The Shadow

by Melanie Raabe

  •

  So, tell us a bit about your next project. The only information on your homepage is a countdown that ends on February 11 this year—and the sinister title ‘Curse’.

  WB: Curse will be my final performance. My working materials are video, digital space and humans.

  Interesting that you class humans as a ‘material’. In the past you have often attracted criticism for your treatment of the participants in your artworks. You’ve even been sued several times for grievous bodily harm and—

  WB: And it never came to a trial. Art is free. That tenet, I’m glad to say, still holds true. But it has always been important to me that no one is forced into anything. All the people who take part in my performances do so entirely voluntarily—including those who go on to sue me.

  The claimants’ argument was that you manipulated them.

  WB: What does that mean, manipulated? What is manipulation? Don’t we all manipulate each other all the time? Where does it begin? Where does it end? Even babies are brilliant manipulators, aren’t they?

  If the cultural pages of the newspapers are to be believed, you’re the master of manipulation.

  WB: If that’s supposed to be damning, all I can say is: I’m not offended. I’ve always liked manipulating the way people see, breaking popular paradigms.

  So what’s the topic of your latest performance?

  WB: I don’t want to give too much away. But it’s basically about free will. And death.

  Sounds bleak.

  WB: Depends how you look at it. Some people see death as something dark and negative. But isn’t it, in fact, the greatest work of art?

  Thank you for talking to us.

  I have to let it all sink in.

  I try to recall my first interview with Balder. I can remember the passages that were printed, but not the in-between banter. What did we talk about? What did I reveal about myself?

  It takes me only a few minutes to find the digital recording of the interview on my laptop. I click open the file—not without reluctance—and almost immediately, Balder’s deep voice fills the room and I see him before me again, sitting over his coffee in the Adlon (presumably the only place good enough for him), sizing me up with those tiny, darting eyes of his. Later that day he would make a pass at me, apparently failing to notice the dislike I was fighting to conceal behind a carapace of professionalism. But I didn’t know that then.

  I fast-forward a little to skip the polite clichés at the beginning of the interview, then click on Play.

  ‘I read your feature on guns,’ Balder says. ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I’ve always been fascinated by guns. Haven’t you?’

  My reply was fuzzy. In fact, Balder was altogether louder and clearer, presumably because I’d placed the recorder nearer to him—but perhaps also because, unlike me, he made no effort to keep his voice down. He seemed not to care that everyone else in the hotel could hear what he was saying.

  ‘Why did you do the feature if you have such an aversion to guns?’ he asked, in response to whatever I said.

  ‘Precisely because of that aversion, I suppose.’

  ‘And what makes guns so terrible?’

  ‘You can do such terrible things with them.’

  ‘You mean, you can kill people with them?’

  Again, my reply—if there was one—was inaudible.

  ‘Do you think you could do that?’ Balder asked. ‘Kill someone?’

  ‘No,’ I heard myself say with a laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then what are you scared of?’

  I closed the file; I’d heard enough. After that first meeting in the Adlon I had persuaded my boss to let me write a longer feature on Balder rather than stick to a straight interview format. She had agreed and I’d gone on to interview Balder a second time. That was when I met Coco. And disaster took its course.

  I had never put so much work into a feature. Luckily, it went straight to press because my boss was laid up with appendicitis and couldn’t check through it. I knew it wasn’t balanced; I had sided entirely with Coco and the other women.

  Fuck that, I thought. The bastard deserves it.

  I close my laptop, feeling so calm that I know I haven’t yet grasped the full implications of what I’ve just heard.

  The whole thing was orchestrated by Balder.

  It would explain so much—the sinister fortune teller’s acting career; Sandra’s certainty that Grimm is innocent. It’s all beginning to make sense. The truth is seeping into my consciousness.

  Grimm is innocent.

  Valerie killed herself.

  That’s all.

  No, I think. That is not all.

  If Balder’s behind all this, I was wrong to suppose that I’d had a gun thrust on me by some eye-for-an-eyer. In fact, I’m dealing with a recognition-craving bastard who would do anything to avoid boring his greedy, jaded, overstimulated audience.

  He would have let me kill an innocent man.

  I hear Coco’s voice in my head. I’m scared he’ll do the same to you. I’m scared he’ll destroy you—leave you without anyone, not even able to help yourself. He’s good at that, you know. He finds your weak spot and worries away at it. You don’t notice at first. With me it started when I cut myself off from my friends. I didn’t realise until it was too late.

  I think of the way Max and Paul suddenly cut me. I think of Tanja’s similarly abrupt cold-shouldering—and I have to know. I take my phone from my bag, noting missed calls from Max and Coco, and ring Tanja. She sounds alarmed.

  ‘Hi, Tanja,’ I say, ‘it’s Norah. Did I wake you?’

  ‘No. But what’s so urgent?’

  ‘There’s something I have to know,’ I say. ‘Why did you suddenly drop me? I didn’t understand, but I was too hurt to ask you at the time.’

  Tanja is silent for a moment.

  ‘Oh, come on, Norah,’ she says eventually. ‘What are you playing at?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I read your email. The one you sent me by mistake.’

  She laughs bitterly.

  ‘It happens more often than you’d think,’ she says. ‘I told a few friends about it and a lot of them had had similar experiences. I guess that people who do a lot of bitching about someone get so fixated on that person that they end up sending them one of their bitchy emails by mistake.’

  It’s a moment before the penny drops.

  ‘You think I bitched about you in an email?’ I ask. ‘And sent you the email by mistake?’

  Tanja is silent again.

  ‘I’m such an idiot,’ she says. ‘I really thought you were ringing to apologise.’

  ‘Tanja, please don’t hang up,’ I say quickly. ‘I know this must sound like a pathetic excuse, but it wasn’t me. I didn’t write that email. My account was hacked a while ago and I’m only just beginning to realise the extent of the damage.’

  Silence again.

  ‘Okay,’ Tanja says eventually. ‘Sure. Good luck to you.’

  Then the engaged tone. I stare at my phone. Tanja has hung up. I suppose it does all sound rather far-fetched. I probably wouldn’t believe it myself if I were her.

  I have to collect myself before I can ring Coco back. I’m not sure how much to tell her and how much to keep quiet. In the end, I decide not to tell her anything, but just to give her the usual reassurance. To be there for her. She picks up on the second ring.

  ‘Norah,’ she says, without even saying hello. There’s panic in her voice. ‘Balder’s in Vienna.’

  I close my eyes for a moment.

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen him.’

  For a few seconds there is only a faint crackle down the line. Coco doesn’t ask me what I know or how I found out.

  ‘Do you think it’s a coincidence?’ she says.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Do you think he followed you there? Oh, Norah, you have no idea how vindictive he is. He
once had this assistant—’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, interrupting her, ‘I think he followed me here.’

  ‘Holy fuck,’ says Coco.

  Yup, I think, that’s about the size of it.

  ‘Norah, I’ve heard he’s planning something big. Something really big.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s going to kill someone.’ says Coco.

  Not quite, I think, but all I say is, ‘Don’t worry about me.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  She sounds as hopeful as a child.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I’m sure I can hear her smiling. She knows I’ve just lied—at least, I think she does.

  ‘Take care of yourself,’ she says, ‘okay? I don’t want anything happening to you.’

  ‘Course I’ll take care of myself.’

  ‘Promise?’ she says.

  ‘I promise.’

  Two lies within seconds.

  As soon as I’m off the phone, I ring Max. He, too, picks up almost immediately, although it’s so late.

  ‘Hey,’ he says.

  ‘Hey,’ I echo. ‘You tried to call me.’

  ‘Yes. Oh, God, it’s all so completely weird.’

  ‘Max, before you tell me anything, there’s something I must ask you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A while ago you wrote to me saying that Paul was ill and needed looking after so you couldn’t go out with me, do you remember? But that evening you were in the Goldfinch with friends. I wasn’t spying on you, I swear, but I saw you there. I’m not offended or anything, I just wanted to know…’

  ‘What the fuck?’ Max says. ‘Paul? Ill? When was this?’

  He stops to think.

  ‘I remember the evening in the Goldfinch,’ he says. ‘But I’ve no idea what email you’re talking about. And anyway, I’d find it a bit strange if you were offended, I must say. If anyone has reason to be offended, it’s me.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Excuse me? I asked you round to introduce you to a few friends and you didn’t even reply. Then you didn’t pick up the phone for weeks. I thought you were back on drugs or something.’

  My brain has gone into overdrive. The more I think about it, the more certain I am: I didn’t lose my phone soon after I came to Vienna; somebody stole it from me. And that somebody must somehow have gained access to my emails and texts, deleting messages like the one from Max and sending other messages in my name—including the one that so outraged Tanja.

  ‘And what’s all this bull about us being ill?’ Max goes on. ‘Paul forces freshly squeezed green juice on us every morning. Spinach, celery, lemon—the works. Vile stuff, but it seems to do the job. We haven’t been ill all winter.’

  So the message wasn’t from Max.

  I say nothing; my head is whirling. If that email was fake, what else was?

  ‘What’s wrong, Norah?’ Max asks, when I don’t reply.

  ‘Forget it,’ I say. ‘I’ll explain some other time. I promise. Tell me your news.’

  ‘Okay. Well, I spoke to Dorotea Lechner’s agent earlier. And it’s true—she was engaged for a piece of conceptual art. Her role, like I said, was called “Cassandra”. I couldn’t get her agent to tell me who engaged her—apparently there was a confidentiality clause. But I got a few details out of her.’

  I wonder what lies Max fed the woman to get her to talk. Did he flirt with her? One day I’ll ask him.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘Lechner found the job pretty strange, but basically didn’t care because she was paid well and up front and because the artist who’d engaged her was famous for some fucking weird shit. Her words, not mine.’

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘You can say that again, sister. Anyway, I just wanted you to know. It confirms Sandra’s findings. Grimm probably didn’t do a thing. Someone’s got it in for you. Both of you.’

  ‘It’s unbelievable,’ I say, but my voice is toneless.

  ‘Yes,’ says Max. ‘It’s going to take some digesting. The important thing, at any rate, is that you stay at home. I’ve no idea how that lunatic’s going to try and lure you to the Prater, but we can be sure he’ll spare neither trouble nor expense.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ I reply and it’s the truth.

  ‘I know, it’s all a bit much. But we won’t leave you on your own tomorrow, so don’t worry.’

  ‘Today,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s already February 11.’

  ‘So it is,’ says Max. ‘Today.’

  ‘Max?’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What for?’ he asks, genuinely confused and I love him more than ever.

  ‘We’ll talk later,’ I say and hang up.

  Cassandra, I think. The priestess whose doom-laden prophecies no one believed.

  60

  I go up to Theresa’s. Her eyes are red and glassy, as if she’s been sleeping.

  ‘I’ve come to say goodbye,’ I say and she asks me in with a look of surprise. As I follow her into the living room, I pull the revolver from my waistband.

  Theresa gapes at me as if I’d slapped her in the face and I can’t say I blame her. It must be pretty terrifying to have somebody walk into your living room and pull a gun on you—never happened to me, I’m glad to say. Still, there are limits to my sympathy.

  ‘What is this?’ she asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Don’t give me that crap,’ I say. ‘I’ve no time for any of that.’

  She’s admirably quick to digest and adapt.

  ‘How did I give myself away?’ she asks.

  ‘You didn’t. I’m suspicious by nature. Got an old friend to check on you. It was just a hunch.’

  ‘And what happens now?’

  ‘Now you’re going to sit down there on the sofa and tell me all I need to know.’

  Theresa gives me a look I can’t quite interpret and backs away a few paces, as if she’s scared I might hit her. She jerks her chin at the gun in my hand.

  ‘I’m not afraid of that,’ she says. ‘It’s a fake.’

  I look at her for a long time, trying to read her face. But she’s not bluffing. She really doesn’t know.

  I check to make sure the safety catch is on and then carefully open the cylinder and hold it out to show her.

  ‘Does that look like a fake to you?’

  Theresa stares at it.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says, horrified.

  ‘You planted this gun on me, didn’t you?’

  She doesn’t reply.

  ‘A fake. You were told it was a fake. Not loaded.’

  I watch the colour drain from her face. Theresa suddenly looks younger and more fragile than ever.

  ‘Is it…’ She swallows. ‘Is it loaded?’

  I nod.

  ‘One bullet,’ I say. ‘But I guess I wouldn’t need more than one.’

  ‘I don’t under—’

  ‘Sit down,’ I say, pointing the gun at the sofa.

  This time she does as I ask.

  ‘I know you’re an art student and work for Balder,’ I say. ‘So let’s not lose any time. I want to know what your job was.’

  ‘Norah,’ she says, as if she hadn’t heard me. ‘Is that the gun we left in your flat?’

  I nod.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Theresa says. ‘Oh. My. God.’

  I decide to give her a moment to let it sink in. She shakes her head and I’m afraid she’s going to flip out, but when she looks up, her eyes are clear and alert.

  ‘He said no one would come to any harm. The whole thing was supposed to be an experiment. Someone would speak a prophecy—what effect would it have? Would it be fulfilled? Or would nothing happen? Just an experiment, that was all.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’ I ask.

  She stares at me like a deer and I have to get a serious grip on myself to stop myself from slapping her. I can’t bear it when intelligent wom
en play dumb.

  ‘Did you really believe that?’ I ask again. ‘Or is it what you wanted to believe?’

  She says nothing.

  Somehow I manage not to make a snarky remark. She just admitted that they were in my flat—that they planted a gun on me. How could she think that was okay? But I get a grip on myself. However much I may hate Theresa, I have more pressing problems right now.

  ‘You’re an artist,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen some of your stuff online. You’re good. Why are you working for a bastard like Balder?’

  ‘Wolfgang Balder is one of the most famous action artists in the world,’ she bursts out. ‘And I’m only a second-year student. For the first months, I felt awed just sitting in his lectures. And then one day he called me to his office and said he wanted me to help him with a new artwork—his biggest yet. I almost swooned. You’ve no idea what a big deal it was for me.’

  The colour has returned to her cheeks.

  ‘And when you found out that he planned not only to maim someone—like in his previous artworks—but actually kill someone, you thought: Hey, this guy’s the most famous action artist on the planet, it must be all right?’

  My voice oozes disgust.

  ‘No,’ Theresa says in dismay. ‘It wasn’t like that. I didn’t know!’

  I look her in the eyes. I still feel like slapping her—but I believe her.

  ‘Do you know why he chose you rather than anyone else?’ I ask.

  She looks at me steadily.

  ‘Because I’m good,’ she replies. ‘You said so yourself.’

  I almost burst out laughing. Not because she isn’t good, but because I find it so absurd that she can still believe that Balder’s interested in her art.

  ‘He chose you because you look so like her,’ I say coldly.

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Valerie.’

  I watch to see the effect of my words. Theresa blinks, aggrieved, and for a moment neither of us speaks.

  ‘I want to know what his plans are,’ I say, raising the revolver again.

  Theresa laughs bitterly at the gesture.

  ‘You don’t need to do that,’ she says. ‘He tricked me into planting a loaded gun on you. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.’

  ‘Okay then,’ I say. ‘What was your job?’

  ‘To keep an eye on you. Inform him when you left the flat. Things like that.’