Never Trust a Callboy

by Birgit Kluger

  I any case, I used the time to come to a decision. It is not a decision I have much enthusiasm for. In fact the words “I must be crazy,” spring to mind. On the other hand I can’t think of a better solution to my problem. Which is why I am now walking across our huge estate through the stuffy evening air which has replaced the summer drizzle of the day.

  I arrive in the part of the garden, which is dominated by old, gnarled trees sooner than I would like. The branches of a weeping willow hang low on the ground, creating a melancholy atmosphere; reminiscent of a graveyard.

  Now all I have to do is bring out the dead body. I feel sick just at the thought of it. But I have no other choice. Although I have racked my brains for another way out, one thing is for certain: if I tell the police, I'm their prime suspect.

  I would have preferred to have a few days to grapple with the problem, I need as much time as possible before making a decision this big. But in this case I have to act quickly. What if my mother suddenly misses me and decides to show up for a visit? Or one of my friends?

  No. It needs to be done immediately, even though I don't quite know how I’m going to do it just yet.

  Maybe I should go to the police after all...? A series of haunting images appear in my mind’s eye. Me being led off in handcuffs, sitting in a cell at the police station, and having to explain why my fingerprints are all over the gun.

  Ron, looking desperately worried for me, saying: “Tamara would never be able to kill a man. Never!"

  My father doing a television interview, saying how sorry he is to have failed in the education of his daughter. Just like the last time...

  The memory brings with it a familiar feeling: determination. I will not be held responsible for a crime I didn’t commit, not again.

  As so often before, this decision is immediately followed by doubt. I must be crazy. Completely crazy.

  After I reassure myself that I do in fact have the ability to follow through with this absurd idea (unless of course a better solution arises that at present evades me) I return to the house. It cannot hurt to take the first steps in planning how I would bury the stranger in the garden. Besides, the planning helps me to curb my anxiety. I’m not shaking as badly as I was before. I’ve found at least a measure of calm; not much, but at least enough to carry on without needing sit in a corner and cry.

  Feeling a little more relaxed, I decide I need to change the locks, but just as I’m reaching for the telephone to call a locksmith, a shrill ringing rips through the silence. My heart starts beating wildly in my chest.

  "It was just the phone.” I say out loud, to soothe the frenzied heart-pounding in my chest. “The stupid bloody phone." Damn it! I can’t waste my time with trivial calls. Nevertheless, I take the call when I see the number on the display. It’s my mother.

  "Tamara. Why haven’t you called me back? I wanted to tell you that I’ve found some wonderful curtains. I’ll bring a couple of samples over later," she says immediately, before I even have time to say "Hello."

  Later? When later?

  I hastily try to nip this idea in the bud: "You can't come over now!"

  "But why not? I'm already on my way."

  "You're already on your way?" I have to pull myself together in order not to yell into the phone. "That’s not possible. I'm almost out the door. I have meetings all day. You can come tomorrow or the day after," or next week, I add, but only in thought.

  "That’s not a problem, honey. I’ll just come over for a couple of minutes to see if the colors match. You don’t need to be there for me to do that."

  "No!"

  "What’s wrong with you today?"

  "I... I'm a little busy. Our cleaning lady is coming, I have to discuss the menu with the caterer, and the interior decorator wants me to approve the Italian tiles." I could continue with the endless list, but I run out of breath.

  "It would be better if I come to these meetings with you."

  Bloody hell. I search desperately for an acceptable explanation as to why my mother, who after all only wants to be helpful, should stay away from these important negotiations. Then again I did decide last night not to put up with her meddling anymore, so I will confront her with the truth. In the future she has to stay out of my life, especially when it comes to such decisions as my wedding. And then of course there’s the corpse, which she cannot be allowed to discover...

  "Better not. Really, it's awfully nice of you, but I have a hair appointment in between and afterwards I have to pop over to Nigel’s. He wants me to start working with him in the Gallery as soon as we get back from our honeymoon." Well, at least it’s a start. I did say no, sort of.

  "If that’s what you want." As always, she manages to convey a lot of emotions in these few words. I can just picture her standing in front of me, with that chastising look she has, which says I'm making a huge mistake. And this time she might actually be right.

  My mother finishes the conversation abruptly, as she usually does, without saying goodbye. With a deep sigh I sink down on to the couch. Lucky escape. Usually once she’s on her way there's nothing that can knock her off course. Anyway, I have got to get that body out of the house, before my mother changes her mind and comes by anyway. But first I need to call the locksmith. I want new locks, today!

  "Damn, damn, damn!" The extensive cursing is the only thing that helps me release a little tension in the current situation.

  "Where is the stupid thing?" I'm desperately searching the garage. I can’t find the swimming pool cover anywhere. Ron has probably stowed it away in a box somewhere. Hours later, or at least it feels like it, my eyes fall on a neatly put together blue package, located on the far corner of a high shelf.

  The tarp is already pretty frayed so we were going to throw it away. Now I’ve found the perfect use for it. No one will miss it, and Ron will think it ended up in the rubbish dump just like it was supposed to. No one will realize that there’s a corpse rotting inside it. The plastic will be probably take more than a hundred years to decompose.

  It doesn’t matter. I'm not in the mood to worry about environmental pollution today. Instead, I put on a pair of gardening gloves and pull the tarp out of the garage, drag it across the terrace into the house, over to the food counter, and right up to where the dead man is still sitting on his bar stool.

  Okay. Deep breath. And another one. He's already dead. I'm not going to hurt him. All I have to do is tip him off of the stool and on to the tarp. Right.

  With a muffled thud, he falls on to the plastic. My stomach turns and I throw up, not on the white carpet, but into the large flower pot which is luckily standing right next to me. It's a bit of time before I can see again without stars. I almost regret the fact that I can now keep going. Somehow it was more comfortable standing around helplessly, because that kept me from having to do anything.

  But now I have to get him into the garden. Although I know that there’s no other choice, I can’t bring myself to keep going. Only after a long inner struggle do I manage to throw one half of the tarp over his motionless body. At least now that he’s under the cover you can only just tell it’s a body, and he’s not staring at me anymore, which is much better. I then grab a corner of the cover, choosing the one which is as far away as possible from the body lying within, and drag the whole thing behind me.

  I’ve not even made it over the terrace yet and already I’m sweating as if I were in a sauna.

  Gasping for breath, I stop and wipe off the sweat. And then onwards. There’s at least a hundred meters to go. If I continue at this rate, it’ll take all day.

  And then I hear it. Again.

  The doorbell.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. If it’s the police again I’m done for, I’ll get sentenced to life in prison.

  5

  The body has to go. At least far enough that I can no longer see it from the terrace. I feel like a Chinese slave worker. Now I know how it feels to drive fat tourists around in a rickshaw.

  Again the ringing. Damn it
, just five meters to go. Suddenly I hear a sound that causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end.

  The door locks being opened. One after the other. Since our entrance is secured like Fort Knox, the sound carries out to the terrace quite clearly. It can only be my mother.

  Two meters.

  The large bolt at the top of the door squeaks. Ron should have oiled that over a year ago.

  One and a half meters.

  Only the topmost lock is left. The sound is too quiet to hear it. I could have sworn that I perceived the quiet click nevertheless. Now she is inside.

  One meter.

  With a sharp jerk, I yank the tarp the last few centimeters and around the corner. Letting go of the end I sprint into the house. Almost skidding, I come to a standstill before my mother. She inspects me from top to bottom, eyes wide in disbelief. She starts to say something, opens her mouth ... then closes it again. Apparently she’s speechless. It’s a miracle.

  "Tamara you look terrible!"

  How disappointing, she’s recovered from her speechlessness. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with one hand and try to tie my hair up with the other. Somehow I get the impression that it’s pointless. I'm almost certain that discovering a corpse would have shocked my mother far less than my current appearance.

  "I had something to do in the garden."

  "But Ron always does that."

  "He doesn’t come back until Wednesday and I wanted to get it done before then."

  "Do you have to? You look... I don't even know how to put it. You look indescribable. I’ve never seen you looking so dreadful."

  "It's hot and humid. How do you think someone should look after working in this weather? After dragging a cor.. trash around?"

  "No need to be rude. You’d better go have a shower first and then I’ll show you the curtains."

  "You were going to come by tomorrow!"

  "I had to pass by your house anyway. There's no sense coming again tomorrow, just to pollute the environment."

  Yeah, right. Of course! Our house is located in the middle of a residential area. My mother has no other reason to pass by here except to visit me.

  "Now go shower." She wrinkles her nose. "You smell all sweaty."

  Great. The idea of leaving my mother alone with a corpse hidden behind the garage just a few meters away fills me with dread. She has a sixth sense, a built-in radar, that can see everything I want to hide from her. Then my eyes fall on her shoes. Cream-colored stilettos. Maybe God is on my side.

  "And shouldn’t your housekeeper be here by now? It looks..." My mother’s gaze falls on the stool that toppled over along with the body.

  "And what is that?" She gestures towards the flower pot.

  "That was the cat. Our neighbors cat. It must have snuck in overnight. I'm going to kill the damn thing."

  "Tamara!" My mother looks at me shocked. Not because I want to kill the cat, but because I cursed. I never do normally... at least, not in her presence.

  "Well, it's a bloody nightmare." Oops.

  "I think you’d better go shower now. You’re talking nonsense."

  I can't see her face, but I know exactly how she’s looking at me as I leave, shaking her head slightly. It doesn’t matter. I’ve exhausted all my energy; I’m not up for a confrontation. Actually the day was going better when it was just me and the dead body.

  As I see myself in the mirror I can understand my mother’s horror. I look like a madwoman. Not too long ago, I still had such a thing as a hairstyle, but now my hair is standing out from my head in wild curls. Two black stripes run down my cheeks, complemented by two equally dark black circles under my eyes. It looks as if I was right when I opened the door to the officers and the thought hit me that I only had half my make up on. The good news is that this is the least of the problems, and hardly noticeable, in my current state.

  With a sigh I begin to repair the damage. Then the doorbell rings. Not again. Nevertheless, I continue with my cleaning action. If anyone can get rid of unwanted visitors, it’s my mother.

  "Tamara? There’s a man here. He says he’s here to install new door locks," my mother says as I arrive back downstairs.

  A man in dark blue overalls is standing next to her. Express key service is emblazoned in red letters on his chest.

  "I wasn’t expecting you for an hour?"

  With a grin, he points to the company name. "We’re the fastest, and the best," he announces.

  Wonderful. Today would have to be the first time ever that a handyman comes too soon. I can feel the quizzical look of my mother boring in to me. I know how her brain works. I will need a good explanation for this.

  "All the locks on the front door need to be replaced. How long will it take?"

  Thoughtfully he eyes what would probably be enough locks to secure a bank safe. I can't blame him, I found it somewhat excessive when Ron installed a safety lock, a bolt and an alarm system in addition to the existing door locks.

  "Two hours. At least."

  Two hours? "I’ll give you a hundred euros if you can do it in an hour."

  He grins. “Okay. It’s as good as done."

  "Tamara, are you crazy? Do you want to throw your money out the window?" Economical even in death. Even if it's not her own money. At least she’s distracted from the real issue.

  "I have no time today. I already told you that. Where are the samples?"

  She unpacks the curtain samples with a doubtful look and a shake of the head. I breathe a sigh of relief. I did it. The corpse is out of sight and my mother is now preoccupied with thoughts of her favorite subject, the reorganization and decoration of our house. Even if I don't know how I came up with the stupid idea to want to decorate the living room before our wedding.

  "Don't you think that this delicate purple would fit wonderfully with your white couch?"

  "Uh. Yes. No. We want to buy a black couch. Black, with a lot of chrome." This way the fingerprint powder won’t leave stains on the couch.

  My mother looks at me dumbfounded. "Black and chrome? But you hate black and chrome!"

  "I think our furniture is far too conservative. Black and chrome are in right now, and silver curtains would fit perfectly." With these words, I urge her towards door. "I'm sorry, I should have said earlier, that I changed my plans, but the thought didn’t occur to me until this morning." After I had found a dead body and the image of friendly police officers handcuffing me and dusting our furniture got stuck in my head. "You really have to go now. The florist will be here any minute, the caterer..." Who else? There’s someone I haven’t accounted for this morning.

  "Good. But we’ll talk this evening. Something's wrong with you, Tamara. Are you sure you’re okay?"

  "Yes, Yes. Everything is alright. I’m fine. Just a little stressed today. I’ll be glad when this week is behind me."

  Finally. She's gone.

  The locksmith is working like a mad man at our door. He should definitely be finished soon.

  6

  After the locksmith has left as well, I make my way to the garden center where I buy a few square meters of turf, which I will spread over the grave that’s about to arise in our garden. Internally I pray, against all evidence to the contrary, that it will not happen. I hope for a gracious fate and a corpse that dissolves into thin air.

  After I finish my purchase, I sit motionless in the car for almost a quarter of an hour. I have to go home, but it’s the last place I want to be right now. I usually visit Nana, my Grandmother, in crisis situations, but this crisis is too big to go to her for. And also... I'm just not ready to talk to anyone about it or to carry on with inconsequential small talk.

  After a while I summon my courage. I'll go into the city and have a coffee in one of the many student cafés. Maybe I’ll even get something to eat.

  "A glass of sparkling wine, breakfast number nine and a coffee with milk please," I order from the waiter, glad to have found a seat in the Albatross, a small cafe in Frankfurt’s student quarter
. It doesn't take long before my order is standing on the table before me. My hands are still shaking, so I have to grasp my glass firmly with both hands and gently take a sip. Maybe the wine will help me to relax and quiet my mind. After all, I've done nothing decisive yet.

  Gradually, the wine takes its effect. For the first time today I feel somewhat better. I carefully try the bread, hoping I can now actually eat something, without immediately regurgitating it. I take a further bite as it hits me just how hungry I am.

  It's been forever since I've eaten something. My last meal was at some point last night. Today, the corpse in the kitchen stopped me... Okay, better think of something else.

  To distract myself I leaf through a magazine. But I don’t succeed in understanding one word of what I read. The characters dance in front of my eyes and make no sense. With a sigh, I give up and instead look out of the large terrace window on to the small park outside. During my studies I used to sit in this Café garden under the gazebo for several hours at a time, drinking coffee, and excitedly discussing our latest exam or an unfair Professor with my friends. This is where I met Ron for the first time.

  When I saw him, I never thought that he would be interested in me. He was so incredibly handsome, so manly and self-confident. Quite different from the men that I had previously dated. Ron knew exactly what he wanted and especially how to get it.

  With a dreamy smile I let my gaze wander through the garden, and I remember a hot summer night, barely two weeks after we met. I was in Ron's penthouse, which provided breathtaking views of the entire city. But that was not what captured my attention. It was Ron himself. He held me with his gaze. Music was playing in the background, but I didn’t really notice it. Apart from Ron and me nothing else seemed to exist.

  "You're so beautiful," he whispered finally. Without breaking eye contact he traced the contours of my face with his finger. I closed my eyes for a second and enjoyed the contact, which awoke all my nerve endings. Like a trail of lava.

  And then I felt a gentle stroking on my lips, followed by the taste of the sea.