Never Trust a Callboy

by Birgit Kluger

  Nervously I nibble on the pen while I stare at the pristine white sheet of paper in front of me. Instead of thoughts, questions are running around my head. Was I really wrong? or was it indeed Ron that I saw outside the hotel? Together with another woman? Together with another woman... together with another woman... together with...

  Frowning, I look at the sheet, I have trouble focusing my eyes on the letters that drunkenly merge into one another. While the words dance a jig through my head, my hand has been working independently. Strange, what it seem to have written entirely on its own:

  Is Ron the killer?

  With a grimace, I consider my scribblings. It’s probably just because I'm drunk. I have no idea where this thought has come from, but one thing is certain: it is just as unlikely that Ron has murdered someone, as it is that he is with a strange woman in a hotel room right now. So much for the idea of "organizing my thoughts." Maybe I should drink a cup of coffee and eat something to sober up. But I don’t get that far. Someone suddenly makes a noise at the door, trying to open it, which should of course fail, because I changed the locks. Stiff with fear I freeze mid movement, my eyes fixed on the door.

  10

  "Tamara, open the door!"

  Oh my god. Is that Ron? But...? Why...?

  "Damn it, come on, open the door, Tamara."

  It's him. But why is he here? He shouldn’t be home until tomorrow night! The image of him and the woman in the parking lot is running through my head. My mouth is suddenly completely dry. Why does he have to be here now, after I’ve persuaded myself to believe in his innocence? Why is he outside the door?

  The impatient ring of the doorbell rips through the air. There’s nothing else to do but open it. Laboriously I push myself up and quickly stuff the piece of paper in my pocket.

  That was entirely too much red wine, I think, when I stumble with uncertain steps down the hall. I feel like I'm on a boat that’s plowing through strong swell. With a deep breath, I try to sober up. I must confront Ron with my suspicions. I need certainty, that my quiet hope is right, despite everything. I brace myself for whatever is coming next and start to open the various locks. Just when I’m about to open the door, I remember that I need to disable the alarm system. I almost forgot, again.

  With a furrowed brow I stare at the number pad. What was the combination again? I changed the code, right after I installed the new locks. I search for the combination within my foggy memories. I know that Ron is out there bursting with impatience, almost ready to knock the door down. Patience has never been one of his strengths.

  At last! The correct numbers pop into my head as if by magic.

  "Tamara, what is going on?" Ron pushes past me. As suspected he's grumpy after waiting so long for the door to be opened. It’s his own fault, I think to myself. He was the one who installed the over the top security measures. In any case he could greet me a bit better than that, we are getting married in a few weeks after all... or maybe not.

  "Why don’t you answer me?" he barks, after I take a while deliberating over my answer.

  "I thought I had... the alarm system...," I stutter, but Ron's already talking.

  "Why can't I use my keys in my own house?"

  His house? His...

  "Tamara! I'm talking to you!"

  "This is our house! Not your house," I contradict him with my irrefutable logic.

  "You're drunk!" He gives me a disgusted look which momentarily makes me upset. In order to stop myself keeling over I lean against the wall. In doing so I succeed at least in stopping the floor from tilting underneath my feet.

  Ron doesn’t notice that I can now hold myself upright, because he has turned away from me and is walking along the hallway towards the living room. I watch him go pensively and try to give the command to my legs to follow, but somehow they seem to lead a life of their own in that they do not obey me. Puzzled, I stare down. There they are! My legs! Why don't they move?

  "Tamara! Have you taken leave of your senses?" he calls from the living room.

  Actually no, I don’t think so. It's rather that since yesterday I haven’t had any sense left to take leave of.

  "Tamara!" Ron tears me away from my thoughts. He sounds like my tenth grade science teacher. He always snarled at me when I had no idea what he was talking about. I hate it when Ron talks to me that way. When he plays on the age difference between us, which is after all thirteen years. He makes me feel like a chastised little girl. While he of course is the cosmopolitan, experienced banker.

  "Did you know that this wine cost more than five hundred euros?" Ron continues his tirade.

  "So much?" it slips out without me meaning it to. "Actually it wasn't that good."

  "What is wrong with you? It's bad enough that you’re drunk. But if you really think it’s necessary to drink, couldn’t you at least have taken the cheap booze like any normal person, rather than pick the most expensive bottle in the cellar? How did you..."

  Like a traffic warden, I hold up my hand to stop him in his tracks. "I saw you outside the hotel. With that woman!"

  "Hotel? With what woman? What are you going on about?"

  "I’m goning... I’m gognin..." Angrily, I stamp my foot. Arguing while drunk has clear disadvantages. "I'm talking about the fact I saw you with another woman!" I finally manage to convey the important information.

  "What nonsense! You don't know what you're talking about."

  "I know exactly what I'm talking about!" I've had enough. Ron bursts in here, berates me for a stupid bottle of wine, and now he’s acting like I’m crazy.

  "You're drunk! Don't tell me that you can think clearly. Because you can’t, Tamara. I drive for hours through the night just to be with you, and you've got nothing better to do than throw about wild accusations. Plus you look worse than a beggar at the station, and you’re not acting much better."

  I stare at him speechlessly. My legs feel very shaky. Before they can fold beneath me, I reach the sofa and sink into it. Ron doesn’t see. He storms up the stairs. With a loud bang the bedroom door slams shut behind him.

  11

  It is already late when I wake up stretching my cramped limbs with a groan. I fell asleep on the couch, and that is by far the most uncomfortable way to spend a night. I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, which is probably because I emptied a bottle of red wine on my own.

  The sunlight that flows mercilessly through the patio door and into the room, is similarly designed to make life harder for me. If only I had my sunglasses. With a bit of luck, they’ll be nearby on the telephone table. With half-closed eyes I stumble over there. I rummage through the junk covering the entire surface as usual, and which Ron complains about on a regular basis.

  There, I’ve got them! With the satisfied feeling of winning a small victory, I put them on. Now I just need a cup of coffee and I can start the day. Maybe I’ll go shopping with my mom or meet my friend Ines. I could also...

  Suddenly it all comes back to me. The dead body. The grave in the garden. The parking lot. The stranger I saw Ron with. And then his sudden appearance, followed by his outburst when I confronted him.

  A small, yellow piece of paper next to the coffee machine tells me what I already know. Ron is at the office. Supposedly he didn’t want to wake me. An uneasy feeling creeps over me. Actually, we have a rule, and that is that we never go to bed without having reconciled after an argument. Okay, last night I was drunk. But Ron going to work without talking to me first, that hurts. He could have woken me.

  In one fell swoop all the energy that had filled me just at the prospect of a new day has flown away. Instead, I’m filled with the devastating realization that we have had the worst dispute of our relationship shortly before our wedding. And it is all my fault! What is wrong with me? There are only four weeks until the wedding, and I seriously thought that he was cheating on me. How could I? Why didn’t I just let the whole thing go? Why did I have to ask him? No wonder he’s angry with me.

  Determine
d I struggle to my feet. I'll call him. Tell him how sorry I am. Immediately!

  With a deep sigh I let myself sink against Ron's shoulder and slide closer to him. We are in Cariocca, a small Italian restaurant in Frankfurt's Westend. Instead of calling Ron, I surprised him in the office. And now we're here and reconciling over dinner.

  Our table is in a tiny niche which is shielded from the looks of the other guests by a latticework, on which real vines are growing. I take advantage of the privacy and snuggle up a little tighter with Ron. I enjoy the sense of security that I find in his embrace.

  "Honey, how could you think such a thing of me?" The question confirms my impression that we have ended our dispute, though Ron is still hurt. Hurt because I thought he was capable of doing it. The guilt wells up in me again like a wave.

  "It... I'm sorry. The last two days have been hell and..."

  Ron doesn’t hear me out. Instead of waiting for my confession, he interrupts. Which is probably better, because I have no idea how to tell him that a stranger has found his last resting place in our garden.

  "Honey, I know planning the wedding has been a bit of a nightmare for you. And I'm sorry that your mother and I have made it so hard on you. I promise I will talk to her tomorrow. We will find a way to stop this senseless bickering. So that you can be happy on this important day!"

  Tears start to well up in my eyes. Ron is so worried about my well-being! And rather than bursting with happiness, because I’m marrying the most wonderful man in the world, I heaped him with baseless accusations. Now I'm more sure than ever that Ron loves me and will always be there for me.

  My guilty conscience is suddenly joined by some discomforting thoughts. A giant black wall lies between him and me. I cannot expect Ron to spend the rest of his life with me without telling him what happened during his absence. Tonight, when he comes home from work, I will tell him what happened on Monday. Then we can sort it out, together.

  "What if I took the afternoon off and we celebrate our reconciliation again together at home?" Ron whispers in my ear. At the same time his hand, which was previously resting on my back, moves further down. Underlining what he really means by celebrating.

  I answer 'Good idea', as one pleasant shiver after another passes through my body. All of a sudden I want to leave the restaurant as quickly as possible.

  "Why did you change the locks?" Ron murmurs in my ear. As promised, we have celebrated our reconciliation. With a satisfied sigh, I snuggle up to him. Ron spoiled me like he hasn’t in a long time. It's so good to be in his arms. I would like to never leave the bed. Then I wouldn’t need to face reality, I wouldn’t need to confess to him what I've done...

  "Honey? I asked you something!" Quiet impatience resonates in Ron's voice. He kisses me. Hmmmm... Perhaps his impatience has another reason than I first assumed. But then Ron breaks off the kiss. Moving away from me a little as if he wanted to create a distance between us. Then he sees the look in my eyes.

  "I'd love to, but I have to get back to work." With a smile, he gives me a kiss on the cheek. "Tonight we continue."

  "Promise?" I sling my arms around his neck and pull him to me.

  "Yes, I promise. First tell me, what’s with the locks? Then I have to go."

  With a sigh, I try to organize my thoughts and force them into some logical order.

  "On Monday morning, the police came by. An anonymous caller had alerted them that an intruder had entered our house."

  “An intruder?” Ron looks at me, suddenly angry. "Why didn’t you tell me immediately?"

  "It was a false alarm," I try to calm him down. "But I was worried... I thought it would be better to change the locks."

  I close my eyes. Shame washes over me like a giant wave. I wanted to tell Ron the truth. Really I did! But I can’t bring myself to do it. The fear of losing his love is too great. Too great is the misgiving that he could withdraw from me if I’m in trouble, just as my father did.

  "Still, you should have told me." Ron pulls me to him, hugging me, as if he would never let me go. "Honey, I would have come back immediately. Even if it was a false alarm. You must have been so scared."

  Ron is so concerned and compassionate. I have to tell him what happened. I can no longer maintain this lie.

  "There's something else that I..." The ringing of the phone interrupts me. I’m almost relieved as I answer the call.

  "Tamara, you have to speak to your grandmother," the words ring out in place of a greeting from the caller. My mother. When she says "Grandmother" evil is brewing.

  "What's wrong?" I ask, although I'm pretty sure that I would rather not know what triggered the dispute between the two of them this time. The relationship between her and Nana is about as relaxed as our relationship to each other. No wonder, then, that they are regularly at loggerheads. This time there seems to be some serious background, because my mother doesn’t respond to my question, but instead breaks into a tirade:

  "I don't know what this woman is thinking. It is incredible. She flies into a rage like a madman! She’s probably been watching too many of these gossip shows on the TV, and now she thinks she must have a toy boy. She’s behaving so..."

  "Mother," I interrupt her flow. "What are you talking about?"

  "What am I talking about? You have to ask that? Your grandmother has a lover. A young lover! The man is not even half her age! Oh, what am I saying. He’s younger than you!"

  For a moment I’m speechless. Nana was always eccentric, and I actually thought we were past the point where she could surprise me. At her near seventy-five years, she still wears high heels, thigh high boots, miniskirts and deep cut tops. And she can carry it off. She still plays 18 holes on the golf course every Saturday and looks at least 10 years younger than she is.

  "Tamara. Has the cat got your tongue?"

  “Yes. Actually it has," I admit.

  "You have to talk to her and rid her of this moronic idea."

  "Me? Oh, no. Nana's old enough. I will not interfere in her love life."

  "Love life? PAH. The man is only interested in her money."

  "Yes, but..."

  "Tamara, no excuses! You're the only person she listens to. If you tell her that you think it’s not right..." With a sigh, I blank her voice out and wait for a break in her speech. When she’s in this mood, there’s no sense trying to discuss anything with her. So I do what any reasonably intelligent person in my situation would do: calm her down, promise to do everything she wants, and wait for the problem to solve itself.

  About half an hour later I can end the call at last. Of course, not without making a huge number of promises which I have no intention of keeping. Ron has left in the meantime.

  I make myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen and take it out with me on to the terrace.

  A gentle breeze caresses the plants and ensures that it is not too hot. Thoughtfully I sip on my drink. My decision is final: tonight, Ron will know the truth. But until then I will banish all thoughts of this conversation and instead think about what I’m going to do today. There is so much to organize for the wedding. It should be a very special day. The day when my dreams finally comes true.

  If I'm not sitting in pre-trial detention.

  The thought brings me back to reality with a jerk. Fear washes over me. I can remember only too well the feeling of despair and helplessness that I felt at my first arrest. But this time it's different. Ron will help me, I try to calm myself down. Together, we will find a solution. Ron's ability to comprehend even the most complicated situations, is one reason why he has come so far in his profession, and is one of the youngest Board members of a small private bank in Frankfurt.

  As if to prove to myself that I have nothing to worry about, that with Ron’s help I will be able to get out of this mess, I deliberately turn my attention to the part of the garden I recently turned into a graveyard.

  Not a good idea. A cold chill crawls up my back. What was I thinking? I can’t just bury a corpse! If you find a dead body, you
call the police! Just as it happens in any good murder mystery... Whoever moves a corpse in the trunk of their car or buries it in their back garden, is usually the one who is also responsible for their demise, an unwanted voice in my head says. So, in this case: me.

  I must find a lawyer. Whatever happened, one thing is certain: there was a stranger in our house who is now dead and buried on the property.

  As so often in the last few hours, I suddenly see a picture in my mind's eye. Ron, coming home yesterday evening, being angry about the fact I was drunk and making unwarranted accusations. Ron, wearing the blue striped shirt... that I didn’t pack.

  Ron was wearing the wrong shirt! I know that he didn’t have it, because I packed him his two white shirts made of Egyptian cotton. I remember particularly well, because I had to iron them first. And I hate ironing!

  It’s as if a giant hand has brought the world to a halt. In one fell swoop, all the sounds around me seem to be muted. As if on autopilot I stand up and head in the direction of the bedroom to take a look at the clothes Ron was wearing yesterday. Usually I would have already put them in the laundry, but this morning I was too confused to think.

  With trembling fingers, I reach for the shirt. It is the blue striped one! I wasn't so drunk after all!

  Maybe it’s possible that it wasn’t Ron I saw with another woman outside the hotel. But it is also impossible that he came directly home from Brussels. He must have been here first to pick up this shirt. Why did he do that? And above all, when?

  My heart starts to pound wildly in my chest, while the questions dance a frenzied jig in my head. Faster and faster they turn in my brain. Until there’s only one left:

  Did Ron lie to me?

  No! I order myself. I will not allow myself to be guided by flights of fancy. I know where that leads. This fight was the worst we have ever had, and I will make sure that it never happens again. I’m wrong. Can I really know with one hundred percent certainty which shirts I packed for Ron almost a week ago? I already have problems remembering the birthdays of my closest family members!