—before he sits down.

  And so here we are at the kitchen table—Barbara Petry at the head, and the stranger and I facing each other on either side of her. It is warm in the kitchen—sunlight streams in at the big window that overlooks the garden, and glancing out I see a beautiful summer day, its calm, heavy quiet broken only by the buzz of a bumblebee. The ravens, I am glad to see, have gone.

  I force myself to focus on the present. This should really be quick and straightforward. This isn’t my husband, so what’s he doing in my house? I don’t need a mediator—I need someone who’ll take the stranger away so that I never have to see him again and can finally get on with my life.

  ‘All right then,’ Petry says. ‘How exactly can I help?’

  Her gaze rests on me, and all at once I feel as if I’m facing an examination panel—the racing heart, the red ears, the terror of saying the wrong thing, although I’ve learnt all the vocabulary, all the formulae, all the dates.

  I’ve already told her what the problem is, but she seems reluctant to believe me. Still, she is here—she must have taken me seriously. I pull myself together to make sure I don’t say anything that sounds crazy.

  ‘First of all, thank you very much for coming,’ I say. ‘And at such short notice, too.’

  The woman gives me a smile that does not reach her eyes. What can she be thinking? I hesitate, knowing how important it is to find the right words. I look down at my hands on the table, and my eyes fall on my wedding ring. I noticed in the car that the stranger wasn’t wearing one. I take a deep breath.

  ‘I realise that what I’m saying must sound completely insane. And I also realise that you don’t know me and have no reason to trust me. But I assure you that this man here is not Philip Petersen. I’ve never seen this man in my life. He looks like Philip, yes—but not so much so that you could mix them up. Anyone who knew Philip personally will confirm that for you.’

  The stranger sits there motionless, staring down at the table, only once shaking his head briefly as if hardly able to believe my foolishness. Barbara Petry opens her mouth, but I don’t let her speak. I know what she’s going to say—that ‘my husband’ was of course vetted, but that it’s no wonder I feel overwhelmed by the situation. It’s nothing unusual, not the first time she’s witnessed this kind of thing.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t
have to tell you, Mrs Petry, that my husband is an extremely wealthy man. As I’m sure you can imagine, that makes someone in my circumstances a target for frauds. It doesn’t seem unreasonable to expect to be taken seriously when I say that this man is not my husband—he’s an impostor!’

  For a second, Barbara Petry seems thrown off balance.

  ‘What reason would I have for lying?’ I ask.

  The stranger gives an almost imperceptible snort, but neither Barbara Petry nor I fail to notice.

  ‘Okay,’ says Barbara Petry, without answering my question. ‘Can you give me some slightly more precise grounds for your doubts?’

  Out of the corner of my eye I see that the stranger is no longer studying the grain of the kitchen table, but looking straight at me.

  ‘I don’t have doubts,’ I say, finding it hard not to shout. ‘I’m certain. And I don’t need to give grounds. That is not my husband! This isn’t a matter for discussion!’

  Barbara Petry puts her fingertips to her temples as if to massage away a headache, but quickly replaces her manicured hands on the table when she realises.

  I have disappointed her. She was prepared to believe me, I think, or at least willing to give me the benefit of the doubt, but she assumed I’d have some kind of evidence.

  Suddenly the stranger speaks, and I start.

  ‘You just said that everyone who knows me will know at once that I’m not Philip,’ he says, his gaze shifting between me and Petry. ‘Why don’t we ask someone? Someone who knows me? Would you be convinced then, Sarah?’

  It infuriates me that he calls me Sarah like that, as if we knew each other. I’ve had enough of this madness.

  ‘Nothing—nothing at all—could convince me that you are Philip Petersen.’

  He knows all about me, of course—he knows, the bastard, that I have no family, that Leo and I are alone. But no sooner have I spat these words out than I realise what he’s done. His suggestion can only sound constructive to Barbara Petry—and I’ve rejected it out of hand. If I refuse to get anybody else involved, it will look as if I’m afraid to be proved wrong.

  ‘But I’m not the one who needs proof,’ I say, turning to Petry. ‘If it would help to convince you, of course I’d agree. Ask whoever you like—anyone will confirm that he’s not my husband.’

  ‘All right then,’ Petry says after a pause. ‘Who would you suggest?’

  I think for a moment. Philip’s father is dead, and his mother, Constanze, is out of the question—no doubt the stranger already knows that. But there is Johann, of course. A smile steals onto my face. Why didn’t I think to suggest this myself? He’s played right into my hands.

  ‘How about Johann?’ the stranger asks.

  I look at him in alarm. He knows Johann? How does he know Johann? Where has he heard about him?

  ‘Who’s Johann?’ asks Barbara Petry.

  ‘Johann Kerber is an old friend of my family who took me under his wing when my father died,’ says the impostor. ‘And I know he’s someone Sarah trusts too—at least, she used to.’

  Inside, I fall apart, but I don’t let it show.

  ‘Johann’s abroad,’ I manage to say eventually. ‘He’s on a business trip in China. I’ve tried to get in touch with him several times to tell him that Philip had been found, but he hasn’t been available.’

  ‘When does he get back?’ the stranger asks.

  ‘In three days, according to his secretary,’ I reply. ‘But I can’t wait that long.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Petry says. ‘But I’m sure this Johann isn’t the only person who could confirm your husband’s identity.’

  ‘He’s not my husband,’ I insist.

  Petry briefly closes her eyes.

  I am not going to let anyone say that man is my husband, no matter how much it annoys Barbara Petry. That is not my problem—it’s hers.

  ‘Now,’ she says, ‘there must be someone who could help us clear up this…’ She hesitates. ‘This business.’

  I think of Constanze, unable now to recognise her own reflection, and Philip’s only remaining relative except for Leo and me. I can’t think of anyone else—no other family, no one at work he was particularly close to. He’d been the boss—he’d always tried to keep a bit of distance. He still saw a couple of friends from university, too, before he disappeared, but no one I’d know how to find now. I lost touch with them a long time ago. What was all this nonsense, though? Shouldn’t my word be enough?

  Barbara Petry sighs when I don’t reply. She seems to regret coming. I feel a sudden rush of saliva in my mouth.

  ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ I say hoarsely.

  Barbara Petry and the impostor are silent.

  I leave the kitchen with head held high, but break into a run as soon as I’m out of sight. I slam the bathroom door behind me, kneel down at the toilet bowl for the second time and vomit in hard painful spasms. Then I rinse my mouth and prop myself up on the basin to stare at my reflection. My eyes are black with anger.

  Not with me, you don’t, I think. I’ve been through much worse than this. Much worse. Not with me.

  The stranger

  Getting other people to like you is easy. I sit hunched up. That makes me smaller, less menacing—it emphasises my physical exhaustion. I run my hand over my eyes as if I can hardly keep them open. I blink a few times. Then I look up and smile bravely.

  Keep going. Get rid of Barbara Petry, then we’ll see.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ she asks, her voice lowered.

  ‘My wife’s not in a good way,’ I say vaguely. ‘I think it was all a bit much for her today. She just needs some rest.’

  Petry frowns.

  ‘Your wife’s behaviour doesn’t seem to surprise you,’ she says.

  ‘No,’ I say, with a faint sigh. ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t surprise me in the least.’

  ‘You’ve seen this before?’

  I nod. ‘Yes,’ I lie, ‘more than once, I’m afraid. But don’t worry. I know how to handle it.’

  Barbara Petry’s expression is inscrutable. ‘I don’t want you to overdo it,’ she says. ‘You’re in dire need of rest yourself.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ I say. ‘But please promise not to mention this to anyone. It would be embarrassing for Sarah, once she’s herself again.’

  Barbara Petry holds my pleading gaze for a moment—then her expression softens. ‘Of course not,’ she says with a little smile. ‘Of course not.’

  Sarah

  My eyes fall on the lotus-white bathtub and a picture flashes through my mind. I see Philip and me in the bath together, a beer on the edge of the tub for him, apple juice for me. My bump is sticking up out of the bubbles. Philip is relaxed and happy; I see his dark eyes, his dimples, and as he takes a gulp of beer, billions of tiny iridescent bubbles run down his chest and—

  Why didn’t I think of it before?

  I leave the bathroom and head back to the kitchen.

  ‘What did you miss most, apart from your family?’ I hear Petry ask.

  ‘Schnitzel and schnapps,’ the stranger replies, and Barbara Petry laughs.

  I haven’t been gone five minutes and he already has her wrapped around his little finger. They really are acting as if they were having a cosy chat over coffee. I feel the gall rising again.

  ‘I’d like to ask him a few questions,’ I say.

  A steep line appears on Barbara Petry’s forehead. She glances questioningly at the phoney Philip.

  He hesitates. ‘Maybe it’s not a bad idea,’ he says, and the feigned compassion in his voice makes me feel more nauseous than ever. ‘Maybe it would help Sarah if I answered a few questions.’ He runs his hand over his face. ‘I’m just so ridiculously tired,’ he says. ‘The stress, the long flight, the jetlag…’ He trails off.

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ says Petry feelingly. ‘We’d understand if you’d rather be left in peace for the moment. After all you’ve been through.’

  There’s no missing the repr
oach in her voice. I’m going to have to persuade her—but the stranger knows about Johann, what else does he know about Philip? And, indeed, about me?

  ‘It’s all right,’ says the stranger. ‘Whatever helps.’

  ‘Okay then,’ says Petry. She looks at me expectantly.

  I take a gulp of coffee, but it’s no use playing for time. I’ll never come up with a surefire way to persuade her that quickly. I decide to plunge straight in.

  ‘When’s Philip’s birthday?’ I ask.

  ‘Twenty-seventh of January,’ the stranger replies like a shot. ‘Same as Mozart’s,’ he adds smugly.

  That was easy, of course. Anyone could have googled that. I’m just warming up.

  ‘When’s Leo’s birthday?’

  The stranger smiles—this question too he answers with confidence. ‘I can’t believe I’ll be here for his next birthday,’ he adds. ‘I thought of him every year…’

  ‘When did Philip and I get married?’ I ask, interrupting him. I’m not going to let him talk about my son.

  The man looks at me. He seems confused.

  ‘Early summer,’ he says after a while.

  ‘I want a date,’ I say.

  ‘Oh God,’ he says, and his eyes dart to and fro between Barbara Petry and me. ‘Oh God, I’ve forgotten. I…oh, yes, I do know…I just can’t remember. I—’

  ‘What did I wear at our wedding?’ I ask. I’m not giving up now.

  Barbara Petry sighs. ‘I think that’ll do for now,’ she says.

  ‘No!’ I shout.

  Petry gets up, evidently fed up with the whole business. ‘Mrs Petersen, I have the impression that there’s no convincing you, no matter how many questions your husband answers.’

  ‘That’s not my husband,’ I retort, getting up too. I can hear how stubborn I sound, but what am I supposed to say? ‘You have to help me!’ I implore her.

  Petry considers me, then turns to the stranger, who has got up now too. ‘Mr Petersen,’ she says, ‘I would suggest you come with me for the time being. We’ll put you up in a hotel until everything’s been sorted out, and then you—’

  ‘No,’ says the stranger.