Never Trust a Callboy

by Birgit Kluger

  "I think someone is coming." Christian straightens up, pointing to the house which still looks as sleepy as a few minutes ago. If he thinks he can evade the question so easily he’s mistaken.

  "Christian?"

  "Yes?" With an innocent expression he turns to me again.

  "How about if you answer my question? It’s only fair, after everything I’ve told you."

  "There's not much to tell." Restless, he shuffles in his seat. "I haven’t yet met any woman I’d like to grow old with. Also in my job it’s not exactly ......."

  Damn. Now, just as he’s starting to open up the double garage doors start to swing upwards. A Porsche shoots out onto the street with a loud roar. The door closes with a soft whirring. A young woman is sitting at the wheel of the sports car.

  "There she is! Do you know her?"

  “No. It could be the woman that I saw Ron with at the hotel, but I'm not sure."

  We watch silently as she rushes past us. And then we follow her. With a satisfied roar her Porsche takes the road ahead of us, following the directions to the city center. I'm sure she wants to go shopping. A short time later she puts on her blinker and turns into the parking lot of a supermarket.

  "Follow her."

  "Okay, boss," responds Christian and turns the steering wheel. With screeching tires we shoot into the parking lot. Okay, maybe my statement came a bit late.

  "Actually, I didn’t want to draw a lot of attention to myself in the city," I comment on his maneuver.

  "Why not? The more conspicuous you behave, the less conspicuous you are."

  "You think? Is that why they are all gawking at us as if we had just landed a UFO?"

  "Perhaps they’re not familiar with my theory."

  "Looks like it," I mutter, but then subside, because we are entering the supermarket, following the stranger. We grab a shopping cart and wander through the aisles. It doesn't take long before we’re arguing about the things that Christian is putting into the cart.

  "I hate cereal."

  Christian’s looking at me from top to bottom. "You can’t see it yet, but believe me, that will change."

  "What can’t I see yet?"

  "Your unhealthy diet. You can’t eat bread every day."

  "Why not? It hasn't done me any harm so far."

  Despite my objection, Christian puts a loaf of whole meal bread into the cart.

  "I don’t like that stuff either," I whine.

  "I guessed that."

  Determined, I add a few croissants and a family size jar of Nutella to our shopping. Now I’ve started I add a few candy bars for good measure. Christian observes me with raised eyebrows.

  "I thought you’d want to pay attention to your figure?"

  "Are you trying to say something about my body?"

  "Not yet, but who knows what you’ll look like in a few years."

  "Yes, and...? I’ve done nothing the last few years but watch my figure, and four weeks before my wedding my fiancé still has an affair. I don’t want to think about the rest of it."

  "Hm."

  "Maybe I'll be more lucky if I pay attention to myself and what I want for a change," I say, and throw in a pack of Frosties for good measure. Suddenly we find ourselves standing directly behind our target, we almost ran into her backside with our cart. She turns to us with an astonished look.

  "I'm sorry. Just a regular old married couple fight." Christian apologizes with a cheeky smile.

  "Can’t you pay attention," I hiss at him, but he ignores me. He reaches past her for a pack of spaghetti and drops it into the shopping cart.

  "And? Do you think it is Ron's girlfriend?" Christian asks, once we’re back in the car again.

  "She’s young and beautiful. Of course she’s his girlfriend!"

  "Right."

  I would have preferred it if he hadn’t agreed quite so enthusiastically. She didn’t look that good. "I just don't understand why he’s rented the hotel room in Frankfurt," I say, thinking out loud.

  "Maybe he wants to be independent. If something doesn't fit him, he can withdraw at any time."

  "You're right. That does sound like him."

  "What we do now?" asks Christian and looks at me waiting for an answer.

  "Now we go to her house and find out who she is."

  "I know that already." With a self-satisfied smile Christian turns to me. "Did you think I sat outside her house for hours without at least finding out her name?"

  "Oh. Well, then. What's her name?"

  "Barelli. Almost like the noodles," announces Christian. I feel cold. A strange feeling is spreading in my stomach.

  "Are you all right? You're very pale."

  "No, I'm fine," I lie, even though my head feels like someone is hitting it from the inside with a hammer.

  "All right?" Christian sounds worried. I can't blame him. If I look as bad as I feel, I don’t want to look in the mirror.

  "I'm okay. Let's go back to yours. Please." Don't think about it. Don't remember what the name Barelli means. Instead just breathe. Just inhale and exhale.

  38

  We drive back to Christian's apartment in silence. Every now and then he gives me a worried look, but I do not respond. The shock has me tongue tied. Thoughts are running around in my head, going in circles, and I don't know how to turn off the carousel. I’m alternating hot and cold and my breathing still hasn’t settled back to normal.

  “So, what's the matter?” Christian asks as soon as we're finally at his home. A steaming cup of tea is placed on the table in front of me. Now, with the hot drink in hand, I feel slightly better.

  "The dead man..." I say finally after a few seconds have elapsed. I have to swallow hard as the bile threatens to rise again when I think about what I now have to explain. "The dead man was her husband."

  "Barelli? He was also Barelli?"

  "I only figured it out a few days ago, when I read an article in the newspaper. He’s been reported missing. Actually I thought about trying to find a way to let the widow know he was dead, but then so much has happened. I couldn’t find a way to do it." I have to laugh, but it's a laugh that borders on hysteria. "So it looks like I was the last person to find out the identity of the dead man. I guess his wife has known for a long time, and Ron of course."

  "Do you think Ron killed him?"

  “I don’t know.” My voice fails and I attempt a halfhearted smile.

  "And you're sure that the body has disappeared. Just like that?"

  "We already had this discussion."

  "Yes, but you don't seriously think I believe your story?"

  "Believe what you want."

  "You ask a lot. You want my help, but you won’t tell me what actually happened."

  "You gave your word."

  "Maybe that was a mistake."

  Since Christian doesn’t have any better ideas, we spend the rest of the day tracking Ron's movements on the Internet. The tracker shows where he stops, and if the device is to be believed, then Ron has not yet left the bank. A phone message will inform us as soon as he moves his car. In the meantime, there's not much to do, so Christian agrees to go back and pick up my remaining belongings from the hotel.

  While he’s gone, I try to focus on the novel I found on the bookshelf. I don’t have much success. My thoughts are still preoccupied with the dead man.

  After I have read the same sentence for the fifth time without understanding what it's about, I get up. It makes no sense: my thoughts go their own way. Maybe I can relax with a cup of coffee. I turn towards kitchen, I will have to pass the waiting time somehow, without going crazy.

  It really is a great apartment. My eyes fall on the stairs leading to the upper floor. Christian's apartment is spacious and extends over two floors. It’s in an old building that was recently renovated. So recently, that I think I can even smell the fresh paint, that’s how new everything looks. The large glass doors of the living room open onto a terrace which leads to a small garden. The guest room as well as Christian's
office and his bedroom are on the upper floor.

  Maybe I should get myself another book from his office. A huge shelf occupies one side of the room, and on it sit several hundred volumes. One of them might be able to distract me for a while. As long as it's not a bloody thriller. Hesitantly, I draw my steps towards the stairs. I don’t feel entirely comfortable browsing for a book without his knowledge. On the other hand, curiosity attracts me. Why does a callboy need a study? Especially one that is not a bedroom, but instead is equipped with an expensive computer and all possible technical devices. And the Ferrari? And the great apartment? All of this is expensive. Either callboys earn more than I thought, or he has another revenue stream.

  Abruptly I stop. If this other source of income is illegal, do I really want to know about it? I have enough troubles in my life at the moment. Nevertheless, I my feet keep moving up the stairs, although I am certain that this is not a good idea.

  For a man whose house is so neat, Christian’s study is amazingly chaotic. The large desk which dominates the room, accommodates several stacks of paper as well as a flat screen computer monitor. There is just enough space left that you can still write while sitting at the computer. Everything else is under siege from papers, pencils, open envelopes and magazines. A sheet that is dotted with mathematical formulas lies on the desk right in front of me. I take a look at it, reading the formulas, but they make no sense, which is not surprising when you consider what grade I got in mathematics.

  The magazine balanced on top of the stack, is titled the Economist. I actually would have expected Hustler or Playboy, given his profession. Then there are the bookshelves! I haven't seen such an impressive collection of boring titles since my college days. I almost feel like I’ve somehow found my way into my father’s library. He also has a penchant for boring literature. One thing is clear: I will not find an entertaining novel here.

  I turn around with a shrug. It’s not what I expected. Christian leads a double life, but not as a callboy/drug dealer as I initially suspected, but rather as a callboy / financial mathematician; strange combination.

  Damn it. A stack of papers falls independently from his desk as I walk past it. It was one of the perilously stacked paper mountains which already looked dangerously unstable. With a sigh I set about collecting everything and putting it back on the table. My eyes remain on an envelope. It's nothing special. Just a bill from the utility company. The weird part is that the letter is not addressed to Christian, but to Frank Maurer. All the other letters are addressed to the same recipient. It looks as if Christian is not his real name. Frank Maurer? I stare at the envelope and try to remember where I've heard this name before.

  "Why don’t you just read the letters, if they’re so interesting?"

  "God, you scared me."

  Christian is standing in the doorway to his study, arms crossed. His face is a rigid mask. But still, he looks angry.

  "It's not... I was just..."

  With a short hand gesture he pushes my words aside. "Forget it. You can perhaps understand that I don't work under my real name, given my profession. Actually I just wanted to tell you that I’ll be away tonight. I probably won’t be back until tomorrow morning." He turns around and goes.

  To another woman.

  I envy her. I’m an idiot. You just need to look at the man I was about to marry to know that I always fall for the wrong guys.

  "Wait," I call after him. "Where are you going?" The question falls out of my mouth, and I blush. I sound like his wife. I would like to take the words back again, but I can’t. With raised eyebrows, he turns to look at me. I can see how he weighs the situation, seeing my discomfort because of both my outburst and being caught with the post.

  "There’s nothing to worry about. I just wanted to search for a book, and I stumbled on your desk. If it wasn’t such a mess, nothing would have happened. It’s not as if I opened or read your post."

  "If you say so," he replies, and goes to the door. I feel like calling after him “don’t think that I’ll wait for you,” but then I would really sound like his wife.

  39

  I wake up the next morning in a bad temper, it took me a long time to fall asleep last night. Most of the time I tossed and turned in bed thinking about Christian, and then being annoyed at myself for thinking about him.

  I'm jealous. Of the other woman, the one he met last night. How can I be so stupid? First I was about to marry an adulterer and then I fall in love with a callboy.

  With a sigh I get up and go down the stairs to the kitchen. Hopefully he's still asleep.

  "Good morning!" The derisive greeting tears me from my semi-conscious state. Christian is sitting at the kitchen table. He looks wide awake and vibrant. I'd like to throw the coffee can at his head, if not for the coffee powder in it, which I now urgently need to transform into a strong espresso. Why does he look so good? As far as I know, he only got home at five in the morning. Not that I stayed up to find out when he came back.

  No. It was by chance that I was still awake when I heard the front door close and his footsteps on the stairs. If I tell myself that often enough, maybe I’ll believe it.

  He was alone. At least, as far as I could tell. I’d rather not know what he got up to last night.

  Now, he’s sitting at the kitchen table and smiling at me. His jeans looks freshly washed and his polo shirt is perfectly ironed. I however, am wearing an old t-shirt of Ron’s. I should throw it away at the first opportunity, I have no idea why I even packed it, everything from Ron should find its way to the trash.

  Somewhat wistfully I think about the make-up that’s waiting for me in the guest bathroom. Bad luck. Now, he knows what I look like without make-up. Well he can just admire my inner beauty.

  I turn away from him and confine myself to the task of scooping the ground coffee into the filter.

  "The coffee is already made and there’s fresh bread."

  "Do you have to be in so disgusting a good mood?" I grumble. It must have been a great night. I almost said my thoughts out loud, but I manage to keep my mouth shut.

  "What shall we do today?" he asks, as I drink my coffee.

  "I thought you had something to do?" As though his answer doesn't bother me, I set my focus on spreading my bread with butter.

  “No. Today I have the whole day free. I’m all yours." He smiles and his eyes promise that he is thinking about more than just following Ron, but I don't want to respond. Yesterday made it clear to me what I almost entered into. I’m already relying too much on a man whose job it is to make someone else happy every day. ‘How could I be so stupid?’ was by far the most common sense thought that ran through my head last night. From now on, I will concentrate on the business at hand. I can take care of my own pleasure soon enough.

  "I think it's time to scrutinize Ron a little more closely. In my opinion he has had it far too easy till now. Then I’ll go visit a good friend of ours and tell her about his relationship."

  "And what's the point of that?"

  A smile creeps onto my face. The idea came to me last night as I lay sleepless in bed.

  "Emilie Mandel is the biggest gossip I know. If I tell her about Ron's affair, everyone in Kronberg will know by this evening, and Ron won’t like that. I don't think that he’ll be too thrilled when everyone knows about his connection to a woman whose husband disappeared under mysterious circumstances. He would definitely prefer to keep this little detail a secret."

  "We don't know whether the two are actually having an affair," Christian interjects.

  "Yes and...? If Ron is innocent, it’ll just be yet another rumor circulating in Kronberg.”

  Shortly thereafter I call Emilie Mandel. It's rude to call at this time, at least in my circles, but in a crisis such as this, everything is different. Ron cheated on me shortly before our wedding, that gives me the right to compassion, even if the woman whose number I’m calling probably doesn’t even know how to spell the word compassion, but she knows about everything and everyon
e else.

  She answers a little gruffly, because it's still pretty early in the day. It doesn't take long before her voice takes on a tone of false sympathy; of course I should stop by this afternoon for coffee.

  At four o'clock I knock at her front door. A few minutes later we are sitting in her living room, each with a cup of coffee in hand. She listens to my story with great sympathy.

  "I'm so sorry! I had no idea," she says when I'm finished with my story. "Of course I won’t tell a soul. Your secret is safe with me," she mumbles.

  Good. Now I can be sure that by the end of the day everyone will know.

  "Do you know Madeleine Barelli?" I ask. "I want to know what kind of woman she is, to have pulled Ron so under her spell." I swallow, realizing tears are starting to build again. At some point in the course of the conversation I stopped acting. Real emotions come up in me, when I think of how Ron has betrayed me.

  Emilie sits there silently for a few seconds and thinks about my question. I use the break to get my emotions under control.

  "Tamara?" Emilie looks at me questioningly. Right, she said something. Automatically I put on a lovely smile.

  "I'm sorry, Emilie. I am not entirely myself today. It has been such a terrible shock. What did you just say?"

  "Of course. I completely understand. You poor thing." Emilie sympathetically pats my hand. If I didn't know her, I could almost believe her compassion was genuine, but I know that she is just patiently waiting until she can spread the news.

  “I just said I've known Madeleine Barelli for years. She’s in our bridge club. To be honest, I never liked her. She’s good looking, but no comparison with you." That's a lie, but I pretend I don't know that. "It is incomprehensible to me what Ron sees in her. Isn’t she involved in some scandal? What was it again? Oh yes...her husband has disappeared, how convenient! The both of them are now free and clear to be together, isn’t that true?" Emilie stops when she realizes the last comment was a little tactless.

  "Maybe he left her. You know, went out to get cigarettes and no one has seen him since. You can’t blame him." Her attempted reparation sounds somewhat lame, but I still put on a more appreciative smile.