The lower section of boiler has been bared; the cover is lying on the tiled floor in front of it. The tangle of copper tubing, fittings, and wires looks like a body that’s been cracked open, ready for autopsy.
Had someone been here who tampered with it, or was there another explanation for the scarves in the exhaust vent? And who were they trying to get at? Joanna? Me, maybe? Or didn’t it matter?
Which once again brings up the crucial question of why. I walk down the stairs and stop in the hall. Stare at the door. It’s possible that a stranger was in our house. In our most intimate place. It feels like an act of desecration. Maybe he was in our bedroom as well, touching the covers we’d pulled over our naked skin after we … No, he didn’t. If he did, he could only have touched Joanna’s covers, as mine are no longer there. It’s enough to drive someone insane.
I go into the kitchen again. This turmoil inside me; I feel like I’m losing my mind. I look at the clock and try to figure out how much time has passed since I got out of the taxi. Although, for that, I’d need to know what time it was when I got out. And I have no idea.
“Fuck it.”
Did I just say that out loud? Yes, I think I did. Does that count as talking to myself? A sign that my mind’s giving up?
I can’t bear to be in this house anymore. It feels wrong to be here while Joanna’s lying there in the hospital, poisoned. Left all alone with the terrible fear she must be feeling.
She’s going to need fresh clothes. Underwear, towels.
Half an hour later I’m behind the wheel and on my way to see her.
* * *
That afternoon and for the next two days, I’m with Joanna most of the time. I only leave the hospital in the evenings to sleep and at some point during the day to go get food.
I tell her a lot about us. At first, my sentences always start with the words, “Do you remember…?”
She silently shakes her head every time. After a while I decide to stop using that painful introductory question.
Sometimes I just sit by her bed in silence and watch her sleep. Or pretending to sleep. I can tell the difference from the way she’s blinking, but I let her rest.
As for Joanna, she only speaks very little, apart from on one occasion when she tells me about Australia. About her childhood and her friends. She barely mentions her father. I don’t interrupt her; I simply listen.
On the afternoon of the second day, when I get back from a walk through the small park next to the hospital, Joanna is sitting in the chair where I’ve spent the majority of the past two days. She’s dressed.
“I’m allowed to go,” she says. She doesn’t say I’m allowed to go home.
I take one big step toward her and pull her into my arms. I can’t help myself. I expect her to push me away, but that doesn’t happen. She doesn’t hug me, but neither does she resist being close to me. I close my eyes. It’s amazing how little you need for a simple moment of joy when there’s no longer anything you can take for granted.
We don’t talk much during the drive. Joanna sits there looking out of the window on her side, and I’m scared that a single unmindful word could destroy the small moment of joy I just experienced.
Finally we’re home. I carry the bag with her things and instinctively put my hand on her back as we’re walking. She doesn’t push me away this time either, but I can feel her body tensing up, and quickly drop my arm again.
Joanna tells me she’s very tired and wants to go lie down for a while.
Half an hour later, she’s back down in the kitchen with me. She can’t sleep, she says, even though she’s so tired.
I suggest I cook something nice for the two of us. “Are you good at cooking?” she asks.
“I’m best when you’re helping,” I say, but she shakes her head and sits down. “No, please, it’d be nice if you cooked something for us. I’ll watch you.”
I agree. The notion of cooking something for her feels good, like something that could help break down the distance between us.
Our freezer is in the pantry. I’ve just pulled out a large ice-cold bag of shrimp when the doorbell rings.
When I come out of the storeroom, Joanna has got up from her chair. I recognize fear in her expression. “Who could that be?”
“I don’t know. Maybe someone else from work who’s deleted a file from their laptop,” I say dryly.
Joanna follows me as I leave the kitchen, but stops in the passage to the hall and holds on to the doorframe as if afraid she could topple over.
I open the door and stare in surprise at the person opposite me for some time before finally finding my ability to speak.
Standing on our doorstep, with a smile on his face, is Dr. Bartsch, the company psychologist at Gabor Energy Engineering. I say hello haltingly and feel anger rising up inside me. Is this another attempt to give me the boot?
“Good evening, Herr Thieben,” he says, grinning ever more broadly. “I just wanted to drop by briefly to check if everything was all right with you. May I come in?”
15
The man is of average height and wiry, and I immediately notice that Erik can’t stand him. He takes two deep breaths before inviting the visitor into the house with an abrupt jerk of his hand. “Dr. Bartsch. What brings you here?”
Another doctor? I instinctively edge backward into the kitchen.
The man strokes his trim beard. “Herr Gabor sent me, he wanted me to check in with you. Naturally he heard how close you came to a tragedy…”
As he says these words, he looks over at me. Studies me with blatant interest. “You must be Joanna, is that right?”
I’m so tired. I don’t want to make small talk with this doctor, and if he’s capable of even just the tiniest bit of empathy, he should notice that. But before I can answer, Erik is by my side. “Jo, this is Dr. Bartsch, our company psychologist. I didn’t ask him to come here, if that’s what you’re thinking; I know you want to rest today.”
Perhaps it’s just the tiredness, but I find myself unable to grasp what’s going on. Is this visit about me? What do I have to do with Erik’s business? Over the past few days he’s told me a fair amount about himself, including his work. It has to do with renewable energy—an emerging market, my father would say.
“No.” Bartsch looks serious now. “Erik didn’t ask me to come here, that’s true. But our manager thought it would be a good idea if I check in on you. Perhaps there’s something I can help with, and if that’s the case, I’d be very happy to.”
It’s clear that Erik is struggling to contain himself. “Come on, we both know why you’re really here,” he says quietly. “You’re looking for some reason which would allow Gabor to can me.”
I give Erik a sideways glance. He hadn’t mentioned he was having problems at work.
The psychologist shakes his head with a smile. “But why on earth would Gabor want to do that? You’re doing an outstanding job, Herr Thieben, and believe me, he knows that too.” He nods toward the living room. “I’d like it if we could sit down. I won’t keep you long, I promise.”
Even though everything in me is fighting against it, I nod. Yet another stranger in my living room.
Bartsch sits down on the couch and crosses his legs. He looks over at us expectantly.
I pull myself together. “Would you like something to drink, perhaps?”
His expression softens. “Oh, that would be wonderful, thank you. I’d love a glass of water.”
I go into the kitchen, where the pack of shrimp is lying next to the stove, slowly thawing. I can completely understand that Erik wants the man out of the house as soon as possible; I feel the same way. He has that penetrating psychologist’s gaze, which gives me the feeling that he’s able to look right through me. And, ultimately, that he knows more about me than even I do.
Not a difficult accomplishment right now, admittedly.
Feeling a chuckle creeping up my throat, I quickly take a glass out of the cupboard and fill it with water.
“Thank you,” he says, as I place it on the coffee table in front of him. He takes a sip, not averting his eyes from me for even a second, then leans back. “Joanna. I’m very happy that you came through the accident unharmed. How are you feeling?”
It’s not just the stare, it’s also … his voice. It’s not unpleasant, but nonetheless there’s something about it which makes me want to leave the room and hide.
“Leave her be,” Erik answers for me. He takes my hand and interlaces his fingers with mine. “If you want to cross-examine me, then go ahead, but leave Joanna out of it.”
Bartsch shakes his head once more. “I really don’t know what gave you this idea, Herr Thieben.” Without waiting for an answer, he turns to me again. “How long have you been living here?”
For … I have to concentrate. “For six months. Roughly.”
Bartsch gives the pictures on the wall an appraising glance. “Did you choose the furnishings together?”
No, that was just me. I feel the urge to pull my hand away from Erik’s grasp—what am I supposed to say to that?
Bartsch’s gaze wanders back to me; he’s wondering, of course, why it’s taking me so long to answer such a simple question. “Yes,” I whisper.
“Very tasteful.” He reaches for the glass, rotates it between his hands. “It’s a shame that we’re meeting under such regrettable circumstances. Why haven’t you come to any of our office parties with Erik? They’re much less boring than you’d expect, almost all the employees bring their significant others.”
I never went because I’ve only known him for the past five days. The response lies on the tip of my tongue, but there’s no way I’m going to say it out loud. Erik’s grip on my hand has tightened significantly.
“I was always busy,” I say, hating myself for the fact that my voice sounds so weak. “I often work until late in the evening,” I add, a little louder now.
“I see. Yes, that’s understandable.” Bartsch takes a large gulp of water.
My heart is hammering a little too hard in my chest, and I don’t know whether it’s down to the psychologist’s voice or to the fact that he just gave me a clue that my original suspicion was correct. If I really was engaged to Erik, I would have gone with him. I’m a curious person; I would have wanted to see who he works with.
Bartsch speaks up again. “As I said, I don’t want to disturb you for long. And of course you know why I’m really here. Bernhard Morbach was at your house recently and told us afterward that you had tried to run away from Erik, Joanna.”
The man with the laptop bag. Erik’s grip on my hand becomes so tight that it’s almost hurting me.
“That was … a misunderstanding,” I stammer.
The psychologist gives me a penetrating stare. “He said it seemed as though you were terrified.”
Erik lets go of my hand and jumps up. “Oh, that’s what Bernhard said, is it? That’s very interesting. If he was so worried about her, then why did he just go and leave Joanna alone with me?”
Bartsch stares at Erik, his expression unchanged. “No one is accusing you of anything, Herr Thieben. But the scene which Herr Morbach described to us was, at the very least, unusual and stressful for both of you, I’m sure. And now, in light of recent events…”
Erik has gone pale. He is standing close to Bartsch, no more than two feet away, and his hands are balled into fists. “What do you mean, in light of recent events? Come on, let’s hear it.”
The psychologist doesn’t look at Erik, but instead at me. “An unusual accumulation of problems. I’m sure you would agree with me.” Speaking in an ostensibly calm tone, he leans over toward me. “Joanna, would you answer a few questions for me? Only if you want to, of course, but perhaps we might find out why you were so afraid?”
I try to make eye contact with Erik, but he’s not even looking at me. He’s standing in front of Bartsch, looking as though there’s nothing he’d like to do more than go for the man’s throat. “You’re meddling in my private life.”
“That’s a sign of esteem, Herr Thieben.” There’s still not even a glimmer of impatience in Bartsch’s voice. “We are offering you help, and I promise you that every single word spoken here will be treated in confidence.”
Erik laughs contemptuously. “You don’t even believe that yourself!”
Is it because of the stress of the past few days, or is he always this undiplomatic at work? I discreetly try to wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. I’m not sure why this situation is making me so nervous—whether it’s Bartsch or Erik’s blatant rage, I only know that I want it to stop. And the quickest way for that to happen is probably if I agree to speak with Bartsch; I might even be able to say a few things that put Erik in a better light than he’s putting himself in right now. Whoever he is, whatever our connection to each other is—he was so caring with me when I was in the hospital. So willing to help. There’s no harm in trying to return the favor.
“Ask me your questions, Dr. Bartsch.”
Erik wheels around to face me. “You can’t be serious!” He sinks down next to me on the couch. “But you’re doing better, Jo. You don’t need him, we already have help…”
* * *
I smile at him. My God, I’m so tired. “It’s just a few questions, it’s not like I’m agreeing to a therapy session.”
“Exactly,” Bartsch affirms. He has pulled a small notebook and a pen out from his jacket. “Bernhard Morbach said that you didn’t recognize Erik the other day. Is that correct?”
This is beginning differently than how I had imagined. A little too direct for my taste. Nonetheless, I nod. “Yes.”
Bartsch makes a note. “But now you recognize him again?”
No, I don’t. I’ve been unable to find anything that Erik has told me over the past few days within my own memory. There has been no sudden flashback of shared experiences. But never mind, that’s not what matters right now.
“Yes,” I lie. “Everything’s OK again.”
He looks at me for a little too long before noting down my answer. As if he doesn’t completely believe me.
“Could you tell me what happened before that evening? Before you were so distraught about Erik’s presence?”
I shrug my shoulders in a vague gesture. Everything that came before that seems as though it’s months ago. “I was working, I think. I cleaned up a bit and then took a shower. I was planning to make tea and read something.”
On the couch. Right where Bartsch is sitting now.
“That was everything?”
“I think so, yes.”
He makes another note. “What about before the accident with the boiler? Can you still remember what you were doing before that?”
Before I can answer, Erik places his hand on my arm. “What are you getting at? Are you accusing her—”
“I’m not accusing her of anything,” Bartsch interrupts. “It’s a completely harmless question. I don’t know why you’re so against this conversation, Herr Thieben. Why you’re so determined to refuse the help being offered. You said yourself that your girlfriend was confused. Both to Herr Morbach and Herr Gabor.”
I don’t know why, but his last two sentences hit a nerve with me. Until now I had thought that the psychologist was here because this Bernhard Morbach guy saw me running out of the house in my bathrobe, but now it turns out that Erik has been discussing our situation with his coworkers. So I’m confused, am I?
Who knows who else he’s talked to about me. If we really are a couple, then that’s an unforgivable breach of trust, and for some strange reason it really feels like one too.
I press my hand against my eyes. If I start to cry now, can I blame it on how tired I am?
I feel an arm around my shoulders. “Please go, Dr. Bartsch,” I hear Erik say. “You can see for yourself that she’s not back to full health yet.”
I straighten up. Turn around to face Erik. “Who else have you talked to about me?”
A frown forms above the bridge of his nose.
“What do you mean?”
“I’d like to know: who else did you tell that I’m supposedly confused?” My tone doesn’t sound accusatory, but exhausted instead. And now tears are welling up in my eyes after all, as if the impression I’m giving didn’t already look pitiful enough. I turn away, away from Erik’s embrace, and wipe the back of my hand over my face.
“Jo … I didn’t say anything that Bernhard hadn’t already spread around. Believe me, if he hadn’t turned up here, no one would know anything about this.”
The sound of a throat being cleared from the other side of the coffee table. “There’s really no reason to be annoyed at Erik. He wasn’t gossiping about you, he was just concerned—”
Erik jumps up, and this time it really does look as though he’s about to launch himself at Bartsch. “You stay out of our business, you hear me? I don’t need your mediation or your professional support. Unlike Joanna, I know exactly why you’re here, and I’m not going to play your game.”
Bartsch waits for Erik to finish, with a calm demeanor that must be the result of years of training. Then he turns to me. “Joanna. The most important thing here is you and your safety. Do you want my help?”
If I say yes now, it’s an open declaration of war on Erik. But I would do it regardless, if I thought I had something to gain from it. And if my stomach hadn’t started to cramp up. Is that still the lack of oxygen? But my tests were fine. So now what’s wrong?
“Joanna? Take your time.”
I can feel both of them waiting. Bartsch full of patience, Erik full of impatience. I take a deep breath in and out, fixing my gaze on the kitchen door.
All of a sudden I can’t bring myself to tear my gaze away from it. As if there was something there that I need to resolve. Urgently.
All of a sudden I realize how I must look.
Confused.
I summon all my strength. “No. Thank you, Dr. Bartsch, but I don’t think you’re the right person for me to talk to. If I need help, then I’ll find someone myself.”
I hear Erik breathe out a sigh of relief next to me. Bartsch looks a little concerned, but doesn’t make any move to get up.
Strangers Page 10