Strangers: A Novel(58)

When I imagine how difficult it must be for him to negotiate with these people, on an equal footing at that, I can’t help but smirk. Even the cleaning staff at G.E.E. are exclusively German. Gabor’s ill-concealed racism has always sickened me, sometimes even to the point where I’d been unable to hold myself back from commenting, even at the risk that it might cost me my job. It’s interesting that he’s prepared to set aside his convictions, though, when the money is right.

About twelve miles outside of Munich, the traffic comes to a standstill. An accident involving a truck, as I hear on the radio. The expressway has been completely closed. Today, of all days.

I look at the clock. Quarter past eleven. My phone is lying on the center console. I can call Gabor if worse comes to worst. But I’m only going to do that in the most extreme of emergencies. There’s still time.

At around noon, I start to get nervous. I haven’t made even one foot’s worth of headway. Yet again I reach for the phone and make sure there’s still reception to make a call if necessary. Just as I’m about to put it down again, it starts ringing.

I see Joanna’s name on the display, and I don’t know what to do. I finally pick up after the fourth ring.

“Yes?”

Three or four seconds elapse, accompanied by a quiet static noise in the background.

“You were gone, just like that.” Her voice is quiet and defensive. I fight the emotions welling up inside me.

“Yes,” I simply reply.

“How … well … are you all right? Your arm?”

“As can be expected under the circumstances.” I want to end the conversation as quickly as possible; the holdup is already making me nervous enough and I’m neither able to nor want to deal with Joanna right now.

“Will you tell me where you are?”

My sigh conveys more annoyance than intended. “In the car, I’m driving to the train station in Munich for work, to pick up some VIPs. Well, if this fucking traffic jam breaks up in time, that is.”

“OK.” She sounds unemotional, her voice no longer scared. Strange, she never used to react to my bad moods in an acquiescent way. “I won’t keep you then. Drive safe.”

Drive, as if. People are walking around all over the expressway, in between the stationary vehicles. I get out, too, and take my phone with me.

Twenty past twelve. Damn. I have to call Gabor and tell him I won’t make it on time. He’s going to be furious and will probably kick me off the project again. That was that, then. All right, just a few more minutes.

I break into a sweat, even though the temperature outside is anything but warm. If the Arabs really take a lack of punctuality as an insult, maybe the entire project will fail because of me. Gabor pointed out several times just how important it was for me to be there on time.

I get back in the car, fidget around on the seat. Damn it, I have to call him now. I select his name from the contacts, I have my finger on the call button already … and I pull it back again.

Twelve twenty-six, and we’re moving again. Hallelujah. I can still make it if nothing else comes up now. Nothing else can come up, surely; I’ve been through enough bullshit these past days.

But on the outskirts of Munich, the traffic is at another standstill. Twenty-one minutes left. I stop and start from traffic light to traffic light, cursing, hitting the steering wheel. Why the hell aren’t these idiots driving? Are there only brain-dead people on the road today, or what? Finally things start going at a quicker pace. Right up until the next red light.

A minute past one. This is going to be pretty damn tight. But come on, surely they’re not going to make a fuss if I’m late by just three or four minutes? If the train’s even on time, that is. Yes, exactly, who’s ever heard of the German railway being on schedule?

Ten past one. I turn into the street leading to the station. The last turn, I can already see the large building in front of me. Just two hundred, maybe three hundred yards and I’m in the parking area and actually find a space near the entrance. I snatch the name sign, leap out of the car—it’s twelve past one—and sprint into the building. I’m almost on time.

I feel a tinge of elation spreading through me …

Then the world is torn apart.





27

Yet another terrible night’s sleep. I wake up with a start at what seems to be thirty-minute intervals, and every time I do it takes forever before the pounding of my heart subsides again.

Is Erik asleep? Is he even still here?

Maybe he called Nadine to come and pick him up. After all, he no longer has the silver Audi at his disposal. And he has an ally in his ex-girlfriend, one who’s available at any hour of the day or night, one who would willingly assure him that he was doing the right thing in cutting me out of his life as quickly as possible.

I could go downstairs and see if he’s still here.

It feels good to stand up and move around a bit. First I creep into the study, which occasionally serves as a guest room, to see if Erik has pulled out the sofa bed. But the room is empty.

Then he must be in the living room. Or gone.

The uneasy feeling in my gut as I make my way down the stairs brings back the memories of that evening a week ago; no, it wasn’t even a whole week yet, when I saw Erik for the first time. According to my memory, in any case.

I feel my way over to the living room door. It’s locked. So is the door to the kitchen. So he’s still here, and smart enough to lock himself in, out of reach of the knife-swinging maniac.