Strangers: A Novel(111)

“Yes. I’m … pleased too.”

It’s me. Without a doubt. My voice, the soft accent, the one I always think I’ve managed to lose until I hear recordings of myself. I lean against Erik, he puts an arm around me; only now do I realize that I’m trembling.

“So, Joanna. Are you lying comfortably? Yes? Wonderful. You’re relaxed. You feel good. Please look into the little light here.”

“OK.”

“Follow it with your eyes. Yes, just like that. You’re doing a great job.”

I reach for Erik’s arm, cling onto it, because I suddenly feel as though I’m losing contact with my surroundings. As if gravity had ceased to exist, only for me.

“You’re very calm. Everything that has been bothering you is far away. You’re focusing only on this light and my voice.”

Erik strokes my face, carefully touching my split lip. “Don’t drift off, Jo. Look at me, are you OK?”

I nod anxiously, tighten my grip on his arm, and the swaying feeling recedes.

“And now listen to me closely, Joanna.” Bartsch begins to speak in a tone which is friendly, but commanding. “It’s going to be early morning, and the telephone will ring. You will hear my voice, which will say only two words. Dead light. You hang up the phone. You’re feeling good. You feel well. You will have a fulfilling, enjoyable day.

“At five o’clock in the afternoon, you go into the kitchen. You—”

Something interrupts him. Sounds, a loud clatter. Then voices, not speaking German, but English. Two men, and they sound a little farther away than Bartsch. There’s probably a wall between them and me, or simply a greater distance. Their voices are completely unfamiliar.

“Ben? Where’s Ben?”

“Get out of here, right now!”

“But I can’t find him, is he—”

“Forget about him. Do you understand? Forget that you ever met him, forget that he exists. And get rid of his stuff, everything. Quickly.”

“But—”

“It’s important! Do what I tell you! Now!”

Another clatter. A scream of protest, then a splash, as if something had fallen into the water. Or someone.

The whole thing only lasts ten seconds, and now the silence returns, only to be interrupted moments later by the sound of someone clearing their throat and Bartsch’s voice, very close now. “Joanna. Are you still OK?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“Please speak German to me.”

“Ach so. Ja.”

“Good. At five o’clock in the afternoon you go into the kitchen. You hurt yourself. You hit your head against the edge of the door, fall against it with your shoulder. You injure yourself in such a way that other people can see it. To the extent that you bleed. As if you had a fight with someone. When you hear Erik come home, pick up the longest and sharpest kitchen knife that you own. Can you see it in your mind?”

I’ve put both hands over my mouth, and yes, I can see the knife before me, clear as day, and I can also see it plunging into Erik’s upper arm; Bartsch’s scent is suddenly there again, and I feel the urge to throw up.

“Yes, I can,” whispers the Joanna who I once was.

“He runs toward you, and you stab the knife first into his stomach and then into his chest. Deeply. You’re calm and sure about what you’re doing, as though you’ve done it many times before.

“You wait five minutes, then you get out your phone and call the police. You say: I’ve killed my fiancé, but it was in self-defense.”

A short pause. “Self-defense,” I repeat.

“Correct. When you get back to the hotel now, say you let one of the locals show you where the frigate birds nest. Then continue with your vacation like before.”

A soft click. Probably the light I was told to concentrate on. Then noises, footsteps, a door opening.

“I think that went really well,” says Bernhard.

“Yes,” responds Bartsch. “She didn’t struggle, she went off right away. It’s because of the scopolamine as well; it’s the perfect booster.”

“OK, then I’ll turn off the recording now,” Bernhard announces, and seconds later the recording ends.

I want to move, to turn around to Erik, but I can’t. I can only sit there and stare at the screen of the laptop.

“They hypnotized you,” says Erik quietly. “And drugged you. My God.”

Yes. I grasp my head, bury it in my hands. I wonder if I’ll ever get the memories saved in the recesses of my mind back.

“Should I play it again for you?”

I shake my head slowly, so Erik closes the player. The third photo appears beneath it once more—me in the water, the boy next to me, the bow of the boat coming in from the right, and a pale-skinned hand stretching out toward me.

The boy. Ben. Yes, he has to be Ben.

“They killed him,” I murmur.

“What? Who?” Now I don’t need to turn my head around; Erik has taken my chin gently in his hand and is looking into my eyes.

“My island guide. The one in the photo. Didn’t you hear that Bartsch got interrupted? That two men in the background were arguing?” I repeat the words, this time in English, in the way they’ve been imprinted in my subconscious. Ineradicable. “Forget about him. Do you understand? Forget that you ever met him, forget that he exists. And get rid of his stuff, everything. Quickly.”