Forever Yours

by Daniel Glattauer

  “Hello, how are things?” the doctor asked. “I’m mentally ill, thank you,” Judith replied. Reimann laughed, but this time she was only feigning amusement. She noticed that Judith was trembling and asked what she was afraid of. Judith: “Right now, of you.” Reimann: “I can see why, my dear. You’re really letting yourself go!” Judith: “I know, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Best would be if you sent me straight back to the clinic.” Reimann: “No, no, no. That’s going to get us nowhere. I suggest we get down to business!”

  After her pulse and heart-rate had been monitored and Reimann had shone a light under her eyelids, Judith had to describe her various states of dozing and semi-consciousness over the past few weeks. Not only that, but Reimann wanted her to break it down into mornings, afternoons, evenings and nights – a truly exhausting undertaking, for the only words that would do were those that had been missing from her vocabulary for ages. As a reward Reimann took her off two of the medicines there and then, and she reduced the dosage of the others, including her favourite white pill, by half.

  “I miss your fighting spirit,” the psychiatrist said anxiously, squeezing her hand. “You need to resist this. Your health is purely a matter of mental discipline. You have to think and work with yourself, rather than suppressing it all. You need to get to the root of your problem.”

  Judith: “I don’t have a problem anymore; I am the problem!” She shouldn’t have said that; Reimann was offended. “If patients like you give up, we might as well close down for good here. How can we possibly help those patients who are seriously ill?” “So you don’t believe I’m seriously ill, then?” Judith asked. “All I can see is that’s what you’re determined to become, which means you’re well on the way,” Reimann replied. “And having to watch it is making me ill!”

  5

  Judith tried to go two days without pills, attempting to fill the vacuum in her head with thoughts about the root of her problems. This must be how heroin addicts felt when in transition from withdrawal to the re-emergence of their identity crisis. Whenever she imagined she was not seriously ill, which now happened at ever shorter intervals, she instantly felt worse. This was linked to the sad prospect of being on her own again. No one would look after her anymore. Not even her mother would have the mandatory entitlement to be there and whine on at her.

  She put a great deal of effort into her therapy sessions and told Arthur Schweighofer all about the night-time jangling of the Spanish crystal chandelier. Thanks to Sigmund Freud he was convinced that dramatic scenes in her childhood, of which she was not fully conscious, must have taken place in the lighting shop. They both thought about it for a while and engaged in an intense bout of brainstorming before Judith managed to steer the conversation back towards adventure holidays and sailing certificates.

  For the first of the two sleepless nights, Mum had been looking after her – or vice versa: Judith had made sure that Mum didn’t wake up and ask her why she wasn’t sleeping. Hannes was supposed to come on the second evening. But that afternoon he rang to say that he’d be late. And at nine he cancelled. He was terribly sorry, he said, but one of his colleagues was off sick and he had to finish her project, due to be submitted the following morning.

  Judith paced up and down her flat until midnight, switched on all the lights, turned on the radio and television and even the empty washing machine to drown out any potential unreal noises and voices, read Anna Gavalda’s “Clic-Clac” out loud and hummed Christmas carols. Afterwards she was so far from sleep and so close to the abyss of her next serious anxiety attack that she had to ring either her mother or the emergency doctor straightaway, maybe even both. Or – and this was the option she eventually chose – she took her pills again, in the tried-and-tested dose, first the white ones to combat her deep sadness, then the rest to don her suit of armour, for the gift of tiredness and for the redemptive emptiness in her mind which would finally allow her to glide into sleep.

  6

  When she was woken by her bad conscience the following day, or the one after that, she heard apparently real voices coming from the kitchen. Mum and Hannes were discussing her future. “Would you really do that for us?” Mum said, deeply touched, like the mother-in-law in the closing scene of a schmaltzy film. “Of course. You know I love her and that I’d never leave her in the lurch,” Hannes replied, like a 1950s screen hero. There followed a succession of more technical and organisational details regarding the future care and nursing of the long-term patient, Judith, at home.

  On the bedside table another assortment of pills was waiting for her beside a half-full carafe of water. Ordered appetisingly in rank and file, they were as inviting as the six bright dots of a dice throw promising victory.

  The white pills were already on her tongue when her gaze, which had been roaming gloomily around the room, alighted on a bowl brimming with fruit that someone had put on the chest of drawers beside the door. Instinctively she took the pills out of her mouth and placed them on the duvet. She had the sudden feeling that something was beginning to work in her brain. On top of round, reddish fruits – apples, pears, plums – was a large yellow mass formed of at least eight elegantly curved bananas, which at first she took for grotesque aliens. Judith loathed bananas; she associated them with attacks of diarrhoea as an infant, after they had been mashed with cocoa powder to a squidgy brown mess and forced down her throat in large spoonfuls. The taste of it still stuck to her palate.

  The longer she stared at them, the more clearly a picture formed in her head. It took her back to the supermarket, at Easter, when she appeared to have a totally normal life ahead of her, and when she noticed a man, a stranger she took for a husband and father, in whose trolley she’d seen an identical clump of bananas to those that had materialised on her chest of drawers. Real tears came to her eyes. Genuine, wet tears. They cleansed her vision, giving her sharper focus. Behind this yellow bunch of fruit hid a puzzle which she intended to solve. With as clear a head as possible.

  PHASE FOURTEEN

  1

  From that point on she simply posted every one of her pills through the wide slit into the belly of her thirty-year-old piggy bank, Porky. She kept this pink plastic object hidden beneath her summer T-shirts in the wardrobe – for bad times; you never knew when they might be just around the corner.

  To the outside world she pretended to be feeble and disoriented, spending most of her time in bed or on the sofa, making strange contortions of her body, going on routine marches to the bathroom or the loo, a bit like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man, muttering animatedly and incomprehensibly to herself (often letting a third self into the conversation to avoid going gaga), staring into the distance for hours on end for relaxation, then suddenly trembling all over and burying herself under her duvet – a colourful and varied programme that made up the daily routine of a person whose psychological disorders were on display at all times. The more certain she was that nothing of it escaped Hannes’ attention, the more fun it became.

  He was a model carer. When he was there for night duty, which he now alternated with her mother, he was always within earshot. Whenever he came to her bedside she pretended to be asleep. A few times he stroked her hair and touched her cheek. Occasionally she heard him whisper: “Sleep well, my darling.” Sometimes she felt his breath and heard the sound of an air kiss just above her face. She survived these queasy moments bravely and with patience. He came no closer; she had nothing more to fear from him.

  The two carers liked to spend the evenings together, preferably in the kitchen. Mum became the equivalent of a first-year architecture student. She was fairly slow off the mark, which motivated him even more. He loved explaining the world in lay terms. During the day he could be expected to turn up at any moment, even if he was just bringing and putting away the food he’d bought. Bananas always featured amongst his purchases. Judith was delighted by each one of these deliveries, and she sparked with ideas as to how she might dispose of this or that specimen as discreetly as po
ssible. From time to time, if there was nothing but yellow fruit in the bowl, she even ate one. Actually, they didn’t taste so bad and left a pleasant feeling in her stomach.

  When Hannes was not there, Bianca took her out ‘to stretch her legs’, as she called it officially, and to accustom her lungs to the winter. Mum protested at these excursions, as it meant she had to manage the lighting shop alone. Besides, she would have preferred to see Hannes out and about with the patient. The moment Judith and Bianca turned the corner, they dived into the nearest café, usually to enjoy a caffeine-rich cappuccino and a fat nougat cake. Afterwards they got down to business, just as Jessica Reimann had advised.

  2

  Bianca didn’t like bananas either. “The worst torture in the world? To be locked in a small windowless room with a brown banana skin. I’d freak,” she said.

  Judith told her what it was about the Easter supermarket bananas that had stuck in the memory. It was their first meeting at Café Rainer, and Judith had asked him whether he had a family or whether he’d eaten all those bananas she’d seen in his trolley himself. He’d laughed and said something about the bananas being for a neighbour who had difficulty walking, a widow with three children. He went shopping for her once or twice a week and didn’t ask for anything in return, because if ever he was in a bad way he’d like to have neighbours who’d help him out too.

  “And?” Bianca asked after a pause. “No ‘and’ – that was it,” Judith replied. Bianca grimaced. “To be honest, I was expecting more, seeing as you’re so worked up. What’s so strange about that story?” Judith: “What’s strange is that he never said a single word about that neighbour ever again.” Bianca: “O.K., that is a bit odd. But it’s probably not that exciting either, going shopping for someone. I mean, going shopping for shoes, well, that’s different. But food? What’s there to say about that? Maybe he doesn’t even know the woman that well. Maybe he just brings her the bananas and other stuff and then leaves. Maybe she’s moved, too. There’s all sorts of possibilities, Judith. But I suppose…” Judith: “I’ve just got a feeling about this, and it’s the first feeling I’ve had in a long time. Couldn’t your boyfriend, Basti, do a little…” “Of course, you know how he loves that sort of thing. He can say he’s the new bike messenger, or something like that.”

  3

  Basti’s research at Nisslgasse 14 was not progressing well. The Serbian caretaker on the ground floor was the only inhabitant who had been willing to give him any information. And she’d dismissed the suggestion that a widow with mobility problems and three children lived at that address. Bianca: “She was absolutely sure of that ’cause there aren’t any children at all in the house, apart from her own baby, of course, and one on its way in Frau Holzer’s tummy, but she’s no widow, and she can’t have trouble walking ’cause she did the Vienna Marathon in the summer, but she wasn’t pregnant then, or at least she didn’t know she was, ’cause when you’re pregnant and run marathons…” “I get the picture,” Judith said.

  Bianca: “But the caretaker doesn’t know the tenants that well. She said it’s that kind of house where no one knows anybody else, typical Vienna really. At some point you smell a corpse and realise that someone lived there after all. And then you read in the newspaper that the person who died kept themselves to themselves. Well, of course they did, otherwise someone would have noticed them, wouldn’t they?” “True,” Judith said.

  Bianca: “For example, she didn’t know that Herr Bergtaler lives at number 22 ’cause she doesn’t have a clue who he is. When Basti described him she was like, oh, that’s the nice man who always holds the door open for me, at least he’s friendly and says hello. But she didn’t know he lived at number 22 on the fourth floor. She thought the flat was empty.” “I see,” Judith said.

  Bianca: “But then Basti noticed something else.” Judith: “What?” Bianca: “He didn’t tell me, I’m afraid. He was like, I need to have a closer look to see if it’s true. But if it is true, he was like, I’m on to something.” Judith: “Well, now I’m curious.” Bianca: “Me, too. Totally. Believe me.”

  4

  The annus horribilis reached its conclusion with colourless, snowless advent days. Although Judith had not completely shaken off her persecution complex, she believed she was at least a few steps closer to doing so. Without the pills her legs felt wobbly and her nerves were extremely delicate, but her thoughts seemed substantially clearer and she believed she could sense the knot slowly loosening inside her head. Now all she had to do was tug on the right string.

  She impressed even herself with her acting efforts, knowing intuitively that it would be a good idea to play the mentally deranged woman for a while longer. Hannes had deceived her plenty of times; now it was her turn. What’s more, his presence no longer filled her with dread. She still felt a little too weak to cope with life on her own, but she was looking forward to the moment when she could pass him Porky, her overflowing piggy bank, and say: “Thanks, my dear carer. Take this as a souvenir of our second time together. I’ve healed myself and don’t need you here anymore – sorry!”

  Meanwhile, in the much-loved kitchen conversations with Mum, Hannes was talking about a big Christmas surprise. Of course it was for Judith, but her friends and family should also share in the fun. It sounded like he was planning a small party. “It’ll knock her socks off,” she heard Hannes whisper. “Will she realise what’s going on, in her state?” Mum asked with her usual charm. “Yes, of course,” Hannes replied. “Even if she can’t show it outwardly, inside she feels just as we do.”

  5

  On the afternoon of 15 December, a day free from Hannes-surveillance as he was out of town, she let Bianca take her all the way to Aida Café in Thaliastrasse, where Basti, his red hair shining with particular vibrancy in the bright light of a naked bulb, was waiting for them, excitedly twisting the stud on his upper lip. “His suspicions have been confirmed,” said Bianca, who within a few weeks had matured into the perfect candidate for a T.V. detective role herself. Basti nodded, although his mouth was demonstratively open – a sure sign that he had surrendered for ever the role of speaker to his girlfriend.

  “Remember what I told you in hospital about the squares of light, Frau Wangermann?” Bianca asked. Without waiting for an answer she continued: “Well, whenever it’s dark and Hannes comes home, the five squares above each other light up, which means he’s switched on the stairwell lights like everyone else does. But squares number seven and eight on the fourth floor never light up, which means he doesn’t turn the light on when he goes into his flat. Remember?” Judith: “Yes, it’s dark.” Bianca: “Well, listen to this. Now we know why he doesn’t turn the light on.” Judith: “Why?” Bianca: “I’ll give you three guesses.” Judith: “Bianca, please, I don’t want three guesses, I don’t even want one!” “Go on, tell her,” Basti muttered. Bianca: “He doesn’t turn the light on ’cause… he doesn’t live in his flat. See?” Judith: “Why not?” Bianca: “Hold on, first I’ve got to give you a bit of background.” Judith: “Bianca, you’re driving me crazy!”

  Bianca: “When Basti watched squares seven and eight and saw they didn’t light up, he noticed that the square next to them, that’s square six, is always lit. Isn’t that right, Basti?” He nodded. Bianca: “And square five – that’s further to the left – was always lit too, but not as brightly, ’cause effectively it was lit up by square six, ’cause the light must be in square six.” Judith: “O.K. So?” Bianca: “Whenever Hannes went into the building…” Judith: “Yes, the stairwell lights, I know. Please, get to the point!” “Don’t be so impatient. You’re spoiling all the fun!” the apprentice protested. “Come on, tell her!” Basti murmured.

  Bianca: “Well, at some point Basti noticed that square five was suddenly brighter than before, and that was at exactly the time Hannes came home. Of course, at first he thought it was just a huge coincidence. But whenever…” Judith: “Hannes came home…” Bianca: “Exactly! Then square five was suddenly brighte
r. And 100 per cent ’cause someone had turned on the light in square five. And that someone can only be one person.” “Hannes,” Basti murmured. Bianca: “Amazing, don’t you think? What that means is… Hannes doesn’t live in his flat! If he lives anywhere at all, it’s in the flat next door.” “Flat 21,” Basti murmured. Bianca: “And if he lives there alone then he’s not the type to save electricity, quite the opposite, ’cause all day long he leaves the light on in square six.” Judith: “So maybe he doesn’t live…” Bianca: “Alone! Brilliant, Frau Wangermann, that’s exactly the conclusion Basti and I came to.” Judith: “And maybe…” Bianca: “Exactly, Frau Wangermann.” “The banana-hungry widow with mobility problems,” Basti murmured, fiddling with his silver stud.

  6

  For five days she had to feign a feeble mind and pretend that nothing had happened. Apart from her Year 7 maths exam re-sit, this was the most difficult challenge she’d faced in her life, and overcoming it perhaps the greatest achievement.

  On 20 December Hannes was busy all day with meetings and Christmas commitments. Mum was tied to the shop in the afternoon because Bianca had an appointment with her gynaecologist, which one could hardly deny her, certainly not four days before Christmas.