Strangers: A Novel(65)

I cower back down on the floor in front of the TV, my arms wrapped around my knees, my head resting on top. I only look at the screen every now and then; I’ve already seen all the images being shown, they repeat them at half-hour intervals, and only rarely is there ever any new information. Blue flashing lights in the approaching dusk. Interviews with eyewitnesses who saw everything from the parking lot, from one of the houses opposite, from a car.

Then they show a cell phone video; someone just happened to catch the moment of the explosion by chance, from outside.

An orange glimmer, then windows bursting, flying rubble, walls crashing down.

They repeat it in slow motion, and I imagine Erik in the station, holding his hands over his face for protection, being hurled across the station by the explosion until he crashes against a wall or into a train. Then, part of the ceiling falling in and burying him underneath.

The images aren’t real, but like daggers they pierce the protective layer I’ve built up around my insides. The pain has me doubled over; I hear myself sobbing, want to pull myself together but I can’t.

There’s no point pretending any longer. If Erik was OK, if he hadn’t been at the station, then I would have heard something from him by now. The explosion happened over six hours ago. The six most torturous hours I can ever remember having. But he hasn’t given me any sign of life. Because he can’t. Because he …

Still, I forbid myself from thinking the word. Like thinking it would make everything true. Like it hadn’t already been decided long since.

Around eight o’clock I call Ela again, but just get her mailbox. I leave a message made up of desperate stammering.

I have no idea how I’ll be able to get through the night. Call my mother again? No, that’s a bad idea. I’ll end up needing to comfort her, reassure her, convince her that nothing will happen to me.

And then she calls anyway; she heard about the attack in the morning news. Wasn’t it close to where I am, she asks.

Yes, it was. But I’m OK. I’m fine, yes, don’t worry.

At nine o’clock there is still no word about anyone claiming responsibility for the attack; there have been no messages, no videos. That’s unusual, the experts are in agreement. Especially given such a violent act of terrorism. The number of victims is being constantly updated, right now the count is at seventy.

Politicians announce that action will be taken, without knowing against whom; a national state of mourning is announced.

At around nine thirty, I finally struggle to my feet. I have to drink something, but I can’t even get two gulps of water down; my stomach protests, bringing everything back up. I only manage on the second attempt.

I prop myself up against the sink with both hands. With some luck, I should be able to stomach a little vodka, too. One glass should be enough to give me four or five hours of merciful unconsciousness.

I am just opening the fridge when a key turns in the lock of the front door.

My body moves before my brain has a chance to think. Out of the kitchen, into the hall.

He is standing there. Motionless, as the door falls shut behind him. His suit is torn, there’s a cut across his left cheekbone, the dust and dirt on his face has been wiped away haphazardly.

I can’t get a single word out. My legs only hesitantly obey me; slowly carry me toward him, much too slowly, but then I’m standing in front of him, I put my arms around his neck, press him against me, much too tightly. I want to feel, want to know, that it’s really him, that he’s alive. I want to hear his heartbeat, but instead all I can hear is the sound of me bursting into tears, sobbing, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Instead of hugging Erik I grip onto him, burying my face in his chest, which smells of smoke and metal. It takes me a while to realize that he’s not hugging me back.

I try to pull myself together. Take a few deep breaths until the sobbing subsides. Then I pull back from Erik a little, not much, just enough so I can see his face.

His expression is hard, and at the same time so hurt that my heart almost breaks.

When he speaks, it’s only to say two words.

“Go away.”





30

Very slowly, Joanna lets go of me. She finally takes a step backward, moving in slow motion, creating a distance between us which feels both relieving and painful. Then she just stands there, looking at me. Her forehead and nose are streaked with gray, dust her skin picked up from my jacket.

“I’m so glad you’re alive,” she says, her first words since I entered the house. I watch her carefully, search her face for signs of deceit. But in vain.

“Oh really?” My voice sounds cold and sharp, even to me. “Are you sure about that?”

“Erik…” She pauses, then begins speaking again, her voice firmer this time. “You think I don’t know what happened in Munich? It’s all over the news. I was expecting the worst, picturing all sorts of horror scenarios. And then all of a sudden you’re here, and you’re alive. Yes, for God’s sake, of course I’m sure!”

For a brief moment, my entire being is pushing me toward her, with the burning desire to pull her close to me and forget everything around me. Then, the terrible images flood back. A knife, plunging down toward me. The train station. People screaming. Dead bodies, no longer recognizable as human beings.

“I’d like to believe you, Jo, I really would. But I can’t. Not anymore.”