It’s not until I hear the back door that I realise he’s going out. I now have two possibilities: I can run upstairs and search his luggage in the hope of finding something that incriminates him—or at least gives me some clue to who he is, what exactly he wants and where he’s come from.
Or else I can go after him. I follow my gut. I count to thirty, grab my handbag and set off after the stranger.
The stranger
I am wandering around the city like a remote-control robot. It is utterly unfamiliar, yet I know exactly where to take a left and where to turn right. My body feels light: the cumulative effect of the sleep deprivation of the last days and weeks.
In other circumstances I would have collapsed long ago. But our bodies obey our will—it’s astonishing how much they can put up with in the pursuit of a fundamental goal. As long as our brains say, ‘Walk!’ our bodies will walk.
I am walking.
The early morning is pleasantly cool. Empty streets. Horse chestnut trees. Cars parked at the kerbside. A boy of maybe sixteen on a black bike, headphones over his ears. A woman in her mid-fifties with short, jet-black hair, and a dalmatian on a lead. Two policemen in navy blue uniform. A homeless man asleep in a doorway, a big pink fluffy rabbit beside him.
I set one foot in front of the other.
I register everything, but none of it touches me.
I draw myself up, inhale deeply. I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time. For years.
Now it has come.
Here goes.
Sarah
As I squeeze my way through the hole in the fence—more carefully this time—and step out onto the same road that I was careering down like a lunatic only a few hours ago, I glimpse him turning the corner. I follow him cautiously but do not, of course, have a clue how you go about following someone without being noticed. He would only have to turn round to see me. But he doesn’t. He walks serenely, as if guided by a built-in compass. I follow him down the avenue and along the main road, vaguely aware that the sun is rising. The pavements are empty, the joggers and dog owners who will soon fill them not yet out. But there are cars on the roads.
The road from my dream flashes across my mind. Not now, I think. Not now.
He walks on, neither particularly fast and purposefully, like someone with a specific goal, nor slowly and indulgently, like he’s out for a stroll. He simply walks. The morning world through which we are moving is black, white and green. White houses, wrought-iron railings, green lawns. Lime trees. Horse chestnuts. An old copper beech here and there. Rosebushes. Orchids or model ships in bay windows. Tasteful. Everything in this part of town is tasteful. As I walk beneath the lime trees I glance down and quickly step aside to avoid treading on a bumblebee lying on the ground—and then realise I’ve trodden on another. I scan the pavement under the trees and see that it’s littered with the bodies of dead bumblebees. At first I see three, then ten and soon dozens of plump little bodies. I look up into the treetops, but do not, of course, find any explanation. There must be an explanation, I know, but still the dead furry creatures seem to me like a bad omen.
I turn my attention back to the stranger, making sure that the distance between us remains more or less constant.
It’s as if he were pulling me along behind him on an invisible rope. I contemplate the back of his head and wonder who this man can be. I remind myself that he too was once an innocent baby, weighing no more than a few pounds, and that billions of major and minor decisions have brought him to this particular place, at this particular moment. How did he end up here? What course can his life have taken to bring him to this point?
Suddenly something occurs to me. What if I’m not the first who’s been put through this? What if he’s done this before? Maybe the stranger has no identity of his own. Maybe his identity is precisely that—he’s a con man, an impostor. Maybe it works so well because it’s so audacious. Maybe this is his business model, and the project with Philip his next big coup.
I jump when the stranger comes to a sudden halt, and stop too, to be on the safe side, concealing myself behind one of the old trees that line the avenue. Old houses, old trees, old money. The stranger seems to be looking at something I can’t make out from where I am. What on earth is he doing? But even as I’m wondering, he sets off again and I follow him, frowning as I pass the place where he stopped. There is a bin, a perfectly normal red litter bin, like all the others in our town.
I can’t see anything out of the ordinary—no hidden message, nothing. The unpleasant feeling of having overlooked something steals over me, but I have no time and quicken my pace, so as not to lose sight of the stranger. He is making for the centre of town.
Songbirds lustily greet the new day as it dawns, and the sounds of the city swell. The further we get from the smart area where I live—and where I still feel out of place, even after so many years—the more people there are out on the street: the first workers on their way to early shift, the last of the late-night revellers making their way home. I’m scared that the stranger might hail a taxi and give me the slip, but first one taxi and then another drives past him and he doesn’t raise his arm.
The pulse of the city quickens as we move further and further away from home and the sun climbs higher and higher. I don’t know how long we’ve been walking—I don’t wear a watch and don’t want to stop to dig my phone out of my bag. But we’ve been going for a while and the stranger still shows no sign of wanting to take a taxi or even the underground. We keep walking, and suddenly the city is awake, like an ogre jumping up from sleep with stertorous breath—people, traffic and bustle coursing through his veins.
The stranger walks on and on. He walks into a part of town I hardly ever set foot in anymore, although I used to love it. Here nothing is refined or tasteful—everything is colourful. We walk past record shops and wine bars, bookshops and tattoo parlours. Past pavement cafes whose red umbrellas are just being put up, and people hurrying to work, eating cinnamon buns and drinking caffe latte from paper cups. As the stranger carries on towards his mystery destination, occasionally dodging particularly hectic briefcase carriers or particularly thoughtless skateboarders, I see a cafe with homemade benches outside. I’m so tired, I’d like to sit down on one of the benches and not get up for a very, very long time. I don’t know where the stranger is heading, and I’m beginning to doubt that he has any goal at all when he stops again, on a busy street. Across the road is a large church. The stranger throws back his head and looks up at the spire.
When the pedestrian lights change to green, he crosses the road and steps through the door of the church. I’m still wondering whether to follow him in when he reappears, glances about him, walks another five hundred metres and then stops again. I too come to a halt and watch him as he scans the houses on the other side of the road, the stream of people washing past him as if he were an island in the middle of a river. I too look across at the houses, perfectly normal houses, some of them with graffitied facades and bikes outside. I see the stranger cross the road and stop in front of the house directly opposite. He glances in my direction and I dodge behind a news kiosk just in time. The stranger digs a slip of paper out of his trouser pocket, unfolds it, studies it, looks up at the house again, which has a number forty-one so large you can’t miss it, and puts the paper back in his pocket. For a few moments the stranger just stands there. Then he climbs the steps to the front door and rings the bell. Soon afterwards the door is opened. I can’t see who has opened it—whoever is in the doorway is hidden from view by the stranger. A few seconds later, the impostor disappears into the house and the door closes behind him.
I’d give a lot to be able to turn myself into a mouse like one of the wizards in the fairytales I read Leo, so that I could slip into the house unnoticed and eavesdrop on the conversation. I need to find out whose house this is and what is being discussed. I memorise the address and resolve to find out who lives there.
I wait for a long time. I’m beginning
to think the stranger isn’t going to re-emerge, when he suddenly appears at the door. He looks left and right, without noticing me in the now bustling street, then goes down the steps and on his way. I step briskly towards the house from which the stranger has just emerged, desperate for a glimpse of the person he’s been talking to.
Before the door closes, I see him.
It’s a man. I start when I see his face. Adrenaline shoots through me.
I know him.
The stranger
She’s been following me ever since I left the house. I see her dart across the edge of my field of vision and sense her presence behind me. It isn’t easy to act as if I hadn’t noticed her. My first impulse was to turn round and confront her. But that would have been unwise. Only one thing is certain: she is absolutely unpredictable. Who knows what she is capable of? But as long as she’s following me, I know where she is and what she’s doing. I have to concentrate on what lies before me. I can do without distractions.
I’ve almost reached my target. I go through my plan once more and look at the clock. Just six. Good.
Sarah
My synapses click and a dull, unpleasant sensation spreads through my stomach. I know that man. I’ve seen him before, although I have no idea where. Something tells me it’s crucial that I remember who he is, but I can’t. He had a soft face, almost youthful, although he must have been about forty. Jeans, polo shirt, a bit of a belly—nice enough looking at first sight, but at the same time somehow threatening. Strange.
Cyclists and pedestrians weave past. The sun dazzles me as it climbs higher and higher in the sky, but my thoughts are still with the man who just disappeared behind that door. I briefly consider ringing the bell to find out who he is and what he knows, but I tell myself I can do that another time if I think it wise, and decide instead to continue following the stranger, who has already turned the corner and vanished out of sight.
When I turn the corner myself, I’m momentarily afraid that I’ve lost him, and cursing under my breath, I hurry on. I look left and right, stand on tiptoes, spin round in a circle, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Then, just as I’m on the point of giving up and turning back, a small knot of people disperse in front of me and I spot him disappearing into an underground station. Is he suddenly in a hurry? Has he noticed me? I make a dash for the station and try to guess which way he’s headed. Trains to the city centre stop at the platform on the left, and trains travelling in the opposite direction stop at the platform on the right. The place is teeming with people now—it’s the middle of the rush hour.
I’ve lost sight of him again and decide on the city centre, letting the current of people carry me down the stairs to the platform and hoping that my gut feeling won’t let me down. I fight my way through the sweaty, surging mass of coffee-swilling, smartphone-swiping bodies blocking the platform—and almost run into the stranger. He is suddenly right in front of me, although his back is turned to me. I come to an abrupt halt and step to one side, almost crashing into an elderly gentleman whom I dodge without taking my eyes off the stranger. I take up position a few metres behind him. It is so full here that he probably wouldn’t see me even if he turned round. He doesn’t seem to sense that he’s being watched at all, but stands calmly in the middle of the crowd, not drinking coffee, not using a smartphone, just standing there, a faint, dreamy smile on his lips as if listening to a beautiful tune that only he can hear. I don’t like his expression at all. He looks incredibly contented—no, he actually looks happy.
The train pulls in. I wait for the stranger to get on, then I walk to another door further down the carriage and get on too. I remain standing, so I can keep an eye on the stranger and react quickly. He is also standing, just a few metres away, with his back to me. The doors close slowly, and I almost expect him to slip out at the last moment and throw me a look of triumph from the platform as the train carries me away. But nothing of the sort happens. The train moves off, bearing us into the dark, hurtling with us through the city’s entrails. We move, we stop. Passengers get on and off. I keep a close eye on the stranger, but he doesn’t make any move. We stop again—twice, three times, four times—before we arrive at the main railway station. This time he gets off.
I almost get stuck on the train—I’ve chosen a bad spot, too far from the doors, and the train is already filling with passengers who are pouring in towards me. I fight my way past them, making good use of my elbows—no time to be polite—then scrabble through the bottleneck and at last make it onto the platform before the doors close and the train sets off again. I look frantically up and down the platform. Radiant sunshine streams in through the windows high above me—you can feel that a hot day lies ahead. The stranger is on the escalator, going up, and I scurry after him. He saunters across the station concourse, past commuters and homeless people, fast-food temples and coffee shops, past passport photo booths and florists and newsagents, past couples in tears, parting or reuniting. I hardly glance at any of that—my eyes are fixed on the retreating head of this stranger who claims to be my husband. He stops at a vending machine, and I see him dig change out of his trouser pocket, studying the array of multicoloured products on display behind the glass. I wonder whether the vending machine is a meeting place—whether the stranger is waiting for someone.
Nonsense, I tell myself. No one’s going to come—this isn’t a spy film. But even as I’m thinking that, someone appears and approaches the stranger—a small wiry man with short brown hair, dressed in dark jeans and an FC St. Pauli shirt. I’m too far away to hear what they’re saying, but I can see their mouths moving. They are momentarily concealed from view by a group of noisy teenagers, and by the time I have a clear view again, the small wiry man has vanished. I just have time to see the stranger slipping something I can’t make out into his pocket with an exaggerated display of nonchalance. Then he puts money in the slot, fiddles around with the buttons, waits for something to fall into the opening at the bottom, bends over to take it out—and heads towards the exit. I wonder what I have witnessed. Was the stranger given information? Or did an exchange take place between the two men?
The stranger leaves the station. As before, he looks as if he’s just out for a walk, as if he has no clear goal, but I now know that isn’t the case. He does nothing without good reason—everything is part of an elaborate plan, but I can only guess at what that plan might be. I think again of the man the stranger called on earlier, picture his face, so strangely familiar, and I rack my brains trying to remember how I know him, but it doesn’t come to me.
Outside the station, wasps are buzzing around a group of tourists sitting in the sun, as they drain their paper coffee cups and catch a last blast of ultraviolet light before hurrying off to their trains. Smokers stand around here and there, hastily finishing their cigarettes before the next train leaves. The only people not contributing to the hectic atmosphere are the homeless, who stand around in clusters, chatting and smoking or listening to the bald, bull-necked preacher who has planted himself in front of them and is declaiming loudly from the Bible, telling them insistently that Jesus came down to save them. The stranger stops for a moment as if to listen to the preacher, and I expect someone else to approach and slip him something on the sly, but instead he walks towards the homeless men. I can’t hear what is said, but I see him pull a bundle of banknotes out of his jeans pocket and distribute them among the men. I can’t believe my eyes. What in heaven’s name is he doing—and why? He’s not giving this money away out of the goodness of his heart—that much is clear to me. Is he paying the men? But what for? Then it hits me: they could be extremely useful to him. Keeping a discreet eye on anyone arriving at the station. Watching, gathering information, reporting back to him. Testifying, if necessary.
I reach no clear-cut conclusion and have to move on, because the stranger has crossed the road and is disappearing into a side street, calmly munching on his chocolate bar. My forehead is beaded with sweat, and now my phone’s ringing too—I fish it out, c
ursing. Mirko. Now of all times. Still, I take the call.
‘Mirko, not now, please,’ I hear myself say like a broken record. I hang up.
Not long after, the phone rings again.
This time I refuse the call.
When I look up, the stranger has disappeared into the crowd.
On my way to fetch Leo, I drive as if on autopilot, still trying to remember who that man was at number 41 and where I’ve seen him before. I beat my brains until they ache, but get nowhere. I realise I’m driving too fast, racing over the asphalt, and I try to concentrate, but it’s impossible—my thoughts are a maelstrom.
I can’t bring Leo home, can’t have him in the house with the stranger, but I don’t know what to do—what to tell him, how to explain, what reason I can give Miriam. When she texted to check I’d be there soon, I just got in the car and set out, hoping some plan would come to me on the way. I overtake a convertible, get back into the right lane and try to force my brain back on track.
The Stranger Upstairs Page 11
