“Can I ask you something in return?” The words are out before I even realize that they’ve formed in my mind.
Bartsch inclines his head lightly. “Please do,” he says politely.
This time I know what I want to say, but I’m not sure why. And I’m sure the two men in my living room will feel equally clueless, no doubt about it.
“Is your first name Ben?”
Bartsch blinks briefly, but that’s all. He covers up his surprise very effectively. “No. My name is Christoph.”
“Ah. OK.”
I wish I’d gotten myself a glass of water too. My mouth is dry, and the hammering behind my temples is announcing the arrival of a headache.
“Tell me, Joanna…” begins Bartsch, but this time Erik doesn’t let him finish.
“No. That’s enough now. Please go. Tell Gabor whatever you want, but leave us in peace.”
“Herr Thieben—”
“I said, get out!” Erik pulls Bartsch up from the couch by the arm, then roughly pushes him out of the living room. “I’ve fucking had it with you. That’s at least three times I politely asked you to leave, and you’ve ignored me every time. If you don’t leave now, I’ll throw you out myself. Get out, you inconsiderate piece of shit!”
His voice is loud, too loud. I manage to suppress the urge to cover my ears, but I can’t stop my hands from trembling.
“Good-bye, Joanna,” I hear Bartsch say from the hallway. Then the door is opened and a few moments later slammed loudly shut.
We are alone once more.
16
The sound of the door slamming shut echoes in my head, intermingling with the hammering of my pulse. I’m finding it hard to formulate a clear thought.
Hot rage consumes me like wildfire. And the realization that Bartsch, that grinning asshole, managed to make me lose my cool, is like an accelerant for the blaze.
“Why did you do that?” Joanna’s voice reaches my ears, sounding like it’s coming from far away even though she’s only standing a few feet from me.
“What?” I say loudly, wheeling around to face her. My voice sounds severe, I know, but I’m not sorry. I look at her, see fear, despair, helplessness in her eyes. I ought to feel bad about it, really. But I don’t.
I love this woman more than I’ve ever loved anyone before but … damn it. I can’t even find the words to explain to myself what’s going on in my head right now. Explosions. It feels like a succession of mental explosions. Making it impossible for me calm down, I’m so unbelievably furious. And the sight of Joanna right now is making it even worse.
“Why did you tell people in your company I was confused? If we really are a couple like you keep claiming we are, that’s a huge breach of trust.”
“What do you mean, tell people?” I roar, and see Joanna flinch. “I didn’t have to tell anyone anything, Jo. Because my boss asked me about what was going on at home, right to my face. After Bernhard went gossiping around about what he saw when he was here.”
“But that’s no reason to—”
“Sure it is,” I say, cutting her off again, and I’m not sorry about that either. On the contrary, I’m getting a feeling akin to satisfaction with every word I say. It feels relieving. Kind of like a pressure valve was being opened somewhere.
“It is a reason, in fact, it’s the reason for everything, Jo. Do you remember? No? I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t. Let me help you. My coworker Bernhard was on our doorstep here when you ran outside, screaming, half-naked in just your bathrobe. You hid behind him and begged him to protect you. From me, Jo. The stranger who’d broken into your house. Do you really think it would have been necessary for me to tell people at work anything, with you making a scene like that? Do you? Me saying you were confused wasn’t a breach of trust, damn it, it was damage control. Your insane behavior is the reason for everything that’s happened over the past few days.”
It’s getting worse and worse. There’s a voice somewhere in my head, whispering to me that I have to stop this. That I’ll work myself into a raving frenzy if I don’t try to fight back this surge of anger.
“My … insane behavior?” Her whispered words are in such marked contrast with my screaming, it makes me feel even angrier, like I might snap any second.
She’s doing it on purpose. She still feels like I’m not treating her fairly, even after everything I went through with her over these past days. It’s hopeless, all of this.
Calling on all of my inner strength, I soften my voice. It sounds breathless, barely composed, even to me. “Jo, don’t you realize that’s exactly what Bartsch wanted? Gabor sent that bastard to stir things up even more. To have a reason for firing me. Can’t you see that he used you and intentionally put you at odds with me? Come on, you have to see that! I feel like I’m going to go crazy if you don’t understand this.”
“My insane behavior, Erik?” she repeats stoically, making something inside of me shatter. It’s over! I hear the voice inside of me, shouting those words, see them in front of me like they were written on a poster. It’s over. And I surrender myself to the impact.
“Yes, exactly. Your totally insane behavior!” I scream at her. “What in the hell else would you call this stunt you’ve been pulling here for days?”
“That’s … Do you realize how unfair that is, Erik?”
Is she really doing this? Making herself out to be the victim in this whole fucked-up situation? My head is threatening to explode. I want to scream. Scream in desperate anger, until my lungs burst out of my chest.
Next to me on the floor, the umbrella stand … I stride over and kick it with such force that it clatters loudly over the floor tiles until coming to a rest a few feet away by the front door. Joanna lets out a soft scream, and I wheel around, grab her by the arms and grasp them tightly. Her eyes grow wide. “Ow, you’re … you’re hurting me.”
I let her words bounce off me and clutch her even more tightly. I want to yell in her face. But I do the exact opposite. My voice goes completely calm. “I came home without a clue, Joanna. After a shitty day in that shitty company. I wasn’t feeling well, and the only thing I was looking forward to, the only thing I really needed, was a hug from you. To be close to you. Some comforting words. Instead you made a scene that I could only describe as being totally insane. You claimed not to know me. Threw a paperweight at me and wanted to throw me out of our house. You ran away from me and locked yourself in the bedroom. Then you made a complete idiot out of me in front of Bernhard, and in front of the entire company as a consequence. You’re destroying everything about the life we shared, all with your crazy behavior. Maybe you even tried to kill yourself. And me along with you, because once again I wanted to save you. Five days, Jo. I’ve been going through hell for five days. I feel like I don’t even know myself anymore. Like I’m living someone else’s life. And still, I stuck by you the whole time, defended you against everyone and everything, no matter how much your behavior hurt me.”
I have to yell again all of a sudden. I don’t want to. I have to.
“And now you’re standing there and whining about a breach of trust?” I shout so loudly that my voice cracks. I’ve unwittingly started shaking Joanna hard, much too hard. At the very same moment I realize that, it’s all over. The anger, the screaming, the shaking. My arms slump by my sides. No more strength. No energy. Nothing.
Joanna’s crying. She crosses her arms in front of her chest, rubbing her arms where I’d grabbed her. I can see redness. Without looking at me, she keeps backing away until she bumps into the wall. She slides down it, as if in slow motion, and slumps down onto the floor with her legs tucked in. She stares past me.
I did this.
The love of my life is sitting there on the floor in front of me. A pitiful sight. Totally overwhelmed by my yelling. Handled far too roughly. Hurt in every sense.
My rage still hasn’t dissipated completely, but I’m starting to realize that I went too far. I squat down in front of her, put a hand on her
arm. “Jo, please … I didn’t mean to…”
She shakes off my hand with a sharp jerk.
“I didn’t mean to get carried away like that,” I try again. “I’m sorry, Jo, please…”
“No!” She shifts over, pushes herself up, then takes a few steps to create distance between us. “Go away.”
I get up angrily.
“You want me to go? Fine, if that’s what you want.”
I turn around, open the door. A cool wind hits me. The door clicks shut behind me. Not loudly, though, I realize. I didn’t slam it shut. Only let go of it. I’ve got no strength left.
The driveway, the street.
I just walk. Mechanically, with no purpose, no destination, just for the sake of walking.
The tips of my shoes appear alternately beneath me like big brown bugs. I observe their race. Every second, the one in the lead changes.
Two streets on I sit down onto a waist-high garden wall. I reflect for a moment. What have I done? I screamed at the woman I love. Said terrible things to her, physically hurt her, even. Completely lost control.
While she’s probably just sick and none of what’s happened is her fault.
How did I end up losing my temper so badly? With her, of all people? Has something like this ever happened to me before? No, I don’t think so.
Instead of supporting Joanna in this difficult situation, I completely lost it. Without any sense of compassion or responsibility.
I’m ashamed of myself.
I need to go apologize to her. But first I have to give myself time to recharge my batteries. To think. About her, about me. About the things happening around us. Gabor, Bartsch, Bernhard.
I feel like I’m stumbling across a field full of smoldering fires. And I don’t know which one to put out first. Or if I can put any of them out at all.
I’m cold. I stand back up, keep walking, and rub my arms. I should have worn a jacket.
After a few feet I turn into a small side street. We’ve been living here for a few months now, but I’ve never been in this street, even though it’s only about three hundred feet away from our house.
Thus far we hadn’t really paid much attention to the neighborhood we’d moved into. We were just busy with ourselves, so fixated on each other that the two of us were enough. We didn’t need anyone else; why would we? They would just have disturbed our intimacy.
It’s only now I notice that I’m crying, and I don’t care. I don’t even attempt to wipe away the tears. To hide them. Let everyone see; they don’t know me anyway. I’ve never been here. And even if someone does recognize me, who cares? Maybe we won’t be living here much longer anyway. Maybe …
I stop walking. Is she still there in the same place in the hall, staring at the wall, I wonder?
Or maybe she isn’t even in the house anymore? Did the way I acted confirm her belief that I’m not the person I say I am?
I couldn’t blame her for that. No, in fact I could even understand it. Would someone who loves her as much as I claim to act like this? Screaming, grabbing hold of her, raging, and taking off when she’s at her most helpless?
I have to go back. Right now. Maybe she’s still there. Maybe, in spite of everything, she’ll believe I really am the person I say I am.
My steps speed up; I start to jog. I turn into our street, running now, as fast as I can. Every second counts all of a sudden. A few more feet, then I slow down. Stand still.
Go away.
Joanna wanted me to go. She shoved me away when I tried to apologize to her.
I listen to my thoughts, feel how stirred up I still am.
What if she shoves me away again? Then how would I react?
After what just happened, I can’t know for sure. Am I capable of seriously hurting her if what she says and does makes me as angry as before? Or angrier, even?
No, I can’t go back to her.
Not yet.
17
The door falls into the lock again, but gently this time. As though it were a counterpoint to the scene that just took place. Erik is gone, and I sink slowly, very slowly, down the wall and back down to the floor.
I should be happy now. After all, he yelled at me, shook me, called me crazy. Since the first time I encountered him, all I have wanted is to be rid of him. Now he’s gone, and something within me is balking at the idea.
This is clear proof of the fact that I’m not myself right now. I wipe the tears from my face, then gently inspect my upper arms. They hurt. By tomorrow the bruises will appear, and the police would have to take me seriously if I filed a charge.
But it’s not my arms which are hurting the most. It’s … I’m not even sure. Where are the feelings coming from?
The way he looked at me. His exhaustion, his vulnerability, everything that had just broken through, was far more convincing than his tenth or twentieth but I love you. Some things can’t be faked. Whether he’s lying to me or not, whether we really are engaged or not—he definitely has feelings for me, and very strong ones at that.
My own feelings on the other hand … I’m unable to make sense of them. His outbreak of rage was unforgivable and it has doubtlessly torn a new rift between us, but for one confusing moment, where he put his arm around me to protect me from Bartsch, I had to fight the urge to move closer to him. To simply let myself fall into his embrace.
It would have been so simple. It would have felt so good.
But the part of me that stopped me from doing so had clearly been right. Just a few minutes later, Erik had shown what he’s capable of. Rage. Lack of self-control. Violence.
I can’t let the fact that, seconds later, he was even more shocked than I was count as an apology. No more than I can accept his pitiful attempt at a genuine apology.
Instead, I should see it as being evidence. It’s entirely possible that this isn’t the first time he had handled me roughly. Dr. Schattauer’s attempt at an explanation is becoming more and more plausible—that I know Erik, but have suppressed all my memories of him because of trauma. Systematic amnesia.
How bad must it have been; what he had done to me? And—did Dr. Bartsch already suspect? “The most important thing here is you and your safety,” he had said, before expressly offering me his help.
Was it possible that Erik’s problems at work are also rooted in the fact that he’s unable to control his rage?
If that were the case, then it’s not surprising he couldn’t wait to get rid of the company psychologist. Or that he interrupted the man again and again.
Yes, it all paints a logical picture—with a few flaws, nonetheless. I stand up slowly and go over to the window. The silver Audi is still parked in front of the house, meaning that Erik left on foot. So he will be coming back, at some point this evening.
His car is here, but that’s all. Erik’s things—his shoes, his books, his photos, all the small things of daily life—I haven’t suppressed the memory of them, they are simply not there. So how can I believe that we live together? How could he, indeed, how could anyone believe that?
On the other hand, there are some things I’m feeling which I don’t understand. The disappointment that he told people at work about my supposedly confused state, for instance. If a stranger had done that, I don’t think I would have cared. And before, when he had shouted at me and shaken me—I’d been shocked, yes. But if I really listen to my heart, I wasn’t afraid he could hurt me. Unlike the first time he had appeared here in the house, when I’d felt nothing but fear. Cold, overwhelming fear.
That was five days ago, and these days were among the worst I had ever experienced. How can it be that I could have built up trust, in so little time, with the very person who had set off all of these events? Were the two days he had spent sitting by my bed in the hospital enough for that?
I don’t know.
I really don’t know.
I also have no idea what I should do when he comes back. Throw him out again? Talk to him? Lock myself in the bedroom and put the proble
m off until tomorrow, or get out of here and find a hotel room?
I glance out of the window again. There’s still no sign of Erik. That gives me time to think, to put together a plan.
The half-full glass of water left by Dr. Bartsch is still in the living room, along with the scent of his aftershave.
I know the brand, but can’t think of the name. Too sweet for my taste. And with a note of tobacco which I find nauseating.
Picking up the glass, I go into the kitchen and wash it; all normal actions, and they do me good. I concentrate on the task, and start to feel calmer.
Dr. Schattauer. Maybe I can call her tomorrow—no, it’ll be Saturday. Never mind, I’ll get through the weekend, and then put my energy into resolving this crazy situation. Waiting for things to come to me—that’s not how I do things, and there’s no way I’m changing now.
The pack of shrimp is still lying next to the stove, and by now a small pool of water has formed beneath it on the work surface. They must be at least half-thawed by now.
Earlier, when Erik had offered to cook for me, I had felt relaxed for the first time in five days. Had I been looking forward to the meal and a conversation with him? His company?
Maybe. I’m not sure. In any case, the sight of the packet gives me a melancholic feeling. It’s probably just a result of my tiredness. Exhaustion, really, because I am exhausted, even if I don’t want to admit it, not even to myself.
Maybe I’ll lie down on the couch for a few minutes. With a magazine; I don’t have the concentration span for a book right now.
But what if I fall asleep? And Erik comes back?
The thought unsettles me, but doesn’t scare me. The man had pulled me out of the shower when I was unconscious and risked his own life in the process. He had …
All of a sudden, my mind is made up. When he comes back, we’ll talk. I’ll tell him what I’m thinking, all of it.
I turn off the kitchen light. Feeling the cool air, I rub my upper arms and wince. Yes. We’ll talk about that too.
The pain comes so quickly, so unexpectedly, that I only realize what’s happening once I hit the floor.
Strangers Page 11