To the Back of Beyond(8)

Last night, Astrid had decided she would go to the police; now she was afraid that if she took such a step it would make Thomas’s disappearance permanent, an officially confirmed fact that would then remain part of her life from now on. Her hesitation had another reason that she was reluctant to admit to herself even though it was almost stronger than her fear. She felt shame. She would be seen going to the police station, and even if no one knew what it was about, it would become public knowledge at the latest when the missing person announcement appeared in the newspaper: Left home one night and not seen since. Anyone with any information is asked to get in touch with the cantonal police. Then everyone would know that Thomas had left, that he had walked out on her and the children, and tongues would wag and people would speculate about this and that. They would at one and the same time ostracize her and with their thoughts and their unspoken questions interfere in her life.

It was almost eleven before she at last got a grip on herself. Outside, it felt as though gravity had failed, with every step she felt so light she could have floated away. She was relieved not to run into anyone she knew. There were a few people standing around in front of the station, two women had set their shopping bags down on the ground and stopped for a chat, on the public benches there were some young people smoking, and at the newspaper kiosk an old man was filling in a lottery coupon. The faces all looked strangely distorted to her, like caricatures. Astrid was no longer part of their everyday world, in which only yesterday she had moved perfectly naturally. She was marked, even though no one knew about it yet.

Once, the police station had been down a quiet side street, but a couple of years ago it had been moved into a new building near the train station, next to a bakery and cafeteria. Astrid looked around worriedly before walking in. There was no one at the front desk. She sat down on a chair, and straightaway jumped up again. There was a poster on the wall about breakins: No. 5, never go on holiday. A wire rack contained public-information leaflets about Internet bullying, going abroad, about burglar alarms and the right to bear arms. At last a woman arrived, a little older than Astrid, radiating a friendly calm. Astrid said she had come to report a missing person. The woman asked her two or three questions, and then called a colleague. Ruf, said the officer, what can I do for you. He appeared terribly young to Astrid, with a soft and shapeless face, like a child’s. She would have much preferred to deal with one of those craggy old detectives she watched on TV, men with wrinkled, experienced faces, who wouldn’t bat an eyelid when told the most terrible things. They shook hands, and the policeman led her into a small interview room with yellow walls. Astrid said again that she had come to report a missing person. Excuse me, said the policeman, I’ll be back in a moment. The room was empty, apart from the two chairs and a desk with a computer and printer on it. The walls were bare. The window gave on to a tiny yard. The venetian blinds were like window bars.

The policeman came back with a sheaf of papers and sat down facing Astrid. Well, tell me all about it. She explained her husband had disappeared the night before last, and she had no idea where he might be. Almost all missing persons resurface within a few days, the policeman said with a steady voice, but I’ll take down his details and put them in the system anyway. He put on a sober, almost sorrowful expression and looked at the form in front of him, as if he were seeing it for the very first time. Then in an offhand tone of voice he started going through it with her. He took the particulars of Astrid and Thomas, and wrote down the time and place of disappearance. He inquired after their marital status and any joint children, Thomas’s job and rank, his state of health, and any distinguishing physical traits. Tattoos? Piercings? No, said Astrid, and almost laughed at the idea. A beard, a mustache? She shook her head. No distinguishing marks. What was he wearing? She tried to make a mental picture of Thomas, but the harder she tried, the more blurry he seemed to get. Chinos and a shirt, but what color? White? Or blue? A gray sweater? Glasses? She hesitated for a moment. No, she said at last. Thomas never wore glasses. She couldn’t say how he was traveling, only that the car and his bicycle were still there. Nor did she know what he had with him. Money? Sure to. He carries his ID in his wallet, same with credit card and bank card. A key ring. Presumably cigarettes, a lighter, a cotton handkerchief. No, no weapons. She had the sense that Thomas was rigidifying as she described him, becoming unrecognizable, the image of a dead man.

The policeman looked up from the form and into Astrid’s eyes. There was a brief pause, as though a new chapter were beginning in the conversation, then he said, and his voice suddenly was very intense, I must ask you this: Could you imagine your husband has harmed himself? Astrid shook her head. No, absolutely not. He would never do such a thing, she said irately. Did he have money difficulties or other worries or anxieties? No. Did you fight at all during the last few days? We just got back from holiday, she said, as though that answered his question. We were in Spain. On the beach. It was very nice. We didn’t quarrel, quite the opposite. I haven’t the least idea why he’s disappeared. She stopped for a moment, before adding, as though surprised about it herself: In fact we’ve never really had any arguments. As though he hadn’t heard her answer, the policeman asked if they owned a holiday home or apartment, and when she said no, if she happened to have a recent photograph of her husband with her. Something else she hadn’t thought of. I wouldn’t mind taking a look around your house, if you’ve no objection, said the policeman. It’s an odd thing, but you quite regularly get people hiding at home. Then while I’m there perhaps you could give me a photo of him.