Never Trust a Callboy

by Birgit Kluger

  23

  When I wake up the next morning the bed next to me is empty. There is a note on the bedside table. "Call me if you need me." My head is pounding, and the bright sunlight that is passing through the curtain and into the room is hurting my eyes. I wish I was dead. Then at least the headache would stop. I would also be saved from the chaos that my life has become. With great effort I try to shake off these gloomy thoughts. But it’s not easy. A depression lurks in the background of my consciousness, just waiting for me to give into it.

  Ibiza! If there are no free flights I’ll just have to drive there. First I have a lot of things to sort out, but then there is nothing to keep me in Germany. Now, in the daylight, my fear fades a little. They won't hurt me. I’m certain of that! I just need time. Five million can’t be transferred from one account to another in a matter of minutes. They will surely admit that! Assuming it was the money that Blondie and Rambo meant...

  With a frustrated groan, I rub my eyes. At the moment, I really hate my life, and I can’t even manage to have a satisfactory night with Christian. This time there is also no memory of sex. Only this time, I know why: there was none. Yesterday I was happy that he just held me in his arms. I wasn’t capable of more. That's the advantage when you pay five hundred euros, my cynical mind adds. You can determine what does, or doesn't, happen.

  At least it brought me one night free from fear, I counter. Then I realize that I have to stop talking to myself. Right now! Otherwise I’ll find myself in a psychiatric institution.

  It’s all Ron’s fault, is my next thought. I'm not sure how, but somehow he's behind all this. The corpse. The cheating definitely. And then the two dark figures who threatened me yesterday.

  A deep sigh accompanies this realization. I am neither a private detective nor am I particularly courageous. How the hell do I escape this mess?

  I want my life back! I want my days to be free of fear again. So I will take equally drastic measures as Ron has, and then we will see. Even though my head still hurts and I suspect that it may be twice as big as usual, I grab my phone and call him. Ron's sleepy voice answers.

  I bark "in the future keep me out of your problems," into the receiver.

  "Tamara, is that you?"

  "Of course it is! Who else would it be? Do you have so many ex-girlfriends, that you no longer recognize me on the phone?"

  Silence. He has no answer to that. Moreover, he is not alone, because next to him a sleepy voice asks what’s going on.

  "Make sure that I'm no longer bothered, or I’ll go to the police, and then I'll tell them everything. Everything!"

  My voice has a shrill tone, I realize that I'm hysterical. But it’s hard to remain calm when fear and anger are raging inside me. I’m fighting a battle which threatens to get out of control.

  "What are you talking about?" For the first time since I've known him, Ron sounds somehow weird. Panicked.

  "You know exactly what I'm talking about," I say.

  "No, I have no idea, Tamara. But one thing is certain, it would be better if you stopped taking those tablets. They don’t agree with you."

  I interrupt him impatiently.

  "I’m coming to your office this afternoon. We have to plan the sale of the house. I just need a Power of Attorney for the agents. And then I'm out of your life. Forever."

  "Tamara, I..."

  Without waiting for an answer, I hang up. I don't want to hear more lies and evasions.

  A few hours later I enter the business premises where Ron can always be found, even on a Sunday. For years now he’s driven into work for a few hours every weekend. Allegedly, because that’s the only time the office is quiet and he can work on important documents.

  Ron works in the Westend, the part of Frankfurt where the wealthy live. There, in an old mansion, are the premises of the private bank of which he is Managing Director. The building exudes an old world charm with its high ceilings, shiny parquet and the hint of money, which seems to float though the rooms.

  "Good afternoon, Miss Hartwig," the doorman who is always on duty at the weekends greets me. With a nod and a smile I hurry past him. I’d like to get our meeting over with as quickly as possible so I can disappear out of Ron’s life. Forever.

  With a sluggish feeling in my stomach I enter his office and am astonished when he walks around his desk, his hand outstretched towards me then draws me in and kisses me on the cheek.

  "I’m glad you're here," he says. Has he lost his mind? After everything that's happened, this empty phrase is all he can think to say? Ron just smiles as though this greeting was the most normal thing in the world.

  "Won’t you sit?" He points to the leather chair standing before his desk.

  "Yes, of course," I answer. "You look well," I add, playing along with his game. Why should I be the only one who wonders about the behavior of the other?

  "Would you like a drink? A cup of coffee, or a water?" parries Ron managing to make me feel for a second like just another customer of the bank who wants a loan.

  “No. No thanks. I don't want anything. I won’t keep you from your work."

  "You’re not. I have time. You are, after all, still the most important thing in my life." Ron leans forward over his desk. He smiles at me, an unspoken request in his eyes. But before he can speak, I do: "you have to sign this agreement, so that the estate agent can be active on our behalf. Also, I've prepared a Power of Attorney so that you can complete the purchase agreement during my absence. But only if I have signaled my agreement before the broker." With these words I pass him the document, without waiting for his comments.

  "If that's what you want," says Ron and speed reads the agreement, then he nods. "Seems fine to me." He signs and hands the papers back to me. "But I was hoping we could talk about something other than the end of our relationship."

  "I don't know what you could possibly want to talk about."

  "Tamara." Ron gets up, walks around his desk and drops onto his knee next to my chair. "Honey, I know it's asking a lot. But can you not forgive this mistake? Of course I don't expect you to marry me now. We can postpone the wedding. But that doesn't mean that it all has to be over!"

  Ron looks at me imploringly, and I realize I’m wavering in my resolve. His expression is so honest, so contrite. If he had not cheated on me with somebody else, I would probably risk it; give him a chance; trust in his love again; but I back away from him, stand up and take a few steps to the side to gain distance.

  "No!" I shake my head. "It’s not going to happen Ron. I can’t have a relationship that isn’t based on trust." My words are true, even if they reflect only half the truth. A feeling of sorrow overwhelms me. I was so hoping that Ron would be different. I believed so deeply that he was the right one.

  "Are you really ready to give everything up, because of one tiny hiccup?"

  "Ron. This tiny hiccup happened four weeks before our wedding! How could you? How could you do this to me and believe I would forgive you?"

  "I... I don't know why I did it." Ron runs his fingers through his hair and stands up. "I’ve been very stressed lately. And then the wedding, the bickering with your mother. I don't know what was wrong with me." Ron spreads his arms in a helpless gesture. "But I had hoped you might love me enough that you’d be willing to give me a second chance!"

  “No. I can't do that. I'm sorry."

  Disappointment spreads across Ron's face. And something else: anger maybe. But before I can be sure he conjures up a half-hearted smile.

  "That's such a shame, I regret my behavior. You have to believe me."

  Instead of answering, I just nod, because I don't trust my voice. I’m angry with Ron, he’s evil for betraying my trust and destroying our relationship, but still I can't stop the feeling of sadness which takes possession of me.

  “Alright. If that’s how it is, and you’re sure I can’t change your mind. May I walk you to the door?" As we arrive in the lobby, he pulls me into a hug and kisses me on the cheek.

  "
I'll miss you," he whispers in my ear and pushes me out the door. It closes with a quiet click behind me. I am alone in the foyer. Black, shiny marble reflects my mirror image, while more questions than before swirl around in my mind.

  24

  The thick wooden planks creak under my footsteps as I go back and forth in the room to get my stuff. I have changed hotels, because I want to make sure that nobody can find me.

  I chose something smaller, more discreet. An art nouveau hotel in Sachsenhausen, the part of Frankfurt on the other side of the river Main. In the old, beautifully renovated rooms I feel like I’m living in another time.

  As a precaution I paid in cash, for a week in advance. I got the money from an ATM. Then I cut up the card and threw it away. I only today realized that the guys could have found me via my credit card bill. It is the only trace that I left. At least I think it was.

  It's not long before I've hung up all my clothes in the closets. One of my two bags is already empty, the other contains only things that I do not immediately need. I put this in the small store room at the end of the hallway. The desk clerk assured me I could leave it there as long as I’m in the hotel.

  Once I'm back in my room I sit down in the comfortable old chair which stands next to the window, and pick up one of the books that I brought. I try to concentrate on the story, but I don’t succeed. Instead I jump up after only a few minutes and start pacing the room. The floorboards creak with every step. I should stop, otherwise the people below me will start complaining. So I sit down again. Maybe old wooden floors are not as great as I thought. Let's see what's on television, nothing, as usual on a Sunday afternoon.

  Frustrated I take in the room, the stucco ceiling, the four-poster bed that dominates the space and looks like every little girl's dream. It’s so boring! What should I do now? I don’t want to go back to our house. I'm afraid to meet my mother or my friends, because that’s the first place anyone would look if they wanted to find me.

  With a deep sigh I get up. To hell with the notary agreement. I agreed with him that I’d leave Frankfurt in a couple of days, but even two days are too much. I need to get away from here.

  My speedometer shows 200kmph as I race along the motorway. For the first time in days I feel free and without a care. Almost as if I had left an invisible load behind me in Frankfurt. I don’t know how long I’ll be away. But it doesn't matter. I kept the hotel room, so I have a place I can go back to. At any time. When it suits me.

  If I drive quickly it’s only fourteen hours to Barcelona, I can be there by ten o’clock Monday morning. Early enough for a quiet breakfast, by the famous Las Ramblas, Barcelona's pedestrian precinct close to the port, before finding passage for the night ferry.

  25

  Ibiza! The ferry is moving slowly along the quay wall. With a deep breath I inhale the salty air. I watch with fascination as the white houses of the town come closer and closer. I can almost touch them they are leaning so far over the port.

  I’ve always liked the capital of this small island. Even though the days of the hippies are long gone, you can feel the remnants of it still in the bars and cafés. Ibiza is also still a playground for dazzling characters. At night, when the harbor side seethes, the night owls invade and you can see them in their crazy costumes.

  It is bright here, not grey and rainy like Frankfurt. The sun appears smiling from heaven, and the noise of the port and the town slowly awakening drift across to me. The ferry has slid up to the harbor wall and is being fastened with thick ropes. Shortly afterwards, the door to the cargo space goes down. The first cars leave the ship.

  It doesn't take long before a café con leche is sitting in front of me gently steaming. I’m sitting under palm trees in the legendary Mar y Sol, located directly on the harbor, and listening to the cries of the workers, the noise of the street sweepers who are taking advantage of the early hour, and the clinking of glasses, that can be heard from the café behind me. It couldn’t be any more beautiful in paradise. I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of coffee. Then I take a sip; it’s deliciously hot.

  Relaxed I lean back and enjoy the warm rays of the sun on my skin. I would love to stay here forever. I have hardly finished this thought as someone lays a hand on my shoulder. The hairs on my neck stand up. Nobody knows I'm here. I turn around slowly, and release the breath I didn’t know I was holding.

  It’s an old woman. She looks friendly enough and is talking to me with wild gesticulations. She’s speaking a language I've never heard. My heartbeat settles down again. Thank goodness! The old woman looks at me questioningly, waiting for a response. Because I didn’t understand one word of her gibberish, I shake my head.

  "I don't understand you," I respond in German.

  The old lady considers and then she starts to talk to me in broken English. Now I understand a little more. As she shows me a stack of cards, I understand what she wants. I shake my head again, but she’s not easily put off. She’s already sitting herself down next to me and shuffling the cards. And then she indicates that I should pick one. I hesitate. I don’t think much of this nonsense. And if it does tell me something, that's even worse. What if she can see what has happened in the last few days? Nevertheless, I follow her invitation. I hope to get rid of her more quickly if I just go along with it.

  She lays out the cards, one after the other, until six rows lie on the table, six colorful pictures in each row. There is silence for a while. With a look of deep concentration on her face, she examines what lies before us. Then she moves her hand over the cards. She sweeps everything together into a disorderly pile and mutters.

  Before I can say anything or protest, she’s gone. Faster than I would have thought her capable of. She looks around again over her shoulder at me. Shakes her head and carries on. Then disappears.

  Mad woman. My good mood is gone. A queasy feeling is settling in to the pit of my stomach. Why didn’t she say what she saw? I attempt to shake off the thoughts. The whole thing does not get me any closer to my goal, escaping my worries.

  Hopefully she's home! Somewhat nervously, I consider the wrought iron gate that guards the access to Anna's house, and the narrow stone path that leads to the front door. The walls have faded to a dusky pink. When I last visited Anna, the color was fresh and lively. Anna had just repainted the House at the time, but it's been years.

  I try not to make a sound. Maybe she's still asleep. I hesitate, I don’t want to wake her up, I’m already arriving unannounced, but then I push myself onwards, through the gate and over the stone slabs to the front door. If I wake her up, that’s just bad luck, the main thing is, I hope that she’s pleased to see me.

  Just as I raise my hand to knock on the door, it gently opens, a cat dashes past me through the open door and disappears like a shadow into the bushes. Anna is standing there in the doorway. She stares at me dumbfounded.

  "Hello, Anna."

  "It can’t be...Tamara! I don’t believe it!" Relieved, I register the radiant smile that is spreading across Anna's face.

  "I hope it’s not a bad time."

  "Nonsense. Come on in. I am so pleased to see you. I haven’t seen you in ages." Without waiting for a reply, Anna pulls me into her little house and leads me through the dark hallway to the terrace, which is located on the rear. There she has created a little paradise. Flowers grow out of large clay pots, two small palm trees provide shade, and comfortable wicker furniture invites you to spend the day with a good book.

  It doesn’t takes long before I'm sitting in a cushioned rattan chair with a freshly baked croissant and my second cup of coffee today steaming in front of me.

  "When did you arrive? And why didn’t you let me know you were coming? Is everything okay with you and Ron?"

  Smiling, I lift a hand. "One question at a time, okay?"

  Anna laughs. "I'm sorry. It's just that I haven’t seen you for so long, and then you're suddenly standing at my door. I thought I would never see you again."

  "I'm sorry, Anna." I
swallow, I notice tears are welling up in my eyes again. What is wrong with me? Determined, I push back the tears, and pretend I just need to clear my throat before I speak again. "I should have been better at keeping in touch. But somehow... I don't know. I thought we had drifted apart."

  Anna lays a comforting hand on my shoulder, apparently, my attempts to hide how touched I am haven’t worked.

  "Maybe we have drifted apart, but we can still be friends, don't you think?"

  "I hope so. I'm sorry, Anna. Really."

  She’s dismissive. "It's not your fault, I haven't called you either. A lot has changed for me, and it took me a while to find myself. But that’s not important now. Tell me about you! What brings you out here all of a sudden?"

  "I need a break, some peace and quiet, and I thought it would be a good idea to relax here a little," I mumble, but Anna gives me a quizzical look. I never could deceive her. She knows that there’s more to it than that, more reasons for my visit than I want to admit.

  "There is a lot I have to tell you. Some bad things have happened," I admit at last. And then I start. I tell her everything. About Ron's infidelity, about the corpse and how I buried it in panic. The fact I think I’m being followed, and that I was threatened, and that I don't know what role Ron has in all of it.

  It’s a long time before I’ve told her everything that’s been weighing on my mind. Silence surrounds us when I'm done. I feel exhausted, but also relieved. As though I had just been to confession. The question is whether Anna will give me absolution.

  "You must be at your wits end," she says finally. "You’re in a right mess." She shakes her head. "But you do realize you have to report the matter to the police?"

  "I know," I briefly close my eyes. It doesn’t do much good, because the pictures that I see are not easy to get rid of. "But I don't trust them. They’ll think I did it. Anna, I was alone in the house when the murder happened. I don't have an alibi. What if they don't believe me? What if they think I killed the man?"

  Anna runs both hands over her face pausing to rub her eyes. She always does that when she needs to think. "For now you stay here, and then we’ll see what happens next."