Forever Yours

by Daniel Glattauer

  4

  On the evening of the sixth day that he hadn’t called she heard his voice for the first time. She was lying on her back on the sofa, beneath the light of her laburnum lamp, waiting for her eyes to close. For the past few nights this method had proved the most reliable for ensuring at least a few hours of sleep before dawn released her from her shadowy fears.

  To begin with there were noises that sounded as if someone were making sheets of metal reverberate in a cave. Then the whispering began, and eventually the hissing sounds gave way to a babble that got continually louder. Suddenly the voice was there, a voice that was unmistakably his. “Such a scrum in here,” he said, just as he had on their first encounter in the supermarket. The words resounded in echoing waves: “Such a scrum, such a such a scrum, such a such a such a scrum scrum scrum…” As she listened she gauged her own reaction. To her surprise, it was not at all one of panic, on the contrary. The voice sounded familiar. Indeed, it had been deep inside her for some time, though she had suppressed it painfully, an agonising secret which was finally freeing itself and assuming its own tone, Hannes’ tone. Judith didn’t stir and tried to breathe as silently as possible so as not to miss a word. “I know it can hurt like hell,” the voice said. He must have meant treading on her heel. And: “I hope I’m not disturbing you.” This was when he stood for the first time beneath her crystal chandelier from Barcelona. “I hope this isn’t a bad time, hope, hope, bad time, bad time, bad, bad, bad…” No, it wasn’t bad; it was comforting, the way he droned at her, it made her mellow and tired. The last thing she heard was: “Sleep well, Darling. Darling. Dar Dar Dar…” Then all went dark and silent.

  *

  Early the following morning her head hurt as if she’d spent a night on the razzle, and she felt embarrassed by her experience, which she took to be some sort of crude brain malfunction. It had not been a dream in the true sense of the word, for when you were awake you always knew whether you had dreamed something or not. But Judith didn’t know. This had never happened to her before.

  When she got to the shop she confided in her apprentice. Bianca was unperturbed by the story. “I hear voices all the time, my mother’s usually, hers is totally shrill.” “Come on, Bianca,” said Judith. “Be serious. Is there something wrong with me?” Bianca: “You want the truth?” Judith: “Yes, please.” Bianca: “O.K., Frau Wangermann. You look like shit.” Judith: “Thanks, that’s very constructive! What do you mean by shit?” Bianca: “How should I put it? You’re a shadow of yourself. You’re getting thinner and paler. You’re shaking. You don’t wear cool clothes anymore. And just look at your hair, how unfashionable is that? You chew your fingernails, you’re nervous and agitated when we’ve got customers. That kind of stuff. Maybe you just need a holiday. Or a decent boyfriend who’ll knock it out of you and make you think of other things. That’s what’s happening to me at the moment. You forget all your worries.” She rolled her dark, pretty pupils in a complete circle. “Or at least a new pair of boots. Whenever you’re not feeling so hot you should always treat yourself to something lush.”

  “Do you know what drives me mad?” Judith asked. “Hannes?” Bianca replied. Judith: “The fact that he hasn’t rung.” Bianca: “Maybe he’s found someone else. That can be upsetting, even if you want nothing more to do with them.” Judith: “Bianca, he hasn’t got anyone else, I just know it.” Bianca: “Then be happy that he’s leaving you in peace!” “But he’s not leaving me in peace. He’s got inside me, he’s taking me over.” “Hmm,” Bianca replied, putting her index finger to the side of her head. It wasn’t often that you saw Bianca giving her cognitive faculties a proper workout. “You know what, Frau Wangermann?” she said finally. “Let’s go and buy some boots!”

  PHASE NINE

  1

  October began without a breath of wind and gave out a floury, yellow light that cast oppressively long shadows, darkened the days early and stretched out the nights. Lukas called Judith regularly to sound out how she was. If she had been honest with him, he would have come to Vienna straightaway, to stand by her. In whichever way he could. Her preference would have been for hugs that lasted several hours, and to wake up each time with his fingers in her hair, as fortification against a series of nightmares. But, as Mum had so sensitively chiselled into her brain, Lukas had “a family”. In any case, what weapons did he have with which to combat Hannes, this ghost? So on most occasions she reassured him quite convincingly that she was fine, that she could feel her spirits slowly reviving, that she’d been on the Internet searching for a new partner, and that she was having great fun flirting online and off.

  “Great, Judy. That’s reassuring!” was Lukas’ response. She was slightly irked that all he wanted was reassurance – and by how easy it was to reassure him. But at least she knew she could count on him if it got to the point where he was no longer reassurable. That was reassuring.

  She wasn’t searching for any partner, of course, and certainly not on one of those dating sites where unappealing men from the back rows of everyday life presented themselves as witty charmers. But on the evening of the first Friday of the month, when all shadows had temporarily vanished, she did in fact meet someone unintentionally. After closing up she’d popped into Café Wunderlich for a drink with Nina, the daughter of the owner of König’s music shop in Tannengasse, a woman who had no luck with men. The “drink” turned into several. For hours on end they ordered just one last glass of wine, water or Aperol. To round off the evening they moved for a nightcap to Bar Eugen, which was little more than a candlelit meeting-place for schoolchildren to enjoy their first French kisses. But from Nina’s distracted, sometimes rapacious looks over her shoulder, she realised that behind her must be sitting something approaching a real man. At some point she turned, and it was one of those moments when two pairs of eyes conclude a pact for a future together, irrespective of whether that future becomes the past after only one night.

  His name was Chris, he looked Roman (like a Donatello bronze brought to life), he was not under age (twenty-seven), was interested in friends, football, fishing and females, in precisely that order (which was rather refreshing), and (this was a remote diagnosis) his fascination for the last on his list was always fleeting and exclusively in the plural. In this respect, Chris was the complete opposite of Hannes. So she took a note of his e-mail address and arranged to meet in the same bar a few days later, without any fishing friends and definitely without Nina.

  He kissed Judith as soon as they met, thereby saving them both the trouble of working towards something which was already a done deal. For the next few hours in the bar she let him hold her hand and enjoyed the harmless stories he told of a life in which nothing had yet happened; a huge perch swallowing one of his hooks turned out to be one of the more dramatic highlights.

  Later, when he asked to know more about Judith, whether she had just emerged from a difficult relationship – which he could guess just by looking at her – it seemed the ideal moment at which to introduce the my-place-or-yours question, but only theoretically, for in practice it was obvious that he would have to accompany Judith home.

  “I feel so comfortable with you. You’re doing me the world of good, you sweetheart,” she whispered into his ear as they waited for the lift. Yes, after a long time she was fearlessly happy again; she’d managed to trick her shadow, at last. She almost wished that Hannes could see her like this: so herself, so secure, so confident.

  At home everything proceeded in a remarkably proficient and relaxed manner, as if she and Chris had been together for years. Judith sorted out the red wine, dim lighting and an appropriate throw for the sofa. Chris immediately found a suitable C.D. – Tindersticks – and the volume control, spent a gratifyingly long time (for a man) in the bathroom, during which he’d opened his shirt, offering an extremely appetising view. Poor Nina! Fortunately he belonged to that sympathetic group of men who undressed themselves rather than those who disrobed others, fiddling clumsily with buttons and zi
ps, and spending ages tugging at tight skirts or trousers until the excitement had passed.

  There was no more talking from that point, only breathing. Nor did he overdo the appraisal of Judith’s body, but dived straight under the throw and began to caress and kiss her all over, before she closed her eyes and surrendered to the best feeling she’d enjoyed in many months. Later, Chris might well tell his circle of fishing companions that it had been “really good sex”. For Judith it was total security – and a warmth that flooded as far as her most remote brain cells, reaching that point still frozen from shock.

  2

  In just a few seconds the doorbell destroyed all the repair work of the last few days, just as it was about to be rewarded. At a stroke Judith was back to square one. Three short alarm jolts, piercing the very core of her heart. Chris sat up and pulled a bashful grin, like a young boy caught smoking a joint by an elder brother. “Have you got puritanical neighbours who’d be bothered by the noise?” he asked. She turned away to spare him the sight of her face paralysed by fear. “I don’t know, I’ve barely met them,” she said. “Noise? Were we that loud? Surely we weren’t loud.” She whispered to disguise the quivering in her voice. “Would you mind going to the door and taking a look?” she begged. “You don’t even have to open it. Just ask who it is.” Chris looked confused: “Wouldn’t it be better if you… I mean, you live here. Or shall we just ignore it?” Judith: “Please, Chris. Just ask who’s there.” Him: “What if it’s a friend of yours?” Her: “I don’t have any friends at the moment. I mean, none who’d be standing at my door ringing the bell like that.”

  Hearing the floorboards creak beneath the soles of his feet, she pulled the throw over her head and waited until he returned. “Nobody,” Chris said in a bored voice. “Must have been a frustrated neighbour.” He crept back under the throw and pressed his body close to hers. Now he felt like the Roman statue made of bronze. She was cold both inside and out. She stopped his hand at the top of her thigh and asked whether he would stay the night, just this once. Her bitter tone made this anything but an erotic proposal, and of course he noticed.

  Him: “Judith, that’d be a bit tricky. I’ve got to get up early.” Her: “You can; I’ll set the alarm for six. Is six too late? Five?” “Judith, don’t get me wrong, but we only…” “I understand you perfectly well. But please understand me too. I can’t be alone tonight, I can’t, I – really – can’t!” He gave her a puzzled look. In films people like her had a nervous breakdown moments later. How would he explain this phenomenon to his fishing friends?

  More out of embarrassment than intent she began to stroke him, gently at first, then more firmly. And she did it so well that soon, in those parts of the body which are ultimately responsible for male decision-making, he felt it would be a shame to leave after all. “Shall we decamp to the bedroom?” she whispered. “O.K.,” he replied.

  3

  Chris also had that peculiarly male ability to fall asleep moments after orgasm, and to broadcast this split-second transition with loud snoring. Fortunately it wasn’t long before it quietened down and turned into peaceful heavy breathing. Judith lay on her back and pushed his limp hand from her breast down to her tummy. His arm was now a safety belt which would protect her until early the following morning.

  She focused on not thinking about Hannes, the person at the door and the bell ringer. At some point her eyes must have closed. When she became aware of this, the strange tapestry of sound returned: the reverberating metal sheets, then the whispers, followed by hissing noises, as on the previous nights. And then his unmistakable voice repeated the first words he had uttered in the supermarket after his apology: “Such a scrum in here, such a scrum, such a scrum.” Remaining calm, she didn’t move a muscle and breathed slowly. She knew which words would follow. Judith was proud that he could no longer lead her on, that she had seen through him. Her lips moved in mockery: “Really sorry about your foot, sorry about your foot.” She felt a tickle in her chest and noticed that the corners of her mouth were turned upwards. She felt an urgent need to laugh, she could barely restrain herself. What a funny game! Where was Hannes? Where was he hiding? Where had he set up camp? Whenever she thought she could picture him the images blurred. Whenever she reached out to him he recoiled.

  She wanted to touch her humming head, wipe the sweat from her brow, but her hands remained rigid. She heard herself giggling quietly. She tried to sit up. But a foreign body was weighing down upon her, fixing her there like a powerful clamp. All of a sudden she was gripped by panic. Hannes beside her in bed. Where were they? In the hotel room? Still in Venice? Still together as a couple? Hadn’t he got the message? Didn’t he have a clue? She tried to squeeze away with her belly. But the more she strained, the heavier the object on her became, pushing onto her bowels, blocking her air passages. She struggled for air, gasped, felt her temples getting hot. She had to act now before the beams crushed her to death. Hannes? What did he say? What were his next words?

  “I know it can hurt like hell. I know it can hurt like hell. I know it can hurt like hell.” That was her voice. The volume startled her. The massive weight on her belly started to lift, getting ready to strike. With both hands she grabbed hold of the enemy weapon, brought it to her mouth, her teeth felt a hard resistance and there was a salty taste on her tongue.

  “Ow! Are you crazy?” he yelled. “What are you playing at?” Now she was wide awake. From one second to the next a change of programme took place in her head. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath. She switched on the light. Chris was bleeding. Her jaw was aching. She leaped up, ran into the bathroom, fetched a damp towel and wrapped it round his arm.

  Chris crouched in bed, his mouth and eyes both open wide. “What the hell are you playing at?” he said awkwardly. What kind of an awful question was that? “I, I, I… must have had a bad dream,” she said. “I’m terribly sorry.” He pushed the towel away and looked at his wound. His arm was shaking.

  “It’s just not normal, Judith. It’s not normal,” he said. “You know it’s not normal, don’t you?” Now he was really angry. She began to sob faintly. “Do you do this often?” he snapped. “I must have had a bad dream,” she repeated. “Really bad.” He swiftly gathered his things together, nipped to the bathroom, and then made straight for the door. “One last tip,” he called behind him. “Never have a really bad dream with a heavy or sharp object in your hand!”

  4

  In the shop Bianca greeted her with the words: “Your make-up doesn’t look too clever this morning, Frau Wangermann. You’ve got huge bags under your eyes.” Judith fell into her apprentice’s arms and wept. “Don’t take it so hard,” Bianca said. “We’ll sort it out. I’ve got five different eye shadows on me today.”

  Judith told her about her amorous escapade and how it had escalated. “It’s not that bad,” Bianca said. “I think men actually quite like it if you get a bit rough with them.” Judith: “I didn’t ‘get a bit rough’ with him; I almost bit his bloody arm off!” Bianca laughed. “Stay cool, Frau Wangermann. Give him a call and tell him: I promise that when we next have a shag I’ll wear a muzzle.” After that Judith felt much better.

  Her real problem would be too much for Bianca to deal with, but Judith needed to articulate it to herself, too. “I can’t get Hannes out of my head. It’s getting worse and worse. I really think I’m starting to hallucinate. Sometimes I’m convinced that he’s watching my every move and tracking my every step. And sometimes he’s so deep inside me that I doubt whether it can be him at all, I mean as a person. Maybe I’m imagining the whole thing. Do you follow me?” Bianca hesitated briefly and looked at her. Then she said: “I don’t think you’re deranged. I mean, you’re not like all those people who cut up dead bodies and then…” “O.K., Bianca. Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.” She went into the office.