Strangers: A Novel(33)

Bartsch gives the pictures on the wall an appraising glance. “Did you choose the furnishings together?”

No, that was just me. I feel the urge to pull my hand away from Erik’s grasp—what am I supposed to say to that?

Bartsch’s gaze wanders back to me; he’s wondering, of course, why it’s taking me so long to answer such a simple question. “Yes,” I whisper.

“Very tasteful.” He reaches for the glass, rotates it between his hands. “It’s a shame that we’re meeting under such regrettable circumstances. Why haven’t you come to any of our office parties with Erik? They’re much less boring than you’d expect, almost all the employees bring their significant others.”

I never went because I’ve only known him for the past five days. The response lies on the tip of my tongue, but there’s no way I’m going to say it out loud. Erik’s grip on my hand has tightened significantly.

“I was always busy,” I say, hating myself for the fact that my voice sounds so weak. “I often work until late in the evening,” I add, a little louder now.

“I see. Yes, that’s understandable.” Bartsch takes a large gulp of water.

My heart is hammering a little too hard in my chest, and I don’t know whether it’s down to the psychologist’s voice or to the fact that he just gave me a clue that my original suspicion was correct. If I really was engaged to Erik, I would have gone with him. I’m a curious person; I would have wanted to see who he works with.

Bartsch speaks up again. “As I said, I don’t want to disturb you for long. And of course you know why I’m really here. Bernhard Morbach was at your house recently and told us afterward that you had tried to run away from Erik, Joanna.”

The man with the laptop bag. Erik’s grip on my hand becomes so tight that it’s almost hurting me.

“That was … a misunderstanding,” I stammer.

The psychologist gives me a penetrating stare. “He said it seemed as though you were terrified.”

Erik lets go of my hand and jumps up. “Oh, that’s what Bernhard said, is it? That’s very interesting. If he was so worried about her, then why did he just go and leave Joanna alone with me?”

Bartsch stares at Erik, his expression unchanged. “No one is accusing you of anything, Herr Thieben. But the scene which Herr Morbach described to us was, at the very least, unusual and stressful for both of you, I’m sure. And now, in light of recent events…”

Erik has gone pale. He is standing close to Bartsch, no more than two feet away, and his hands are balled into fists. “What do you mean, in light of recent events? Come on, let’s hear it.”

The psychologist doesn’t look at Erik, but instead at me. “An unusual accumulation of problems. I’m sure you would agree with me.” Speaking in an ostensibly calm tone, he leans over toward me. “Joanna, would you answer a few questions for me? Only if you want to, of course, but perhaps we might find out why you were so afraid?”

I try to make eye contact with Erik, but he’s not even looking at me. He’s standing in front of Bartsch, looking as though there’s nothing he’d like to do more than go for the man’s throat. “You’re meddling in my private life.”

“That’s a sign of esteem, Herr Thieben.” There’s still not even a glimmer of impatience in Bartsch’s voice. “We are offering you help, and I promise you that every single word spoken here will be treated in confidence.”

Erik laughs contemptuously. “You don’t even believe that yourself!”

Is it because of the stress of the past few days, or is he always this undiplomatic at work? I discreetly try to wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. I’m not sure why this situation is making me so nervous—whether it’s Bartsch or Erik’s blatant rage, I only know that I want it to stop. And the quickest way for that to happen is probably if I agree to speak with Bartsch; I might even be able to say a few things that put Erik in a better light than he’s putting himself in right now. Whoever he is, whatever our connection to each other is—he was so caring with me when I was in the hospital. So willing to help. There’s no harm in trying to return the favor.

“Ask me your questions, Dr. Bartsch.”

Erik wheels around to face me. “You can’t be serious!” He sinks down next to me on the couch. “But you’re doing better, Jo. You don’t need him, we already have help…”

* * *

I smile at him. My God, I’m so tired. “It’s just a few questions, it’s not like I’m agreeing to a therapy session.”

“Exactly,” Bartsch affirms. He has pulled a small notebook and a pen out from his jacket. “Bernhard Morbach said that you didn’t recognize Erik the other day. Is that correct?”

This is beginning differently than how I had imagined. A little too direct for my taste. Nonetheless, I nod. “Yes.”

Bartsch makes a note. “But now you recognize him again?”

No, I don’t. I’ve been unable to find anything that Erik has told me over the past few days within my own memory. There has been no sudden flashback of shared experiences. But never mind, that’s not what matters right now.

“Yes,” I lie. “Everything’s OK again.”