Strangers: A Novel(67)

The image touches me with such an intensity that even the strange coldness inside me shrinks away from it. It’s nice, seeing my mother this close to me. Recently I’ve been finding it more and more difficult to picture her face. Her image has become more blurry, more abstract over the years. Like she was drifting away from me, just a little bit further every time.

This time it’s different. Her fan-like laugh lines, the green of her eyes, even the tiny scar on her forehead from her childhood, it’s all clearly in front of me. I feel the urge to take her in my arms, no, to let her take me in her arms. To let her comfort me, the way she always comforted me as a child whenever I needed it.

More images appear, and I willingly seek refuge in them. Scenes from my childhood, beautiful things I experienced together with my parents. Weekend trips away, going skiing in the wintertime; they even took me camping because I was so hell-bent on going. Although the two of them weren’t in the least bit enthused about spending the night inside an uncomfortable tent.

Of course, it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. We did have our problems here and there, but we were never angry at each other for long, not even in difficult situations.

I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling.

My parents aren’t around anymore. Joanna’s my family. Was my family. And now? A stranger. Work, Gabor, Bernhard … my social circle. All strangers.

I push myself up, realizing as I do that there’s almost no part of my body that isn’t hurting. I prop my elbows on my thighs, drop my head, and bury my fingers in my hair. What on earth am I going to do?

“I have to talk to you.”

I jump, and notice Joanna in front of me; she’s standing in the middle of the room. I hadn’t noticed her come in.

“What do you want?”

“I just said: to talk to you.”

Something about her has changed. Her voice sounds different than before. More assertive. All traces of constraint or remorse have disappeared.

“I don’t know what I’d possibly have to talk to you about,” I say, with emphasized abruptness.

She comes closer. “Really? One catastrophe after the other happens to us, and you don’t know what we’d talk about?”

“No. I said don’t know what I’d possibly talk about to you.”

Joanna sinks into the armchair next to me, but without breaking eye contact. “I’ve been sitting upstairs racking my brain about all this. Your brain usually seems to work quite well, so use it, would you? Then you’ll see it’s not someone who wants to kill you, but someone who wants to kill us both.”

I let out a quick laugh. “The only thing that’s sure here is that you wanted to kill me.”

Joanna leans forward and props her hands on the table. Her gaze is very intense now; there’s not even a glimmer of uncertainty, fear, or despair.

“That’s what I mean when I say you should use your head. If I really wanted to kill you, Erik, you’d be dead by now.”





31

Dead. The word hangs in the air between us. Erik’s eyes narrow, like the word was causing him pain, and I think I know why. He was surrounded by death today; in fact he’s probably very close to a breakdown. His view of the world can never be the same again as it was this morning. To be precise, nothing can ever be the same again for him.

“If I really wanted to kill you, I would have had so many opportunities, Erik.” I feel the urge to stroke his hand, but I know that’s not a good idea. “You slept next to me for a whole night, we were…”

“The fact that you didn’t succeed doesn’t mean that you wouldn’t have tried,” he interrupts me. “And you almost did succeed, as we both very well know.”

I sit down next to him on the couch, but at the other end. “So you think I’m so hell-bent on killing you that I’m prepared to off myself in the process? Because if your theory is right, then the thing with the boiler must have been me too. Right?”

He closes his eyes for a moment. “I didn’t say that what you’re doing is logical, so don’t try to win the argument with logic. After all, you’re hurting yourself as well, did you forget?” The fingers of his right hand are clutching one of the couch cushions. I don’t think he even notices.

“For me, the worst thing,” he says, so softly that I can barely hear him, “is the thought that you’re probably involved with what happened today. My boss sent me to the exact spot where the bomb went off, at the time of the explosion. But I was late, unfortunately. For him. For both of you. And before that … the car accident, your knife attack, the scarves in the boiler.” He swallows, shakes his head. “I don’t understand how he managed to talk you into this madness. Certainly not with money, because I imagine you have a lot more of it than he does.”

I had resolved not to interrupt him, but now I can’t stop myself. “I don’t even know your boss. My God, I don’t even really know you. You can rest assured though, I could never…”

I could never be involved in such terrible crime, I wanted to say.

But the truth is, I can only hope that I’m right. My hand instinctively moves up to my right temple—it doesn’t hurt so much now when I press it, just enough to remind me how little I can trust in what I think I know about myself.