Never Trust a Callboy

by Birgit Kluger

  I slowly open my eyes. Ron is standing over me looking angry.

  "Burglars. I thought I heard burglars at the door."

  "Burglars? If in fact someone had tried to break in the alarm would have gone off." He eyes me with a penetrating look.

  "I... I was scared." Tears well up in my eyes. Without meaning to, I start crying. When did I turn into such a crybaby?

  "You're completely hysterical." Ron recoils as if I had a contagious disease. A weeping woman is pretty much the last thing he wants to deal with. Instead, he walks along the hallway, opens the front door and looks outside. Then he examines the door frame. "It's alright," he announces. "You just imagined it."

  Still somewhat shaky, I nod. I like this presumption better than that the killer came back to get me out of the way.

  "Why are you here? I thought you left me?" Ron has now returned from his inspection of the door and is standing with his arms crossed looking down on me again.

  "The house is half mine. So I can stay here as often as I want to," I say defiantly. I will not be intimidated so easily. If he continues, I won’t move out.

  Maybe I should throw a few lavish parties instead. Ron hates noise, chaos and drunks. As this thought occurs to me I have to smile, which Ron promptly comments on: "I don't know what you find so funny in this situation." His tone could freeze the Sahara and bring on the next ice age. Ron as a weapon against climate change. Again I have to smile. I can see from his face that I'm getting on his nerves. Good!

  "Maybe I realize you did me a favor," I counter. Without waiting for his reply, I push past him, grab my car keys and leave him alone with his thoughts.

  The door to the ice rink opens with a silent creak. The back door, because the normal entrance is locked. I had forgotten that the hall is closed over the summer. I enter quietly. I’m not quite comfortable, I feel like an intruder. I suppose I am.

  It's been a long time since I was last here. I examine the surface of the ice thoughtfully, it once meant the world to me. I'm not sure why I’ve returned, I've been avoiding the place for many years. Actually I planned to go back to the hotel, but the prospect of being cooped up in my suite so early in the day depressed me. Instead, I followed the familiar path to the ice rink. I used to come here every day. Back then the world still made sense. If only for a short time. On the day that should have been my greatest triumph, I decided never again to enter the rink. And I have abided by it. Ron doesn't even know that his almost-wife was a champion figure skater.

  For many years the performance sport gave me the feeling of being able to accomplish something on my own. An achievement that money can’t buy. Right up until the moment my win was announced and my mother told me that I'd only won because my father bribed the jury. "With money you can buy anything!"

  The words still echo through my head.

  Anyway, I was an idiot. Because of her jealous stupid comments I threw away the thing that meant the most to me. Rather than continue to fight, I gave up. Just like today. Instead of seeking closure with Ron, I ran away. I left the house, which is as much my home as it is Ron's. What a coward I am!

  "I'm glad to see you again," a voice breaks through my reverie. A figure is approaching through the rows of seats. It’s Marc, my former coach.

  "It’s been a long time," I reply and take in his familiar shape. He’s gotten old, but he’s taken good care of himself. His body is as slim and trained as it was back then. His formerly black hair is almost white, and a network of wrinkles runs across his face. Most of them look like laughter lines.

  "I always hoped you would start again. I could never understand how you could stop so suddenly," he says with a sigh.

  "It's a long story." I avoid saying more, because I'm not in the mood to give a long explanation.

  Nevertheless Marc nods as if that answered everything. "We could use you, as a coach for the youth. Think about it," he adds, and looks at me, waiting.

  "It's been over ten years since I last stood on the ice."

  "Yes, and...? It's just like riding a bike, you never lose your touch. Come on, let me show you something." Marc stands up, takes my hand and pulls me to the exit behind him.

  "I’m sure I’ll have a pair that fits you." Marc rummages in his trunk while I stand next to him and wonder what he's doing. Then finally he stands up, a triumphant smile on his face. In his hands are a pair of Rollerblades.

  I look at him dubiously. "Do you really think this is a good idea?"

  "Try it. You’ll love it." Reluctantly I take the blades from him, sit down on the ground and try them on. Marc pulls on a pair too and rolls over to me. He smiles as I awkwardly stand. "And go," he calls and shoots off ahead of me.

  "Hey, wait for me." Carefully I move forward on the roller blades. I feel as if I’m walking on eggs, but then suddenly, as if by itself, my body remembers. With a laugh, I gain some speed overtake Marc, and spin a pirouette.

  "This is easy," I cry out to him going faster until I can feel wind blowing in my hair. I turn around, run backward, spread out my arms and turn one pirouette after another.

  "Training in the ice rink will begin again in September. We need you," says Marc, it’s an hour later and we are stowing the blades back in his trunk.

  "I don't know, but I'll think about it," I reply. A feeling of disappointment sinks in and I realize how happy I would be to accept his offer. But I can't, not now, not with my life in a mess.

  "Don’t think too long." With a quiet click, he closes his trunk, gets in his car, and smiles at me one last time before leaving the parking lot.

  18

  Even before I see Nana I hear Gino's exuberant greeting.

  "Bella Bellissima! Madonna!" All heads in the restaurant turn towards the entrance immediately. And they will not be disappointed. As always, Nana's appearance is spectacular. She approaches the table flanked by two purebred Dalmatians, whose collars sparkle in the soft light of the restaurant as if they were covered in diamonds. It is the best table in the restaurant of course. Nana would never condescend to be satisfied with the second-best. Not that Gino would dare to even think about it.

  Nana’s short walk to the table is accompanied by a torrent of speech from Gino. Never, have I heard so many "Madonna," "Signorinas," "Bellas," and "Bellissimas" as in those few minutes. Honestly I don't think that Gino said even one complete sentence. It sounds more like the worship of a goddess. And Nana looks similar to one.

  She is a vision in white leather. I know few people who can wear such an outfit, without appearing ridiculous. But my septuagenarian grandmother can pull it off.

  As she arrives I greet her with a breathy kiss on each cheek and we sit down. An ice cooler appears next to our table as if by magic. Seconds later we both have full glasses in our hands.

  "Honey, you look exhausted," she notes after we have said hello properly.

  "I know. It's just that the thing with Ron has really taken it out of me," I admit with a sigh.

  "Forget about him. He's not worth your time or energy. Be happy. You were right to leave Ron. But you know that already." She raises her glass with a smile. "To love!"

  I take a sip with a grimace, which could be taken as a smile if you interpreted it with a lot of goodwill. Love is pretty much the last thing I want to drink to.

  "Don’t pull a face," I'm promptly admonished. "Nothing better could happen to you than your separation from Ron. The world is full of fascinating, good-looking men."

  Nana has had many wonderful conversations with her young lover I would wager, but I keep this thought to myself. Still, I'm not ready to discuss 'love in advanced age’ with her just yet.

  "Promise me one thing," she interrupts my train of thought. "Promise me that you'll give love a chance. And soon. As soon as possible."

  "Well, I don't know. I need some time..."

  "Rubbish. No one needs time. Believe me, the years go faster than you think, and before you know it, you're old."

  "Nana, I'm not ready to take the risk
of getting hurt again. Not after Ron took me for a fool, and I still have to cancel the wedding." At the thought of what lies ahead I take another big gulp of champagne. If my life goes on like this I’ll become an alcoholic.

  "Promise me," she urges, and, with a sigh, I obey.

  "Okay, I promise that I will give love a chance," maybe in ten years.

  "And that means as soon as you find it," continues Nana, as if she read my thoughts.

  "Okay, as soon as possible," I agree. I can promise that easily, because it won't happen. I'm sure of it.

  We toast my promise with a gentle clink. The drink slides down my throat like sparkling silk. If only life was always so pleasant! Sitting with Nana in nice restaurants, drinking champagne and acting as though the future has something good in store for me.

  "And in the meantime you should have as much fun as possible," she continues her teachings on worldly wisdom, men and love in general. In the meantime we have passed dessert and arrived at the espresso.

  "Nana, I know you're right, but believe me, at the moment, I have no interest. I want to be left alone."

  "Then at least have an affair, if you’re not ready to fall in love."

  Christian.

  His name pops into my thoughts on command. But it’s not an affair, it’s a paid service, one which I can’t even remember. Nevertheless, while he was with me I felt better than I have in a long time. Full of life. Full of energy. Beautiful. Desirable.

  "Tamara. Are you listening to me?" Nana looks at me questioningly. I was so lost in my thoughts I have no idea what she wants to know.

  "Yeah, um... Exactly," I agree, hoping I’m saying the right thing. I could admit that I wasn’t listening properly because I was thinking about something else, but then she’ll want to know what I was thinking about, and I don't want to hand that information over to Nana. It should remain my little secret, which I can enjoy for myself.

  "Well then, that’s settled. I’m pleased that you want to meet Carlos!"

  Carlos? Who is Carlos? Panic is rising in me. Carlos can only be Nana's new friend. If my mom finds out that I have agreed to meet him, she’ll bombard me with phone calls every day and reproach me to the end of my days.

  But maybe there's another way. Maybe I can make it clear to her that my meeting with Carlos is a good idea. How should I persuade Nana to leave a man I've never met? If I want to discourage her from him, I must first convince myself that he really isn’t the right man for her. Exactly! With a satisfied sigh I lean back again. This way I can make it look like I am taking my promise seriously and actually trying to bring Nana round to my mother’s point of view.

  19

  "Where the hell are you?" The words carry to me over the phone. With a grimace, I end the conversation without answering the question. When Ron is in this mood, there’s no point in talking to him. I can just picture him standing in front of me. He is definitely enraged. A smile spreads across my face. He was probably trying to access his account balance via the internet. That's too bad.

  When he calls the next time, I can hear from his voice that he’s trying very hard not to start shouting again.

  "Tamara, what is this?" he asks in a reasonably normal tone.

  "What are you talking about?" I ask back, even though I know exactly why he's calling.

  "What have you done with my accounts? Damn it!"

  "Ron, I have no idea why you think you need to bother me with your money matters. How about if instead you bother about canceling our wedding?"

  "Our wedding? What do I care about our wedding! Five million euros are gone! Disappeared! And I want to know what you've done with my money!"

  "Nothing at all," I lie and feel a sense of satisfaction spread through me. He should look for his money. He’s bound to find it eventually. I did, after all, transfer it to his own savings account.

  "Tamara, what are you playing at? Whatever you've done, undo it. You hear me?"

  "Honey, I don't even know what you’re talking about."

  "You’ll regret this. I promise you." Ron sounds as if he were about to explode. If I were not so angry at him, I could feel sorry for him. But I think he deserves a little stress. Why should I be the only one sitting on an emotional roller coaster?

  Just as I finally devote myself to the delicious looking breakfast I ordered from room service, the phone rings again. My mother. With a sigh, I accept the call.

  "Hello, mother."

  "Hi," she replies, then after a brief pause. "How are you?"

  "Okay," I reply truthfully and brace myself for more allegations about the wedding, Nana and whatever else pops into her head. But as so often before, she manages to surprise me.

  "I've been thinking about everything, and I have come to believe that you're right. In our day it was different, people stood by their promises no matter what. But you do what you have to do."

  "Good. That’s good to hear."

  "I'll come right over and we can have a cup of coffee and think about how best to deal with the whole thing. You'll see, we will find a solution."

  I try to nip this idea in the bud in panic. If there’s one thing I’m not in the mood for then it’s going back to our house to drink coffee with my mother. She doesn't yet know that I’m living in the Mainhatten, and I’d like it to stay that way.

  "No, I can't right now. It’s very sweet of you, but I have no time this morning. I have an appointment with my lawyer, and I don't know how long that will take. I also need to contact a broker. We want to sell the house." This is new, the idea just occurred to me. But I'm certain I’m right. Ron won’t want to live there alone. Unless his girlfriend wants to move in. Maybe she’ll like the silver curtains.

  "You want to sell the house?"

  "It’s far too large for one person alone. You always said we didn’t need so many rooms."

  "Yes, but still! You've invested so much love and work into it."

  "I don’t want to live in it!" Just the thought causes me to shake. "And Ron won't want it either," at least I think he won’t. "So we’re going to sell it."

  "So much change at once. It can’t be easy for you. Would you like to move in with me in the meantime?"

  "No!" Quickly I catch myself and try to go on in a normal tone.

  "No, mom, that's really sweet of you, but I... I think I'm going to buy a small apartment in the south of Spain or something." I have hardly spoken the words when I realize, I really do want that. Where did this stupid idea come from?

  "Spain? Why do you want to go there? You don't know anyone there, you’ll be all alone. I don’t think that’s a good idea. Right now, you need your family and your friends to help you through this difficult time. Believe me, running away abroad will make everything worse."

  With a sigh, I defend a decision that I have not yet made.

  "I need a change of scenery; new people, a different environment, different climate."

  "What nonsense. If you need a change of scenery, move to Frankfurt, immerse yourself in the life of the city. Go to the opera, the museums."

  "I don't want to move to Frankfurt. I want somewhere where it's warm. Where I won’t accidentally bump into Ron, and where I feel comfortable." Gradually I’m warming to the subject. Actually it wouldn’t be so bad, withdrawing from the whole hustle and bustle, enjoying the beautiful weather in Spain and partying every night.

  "Did you tell your father about this idea?" This is her standard question when she runs out of ammunition. My mother knows that I haven't told my father. My parents have been divorced for almost ten years, but have somehow managed to maintain a friendly relationship. No mean feat, in the light of my own situation. However, my mother didn’t have to deal with a corpse and an unfaithful husband.

  "No, Father knows nothing about it. I didn’t want to worry him." I'm almost red in the face telling this lie.

  "Tamara. Call him and tell him that you’re canceling the wedding. He is your Father, and he has a right to know what goes on in your life."

&
nbsp; This phone call is extremely exhausting. In some things, my mother never changes.

  "And then come and see me this afternoon, and we will consider your next move in peace and quiet. Don't argue with me," she adds, but I’m not having it.

  "That’s not possible. I’m flying to Spain at lunch time."

  "Today? You still have to cancel the wedding, and organize the house sale? How can you leave now?"

  I sigh. I’m almost 30 years old and still have to listen while my mother tells me how to live my life.

  "I have an appointment with a broker there," I lie, and then realize that I haven’t told the truth much in this conversation. "And our broker here is handling the sale of the house. There’s not much for me to do at the moment. It’s the perfect time to relax."

  Okay. There aren’t any brokers taking care of anything, neither in Spain nor in Germany, but that can change. So really, I haven’t exactly lied. Not properly anyway. The trouble is that I’m not sure if I’ve contradicted myself at some point. Luckily, my mother doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, she surprises me again: "If you think that’s best," she says.

  I stare at the phone with a huge question mark hanging in my head. Was that my mother who just said those words? Without going on about what a stupid idea this trip is? Without at least half an hour trying to convince me?

  "How long are you staying for?" she asks after a pause in which I'm not able to say a word.

  "I'll be back in a week."

  "Good. Then the first thing you do is come visit me, or better still, I’ll pick you up from the airport."

  After I have assured her that I think that’s a wonderful idea and that we should talk about it in detail later, I'm easily able to end the conversation and hang up. For a conversation with my mother it wasn’t too bad. In fact, she still hasn’t questioned me on Nana's relationship, or rather on my task of talking to her about it.

  20

  My heart is pounding in my chest when I enter our house. It looks forgotten, as if it had stood empty for a long time. There are dark shadows in the hallway. Outside the rain drizzles down, just like on the day on which I... I would rather not think about.