Berlin Syndrome

by Melanie Joosten

She looks at him, and he realises she has not moved from her original position. Her hands are still behind her head.

  ‘What?’ He throws the word down to her, petulant.

  ‘Nothing.’ She brings herself up into a sitting position and reaches for her papers and tobacco. He kicks them out of the way, knocking her hand with his shoe.

  ‘Ow!’ She pulls her hand back with a yelp and shakes it, as though trying to surprise the sudden pain away. ‘That hurt!’

  ‘You should not smoke so much.’

  He wants to pick her up and throw her from the room but he will not. He will not be a part of this anymore. What is wrong with her? She is not the way she promised to be. He slams the front door as he leaves.

  He walks to the river, sees the arc of the Ferris wheel above the trees. As he crosses the bridge he is almost running — he cannot get far enough away. He only slows when he reaches a park. From a bench, he watches children pull themselves onto the play equipment and hurl themselves down the plastic slides, shouting to each other.

  ‘I can do this faster than you!’

  ‘You can’t catch me!’

  He cannot take his gaze from these children. He notices the way they don’t look at each other: they are too busy concentrating on their own trajectory, thinking about what to grab hold of next, what leg to use to launch themselves from a platform.

  He must stop staring: people will think he is strange. He leaves the seat and walks away from the playground towards the trees. He lowers himself tentatively to the ground, wonders whether it is damp or just cool. Stretching out on his back, he laces his hands behind his head. He can still hear the children shouting, one of them bossier than the others. He thinks of Clare lying like this on the floor of the apartment. Is she doing it now as she waits for him to return?

  Sometimes when he comes home, he unlocks and locks the door as quietly as possible and takes his shoes off in the hallway. Then he steps slowly towards the bedroom and slips inside it. He stretches out on the bed, inhales its familiar smell of sex and washing powder and closes his eyes. He feels like he is alone and no one will disturb him.

  ‘What are you doing?’ She inevitably finds him there.

  He’ll open his eyes warily. ‘Nothing.’

  He lies on the grass with his eyes closed. The sun has already gone down, and he hears parents calling out to their children, telling them it is time to go home.

  ‘Hurry up, Klaus!’

  ‘Why?’ The little boy answers back to his mother.

  ‘Because it’s time to go home.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I said so.’

  ‘Why do you get to make all the rules?’

  ‘Because I’m your mother.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I love you.’

  He hears the thud as the little boy jumps from the play equipment and lands on the ground. The sound of his impossibly light footsteps as he runs across to meet his mother.

  Cooling tears pour down Andi’s cheeks. He squeezes his eyes as though to stop them, but it just makes them run faster. The stream of tears trickles to his jaw, first the right side and then the left. He swallows and, clenching his teeth, pulls himself up into a sitting position. He hugs his legs, as though to reassure them, as though they are the cause of his crying.

  The playground is deserted. He can see the bright blobs of colour as the children disappear into the dusk, running ahead of their parents. He would like to go with them. To have someone else be in charge, to be gathering him from the playground, putting him in his pyjamas and depositing him in bed.

  He is still crying. He is surprised at the tenacity of his tears, they who have arrived unbidden and refuse to go away, though he does his best to ignore them. He has not seen Clare cry in a long time. Either she has become very good at not crying, or she does not have a reason to cry. He is not sure which is the better reason.

  He shivers — the ground feels more wet than cold. He should go home. She will be waiting for him.

  ‘Why?’ he imagines her asking.

  ‘Because I love you.’

  ‘That’s your answer to everything,’ she will retort.

  ‘Because it’s true,’ he will say. But still he does not want to go home.

  Once she has decided that time no longer exists, she feels relieved. The sun will rise and set: this is true. But even this has little effect on her because when she wants light, she turns on a lamp, and when she wants twilight, she switches the lamp off.

  During those long hours of time when Andi is not there, she thinks about him. She thinks about him so often that in her thoughts he is more present than when he is actually in the apartment with her. At these times, Andi is the subject, and she is not sure what this makes her. Semantics don’t leave much room for feeling.

  Bed has become her favourite place to be. Lying against Andi’s warmth she feels at peace. Dreams come to her, parading through her mind like a travelling circus rolling into town. In bed she thinks of people she has not seen in years, of places she is not sure she has ever been. As she drifts off to meet these dreams each night, she thinks that things are not so bad. That wherever she was, she would be dreaming; and no matter who was lying beside her, her dreams would remain the same. Of this she is certain: they are her dreams.

  When she is not anchored to her dreams, she finds herself focusing on Andi and having to face the fact of her imprisonment. She tries to avoid this because she hates to see him struggle to articulate his reasons for doing this. She feels sorry for him even as she needles him with plaintive questions. And yet she carries on asking, waiting for the moment of desperation when his eyes lock with hers and he finally answers.

  ‘Because I love you, Clare.’

  There is reason behind the madness.

  In return, she catalogues the reasons for which she loves him. She does, doesn’t she? He loves her. He looks after her. And he has gone to such great lengths to have her here. There is something admirable in that; not many people would try so hard.

  In the evenings she stands back watching him. Like an audience she follows his every move, tries to read the symbolism of his actions and offers feedback only when required. When pleased, she is vocal; when disappointed, she stays polite. The conversation that they carry out at these moments is stilted. He asks her questions, and she answers them correctly. She likes to be as neutral as possible while she observes him. She is fixing him in her mind, so that at other times, when he seems less like Andi, she can remember him.

  He will ask how her day was, and she will answer. She will ask him how his day was, and he will answer. She will ask more involved questions, and he will continue answering. It is like any conversation that people have under normal circumstances. They will both make jokes, usually about words and pronunciation. He will teach her the German word for things, and she will repeat it. He will smile at her when she repeats it correctly, and this is the smile that she will remember when he is not himself. He will stop what he is doing, look up at her, right into her eyes, and smile. She tries to coax this smile into existence as often as possible. She wants as many in reserve as necessary.

  Once time has disappeared, patterns emerge. Andi comes home. (She has taken to calling the apartment ‘home’, because that is what it feels like. Home is where the heart is. She supposes there is an element of truth in this but she is unwilling to explore it further.) Andi comes home. One of them cooks. If it is her turn, he alternates between watching her from the kitchen doorway and standing at the stereo, choosing what record to play next. If he cooks, she sits on the bench, trying to entice smiles.

  After they have eaten, they settle in the living room. They are like two dogs that have turned and turned, trampling the grass before they lie down to snooze. They sit in the living room and talk. It is these conversations that surprise
her the most. They are always different. She is not sure where the new material comes from, considering. It is as though a package arrives every day, and they open it together. They talk about people. Places they have been. Opinions they have had about these things. They talk about characters in books and, tentatively, about their families (usually as though they are characters in books — with slight irony), offhand and at arm’s length, and she wonders how effective hands and arms are at keeping things away.

  It is at these moments that she forgets the door is locked, and she suspects that he does, too. These times are like the nights before things became as they are, and her love for him surges forth, and she feels like the boy with his finger in the dyke. Much better than feeling like the boy who cried wolf.

  ‘How did you know it would be like this?’ she asked one night.

  He looked at her, quizzical. ‘That what would?’

  ‘This. Us. How did you know that if I stayed, then things would be like this?’

  ‘It is like when a tree falls in a lonely forest. If there is no one to hear it fall, it does not make a sound. I needed you. I did not want to fall in silence.’

  She understood then that he was afraid. And that he knew how wrong all of this was.

  ‘But it’s not all about need,’ she had said.

  ‘What else could there be?’

  Often now she sees that he is trapped within himself and wonders whether he is actually ill, whether his mind has betrayed him. She had thought that perhaps he was cruel or selfish. Or too earnest, overly enthusiastic for his cause and, in the excitement, forgetful of others. Most explanations she applies to Andi involve the traits of small children. She wonders whether his unreliable mind is tipping him into psychosis, somewhere she won’t be able to follow. She does not know whether this makes it better or worse. And if this is the case, then is it love that she feels? Or is it sympathy? Are they not the same thing?

  She wants to help him, to tell him that it will be okay, that she understands. And maybe she can help him. Because while keeping her locked in this apartment is wrong (she does know that, she reminds herself of it every day), perhaps she can make it right. If she can help him not to fall, then maybe she is doing good, and this is right. And if this is right then she does not have to worry anymore. She does not have to make it right by getting out because she is helping him to be okay.

  At night, when he is quiet, she reaches across in bed, holds herself to his back. ‘You’ll be okay, Andi. We will be okay.’ She wonders why okay is all people ever seem to reach for. ‘We will be better than that. We will.’

  She makes promises she hopes she can keep. She is the boy with his finger in the dyke, indeed. She saw the trickle of water and she has stepped in to plug the hole. She will save Andi from himself, from falling in silence, and she will keep back the angry waters.

  ‘Do you want to have a child, Clare?’ he asks.

  She pauses, spoon to her mouth, and her eyes widen, making room for the fear that fills them. He can see it, rolling in across her irises like a settling fog.

  ‘A child?’

  He finds her doing this so often lately. Repeating what he says as though she has never heard the words before. Waiting for him to fill in the gaps, tell her what they mean. It annoys him, this repetition. Why is it that he has to supply everything?

  ‘Yes, a child.’ He does not want to play her games. He just wants to speak directly. It should not be so difficult.

  ‘I’ve not really thought about it.’ She drops the spoon to her bowl, and it makes a gentle smacking sound against the stewed apple.

  ‘Yes, you have. Everyone has.’ He doesn’t want a discussion, he wants an answer. ‘You have that contraceptive thing in your arm. You must have thought about children.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I have.’ She takes another spoon of apple. ‘No, Andi. I don’t want a child.’

  He watches her finger the contraceptive rod that sits at her bicep. It disturbs him when he feels it, alien beneath her skin, but she seems unperturbed by it.

  ‘I think I do.’ Even as he says the words, he does not know if they are true.

  She takes up her bowl, walks across the room to the photos of herself. ‘I don’t really think it’s a good idea, Andi. I don’t really think it’s the right time for that.’ She speaks to the Polaroids; he can see her head shaking as she consults each one.

  ‘But it’s the perfect thing. We would be a family.’ He can see it now. Walks to the park collecting autumn leaves, reading picture books in the evening. He tries to ignore his mother in the background, laughing as she kicks up leaves or reaches out to turn the page of the book.

  ‘How exactly would that work, Andi?’ She leans her back against the wall, her multiplied face reiterating all the words. ‘Would you let the child out of the apartment? Or would they have to stay here, too?’

  Why must she always come back to this? Those are just details, they could be worked out. Just as he worked this out, just as he managed to make everything the way he wanted.

  ‘It’s not about that, Clare.’ He crosses the room towards her, takes the bowl and puts it on the floor. Then he holds her hands, pulls her forward, away from the crowded wall. ‘We would be making something perfect together, something new.’ He kisses her lightly on the lips, imagines how a baby’s skin would be even softer. He fingers the rod where it nestles against her muscle. It would be so easy to remove. All it would take is a little cut.

  ‘Are you trying to replace me?’ She squeezes his hands, leans into his gaze.

  For a moment he thinks she is making fun, waits for the crack of her smile.

  ‘Are you?’ She shakes his hands again as though wanting to dislodge an answer, and he pulls free from her grasp.

  ‘Of course not.’ He turns away.

  ‘You could keep the child and let me leave …’ She follows him across the room to where he sits on the couch. She crouches beside him, and her butterfly hands tap across his cheek.

  ‘No!’ He bats her hand away, and when she doesn’t move, he gives her shoulder a gentle shove so she topples to the floor where she bursts into laughter.

  ‘It won’t work, Andi.’ She giggles as she sits up. ‘You can’t just make another to add to your collection.’

  ‘Shut up, Clare.’ He steps over her and leaves the room. Why does she have to make things so difficult?

  She does exactly as he says and lies down on the bed. She does not want to argue with him. She is not afraid, but she does not want him to be angry with her. She wants only to keep rolling through these days without friction, glancing off the soft surfaces of each morning and night and waiting for the time she will no longer be here. She wants to tell him that she has decided to stop: that she will not cut herself anymore because she is afraid of what it might do to the baby. But then she would have to tell him about the baby.

  She has a gift for causing him frustration; she is trying to keep it in check. He stopped bringing her tobacco (as though he knew she should no longer be smoking), but then her fingers had nothing to do. They wanted to be holding something, needed to be busy. When he saw the latest red line on her thigh, as if a cat had scratched her amongst the scars, he had been so much angrier than she had ever seen him. His face becomes red when he is in a fury, two spots, high on the cheekbones. She likes the way his face reacts so readily to her actions, but she soon feels remorseful, as though she is taunting an animal that cannot contain its very self. It is not a nice thing to anger someone.

  She stares at the ceiling. In Melbourne, her bedroom was white with a yellow ceiling rose, as though the sun never set. The first time she went to the Tate Modern, there was an installation that recalled this in the turbine hall. A semicircle, high up on the far wall, was reflected in a ceiling of mirrors, where it became full, an orange harvest moon. People were lying on the ground and looking u
p at themselves, waving their arms about as if making snow angels. They were forming shapes with strangers (because patterns cannot be made alone); like synchronised swimming teams they bent their arms and legs, crossed their limbs on top of each other. She wishes she had an audience here, to be only one amongst many.

  When she feels the cool note of metal on her thigh, her thoughts swerve back to the present. She cannot see the line it leaves but she knows well its mark. She wonders if he is using the same knife that she does.

  ‘You like it, don’t you?’

  Surely she does not. But her body betrays her. The goosebumps pop, and she shivers. Or she shivers, and the goosebumps pop. Her body acts the same way it does when he runs his fingers across her lower back, brushes his lips against her neck. It reacts the same way it always has for any man, which would once have made her feel like a pre-programmed robot. Now she feels like she is malfunctioning. But she does not think she cares. Because it is not her body anymore. It is his. She is relieved she made this decision: it leaves her mind to think on other matters.

  Stroking her face with one hand, he runs the knife along her inner thigh from her knee up to her crotch. He has had to spread her legs to do this, yet she feels no shame about her graceless pose. His hand blurs at the edge of her vision. She is amazed at his certainty: he wields the knife like he has done this before. Her neck hurts from watching him so she lets her head fall back on the pillow, throws her gaze back up to the ceiling. She could project a ceiling rose. A different one for every day. Maybe she will ask him for a projector. He could film the sky during the day and bring it back to her, scatter it in pixels across the ceiling.

  He draws the knife along her leg again, steadier this time, and she clenches her knees, hisses a sharp intake of breath. The sting is high-pitched; she can feel the warm trickle of blood meeting the air and running down her leg. Tears form, but she does not want to cry. Instead she grits her teeth. It hurts more than when she does it herself. It is just one more way in which her body is siding against her. A sob threatens to engulf her, but she will not let it. She can still be in charge of this. She has to be strong; she has someone else to think about now. She pictures the patterns she would make on the ceiling, if only there were mirrors and members of the public to help her out.