by Peter Stamm
The landscape here was on a bigger scale, the farms and pieces of forest were larger, the farmhouses no longer scattered but formed into little hamlets. For the first time Thomas had a long view, saw a series of hills in the distance, and beyond them in the haze the outline of real mountains. Dark clouds had drawn up, and Thomas put his best foot forward. The way was all downhill and he made rapid progress. He still didn’t dare to walk along the roads, and took field tracks that involved him in frequent detours and doglegs. He was still worried about being found, he was only about fifteen minutes by car away from home, and he had customers who lived in these parts who would surely have spoken to him if he had run into them. They would have slowed to a stop alongside him and asked him where he was going and if he didn’t want a lift. Later, they would remember where he had been when they met him, and what he had said.
It started to rain. The rain took a while to get heavier, and by the time Thomas started looking for shelter, he was already soaked. He didn’t have a jacket, only the thin woolen sweater he had worn out of the house last night. His hair was plastered against his head, and he was shivering. He worried about catching cold. He walked on through the hilly landscape and got to a big wood. The trees, though, afforded barely any protection against the rain, and he didn’t stop for long. As he emerged from the wood, he saw below him a slightly larger village than the ones he had so far passed. In the center around the church were some old half-timber buildings, while on the periphery were small light-industrial premises and apartment blocks. One slope was totally covered with identical sterile single-family housing. Right at the edge of the development was a large building with a gabled roof that looked like a hotel but seemed to be empty. The shutters were down over the windows, and the car park at the back was empty. The property was ringed by a high hedge. Maybe, Thomas thought, he could find shelter there until the rain stopped and it got dark. At least it should be easy to get in there, and to disappear again, if there did turn out to be someone home.
He followed a little lane steeply down, and when it turned into the village, crossed a newly mown pasture. The hedge behind the supposed hotel was scruffy and full of gaps. An old trailer was parked on the paved area that surrounded the building. A ramp led down to two garage doors, while a narrow flight of steps led up to a half-concealed back entrance. Thomas was struck by the great metal door with peephole that looked as though it had just been installed. All the while the house seemed to radiate a great sense of abandonment, so that even if he wouldn’t have been able to explain why, he felt perfectly confident there was no one living there. The roof had a small overhang, enough to afford a little protection from the rain, which was now falling steadily. Thomas sat down on the top step and pulled out his cigarettes. The pack had gotten damp, the filters were full of water that got into his mouth as he drew on his cigarette and had a bitter taste. He got up and dropped the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray by the door.
He remained sitting on the steps for a long time, unable to think what to do. He listened to the rain streaming down, the cars on the main road in front of the building, the tires hissing on the wet asphalt, and the village church striking one quarter then two. He remembered rain in his childhood, rain in his year of military service, rain in the summer vacations in the mountains, and it seemed as though all rain were one, a category all its own, quite separate from time. He was tired, the only things that kept him from dropping off were the cold and the uncomfortable cement step he was sitting on.
A quiet creak directly over his head gave him a start. He looked up in alarm. The door was open and a woman in a leather miniskirt and fishnet stockings and a skimpy yellow top that exposed her midriff stood in the doorway, apparently just as alarmed as he was, though she recovered instantly. Yes? she said. Her voice sounded artificial, as though she had straightaway fallen into a practiced role. And who might you be? She lit a cigarette and started smoking it rapidly with nervous hands. After a few drags she dinched it in the ashtray and said, Why don’t you come in? It’s cozier. Without thinking, Thomas got up and followed the woman inside.
She led him along a red-lit passage into a large room with groups of easy chairs, a few tables, and a bar. There was a screen up near the ceiling; on it a young couple were arguing about something, but the sound was turned down so low that Thomas had no idea what it was about. At one of the small tables a couple of young women were knitting, one of them was in a robe, the other a shift that was so short he could see her panties. They glanced up at him and went on talking in a language that Thomas could neither understand nor identify. His guide had stepped behind the bar. Can I get you a drink? A glass of champagne? A beer? Do you have coffee? asked Thomas, and sat down on a barstool. Sure, said the woman. She took a thermos flask, poured two cups, and set them on the bar. Then she went back around the front and settled on the stool beside Thomas. I’m Amanda, she said, I’m from Hungary. She had an accent, though not a strong one. I was hiking, said Thomas, and got caught in the rain. We’re not supposed to open until six, said the woman, but I’ll make an exception for you. I just want to rest a bit, he said, and get my things dry. As though he had given orders, Amanda got up and went over to the table and joined the other women. The woman in the shift came across to Thomas and sat down beside him. She was blond, with pretty, girlish features. I’m Milena, I’m Romanian, she said, where are you from? She had a stronger accent than the other woman. Thomas gestured vaguely. How do you like Switzerland? he asked. I’m only here since one month, said Milena, before I work in club in Interlaken. Interlaken is pretty, said Thomas. Between two lakes, as the name suggests. Neither of them spoke. Milena smiled at Thomas and winked at him. Is this your first time here? Do you want a tour? Without waiting for him to answer, she got up and led him back out to the passage he had just come through. She opened a door to a room that had a big tub in the middle of it. This is our Jacuzzi, she said, in one hour you can go there with one or two girls. Sounds nice, said Thomas sheepishly. I show you my room, said Milena. She walked up a narrow flight of stairs, and he followed her as though he had no choice. Half an hour costs one hundred fifty francs, one hour is three hundred, anal is hundred more. We have loyalty card. If you buy six half hours, you get free blow job. Thomas had never been inside a brothel, and was bemused by the coolness with which she told him the prices. The businesslike tone had a certain charm, but he nevertheless said again he just wanted to rest for a while. Milena turned around, two steps above him. Her nipples made little bumps through the thin dress. She placed a hand on his shoulder and shimmied her hips slowly. You’re all wet, she said, and smiled. You should take off your clothes. I can give you massage. I am good. One hour is one hundred eighty francs, without penetration. She took Thomas by the hand, and drew him farther up the stairs. Don’t be afraid. I won’t bite you.
Breakfast without Thomas felt almost normal, but after the children were gone, Astrid went restlessly through the house, picking up things and setting them down again. In the kids’ rooms she tidied a few toys away. She sat down at Ella’s little schoolgirl desk and gazed absentmindedly at all the clutter, magazines, a game console, plastic figures, a handful of coins, glitter-ink pens, the signs of a life that as yet had few contours and therefore stood in need of these material props. Astrid wondered what there was for her to cling to. Her clothes and shoes? The few pieces of jewelry she owned? The albums with her girlhood snapshots? Somewhere in the attic there was a cardboard box of her old stuff, exercise books and drawings and this and that she had for some reason held on to. But those things didn’t mean anything to her anymore, and when she ran into them from time to time they were less familiar to her than her children’s things. More than once she had almost thrown out the whole box.
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 rea
son 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 break-ins: 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.
He must have sensed Astrid’s hesitation when he held open the door of the patrol car for her. If you prefer, we could take the other car, it is less obtrusive. Astrid told him the address and gave him directions during the drive, although he seemed to have no trouble finding the house. He parked on the roadside and got out. It’s nice here, he said, as Astrid led him down the garden path to the door. I haven’t uploaded the vacation pictures yet, she said, and walked into the lounge. The policeman stopped in the corridor and asked if it was all right if he took a look around. Shall I take my shoes off? No, said Astrid. She couldn’t imagine a policeman in stockinged feet getting results.
She took the card out of her camera and transferred the pictures onto the family laptop, which was mostly what the children played games on. She looked over the pictures, but most of them were of Ella and Konrad. In one shot you could see Thomas and Konrad from behind, racing into the sea, another was of a massive paella pan that Astrid had taken in a restaurant, and you could see the bottom half of Thomas’s face, with a rather strange half smile. Then she went through the pictures of the skiing holidays, Christmas, and last year’s summer vacation, but there was not one proper shot of Thomas. Perhaps he had deliberately avoided being photographed and leaving traces in their shared life, evidence that could be used against him later on.
At long last she found a photograph from a Sunday walk that Konrad or Ella must have taken. It wasn’t absolutely in focus, but Thomas looked very lifelike and alive in it. He was smiling, looking as though he had just said something and was waiting for a reply. She printed the picture on the little photo printer that Thomas had given her for Christmas, after she had complained about the way all the pictures might as well be locked up in the computer because no one ever looked at them.
Hearing the policeman walking down the stairs, she went out into the corridor. Is this the way down to the basement, he asked, pointing to the basement door. Don’t bother, he said, as Astrid made a move to accompany him downstairs, and it suddenly dawned on her what he was doing. He didn’t really believe that Thomas was hiding anywhere but that he might have committed suicide, maybe hanged himself in the basement or the attic. She shuddered at the idea, and even though she felt quite sure that Thomas would never harm himself, she stood there with pounding heart until the policeman came back up and shook his head in apparent relief. Nope. Nothing.
He wouldn’t have a cup of coffee, just a glass of water, which he left untouched. He examined the photograph. I’d really like it if you could send me this as an attachment, he said, and gave her an e-mail address. Will it appear in the newspaper? Astrid asked. She felt ashamed of the question, but it was one she had to as
k. No, replied the policeman, we’ll just put it in our inquiries file. Anytime he produces his passport, either at a frontier or in the course of a traffic control, my colleagues will draw his attention to the fact that he’s being sought. Then, if we get his consent, we’ll be able to tell you his whereabouts. Is that it then? asked Astrid. An adult has the right to disappear, said the policeman. If there was a suggestion of criminality or self-harm, then we could track him with a dog. But after thirty-six hours have elapsed that’s not a straightforward matter. What about the children, asked Astrid, what do I tell them? As I say, most missing persons tend to surface after a few days, he said, and got up. And with that he drank his water too, all in one gulp. Ruf, he said, at your service, and gave Astrid his card, after they had shaken hands and she muttered something. You’re welcome to call anytime. Will I get put through to you directly? she asked. Sure, if I’m on duty. He took the card and wrote his mobile number on the back. There. In case of emergencies, he said.
After he left, Astrid wept for the first time. She sat at the table that still had the photograph of Thomas on it and cried, quietly to begin with, then loudly. Her body shook, it was a while before her sobbing eased and started coming at longer intervals. Once she had finally calmed herself, she went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. She put the printed photograph of Thomas away in a drawer.
Thomas was sitting in the darkest corner of the bar. Gradually the place had filled up. Half a dozen men were standing or sitting around, talking with the girls or going off with them down the red corridor, to return half an hour later. There was a couple as well. The woman was of an almost severe beauty that looked out of place. She had black hair and a very pale complexion, and was wearing a denim skirt and a white floppy blouse. She was standing next to one of the men who wasn’t looking at her, and was in negotiations with one of the prostitutes. Thomas wasn’t able to interpret the expression on her face, she seemed at once alarmed and very attentive. When shortly afterward she followed the prostitute and the man out of the bar, she looked back over her shoulder, as though to form a detailed impression of the scene for later. Thomas lowered his head and shut his eyes. The music was loud and so monotonous that he was no longer aware of it. He went up to the bar for another beer, even though he no longer had the money to pay for it. And when any child could have told you that you shouldn’t use plastic if you were trying to disappear. Sooner or later, Astrid was bound to go to the police, and the police would ask her about money movements in their joint account. The thought gave him a sense of security. He pictured himself lying in bed next to Astrid, not touching, but he could feel her warmth and heaviness, as though the two of them were two stars, held by mutual gravity, orbiting round and round each other, without ever getting closer.