In the bedroom, she paints a rainbow across the wall above the bed. She makes a green-tea mixture and one with tomato sauce, but even so the rainbow is quite dismal and she thinks the baby will be disappointed.
He wants to hurt her. He wants to be rid of her suffocating presence. These urges build slowly. He wakes and feels her body by his side. He slides his arms around her and runs his hands over her breasts. She is soft and giving and pliable, and he enters her from behind. She moves in time with him, and when he comes, he wants to push her away. It is too easy. He wants to know where the borders are, how far he can push.
When he returns from work, he moves about the apartment, checking to see what has changed during the day. He considers the paintings on the wall. They are horrific, naive as a child’s, and there is something malicious about them. They are brown and green, faded colours of camouflage. He will wash them off; he should make her wash them off. Whichever way he looks, he can see something of Clare’s. His apartment has nothing to do with him anymore, and he wants to box up all of her belongings, stack them in a corner and paint his walls white again. He stands in front of the Polaroids, pinned out in a grid, and looks at her. He brings a chair from the dining table to the wall. Stepping up onto it, he sees her latest photos at eye-level. Her face has become more square. He goes back to the hallway, picks up his bag and gets out the photograph he took of her this morning. He compares it with the her of now.
‘You’ve cut your fringe.’ He feels the blood rush to his head. Sometime between when he took the photograph and now, she has cut her hair. He was at work all day with an inaccurate photograph. ‘You made yourself different.’ He tries to keep his voice steady. He holds up the photograph. ‘I take this photograph of you so I know how you look every day, and you made yourself different.’
She nods, slowly. The different hair nods, too.
‘Fuck, Clare! All I ask is that things stay the same. Why would you do this to me?’ He grabs her arm, forces her to look at the Polaroid. ‘See! This is how you looked this morning. This is how I thought you looked today. And when I come home, I find you are different. Why are you doing this to me?’
‘I thought it would be nice. A surprise. I thought you would like it.’
‘Show me! Show me how you did it. You got the scissors from the kitchen, didn’t you.’ He marches into the kitchen, holding tightly to her wrist. He pulls open the cutlery drawer, grabs the scissors. He can see a red hair caught between the blades. ‘And then what? You went to the bathroom?’ He strides down the hallway and he can feel her jerking along behind him.
‘Andi! Andi, it’s okay. I can show you. I can show you!’
He pushes her ahead of him into the bathroom and switches on the light. He wants to see exactly what she did, wants to know what she does when he is away.
‘Show me what you did.’ He throws the scissors down into the basin. They clatter about and come to rest. He can see stray hairs in the basin, some embedded in the soap. Hairs that should still be on her head.
She picks up the scissors. With her free hand, she brushes her hair forward. ‘I just wanted to trim it a little,’ she says, her voice wavering. ‘So I got the scissors and cut like this.’ She mimes cutting a straight line across her forehead.
‘Why didn’t you ask me, Clare? I would have done it for you. You can’t just go changing things like that. There are reasons for everything — you should know that by now. This is not just about you.’
She does not look at him; the scissors hang in her hand. ‘It’s just hair. It will grow back. It doesn’t matter.’
He steps forward and grabs the scissors. Standing behind her, he puts one arm around her body and forces her to face the mirror. His body is pressed against hers; his left arm comes up under her arm and his hand holds her chin. He takes in their reflections, their heads side-by-side. He is pleased by the way his body easily covers hers; she is so much smaller than him.
‘See how different you are? See how it changes the way I look at you?’ He stares at the reflection of her wide eyes. They are focused on his moving lips. He regards her fringe, her naked forehead. He would never have cut it that way — it looks too blunt.
He flips the scissors open and lifts them to her face. ‘When your hair grows to this line, then I will cut it for you.’ Her body tightens in his grip. He picks a point on her forehead, presses the blade of the scissors into her skin.
‘Andi!’
He pulls the blade quickly, and the skin puckers then gives way. In one smooth action he glides the scissors across her forehead. Blood wells in the shallow cut, and he is surprised by how smooth the bone of her forehead feels beneath the scissors. He drops the scissors into the basin and watches her reflection. Tears slide down her cheeks, and the blood gathers in one place and swells. He stares at his own reflection. He looks the same as he did this morning after he had brushed his teeth. Her body is shaking, and he pulls her to him.
‘Don’t cry, Clare. Don’t cry. I was just showing you that there are rules. There have to be.’ He holds her close, drawing his fingers through her hair. She shudders; her tears must be coming to an end. He lets her go, grabs her hand. ‘Things don’t need to change.’ He kisses her on the forehead; her blood is sticky on his lips. ‘I love you the way you are. Don’t do these things to yourself.’ Giving her hand a gentle squeeze, he walks out of the bathroom.
This cannot go on. She gets herself up from the floor and stretches. She rolls her shoulders, first one and then the other. They roll more smoothly when she does it backwards than forwards. Joints click and rub inside of her. She wonders whether this is normal but decides it does not matter. Normal or not, it is how it is. Her body appears to be shrinking when it should be growing. Her calf muscles have disappeared, and her knees tremble when she stands up. She tries to stand on one foot and she wobbles.
She is not sure how long she has been in the apartment. The sunlight is brighter than it used to be, and it rains less. But when it does, the rainfall is more substantial. She knows the difference now between showers and downpours. Rain and sleet. The sky is often blue: it must be nearing summer.
She knows it would not be so difficult to find out. She could look at the dates on the newspaper, but she chooses not to. That is a lie. She deliberately avoids them, goes out of her way to fold them over, make them go away. She does not want to know if the halfway point has happened or is still to come. If she is to be here forever, there will be no halfway point. She lifts one arm above her head and then the other. She rises on her toes. She can only stay stretched a few seconds before she falls forward. She tries it again.
The doorbell rings. She did not know there was a doorbell, but she recognises its sound immediately. Who has come to visit her? She drops her arms and crosses to the stereo to turn down the music.
The doorbell rings again. She turns off the music and waits.
‘Andreas?’
A woman’s voice floats in from the hallway.
‘Andreas? Bist du da?’
She walks down the hallway quietly. She stops at the front door.
‘Andreas, ich bin’s, Ingrid. Ich bin’s, Deine Mama.’
She feels sick. Andi’s mother. Her stomach is heavy, and she feels as if she is going to throw up. She puts her hand to the door as though to open it, but of course she cannot. She withdraws her hand, lays her head against the door. It makes a little thud, and hearing this, Andi’s mother’s voice takes on a sense of urgency.
‘Andreas? Hallo? Ist jemand da? Hallo?’
‘Hello.’ The word is out of Clare’s mouth instantly, an unsolicited hello enough to elicit a mimicking response.
‘Hallo? Würden Sie mich bitte hereinlassen? Ich bin Andreas’ Mutter.’
‘Tut mir Leid, aber ich spreche Englisch.’ Apologetic, she hopes Andi’s mother will realise the conversation is futile and leave. He will not
want to see his mother, of that she is sure. She cannot stay here; she cannot be here when he returns.
‘You speak English? Is this where Andreas lives?’
Andreas. The name keeps coming back; it is a stranger’s name. Would a man by the name of Andreas be less complicated than one called Andi? She cannot talk with his mother — he will be furious. But she cannot lie.
‘Yes.’
Silence.
‘My name is Ingrid. I’m Andreas’s mother. Can I come in?’
‘No, I’m sorry, you can’t.’
It is a truth. She is pleased with this; she has not compromised anyone.
‘You can’t let me in?’
‘No.’
‘Are you Andreas’s girlfriend?’ A pause. ‘His wife?’
She conjures a wedding where this woman and Andreas’s father would be weeping tears of happiness in the pews, sharing congratulations and hugs with her own mother.
‘Yes, his girlfriend.’ The term is foreign on her tongue.
‘I’m sorry, I do not mean to be rude.’
‘That’s okay.’ She is surprised at the lightness in her voice. She sounds almost cheerful. ‘I’m his girlfriend.’
‘That’s nice. I mean, I’m happy that he has a girlfriend.’ A pause. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Clare.’
‘Clare. That is a lovely name.’
‘Thank you.’ She is pleased with how this conversation is going. She has not said anything wrong.
‘Clare, when will Andreas be home? I would really like to see him. Can I wait for him inside?’
‘I’m not sure when he will be home. You can’t wait here.’
‘Why not?’
She thinks about going back to her seat on the windowsill and asking the television tower exactly what she should do. She cannot remember what she looks like today. It is probably not how Ingrid expects her to look. She is not wearing much, and is certainly not wearing the right thing to be meeting Andi’s mother. She cannot unlock the door.
‘It’s just not a good idea,’ she says. ‘We don’t have visitors.’
Ingrid takes some time to respond.
‘Well … perhaps you can tell him that I came by? I won’t be in Berlin long but I would very much like to see him. And I would like to meet you properly, Clare.’
She thinks she would like to meet Ingrid. After all, she is a mother. And Clare has lots of questions for a mother right now. But perhaps it would be better to just ask her own.
‘I don’t think he will want to see you, Ingrid. And I can’t promise to tell him you visited. I don’t want to upset him.’
‘But he’s my son, Clare. I want to see him.’
‘I know.’
There is silence on both sides of the door. She wonders what time Andi will be home. She runs her hands down the glossy panel of the door, wonders if Andi’s mother is doing the same.
‘You haven’t seen him since he was a child, have you?’
Ingrid takes so long to answer that Clare wonders if she has left.
‘No. It’s been a long time.’
The silence pours out, and she savours it — it is so nice to share something with another person.
‘It was difficult then, with the Wall and … and how things were,’ continues Ingrid. ‘It wasn’t how I wanted it to be.’
‘But you left him behind?’
‘Yes.’ Ingrid sighs, and Clare would like to reach out for her hand.
‘I think you should go now, Ingrid. I don’t think it’s a good idea that you’re here. He’s still quite upset that you left, he doesn’t want to see you.’ Her words run on, she is speaking too much, she shouldn’t be saying anything. Andi would be so angry if he knew.
‘Clare, is everything okay?’
And Ingrid sounds like her own mother, her words swollen with concern, her voice creeping around the edge of the door and streaming towards Clare to bestow a kiss on the cheek. She cannot talk; her throat is closing over and her eyes are too big for her head.
‘Clare?’
She cannot speak with his mother anymore. She is going to say something wrong and she cannot imagine what might happen next if she does.
‘It’s okay.’ Her small voice whispers, and she reins it back in, builds it up and throws it out again. ‘I’m okay, everything is okay.’
‘Well, as long as you’re sure.’
She says nothing.
‘Clare, I’m going to leave Andreas a note. It has my details so he can contact me. You don’t have to say anything, you can just give it to him.’
She listens as Ingrid searches around in her bag for a pen. She can hear the words scratched out on the other side of the door. A scuffling below and the paper is pushed under the door.
‘I’m going to go now, Clare.’
‘Okay.’
A pause. ‘Take care, won’t you? Hopefully I will see you soon.’
‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Clare.’
She takes the piece of paper into the living room. Ingrid has written her name, the name of her hotel and its address, her mobile number and her email address. So many identifying items. Lieber Andreas, manchmal muss man weit weg gehen, um der Liebe willen. Es tut mir leid. Ich liebe Dich, Deine Mama.
She folds the paper in half and puts it between the pages of a book. In the bedroom she lies back on the bed. It is late in the day, and the ceiling is the same colour as the sky. She shuts her eyes; she wants to sleep.
She dreams about her own mother. That she has come to Berlin to find her. She knocks on the door and apologises. She calls out. But when Clare opens the door, they have nothing to say. She gives her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, asks her if she has any bags, or a coat. They stand in the doorway staring at each other, waiting. The hallway light goes out, and when Clare steps outside to join her on the landing, her mother is not there. She switches the light back on, looks about the landing. She leans over the banister. Nothing. She goes back into the apartment and shuts the door.
It is dark when she wakes, and Andi is not yet home. She gets up off the bed. She walks quietly to the living room and takes Ingrid’s note from the book. She thinks about rolling it up into a cigarette she won’t allow herself to smoke, letting the words burn and float up to the ceiling. They would become impregnated on her fingertips, and when Andi kissed them later, wrinkling his nose at the smell, she would not have to tell him about the letter.
When the train stops at his station, he does not stand up. Others get off, the doors clang shut and the train moves on. He sinks further down into his seat, his knees touching the empty bench opposite. He is more like his father than ever. His father, who is probably right now sitting at home, pouring coffee for his mother, doing everything he possibly can to please her. He imagines his father showing her around his apartment, clearing books from the armchair or couch so that she may sit. He wonders whether his father will show her the spare room, ask her to take away the boxes of her things. But he knows that he will not. Instead his father will show her the boxes, want to lift the flaps and filter through the memories with her. And his mother will watch from the doorway, perhaps she won’t even step into the room, and she will feel nothing but sorry. Not that she went, just that she came back.
The train stops at the next station, and Andi sits up but does not stand. He left work early. The students are on holidays, the exams are marked. Yet he does not want to go home; there is nothing for him there. The train moves on. It is not Clare, it is him. When he sees her, he finds his anger grows. It grasps hold of every thought, and rips it out of his hands. He has no idea of what he is doing; each day is so much like the one before that he feels compounded. His hands want to grab her, to shove her out of the way, to push her up against the wall and make her disappear. Ther
e is nowhere to exist without her anymore; every fissure of his mind waits for her. It is as though he cannot act except in retaliation.
When the train stops again, he gets off. He has never been at this station before. Clare has never been here either. It may as well be a different country. As he climbs the steps to the street he looks at his watch: his diversion has taken only minutes from his day, and there is nowhere to go but home.
The Polaroids of Clare reach almost to the ceiling. She has to get on a chair to stick the new one up each day. She pushes the pin into the wall. She looks at the recent images that show the line across her forehead. It is angry and dark on the first image and the next. Then it becomes broken, dotted like a ‘cut here’ line around a voucher. As the images progress, the line fades to pink. If she looks in the mirror she knows she will see it: a line of slightly smoother skin skirting her eyes like a horizon, but it does not come up so clearly on the Polaroids. Film can be forgiving like that. But she knows the line will never completely disappear.
She usually sticks the photo up in the morning but not today. It is late afternoon: Andi will be home within the hour. He comes when it is light now — the days are longer. She gets off the chair, ignoring the dizziness that accompanies her everywhere and walks to the window.
Suicide is something other people do. But now she sees no alternative. She can feel her body being pushed aside, making way for the one that is forming. She cannot bring somebody else into this. She folds herself up on the windowsill. She smells. She is not wearing any socks — it is her concession to the weather. Just a t-shirt. Knickers. He likes her best that way. ‘I like to see as much of you as possible,’ he says. ‘I can see clothes on anyone.’ She likes herself least this way, but it matters little. When she looks at her scarred legs, she is disgusted, repulsed, pleased. She is none of these things and she knows that she should be. She looks at her legs, and she is not even sure they are still her own.
Berlin Syndrome Page 21