by Dan Rhodes
His wife watched him leave for work, and when he got home that evening he found her in the hall, surrounded by trunks. In her hand was a framed photograph from the early days of their marriage. ‘I think there was a time when I loved you,’ she whispered. ‘I think there was a time.’
‘Unpack your belongings,’ he said. ‘I shall be the one to leave.’ It was the longest conversation they had had for some time, and he never saw her or spoke to her again. After a single visit to a lawyer, in which he transferred everything they had shared into her name, he left town with only a thin bundle of banknotes in his pocket. He wrote a short letter to the laboratory, telling them he would not be returning, and offering no contact details.
Days later he started at the Koblenz and District Museum of Food Hygiene, where his job involved standing still, staring straight ahead, and very occasionally gesturing in the direction of the toilets.
The old man sat behind his desk, staring straight ahead. It had been half an hour since Hulda had gone, smiling, into the morning, but the museum had yet to receive a visitor. He sensed somebody coming in, and knew at once that she was there not to look at the exhibits, but to find him. They always knew where to find him.
The clack of heels stopped in front of his desk, and he looked up. He had not seen this one before. She was young, slim and smartly dressed. She leaned across the desk, lifted a small digital recorder to his ear and pressed play. He listened, and when the recording ended he wrote the name of a Silesian village on a piece of paper. She picked this up, and dropped an envelope in its place. She walked away, and with his long, grey fingers he slid the envelope towards himself, and put it in his inside pocket. The entrance hall was still and silent again. He stared straight ahead.
After this intrusion the day continued like any other. A few visitors came and went, some of them leaving with grave faces, shaking their heads and mumbling to one another that It really makes you think, while others tried to stifle giggles as they rushed past him and out of the door. But in the early afternoon he received a second unexpected personal caller.
‘Good afternoon, Herr Schmidt,’ said his visitor, smiling.
The old man said nothing. He waited for the doctor to continue.
With the museum dark and empty below him, the old man sat at his kitchen table. He reached into his jacket pocket, took out the envelope that the woman had delivered and opened it. As usual it contained some banknotes and a handwritten, unsigned letter. He counted the money, and unfolded the letter. He read that with his last accent identification he had been instrumental in the capture of the serial child abductor Erwin Krebs, previously known as the Wild Boar of Brunsbüttel. The recognition of a half-Flemish parent had been the breakthrough they needed. Without your talent and cooperation the Wild Boar would have had the opportunity to strike again, and once more we find ourselves thanking you. With his long, grey fingers he rolled the letter into a ball, and put it in his mouth.
As the paper soaked up the light trickle of saliva, and slowly turned to pulp, he thought back to the doctor’s curious monologue. It was the first time they had met outside their early morning encounters, but the doctor had addressed him as if they were on familiar terms, first complimenting the museum, then expressing concern at the old man’s pallor and suggesting some dietary improvements, particularly at breakfast time, but it had not been long before he arrived at the real reason he had driven over on his lunch hour. He explained that he was approaching his final body, and that it would be a terrible shame if he was to run out altogether. ‘After all,’ he said, ‘I am sure you wouldn’t want me going hungry in the wintertime.’
He said this as if the old man had known all along about his eating habits. He hadn’t though, and he looked at the doctor for an indication that this was a joke. None came.
In idle moments the old man had supposed that the corpses were used for either sexual gratification or medical experimentation, but it seemed he had been mistaken all along. It was neither here nor there to him what the doctor did with them, but he was irritated with him for having made explicit something that until that point had been unspoken: that each of them knew the other’s behaviour to be irregular. His visitor had carried on, telling him how useful it would be if he was to help things along just a little, that if the opportunity was to arise then perhaps he could assist a poor soul with their decision-making, and assume the role of counsellor by tipping any balances that might need to be tipped. He illustrated this tipping with a lengthy hand gesture.
‘I am sure you agree that for medical reasons it is best for such people to avoid prolonging their distress, and what you would be doing is providing them with a framework within which they are able to exercise their free will. I’m sure you are aware that this kind of thing is very fashionable in Switzerland, but in our case we needn’t concern ourselves with all the cumbersome bureaucracy.’ The old man said nothing, and the doctor continued. ‘I know I can rely on you. After all, friends help one another out.’
The old man bridled at this. All his life he had gone out of his way to avoid any situation that might be mistaken for a friendship.
The doctor carried on. ‘As much as I would love to stay here and chat all afternoon I have to get back to my clinic. All those ill people won’t be able to cure themselves.’ With a wave, he left the museum.
The old man’s annoyance had clung to him for the rest of the afternoon. The doctor had clearly been in an agitated state, and he didn’t want him losing control and doing something that would lead to them being found out. If Pavarotti’s wife was ever to hear about what had been going on she would be sure to close the place down. For the first time he hoped the museum he was working in stayed open. He was close to having enough money to retire, and he wanted to stay where he was for the remainder of his working life. His duties were light and he was well-paid, and he didn’t want the upheaval of moving to a new job in a new town, but more than anything he didn’t want to lose his supply of cake until the very last moments of his museum career.
He found himself becoming angry at the thought that the doctor might throw all this into jeopardy, and he supposed that on balance the course of action that would cause him the least potential upheaval would be to do as he had been asked, to tip any balances that might need to be tipped. He would only be assisting in natural selection after all, and as always when there was a death in the building there would be no need to feel any sorrier for the person involved than he would for an unlucky sperm. Once again he reminded himself that his hands would remain clean: all he would be doing is cooperating with a medical professional.
There hadn’t been a body for some time, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before somebody was to come in with dark rings around their eyes, and shoulders slumped in defeat. When this happened he would do what he could to make sure they didn’t run, whooping, from the back door, but were carried out and bundled into the doctor’s car.
He swallowed the last of the paper, took off his shoes and polished them to an impeccable shine. When this was done he washed his hands and sat back down, staring straight ahead and seeing nothing, and thinking nothing, but all the time waiting, as a spider waits for a fly.
IV
Mauro didn’t stay with the girl from the hotel bar. Nor did he stay with the Taiwanese model from the jeans commercial, the golden-haired singer from the music video or the pristine older woman who had discovered him in the park. Lovers came and went through the enormous doors of his penthouse apartment, but Madalena was sure a time would come when one of them would stop him in his tracks. She could see that he was really just biding his time until he found the one he would settle down with, and when that happened all this would be behind him.
A few days after she let him go they had met up and had a long conversation about how they would still be friends – best friends.
‘It had just run its course,’ she said.
Mauro agreed. ‘We’ll be like brother and sister.’
She could tell
how much it meant to him for them to remain close, and she gathered all her strength. ‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘Like brother and sister.’
They had made a point of meeting every week. Mauro would embrace her, and start telling her what he had been doing since they had last seen each other. This usually involved things like wearing sunglasses on a yacht, or hanging upside-down from a cable car with an insanely expensive watch on his wrist. Once this was out of the way he would ask her what she had been up to, and even though she didn’t do much besides keep up with her studies and her part-time job he would listen intently and take a real interest. Sometimes she wondered if he was clinging to a part of himself that he didn’t want to let go, worried that if he lost his rapport with her then the boy from the small town in the hills would be gone for ever, but she always ended up conceding that it was probably nothing as dramatic as this; it was more likely that he just wanted to hear what his best friend had been up to.
After the split they had agreed that they would both be absolutely fine about the other one seeing new people, that there would never be a need to keep things secret. Mauro had honoured this, and always made sure he kept her up to date with the women in his life. Madalena, though, had told him she was at a point where she was happy to be alone, to live her life without having to consider anybody else. He was glad she felt so comfortable this way, but he still hoped she would find somebody. He was sure that one day she would be ready to yield a little of her treasured independence, and that when it happened he would be the first to know.
One night, as they sat on his roof terrace, he brought out a glossy men’s magazine. He opened it at a marked double page, and showed it to her. There was no picture, just white lettering on a black background. She read the heading, LUCIANA, and the accompanying paragraph:
Sometimes in Brazil the gene pool flows in such a way that the best of every lineage comes to the fore, and the mix creates not so much a mongrel as a brand new pedigree. Often there’s a solid base of Portuguese, a touch of Native American, maybe a north European grandparent or two – add a dash of Lebanese, a pinch of African and a soupçon of Japanese to this heady mix, and you get something quite special. Many of these girls will, fortunately for us, become models, using their natural talents to delight gentlemen the world over. But time marches ever onwards, and now we must concede that the Brazilian beauties we have known and loved have been left standing. The bar has been raised higher than we had ever thought possible – what we had once thought to be perfection now seems almost humdrum. Take a deep breath, then turn the page to see a vision that will burn into your retinas for the rest of your life.
Madalena took a deep breath, and turned the page. There she was: Luciana. The prose, which she had thought melodramatic to the point of hysteria, now seemed sober and restrained. She was, by a very long way, the most beautiful woman she had ever seen.
‘Meet my new girlfriend,’ said Mauro. ‘And this time I know I’ve found the one.’
Luciana was dressed in very short shorts, and a tight top that revealed her navel and a glimpse of cleavage that was almost modest for this kind of magazine. Madalena looked at the perfect body, and the unbelievable face. The eyes in the photograph seemed to gaze back at hers not with the coldness she had been anticipating, but with warmth, even friendliness. She turned the page and there she was again, this time apparently naked beneath a black silk sheet, her lips shiny and one sleek leg showing.
‘Oh,’ said Madalena. ‘I think she looks . . . lovely. Very pretty. Congratulations.’
‘Thanks. She’s based here at the moment, so we’re seeing a lot of each other. I can’t wait for you to meet her.’
Madalena did her best to smile. ‘I can’t wait to meet her too.’
As soon as she finished her coffee she got up to leave, saying she had a lot of studying to do. Mauro handed her the magazine. ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘I don’t need it – I’ve got the real thing.’
She thanked him, and put it in her bag. They walked over to his private elevator, and as he held her tight he had never seemed so far from reach. She realised she had been fooling herself all this time, that what she had thought were feelings of hopelessness had been no such thing. She had told herself over and over again that he was lost to her for ever and there was nothing she could do about it, but now she realised that deep down she must have been hoping he would tire of the endless parade of flawless skin, slender thighs and tight waists, and realise he had lost the most precious thing in his life. But now Luciana was here, and she could tell he meant every word he said. She had never seen his eyes shine this way, not even when they had been children. She felt stupid for having held on to hope for this long, and for having hidden it from herself so completely. From the moment she let him go, Mauro was always going to find the most beautiful woman in the world, and she should have realised this straight away and accepted it, instead of burying herself beneath layer after layer of delusion. Through the haze that surrounded her she realised he was talking to her about plans for the following week, when he would introduce her to Luciana.
‘See you then,’ a voice said. Her voice. She smiled, and it hurt, as if somebody had grabbed her lips and was forcing them into an unnatural shape. She stepped into the elevator, and the moment the door slid shut, the smile vanished, and her shoulders slumped in defeat.
If only I wasn’t such an idiot, she thought, pressing her face into her pillow and willing the students in adjoining rooms not to hear her sobs. If only I had kept my mouth shut instead of letting him go. He would have been loyal to me for ever. He would have been too, she knew it. That night in the hotel bar all she had been hoping for were some words of reassurance, but she had sent him away and now he was lost to her. He would never have abandoned her, or cheated on her, or knowingly hurt her, and he would have loved her just enough to be happy. Of course he would have noticed other girls but he would have let them flit past like butterflies, bright flashes of colour that dazzle for a moment before going away, leaving everything just as it had been before. Not knowing what else she could do, she packed her bag, ready for the morning.
When her alarm went off she couldn’t be sure whether or not she had slept. Some of the thoughts that had run through her mind had seemed like nightmares, and she hoped they had been, that they were beyond her control. She went to the bus station, trying to convince herself that if she went back to the hills for a few days things wouldn’t seem so bad.
The young baker’s great-great-great-grandmother was up even earlier than usual. She appeared before him as he prepared the day’s first batch of bread. ‘It’s over,’ she said.
The young baker was quite accustomed to having no idea what the old lady was on about. ‘What’s over?’
‘That girl you’ve had your eye on, the beautiful one. She’s no longer with her handsome boyfriend.’
Though he had never spoken to anyone but Madalena about his love for her, everybody knew about it, and had grown to accept it as just another part of the townscape. ‘I know that,’ he said, getting on with his work. ‘They broke up a while ago.’ Such news was bound to make its way back to the hills, but along with everybody else he was sure this was just a bump on the road, that they would one day reunite. Nobody who had watched them grow up together could imagine their love story having a different ending, and he had not taken the news seriously.
‘Well, yes, we all knew that, but now she has given up hope of a reconciliation.’
He put down his bag of flour. ‘But great-great-great-grandmother, how can you know?’
‘She’s back for a visit. Last night, just after you stopped playing that horn of yours, we old people stood in a huddle and silently watched her as she got off the bus. Her cheeks were sunken, and her eyes surrounded by dark rings, and she walked with a defeated slouch. I know she looked much the same the last time she was here, but I can see that since then a part of her has died. You don’t get to my age without being able to tell things like that.’ She was a hundred a
nd six years old.
The young baker didn’t know what to say. For a fraction of a second he felt something like a landslide in his heart, and it revealed a sensation he had never known before. He realised at once what it was. All those years he had been telling himself that Madalena would forever be beyond his reach, but now he knew that somewhere inside he had been wishing that one day something would change, and she would love him just as much as he loved her. For the first time he allowed himself to feel the hope that had always been there.
‘I suppose you’ll be wanting to take some time away from the oven so you can go around town and accidentally bump into her, won’t you?’
He nodded. As his great-great-great-grandmother qualified her encouragement by waving her stick and offering thunderous words of caution, he took off his apron and hat, and went upstairs to shower away the smell of dough, and to change into his best clothes.
His customers had all heard from their own old people about Madalena’s return, about the dark rings around her eyes and her defeated slouch, and when they opened the door and saw the young baker instead of the usual delivery boy they knew at once what was going on. He joked about his father having demoted him for insolence, but it was obvious why he had taken on the delivery rounds, and why he was so smartly dressed. The quality of bread dipped just a little as the rest of his family manned the ovens, but everybody understood, and nobody complained.