Intrigo

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘Here,’ he replied instantly. ‘Here in Maardam. We could meet tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Robert’s away. He won’t be back until Sunday.’

  ‘You and me, that’ll do. What do you say?’

  Why? she thought. Why didn’t I hang up long ago?

  And, as if it were already too late, she said: ‘Where? Where did you have in mind?’

  ‘Cafe Intrigo. I suggest Intrigo tomorrow, at three o’clock. There’s usually lots of room there in the afternoon.’

  ‘OK,’ she swallowed. ‘But I’ve got a meeting in town at four, just so you know.’

  ‘An hour should do it. Fine, see you tomorrow.’

  I have a meeting at four o’clock. Why had she made that up? A kind of insurance she’d plucked out of the air, but after she had pushed all her papers about Erasmus and Luther to one side and was sitting with her chin on her hands, looking out at the rain and the bare trees, she considered it an allowable lie in the circumstances.

  But Robert? Should she inform Robert? He had left for Geneva that morning and wouldn’t be back until Sunday. Exactly as she had said to the imposter, not twisting the truth in that instance.

  No, she decided. Robert will have to wait. He thinks I’m imagining it anyway, and if I do manage to persuade him to the contrary, he’s only going to get worried and inundate me with a lot of pointless instructions. Better to tell him what happened when he’s home. I’ll have to . . . have to play this game alone.

  For the time being, at any rate.

  Game?

  It must have been at least ten years since she’d last set foot in Cafe Intrigo, but it looked exactly as she remembered. From the outside, at least: rather run-down and slightly sad and yet somehow intact. A little forlorn, she thought, since the tables and chairs usually on the wide pavement had been brought inside; it was November, after all, and the season for sitting outside was over.

  Yes, everything comes to an end one day, she thought, dismissing the platitude as soon as it entered her head. She had taken the half past one train from Holtenaar and there was still almost an hour before the rendezvous. It might have been her intention to be out in good time, but now that she was standing in the drizzle on the other side of the street, she found it hard to see the point in having to wait. To be forced to while away fifty aimless minutes before it was time to sit down with her dead adopted son . . . no, that was definitely not the soft option.

  I have to think about something else, she realized. I have to pull myself together, or this is going to get out of hand.

  She started walking, making her way down the narrow lanes to Langgraacht and continuing along the canal in a northerly direction. All at once she recognized where she was: forty years earlier, when she had arrived in the city and started at the university as a student of literature and philosophy, she had shared a small flat on Leuwenstraat with two other girls. They had only lived up there under the roof for three terms, but it had been an exciting and important period of her life. It was difficult to believe Robert had arrived on the scene less than a year later, and that her time as a student, which had seemed so full and rich in promise, both at the time and afterwards, had in fact been so short.

  And life with Robert had been so long, was the inevitable sequitur. Thirty-seven years, she thought. I’ve been with the same guy for nearly four decades, my entire adult life. What happened there?

  It wasn’t the first time the question had reared its head, of course, but right now, as she dragged her feet past Bachtermann’s, the old cheesemonger and wine merchant on the corner of Leenerstraat and Kuijverstraat, it felt more emotionally charged than it had for some time. What was it in a person’s life that sometimes made time intensify, fill with meaning and substance, and sometimes dilute and cool? Slow down? she thought. Like a plane coming in to land, on the landing strip called Death.

  Another bizarre image. Waves on the pebble beach? Landing on a graveyard?

  Shaking her head, she folded her umbrella. There was a temporary break in the rain and a sudden ray of sunshine streamed through the naked branches of the trees along Wilmersgraacht. Surely it must be Wilmersgraacht? The small sign she caught sight of on the corner confirmed she was right in her assumption.

  I know where I am, she observed. At least in a spatial dimension.

  She checked the time next. It was quarter to three and she realized she would probably be at Intrigo a few minutes late.

  That was excellent. It would be he who was waiting for her, not the other way around.

  She pulled the door open, went inside, took a couple of steps into the narrow, elongated cafe and stood still. Her gaze wandered along the rows of tables, straight ahead and to the left, as she waited for someone to notice her.

  Waited for him to notice her. As far as she could remember, there was nowhere else to sit in Intrigo, no hidden corners where you could be a bit more private. The customers who were there could be seen from the entrance, from the position where she had just stopped.

  It was quite empty, apart from a quartet of elderly ladies to the left and three gentlemen spread out in the main part of the room, two at their separate tables by the window and one by the wall on the other side of the counter. All three were facing the entrance and all three – she formed the impression they did this in turn – raised their eyes to look at her. Briefly, before returning to their respective pursuits: a pasta dish, a book, a beer and, if she wasn’t mistaken, a race card. She looked at her watch. Seven minutes past three.

  A waiter appeared and half smiled at her.

  ‘I – I’m waiting for someone. I don’t think he’s here yet.’

  ‘Maybe you’d like to take a seat while you’re waiting?’

  She sat down at the table nearest the door but didn’t order anything. The waiter disappeared. The three men remained in their places, immobile, and as none of them appeared to be taking any notice of her, she was able to observe them more closely.

  What struck her immediately was that all three appeared to be the right age. Forty, give or take five years. Had Tom been alive, he would have been thirty-nine. Is it one of them? she thought. In that case, why . . . why is he just sitting there? And why didn’t we arrange some sort of sign to identify one another? Even if he were Tom, he couldn’t expect me to recognize him. And what is there to say he knows what I look like?

  On the other hand: they had agreed to meet at three o’clock and there was only one woman alone in the whole place. In other words, she thought, in other words, he hadn’t yet arrived. For some reason.

  Unless?

  She studied the men a little more carefully, one at a time. They were remarkably similar in appearance too. Not one of them had a beard or moustache, not one of them was wearing spectacles. All three had quite short hair, though when the one furthest away momentarily turned his head, she could see he was actually sporting a ponytail. All three looked in good shape, normal build, no excess weight. A charcoal-grey jacket and dark shirt, a white shirt with knitted waistcoat, a dark-blue polo neck. Nothing that stuck out. Three European men of standard model and in the beginnings of middle age.

  Which one? she thought again. If she had to choose.

  Perhaps the one sitting nearest to her? At a window table with a cup of coffee and apparently deep in a thick, well-thumbed paperback. But his face didn’t match her memory of what Tom looked like as a seventeen-year-old. The eyes were a little too close together and the jaw too long. The mouth was too thin.

  But in God’s name, she thought. It can’t be him. Why am I sitting here speculating like this? Tom is dead.

  While she was engaged in these fruitless reflections, the waiter had taken payment from the ladies’ quartet in the section on the left and now came back to her table.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t have anything?’

  She looked at her watch again. Quarter past three.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I do believ
e there’s been a misunderstanding. My friend is obviously not coming. Thank you for letting me sit down.’

  He gave a non-committal nod and withdrew. She stood up, pushed the chair back under the table and left Cafe Intrigo.

  ‘Strange, isn’t it?’

  Maria Rosenberg looked genuinely worried. As if for once she had come up against a form of human behaviour that fell outside the range. Her personal, very broad range.

  ‘I think so too,’ Judith Bendler said, adjusting the cushion behind her back. ‘I honestly don’t understand what this is about.’

  ‘I’d be surprised if you did,’ the therapist said. ‘I must say I’m rather concerned on your behalf.’

  It was Thursday morning and the appointment had been scheduled for some time, but Judith thought she would have made sure she had a consultation regardless. In any event, the evening and night following the futile visit to Cafe Intrigo had been difficult. She had just about held it together on the train journey back to Holtenaar and for the first few hours after she got home. But after she had given Django his short evening walk and the dog had settled down on his bed in the kitchen, it was as if something inside her snapped. A crack opened up and from it welled a torrent of nameless fear. When Robert rang about nine, she had already drunk three glasses of red wine. He could undoubtedly hear in her voice that she had been drinking and it was with tremendous self-control she managed to keep the real reason to herself.

  Yes, she’d had a couple of hot toddies, she explained, because she felt a bit under the weather. But drunk? Of course not.

  What he would have said if she had told him about her failed meeting with their dead son, she didn’t like to contemplate.

  ‘But why?’ Maria Rosenberg wanted to know. ‘Why is it so important to keep Robert out of this? Can you please explain that to me?’

  She thought for a few moments but could find no mitigating explanation.

  ‘He thinks it’s in my imagination. And the fact that this damned individual didn’t turn up at the cafe would just confirm his opinion. Don’t forget that . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t forget there’ve been couple of episodes in my past.’

  ‘Do you mean Majorna?’

  ‘Yes, of course I mean Majorna. For someone once a psych patient, the road back is short. You know that better than most.’

  Maria Rosenberg nodded, pursed her lips and muttered about the way of things and people’s stupidity and then took another mouthful of tea. ‘It’s a delusion.’

  ‘Delusion?’

  ‘Robert’s, I mean. I don’t believe for a second that you’re imagining it. You weren’t when you were admitted either. As I recall it’s ten years ago. Correct me if I’m wrong.’

  It was true. In both respects. Judith had started therapy in conjunction with her discharge from Majorna, and whatever had been wrong with her then, twelve years ago and subsequently ten, she had never suffered from hallucinations again. No matter how Robert viewed it. And she hadn’t been kept in more than two weeks each time.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, anyway,’ the therapist continued. ‘For the moment, let’s leave Robert out of this. But let’s at least try to be rational. What do we know with certainty?’

  Judith shrugged. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘With pleasure. Well, we know with certainty there’s a cuckoo out there aiming to frighten you. He’s phoned twice and impersonated your son, who’s been missing for twenty-two years and is probably dead. You agree to meet said cuckoo at a cafe but he doesn’t turn up. The question is . . . the question is, of course, what does he want from all of this? Is this an accurate summary?’

  ‘Totally accurate,’ Judith said.

  ‘Another question is whether we should be taking any precautionary measures.’

  Judith noted she had started using the pronoun we, and she felt a sudden rush of gratitude. It wasn’t necessarily about being looked after, but at least she had a confidante. Someone who knew and who cared. Who was ready to join her so that together they could solve the problem that had arisen.

  But measures? Precautionary measures?

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  Maria Rosenberg removed her spectacles and began to chew on the arm.

  ‘What you need to do next time he gets in touch. That’s the question I suggest we need to discuss.’

  ‘I lay awake for four hours last night thinking about that,’ Judith said. ‘Unfortunately I didn’t come up with anything.’

  The therapist shook her head worriedly. ‘There was a quite a long period of time between his first approach and his second. It makes you wonder whether the same thing will happen again. Nearly two months, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Almost,’ Judith said. ‘Seven weeks by my reckoning.’

  ‘Hm. What do you think about contacting the police?’

  ‘No,’ Judith replied instantly. ‘Naturally, I thought about that possibility while I was awake last night, but decided against. What could they do? There isn’t a single lead for them to follow. No telephone number. Nothing. And he . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He hasn’t actually made any threats. Just said he wants to meet me. That’s not illegal, as far as I’m aware.’

  ‘Presumably not,’ Maria Rosenberg sighed. ‘No, we need to focus on settling this without recourse to law enforcement agencies. At least for the moment. Can you manage to live and work as normal?’

  Judith considered for a second. ‘I’d really like to have closer contact with you. If I could ring, for example?’

  ‘Of course,’ the therapist exclaimed, flinging her arms wide, almost as if she wanted to embrace her client – if they hadn’t been sitting so comfortably and if the distance between them had been less than a metre and a half. ‘You can ring me twenty-four hours a day. And even if nothing happens, I suggest we meet once a week. More often if you feel you need to. How does that sound?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Judith said.

  ‘And what about Robert? Are you intending to inform your husband about the state of affairs?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Geneva.’

  ‘Is it a film?’

  ‘Yes, he’s coming home on Sunday.’

  Maria Rosenberg gave it a moment’s thought. ‘In that case you have a few more days to decide. But maybe it’s tending towards . . .’

  ‘Towards waiting until I get another call,’ Judith Bendler said. ‘Yes, I think I prefer that alternative.’

  ‘All right, that’s agreed,’ the therapist concluded.

  And yet, she thought when she emerged onto Keymerstraat an hour later, and yet Robert obviously had to know.

  Eventually, anyway; because after all they were the only two who knew what had actually happened that night. She could discuss all manner of things with Maria Rosenberg, but there was a line that couldn’t be crossed. A line it was safest not even to come near.

  She realized she’d left her umbrella upstairs in reception, but the rain had stopped and it was only 200 metres to the station.

  It didn’t take seven weeks.

  It took three days.

  Counting from her wasted trip to Cafe Intrigo. Saturday afternoon, a few minutes after half past two, and this time she definitely had a premonition. The caller display again showed that the number was unknown and when she lifted the receiver she would have been surprised if it had been anyone else.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Judith Bendler?’

  Just as on both previous calls, he began by asking if it was her. A sudden thought flashed through her head: what if she were to say she was someone different? A female police officer, for example, working on harassment cases and allied crimes who was drafted in where appropriate. What would happen then?

  But she rejected the idea.

  ‘What do you want? I don’t have time.’

  ‘I think you do. After all, you had time to come to the cafe.’

  �
�How do you know? You weren’t there.’

  ‘I was there.’

  ‘Nonsense. I waited for a quarter of an hour and you didn’t come.’

  ‘I was there. Of course I was there.’

  What is he talking about? she thought, recalling the images of the three men at their tables. The book, the pasta, the race card; the polo neck, the jacket, the knitted waistcoat. Their total lack of interest in her existence as she sat waiting. Almost antipathy, she thought, now she had had time to recover. Even so, could one of them . . .?

  ‘You were wearing a light beige coat and a blue scarf. You hung your coat over the back of a chair and sat by a table quite close to the door. Do you really not remember me?’

  She didn’t respond. She could find no words and all of a sudden it felt as though her mind was starting to lose its balance. Or splinter. Or both. No thoughts surfaced and she wondered whether she was actually in the grip of a mental breakdown.

  Several seconds of silence passed.

  ‘Why don’t you remember me?’

  Put the phone down, she tried to tell herself, you must put the phone down. This is a dead man who’s ringing you. You’re taking leave of your senses.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to and instead, clutching the receiver tightly, she lowered herself onto the chair in the hall. She had taken the call here, on her way out with Django, and now the dog was standing by the door, giving her a reproachful look, wagging his tail dolefully.

  He’s dead, she thought. Tom’s dead. That’s why I didn’t see him.

  The silence continued. No waves. No breathing.

  The dead don’t need to breathe.

  He’s come back to punish me.

  ‘Why aren’t you saying anything? You talked to me at the cafe.’

  She found the strength to make a weak protest.

  ‘I didn’t talk to you at the cafe. You weren’t there . . .’

  But almost before he said it, she understood.

  ‘No, members of your social class don’t generally notice people who wait on them.’

  The waiter.

  She replaced the receiver, rose to her feet and picked up the dog’s lead.