by Maike Wetzel
My mother bustles around the house. I’m not allowed to sit still either. I have to tidy up for Elly, fetch things or take them away again. Everything is supposed to be lovely, perfect. Nothing can ever get out of control again.
I hurry through the shopping centre in the shade of the concrete roof. The smell of piss by the shopping trolleys, squashed strawberries lying on the ground, a child crawling in front of the kebab van. I need to get butter, cherries, and sausages. I have no imagination when it comes to meat, what tastes good, what’s the least bad for you. It all seems poisonous to me. My glass is always half empty these days. I don’t believe in cures, or promises.
Elly is back at school. My parents wanted to stop her. They said it was too soon. But Elly seems to be the old stubborn Elly again. She insists. She joined a different year group, in a different school. To avoid awkward questions. But everyone in our area knows the story. They stare at Elly behind her back. The unasked questions bore holes in her skin, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Elly hunches over her workbook diligently. She is always doing extra work. If there are three exercises set for homework, she’ll do eight. She revises for class tests late into the night. Her average mark is nearly one hundred per cent. Before she disappeared, Elly tended to be lazy. Now she has a go at me if I smudge my books. She soaks up vocabulary or formulas, even names and the anecdotes that go with them, like a sponge. I am amazed at her memory. She never forgets a birthday or which girl hasn’t been class representative yet, who got the worst marks in PE and who doesn’t tie their shoelaces. Before she was more of a loner. She never used to join in the Mother May I games the other girls played. Now she commits relationships and moods to memory, as swiftly and permanently as a camera. She always knows who went out with whom. She can usually also predict the next pairing. The new Elly is a social oracle. She knows the invisible ties that bind people, the powers of attraction and repulsion. Elly is the buffer in the middle, she uses her foolproof intuition to bring every conflict back into harmony. Quietly and without a fuss, she mends the rifts between friends. She speaks first to one, then the other, brings them back together again. Her schoolmates are impressed by this new Elly. I find her gift unnerving. Maybe this ability was her only chance of survival in the cellar? I can’t imagine lasting a single day in captivity like that. I admire my sister’s strength.
Elly’s class are learning a dance for the school play. The teacher shows them a video of an old Madonna hit. None of the students know the song. It’s a long time since it was at the top of the charts. While it’s playing, Elly sings along. Her lips move in time with the singer’s, she copies her dramatic gestures and movements like a mirror. She writhes in theatrical agony and sings about a hard lesson she had to learn. She claims she was a fortress that her lover in the video had to burn. That pain is a warning that something is wrong, and she prays that it won’t be long. She has barely stopped singing before applause breaks out. Elly gives a little curtsey. Smiling, she bows her head. She is enjoying the ovation.
But at home Elly remains shut tight like an oyster. Our parents and I hold our breath so my sister can catch hers. I rebuke myself for the fact she doesn’t live up to my expectations of her. When I was younger I could bend everything into the shape I wanted. I could even declare that girl Almut was Elly. That doesn’t work any more. I needed to learn that I couldn’t dictate everything. Elly was my hardest lesson. I’m really making an effort now. Then Elly has a go at me when I accidentally use her toothbrush. She acts as if I threatened her with a machine gun. I say: Calm down. I’ll get you a new toothbrush. But she doesn’t want to calm down. She hisses and spits, works herself up. Her accusations grow more and more fanciful. She claims I never liked her. That she had deposed me, the first born, from the parental throne. That I had never forgiven her for it. I say nothing, because the more I say, the angrier she gets. It is as if she has been waiting for an opportunity to explode. Our father hears the screaming in the bathroom. He wants to soothe Elly. But the minute she sees him she bellows. Wordlessly. Like a bull. We stare at her in horror. She hammers on the tiles. Our father wraps his arms round her, she tears herself free. Breathlessly she blurts out that she does actually want to speak to the police now. Our father says she should calm down first. Elly just snorts. He is adamant that Elly doesn’t need to force herself to do it. That it is bound to be very painful for her. That she doesn’t have to summon up these experiences again. But Elly wants to. She says she wants to prevent the same thing happening to others. Later, our mother praises Elly for being very brave. Every day for a week, my sister travels to the police station with an officer. Elly’s eyes stare into space, her hands tremble. But when she comes back home to us on the first day of the police questioning, it’s the officer who is in shock. Elly looks relieved. She has told the story of her captivity. Now the officer knows all the gruesome details. Because of the ongoing investigation, Elly is sworn to silence, although she couldn’t name any names, any places, any dates anyway. There were other girls there. The officer has seen the brands on Elly’s body where cigarettes were stubbed out. Her back is covered with scars. Elly says that the perpetrators tried to change her external appearance. That they bleached her hair. Constant hunger apparently restricted her growth, and even made the curls fall out of her hair. They also broke her nose several times. The X-ray verifies her testimony. The officer doesn’t dare to ask about rape straight away. She tries to keep her composure. But Elly’s testimony weighs heavy on her chest. The anxiety sits deep. After the interview is over, the officer suggests that Elly see a trauma expert. Even if she appears incredibly strong, she says my sister needs support on her journey back to normality. Elly and our parents agree. Our mother and our father want to do everything right. The police officer drives Elly to the therapist.
Less than two hours later, the phone rings. The therapist is calling from the clinic. At first our mother doesn’t understand what the woman wants. What’s wrong with this photo? What are you trying to say? she asks. The therapist is clearly talking about an old holiday photo of us. A tourist snapped it for us on the beach. We are laughing and saying ‘cheesecake’ so our smiles are nice and wide. But the therapist isn’t interested in that. She wants to talk about Elly’s ears. They are easy to make out on the photo. The therapist says: The girl you sent to me can’t be your daughter, it’s impossible. She asks my mother to compare the ears on the photo with Elly’s ears. Do you see the earlobes? They are completely different. The whole outer form of the ear, even the folds leading to the ear canal, are shaped differently. Some things don’t change, the therapist says. Our mother is silent. The therapist continues: Don’t come and collect her. We’ll put her up on our children’s ward for now, though she is most likely a lot older than your daughter. But until we have proof of her real age and identity, you will still be her legal guardians. Do you agree? The colour drains from my mother’s face. She says nothing. The therapist repeats it once more: This girl is not your daughter. We don’t know who she is. She could be dangerous. At the very least she is a liar. My mother is silent. The therapist says: I know that’s too much for you to take in right now. You don’t need to make any arrangements. We’ll take care of it. Please, leave her here in the clinic. My mother moans: Okay. She hangs up. My father furrows his brow. He asks whether that was really the therapist on the phone? How does my mother know that the voice didn’t belong to an imposter? My mother bursts out laughing. She immediately clamps her hand over her mouth. Laughing is completely inappropriate right now. My father asks: What shall we do? My mother says in a monotone: None of this can be true. Then she thinks better of it. She says: This isn’t happening. We have to pick her up. She reaches for the car key.
We drive to the clinic together. The therapist’s eyebrows travel up to her hairline. But she doesn’t mention her suspicions in Elly’s presence. They don’t stop us taking my sister. Elly’s arms are wrapped around her upper body. She gets into our car. The headlights cut through the dark
ness. The cat’s eyes on the side of the road whizz past. My father says: They’re driving us all mad. It’s not clear who he is talking about. He suggests we go south. My mother is sitting at the wheel. She asks over her shoulder: Elly, are you still awake?
On the island there’s no mobile signal. Nothing but birds and rabbits. But the sea is overflowing with life. An abundance of fish, plankton, sea urchins, starfish. Whole forests of seaweed waving underwater. Individual fronds wash up on the beach. The island lies in the outlet from the bay. It resembles a large grey ramp. At the highest point, a granite cliff drops steeply into the sea. The slope on the other side, covered by thin grass, tapers to a sandy spit of land. I found accommodation for Judith, the girls, and myself in a former goat shed at the foot of the flat-topped hill. We’re safe here. The island is privately owned. I know the owner from a job. He won the island in a game of skat years ago. This year a prince is living in the villa with the high walls. We don’t see him. We only meet the two bodyguards with their machine guns who are housed in the other half of the goat shed. They greet us in friendly fashion. We nod in return. Judith’s face is still furious. She’s probably sulking about the water. It hasn’t rained for weeks. What little water there is on the island is earmarked for the prince. We have to haul our drinking water in huge gallons from the mainland. Our inflatable dinghy sinks noticeably lower under the weight. With the help of the outboard motor it rattles over the water, it cuts through the waves in the steel-grey sea. The bow hops up and down. Judith and the girls hold on to the ropes. Judith’s chest heaves under her bikini straps.
I rinse my coffee cup with the water left over from cleaning my teeth. In the former goat shed even the toilet doesn’t flush. When we can’t get the stench out of our noses any more — sometimes we leave it a whole day — I tip a bucket of water that’s been re-used multiple times down the pan. We don’t shower at all. Salt crystals form on my skin, dull and rough; the skin on my lips bursts open. When I’m alone, I suck on my arm, like deer suck on salt blocks in the snow. A gull shrieks. Elly scurries over to me in the kitchen. I don’t look up. I offer her something to drink. She shakes her head. We settle down in the shade on the veranda. She fans herself with a rolled-up newspaper. We try to move as little as possible. My white shirt is freshly ironed. It is tight across my chest. Every morning I pump up my pecs with purposeful, vigorous press-ups. Then I shave my cheeks and while I do, I contemplate my tanned brown, clear-cut face. My face is the reason that if I’m standing at a junction with a hundred other people, the eyes of the disoriented tourists are guaranteed to turn in my direction, just as surely as the needle on a compass points north. Deferentially, they hold their open guide books out to me and ask the way. As if I ever know. I’m forever getting lost because my thoughts stray from the path, because the infinite flux of possibilities doesn’t allow me to concentrate on zebra crossings, street names and alleyways, traffic lights, anything that could tell me the direction. I’m a simpleton who looks like a good shepherd. The strangers on the street see my clear face, my ironed shirt, my taut muscles, and in their eyes that makes me the hero who will lead them out of the labyrinth. I know that my eyes give me away. That’s why I wear the darkest sunglasses you can buy. My mop of hair is combed smooth, rigid with gel. The hair on my chest is short and neat. I stride over the jagged stones towards the jetty. Once I’m there I position myself next to Judith’s head and start talking into thin air. I don’t wait for a response. I talk to kill time, otherwise questions will start flying. I spot Elly, who has followed me. Now she groans loudly. She says she can’t bear the heat any more. Before, Elly use to complain about feeling cold, even while she was getting sunburnt. I put my hand on hers. Her skin is dripping wet.
Ines plunges head-first off the end of the jetty into the water. She dives deep. Under water everything is easy and dangerous at the same time. There are sharks lurking everywhere. The diving mask restricts your field of vision. Every stone morphs into the grey head of a moray eel. I’ve seen it. The surface of the water breaks. My daughter’s wet scalp emerges. She removes the mask from her face. Panda eyes from the mascara that has run, a red mark where the rubber seal of the mask was attached. I ask Judith whether we should hire a diving suit with a weight belt for the girls? She doesn’t react. Before, Judith still believed in the fairytale of the Arab lady-charmer, of the hawkers in the bazaar who can’t help running a hand over every curve of a woman’s body. I wish our roles were still so clear-cut.
My wife lies on her towel, stiff as a corpse. The skin on her stomach is turning red. I stand next to her laid-out head and look at her. Ines is clinging to the end of the jetty. She thinks I can’t see her fingertips. But I see everything and take it in, just as I have learnt to take in life. I cling to Judith like an idiot. I think she despises me for it. For the strength of the despair with which I love her, with which I try to tether something that has been dangling free for a long time. Splinters from the damp wooden planks on the jetty work their way into my soles. I can’t get them out. They are too fine, practically invisible. I could cry, if it wouldn’t make my eyes burn with the dryness. I think about the mindlessness of our movements, Judith’s puffy eyes afterwards. I make love like waging a war. I try to make my wife believe in the one true passion. That everything is under control, that everything has its place. Nothing is crazy. Elly is our daughter. We need to stand our ground. Otherwise we’ll have nothing left. Even when I’m bored to death by our fumblings, I must admit that afterwards the sand suddenly seems to run through the egg-timer more slowly. It relaxes me, even if only for a short while. But now my expression is stony. I nod to Judith one last time. Ines is still hanging under the jetty. Her eyes peek over the edge.
My whole being trembles and shakes as I tramp up the slope to the granite plateau in my trainers. Fast, faster, fastest. I need to be better. Stronger, smarter, richer. Then finally we’ll have security. No more questions, no more uncertainty. I don’t talk to my wife. Judith is nervous enough as it is because of the whole business with Elly. The only thing that helps stem the maelstrom of thoughts is underwater hunting. I have to be completely present to kill another living being. It requires utter concentration. I thrust into the depths. I kick the fins on my feet to counteract the current. All I can hear is the rushing in my ears. My lungs are contracting, they are gasping for air, but I force myself to stay under, just a moment longer. Such amazing calm. I’m already seeing stars, I fire my harpoon, almost blind. The fish gets away at the last second. I surface. Even the air is salty here. The waves lap against the boat. I prepare my harpoon for the next dive. I slide into the water. The lead weights around my hips pull me to the seafloor. I lie in wait behind a rock for a shoal of bream. They turn and twist in the water, glittering silver, as if they were a single being. I wait until they have swum right up close to me, then I fire the spear. It impales a bream. Its blood mingles with the sea water then dissolves. The fish is still alive. I pull it behind me on the harpoon line.
Judith and I sit in front of the fish’s backbone, gnawed clean; its sea smell fills the room. The girls are outside in the dark. They are on the rocks on the beach, watching for meteor showers. The damp towels are hanging over the backs of the chairs, the women’s bikinis are dripping in the bathroom. Judith’s hair must be hard and tangled with the salt drying on it. The speakers on Judith’s computer aren’t ideal for Chopin. The laptop casing vibrates on the stone kitchen island. I slide a napkin under the computer. The fan hisses, the plastic cover glows. The music patters up the scale. I sidle over to Judith, lay my fingers on her shoulder. She tilts her head back slightly, leans against my stomach. I tense my abdominal muscles, the oblique muscles, the side muscles, my core muscles, as if I were putting on a tight pair of trousers. Judith has closed her eyes. That’s the signal. My hands touch, knead, rub. I try to work myself up to lust. Judith undoes my flies and I can’t stop her feeling for the snail inside. She tickles it, but the snail stays in its shell. Judith sighs. She tri
es to wave her disappointment away, but eventually she grabs my arse. I feel dizzy. I’ve probably not drunk enough during the day. I take a swig of red wine in my mouth, suck it through the gaps between my teeth, then I press my lips to Judith’s. As she opens her mouth, the red wine flows in. But she doesn’t swallow. She coughs. Red droplets spray across the floor. I give up. Then she shuts the door, jams the back of a chair under the handle, and turns up the volume on the computer. By the time the Queen of the Night hits top F, Judith is lying on the tiles underneath me. My knees are sore, rubbed raw. Judith digs her fingers into my back. The sweat runs down my nose, drips onto her face. The very instant everything is over, we are already rolling in opposite directions. Judith feels for the kitchen roll. She wipes herself. My kneecaps and the weals on my back are burning. But then Judith rests her head on my chest and I hold her in my arms. The handle is pushed down from outside. No one says anything. For a while we just listen to ourselves breathing, staring at the smudges of squashed mosquitoes on the white plastered wall. The flytrap on the ceiling is a long spiral-shaped sticky strip.
Do you want a glass of water? Judith stands up and pours one for me, then another for herself. I ask whether we should perhaps think about opening the door again? Our daughters are still locked out after all. Judith shrugs her shoulders. The water from the canister tastes chalky. It makes my teeth go rough. Maybe I’m just imagining it. Judith seems to like the taste. She empties her glass in one go. I’m still lying on the tiles which are pressing against my backbone, making it stiff. Tomorrow I’ll do some bends in my exercises. I wish I were in bed already. My stomach separates and spreads softly. I want to detach myself from the stone, but I’m too heavy. The shutter on the window rattles as it swings open. Elly clambers into the room through it. Her eyes flit over my naked body. With my back to her I swiftly pull my trousers up. The zip catches a few pubic hairs. As I sit down I pluck them out. It stings. Judith is wearing a long t-shirt again. She smiles at our daughter. But Elly juts her jaw forward, narrows her eyes. She stomps from one side of the room to the other and slams the bedroom door behind her. The frying pan which was leaning against the tap clatters into the wash basin. Judith’s pupils are large and black. I press a finger to my cheek. It’s throbbing and pounding inside. I’ll have to get the tooth pulled when we get back home. Ines has now opened the door from outside. We sit down at the table again. Judith, Ines, and I chat and butter our bread; Elly joins us. Her knife slips off the table. It falls to the floor, jangling. Judith and I almost bump heads as we bend down to pick it up at the same time. Elly doesn’t laugh. She is sitting straight upright. I look her right in the face as I ask: What now?
