The Stranglers Honeymoon

by Håkan Nesser

  It was Benjamin.

  He was in his car, outside their front door, talking on his mobile, he explained. He asked if she had anything against meeting him for a little chat. It might be a good idea to discuss a few matters, he suggested.

  She hesitated for a few moments, made a quick calculation and concluded that it was now eleven days since he had slunk out of her bedroom.

  Then she said yes.

  Provided it didn’t take too long, she added. She had quite a few things to see to.

  Benjamin accepted this, and five minutes later she was sitting in the passenger seat of his car. He was wearing the same shirt as he’d had on that first evening on the sofa, she noted.

  6

  ‘I’ve been a bit busy,’ he said. ‘That’s why you haven’t heard from me. Please forgive me.’

  She wondered how many times he had apologized or begged for forgiveness during the short time she had known him. It somehow seemed to be his built-in opening line every time he met anybody: apologize, draw a line under everything that had happened and start afresh. Raring to go and without prejudice.

  But perhaps it wasn’t such a good strategy in the long run.

  ‘Me too,’ she said. ‘School is causing a lot of problems. I’m going to change, I think.’

  ‘Change what?’

  ‘Schools.’

  ‘I see.’

  He didn’t sound especially interested. Perhaps he had a voice that always gave him away. She had been so taken by it to start with, but perhaps that had been mainly because that was what he wanted her to feel. Maybe he used his voice as a sort of tool.

  He stroked her arm gently with the back of his hand before starting the car. She tried to assess her reaction to that gesture – to determine what she really felt about it – but she couldn’t. It was too superficial and insignificant.

  ‘Where would you like to go?’

  She shrugged. Pointed out that he was the one who wanted to talk, not she. As far as she was concerned, it didn’t matter where they did it.

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  She admitted that she had only had an omelette and a sandwich, as her mother was ill.

  ‘Ill?’ he said as he drove off in the direction of Zwille. ‘She hasn’t said anything about that to me.’

  ‘It started today. When did you last speak to her?’

  ‘Yesterday. We spoke on the phone yesterday.’

  ‘But you haven’t actually met her for quite a while?’

  ‘Not for a week. I’ve been a bit busy, as I said.’

  There was only a slight hint of irritation in his voice, but she noticed it. A vague reminder that . . . well, what? she wondered. That not just one person was to blame if two people were not in touch with each other? Not even when one was thirty-nine and the other sixteen.

  ‘But you have time to meet me?’

  He turned onto the Fourth of September Bridge, turned his head and looked at her for so long that she was about to tell him to keep his eyes on the road instead. Then he cleared his throat, wound down the side window and lit a cigarette. She had never seen him smoking before, and had never noticed that he smelled or tasted of tobacco.

  ‘Do you smoke?’

  He laughed.

  ‘I’ve given it up. Although I buy the odd packet now and again when work gets a bit too stressful. Would you like one?’

  He held out the packet. She shook her head.

  ‘The important thing is that I’m in control of it. I can stop whenever I want.’

  ‘Do it then,’ she said. ‘Stop now, smoke inside a car makes me feel sick.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, throwing the cigarette out of the window. ‘I didn’t know that. Are you angry with me?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Because I think you sound negative. Quite clearly annoyed. Can I invite you to dinner even so?’

  She thought it was odd that he wanted to invite her to dinner if he thought she sounded negative and annoyed, and didn’t know what to say. She suddenly began to think she was being nasty to him: if she didn’t want to talk to him at all, she could have said so on the telephone instead. Declined to join him in the car, that would have been more honest. What she had done in fact was a half measure, as her mother usually called it. A typical, rotten half measure.

  And in any case, surely he hadn’t done anything to deserve being treated in this childish way? Six of one and half a dozen of the other, after all.

  Thus far, at least.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s have a bite to eat somewhere.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I don’t want to appear negative, it’s just that I think we have to put a stop to these goings-on that we’ve embarked upon,’ she began. ‘I felt that it was wrong even before the last time, and it would be catastrophic if my mum got to hear about it.’

  ‘We can talk it over,’ he said. ‘How about Czerpinski’s Mill?’

  She’d heard about that restaurant by the Maar out at Bossingen, but she had never been there. As far as she knew – and as the name suggested – it was a restored and revamped mill. Rather an elegant venue, in fact. White tablecloths and all that. She glanced at the clothes she was wearing – a pair of dark corduroy trousers and a wine-red tunic – and decided they would pass muster. Let’s face it, teenagers were teenagers after all.

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ she said. ‘As long as we don’t stay there too long – I ought to be home before ten.’

  ‘No problem,’ he assured her.

  For a brief moment, while they were waiting for the food to be served, a mad thought flashed through her mind.

  She would stand up and leave their little table hidden away in a corner. Step out into the middle of the restaurant and hold forth for the other guests sitting at tables next to the walls in the low, oblong room with its big oak tables and exposed roof beams.

  ‘Perhaps you think that the pair of us sitting at this table are a father and his daughter,’ she would say. ‘You no doubt assume that a generous dad is inviting his daughter to have a top-class meal in order to celebrate a birthday, or something of that sort. But that’s not the way it is at all. This man is my lover, and he’s my mum’s lover as well – just so that you know. Thank you for listening, please carry on with your meal.’

  Just to see how they reacted. Him and the other guests at this sophisticated restaurant – which didn’t in fact have any white tablecloths, but whose class was clear from other subtle details, such as the weight of the cutlery, the thick hammered paper on which the menu was printed, the stiff-starched linen table napkins and the even stiffer-starched waiters.

  ‘I often give him a blow job,’ she might add. ‘Suck him off. Just so that you know.’

  ‘What are you sitting there thinking about?’ he wondered.

  She could feel that she was blushing, and tried to cool things down with a drop or two of Coca-Cola.

  ‘Here comes the food,’ she said.

  ‘Does it torment you?’ he asked. ‘This affair between you and me.’

  She thought for a moment.

  ‘I wouldn’t say it torments me,’ she said. ‘But it will have to stop now. I thought you’d grasped that.’

  She noticed that he stiffened. Sat motionless for a few seconds before calmly but firmly putting his knife and fork down.

  ‘I had the impression that there were two of us involved,’ he said. ‘I seem to recall that those were the words you used.’

  She didn’t answer, nor did she look at him.

  ‘If I accept you as a real woman – and isn’t that what you wanted? – you must also act like a real woman. And accept that I am a man. Do you know what I mean?’

  A real woman? she thought. No, I don’t know what you mean.

  But she said nothing.

  ‘I know full well that it wasn’t very good for you last time,’ he went on. ‘But that happens. You shouldn’t give up just because it’s not the same intense experience every time. You
have to learn to forget it and move on.’

  ‘I don’t think I really understand what you’re talking about,’ she said. ‘So you think we should carry on as before?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Of course. Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t want to, for instance.’

  He smiled and put his hand on hers.

  ‘How can you know whether or not you want to continue if we don’t give it a try?’

  She thought for a moment. Tried to find words that would somehow make holes in his stubborn self-assurance.

  ‘It wasn’t just that last time,’ she said. ‘It’s the whole situation, as it were. I can’t cope with it. I like you, but not as my lover. I simply can’t handle that . . . It was okay for a short time, but it can’t go on any longer. You are more than twice as old as me, and you’re in a relationship with my mother.’

  He didn’t remove his hand. Sat there in silence for a few seconds and looked thoughtful. Contemplated different parts of her face. Mouth, hairline, eyes.

  ‘Are you quite sure about that?’

  ‘As sure as I can be.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, leaning back. ‘Maybe it’s best to do as you say. Shall we pay the bill and leave?’

  She nodded, excused herself and went to the toilet.

  It started raining as they were driving back towards the centre of Maardam. Instead of turning right at the Richter Stadium, he continued straight on past the Pixner Brewery and Keymer church.

  ‘How’s your mum?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s ill today, I told you that. Why are we going this way? Aren’t you going to drive me home?’

  ‘I don’t mean how your mother is feeling today: I mean in general.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘So-so. You know what her problem is. Why are we going this way?’

  ‘I just thought I’d show you where I live. You don’t have anything against that, I hope?’

  She glanced at her watch and hesitated. It was a quarter past nine. She sat in silence for a while, staring out into the rain.

  ‘I want to be home before ten.’

  He patted her forearm.

  ‘Don’t worry. Couldn’t we talk a bit how you feel, at least? It’s not good to break off relationships willy nilly. Believe you me, you have to make sure the scars heal over as well.’

  ‘I think I’ve talked enough about that.’

  She was feeling quite angry now. He put his hand back on the steering wheel.

  ‘Talked enough about it? What do you mean by that?’

  ‘What I say. I’ve discussed it long enough.’

  ‘I don’t understand. With whom have you discussed it?’

  She could hear that tone in his voice again. The tone she had noticed when she first got into the car. Like a dash of spice that didn’t suit the taste. Something acrid, a little bitter. The word ‘dangerous’ came into her mind for the first time.

  ‘With a priest.’

  ‘A priest?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why have you spoken to a priest?’

  ‘Because I needed somebody to talk to about it, of course.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a priest among your friends.’

  ‘I don’t. He was visiting the school and telling us what programmes the church was organizing for young people. I went to see him after that.’

  ‘Which church?’

  She tried in haste to decide whether or not she wanted to reveal the name of the church, and made up her mind that she did. I might as well, she thought, so that he doesn’t get the impression that I’m making it all up. It struck her also that it was a sort of insurance – an independent person who knew all about it. Even if it was only a priest bound by vows of silence.

  She didn’t have time to ask herself why on earth she should need that kind of insurance.

  ‘Which church?’ he asked again.

  ‘The one out at Leimaar. Pastor Gassel. I’ve met him twice – it’s part of their job description to listen to what people tell them, but not say anything about it to anybody else. A sort of confession, although they are not Catholics.’

  He nodded vaguely, and scratched his neck.

  ‘But you haven’t told your mother at least?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  He turned left behind the university into Geldenerstraat, and parked in one of the lanes leading up to the Keymer churchyard. It was raining quite heavily now, and there was not a soul to be seen in the dark alley. He switched off the engine and took out the key, but made no move to get out of the car. He just sat there, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

  ‘And what do you think would happen if she found out about it? If somebody were to tell her what we’d been up to?’

  ‘What do you mean? She’s not going to know anything about it.’

  ‘Of course not. But how do you think she would take it if she did find out? Hypothetically, that is.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you’re asking about that. It’s pretty obvious that she would have a nasty shock – we’ve talked about that before.’

  He carried on drumming on the wheel.

  ‘So you don’t think it would be a good idea for me to tell her?’

  Monica stared at him.

  ‘Why would you . . .’

  ‘Because I also feel that I need to be honest about things. More of a need than either you or she has, it seems.’

  In a split second the penny dropped for her. And just as quickly she knew what the implications might be. It wasn’t he or she, the guilty parties, who would be worst affected if their affair became known: it would be her mother. No doubt about it. Twofold treachery of this nature – on the part of her lover and her only daughter – given her fragile state and her emotionally unstable situation . . . No, anything but that was Monica’s reluctant reaction. And in the circumstances she seemed to be ending up in, to make things even worse . . .

  An image of her mother’s washed-out face as she lay in bed earlier that afternoon found its way into Monica’s mind’s eye, and she felt the tears welling up behind her eyes. She swallowed, and tried to pull herself together.

  ‘You mustn’t do that,’ she said. ‘Do you hear? You really must not do that!’

  He took a deep breath and let go of the steering wheel.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I know. But can’t we go up for a while and talk it over, at least?’

  She looked out through the rain-soaked side window at the building they were parked outside.

  ‘Is this where you live?’

  ‘It certainly is. Shall we go in?’

  She glanced at her watch again, but realized that it no longer mattered much what time it was. Whether she got home at ten or eleven or even later. She opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement.

  He hurried round the car, put his arm round her shoulders and steered her rapidly through the rain and in through the entrance door, which was some ten metres further up the alley in the direction of the churchyard. She had time to note that the building was four or five storeys high, quite old and with stone walls. The entrance door led into an inner courtyard with bicycle stands, a shed for rubbish, and some benches under a large tree she thought was an elm. It was all a bit reminiscent of Palitzerlaan, and she felt a slight pang of nostalgia.

  ‘What a lovely building,’ she said.

  ‘Art Nouveau,’ he said. ‘Built exactly a hundred years ago. Yes, it’s pretty impressive.’

  His flat was also impressive. To say the least. Four rooms plus a kitchen, as far as she could tell; large parquet floor tiles made of light-coloured, grained wood and an open fire in the large living room. Heavy, dark furniture widely spaced – and well-filled bookshelves covering almost all of every wall. Two large, low sofas and soft carpets. She compared it with Moerckstraat, and felt a somewhat different pang.

  He must be rich, she thought. Why is he bothering with the likes of us?

  ‘What was that name on your door?’ she ask
ed. ‘It wasn’t yours.’

  ‘What did you say?’ he shouted from the kitchen.

  ‘It didn’t say Kerran on your door.’

  He came back into the living room.

  ‘Oh, that . . . I had a lodger last spring. A student. He insisted on having his name on the door, so that visitors could find his pad. I forgot to take it away. Would you like something to drink?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Can we do the talking now, and get it over with?’

  She sat down on one of the sofas, and he flopped down beside her after a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘I hadn’t thought of restricting ourselves to talking.’

  Before she had time to respond he stood up again and disappeared into the kitchen. Came back carrying a single candle in a holder. He turned off the ceiling light using the switch in the doorway, lit the candle with a cigarette lighter and put it on the table. Sat down next to her again. She began to catch on to what was going to happen next.

  I don’t want to, she thought. Not again.

  ‘So it wouldn’t be very good if your mother found out about us?’ he said.

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘If you can be nice to me just one more time, I promise I won’t breathe a word.’

  She wouldn’t have thought it was possible to combine an emotional entreaty and an ice-cold threat in such an ingenious way, but it evidently was. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was so dry that it was no more than a facial twitch. He put his arm round her shoulders and hugged her closer to him.

  ‘I don’t want to,’ she said.

  For a few seconds the only sound to be heard was his calm, regular breathing and the pattering of rain on the windows. When he started speaking again, she thought for a confused moment that it was somebody else. That it wasn’t him.

  ‘I couldn’t give a damn if you want to or not, you diabolical little whore,’ he said. ‘You will kindly allow me to fuck you, otherwise I shall make sure that your bloody mother ends up in a loony bin for the rest of her life.’

  He said it in an almost normal conversational tone of voice, and at first she thought she had misheard him. Then she realized that he meant exactly what he had said. He held her tightly with one arm round her back and shoulders, and started pawing at her lap with his other hand. For the first time it dawned on her how strong he was, and how incapable she would be of resisting if he were to force himself on her.