Strangers: A Novel(59)

So maybe at least he can get some sleep. I catch myself stroking the wood of the living room door with my hand. Wishing I was on the other side of it. In Erik’s arms, or in the arms of anyone who cares about me and can convince me that everything’s going to be OK.

Maybe tomorrow. After all, Erik is still here, so there’s a chance we could have breakfast together, talk. That is, if I can bring myself to look him in the eyes; I’ve never felt so ashamed before.

Last Monday I would have given anything to get the strange man out of my house. Now, the thought that he really could go was painful.

If someone really had manipulated me into this situation, then they’ve pulled off quite a feat.

I start to formulate sentences in my mind for tomorrow, things I can say to Eric so we can engage in a sensible conversation. But I must have fallen asleep in the process, because the next time I look around, it’s already light. I glance at the alarm clock; it’s almost eight.

I walk down the stairs once again, hoping that Erik is already awake and that he’s unlocked the doors …

Yes. They’re wide open, and Erik is not just awake, but gone.

I don’t know why I hadn’t considered that possibility. I had assumed he would take it easy today. Recuperate. But from the look of things, his priority was getting away from here.

Maybe he went to the police, to report me.

I realize that, without even registering my actions, I’ve turned on the espresso machine, filled it with fresh water, and grabbed a mug from the cupboard. My body is going through the motions while my thoughts are somewhere else. Was that how it was with the knife?

No. With that, part of me had been paralyzed and condemned to just watch while another part of me was highly active. It wasn’t the same feeling. Not this … zoned-out feeling.

I need to find a clinic. That’s the priority for today. I take my coffee and go up into the office, turn on the computer, and type Amnesia specialist Germany into Google.

The result with the most hits is a Prof. Dr. Hendrik Luttges from Hamburg, who, I read, has been involved in memory research for years.

Hamburg. If I were there, Ela wouldn’t be able to visit me, nor would Darja, my colleague from the photography studio, nor … Erik. All the other acquaintances I’ve made in Germany don’t really matter; I don’t know them well enough to be able to share even half of my problems with them anyway.

But—I could have Professor Luttges come to Munich. For a price, of course. I could finance his next research project in exchange for him finding out what’s wrong with me.

No. Stop. It’s though I can hear my father thinking. He always solves his problems with money. After all, we have more of it than we have of anything else. One of the reasons why I had come to Germany in the first place was because I was so sick of this mind-set.

But it would be foolish not to use all the tools at my disposal. Wouldn’t it?

I search the Internet for more experts—there was someone in Bielefeld, but that’s not exactly just around the corner either.

Should I just entrust myself to any old neurologist? Or to a psychiatrist? Should I take Ela up on her suggestion after all, and get treated in the clinic at her hospital?

I rest my forehead on my hands and close my eyes. I’m still too accustomed to other people solving my problems for me, and that’s coming back to haunt me right now.

But I can organize it myself; I just need some time. If Erik really is gone, then there’s no immediate hurry.

My research and the reading of a few complicated academic articles lasts over an hour; the coffee that I barely even touched is now ice-cold.

So, back downstairs to make another one. I keep glancing at my phone while waiting for the machine.

I wish I could speak to someone, right now. Is there some kind of hotline for amnesia patients?

I sink onto the living room couch with my phone and coffee, but that turns out to be a mistake. The surroundings are enough to bring the scene from yesterday back into my mind. Erik, confronting me with every last bit of his justified distrust. Accusing me of having hired a killer. Which I would be able to afford, after all. The sentence had been lying in the air between us, unspoken.

Had money been an issue for us before? This nonsensically large fortune which I’ve never earned, which is far too much for one single person? Had I picked up the checks in restaurants or had he? Had we shared? Assuming, of course, that this before really did exist.

I turn on the TV in search of distraction; I’m so fed up with the dead-end thoughts running through my mind. The first channel is showing cartoons; the second has one of those unavoidable political interviews which are just as omnipresent in Germany as they are in Australia whenever there’s an upcoming election. I zap through the channels until I find an animal documentary—about the rearing of orphaned otter babies.

Just watching something and no longer having to think feels good. A program about penguins comes on after the otters. My thoughts begin to drift away again.

It’s almost half past twelve. Did Erik maybe go back to the hospital in order to have the dressing changed? My phone is in front of me on the coffee table, and, without stopping to think, I’ve typed Erik’s name into the contacts search box. If he doesn’t want to speak to me, he doesn’t have to pick up.

A ringing tone. Once, twice, then a crackling sound after the third ring.

“Yes?”