The Other Me

by Saskia Sarginson

  My new trainers have been abandoned with the rest of my things in my old room in Leeds. I used to run there, sprinting up the hills. I loved the sense of freedom. The forgetting it offered. I can’t think about last night: Shane’s words, the look of disbelief and disappointment on Cosmo’s face before I turned and left him there. I pull the trainers on. The soles are thick with ancient mud. I scrape my hair into a ponytail, hunt around in my drawers for tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt, testing the familiar rubbery bounce, leaving a trail of crumbling dirt.

  “I’m going for a run,” I call through my father’s door. “Won’t be long.”

  The morning is gray with a slight chill. Leaves dangle from branches, lusterless, sad, beginning to turn brown. The world looks tired. Weeds poke through cracks in the pavements. Gutters are caked in gritty dust, clogged with rubbish. People are up and about, walking to work with purposeful strides. A car passes. The garbage truck turns into our street, the garbage men clattering bins and shouting to each other. I catch a whiff of rotten eggs, the stench of stale food.

  I find my stride, stretching out, the muscles in my buttocks and calves resisting at first. Then my breath begins to come in a pattern, my arms and legs moving to a rhythm. Dry leaves rustle under my soles, papery as dead skin. The power in my body makes me feel better, gives me back hope. I stop when I can’t go on anymore, standing with legs straddled, bent over with my hands on my knees, pulling in gulps of air. My forehead is slick with sweat, and I lick my lips, tasting salt.

  I’m on a side street by the untidy little playground that my mother used to bring me to when I was a child. It’s deserted. Behind a drooping wire fence, shapes of swings, a slide and a broken seesaw loom like strange creatures in a zoo.

  I jog home slowly, reluctant to enter the house, putting off the moment when I’ll have to face up to last night. In the kitchen, I notice that my father has had his breakfast. He’s washed up his plate and cup. They sit on the draining board. There’s something pathetic about this reminder of his solitary meal that makes my throat constrict. I can’t afford to cry. I’ll never be able to stop. I stand at the sink and gulp down several large glasses of water, staring out into the garden without seeing anything.

  There’s a rustle from the hall: the slide of letters hitting the mat. The snap of the letterbox closing. Two letters are lying by the front door. I bend to pick them up automatically and place them on the hall table. One is formal and addressed to my father. Then I see a familiar scrawl of handwriting. My name. A French stamp.

  I’m still in my running things, the sweat drying on my face, as I shut the door to my bedroom. Leaning against it, I tear along the envelope with shaking fingers.

  Dear Klaudia,

  It feels freaky to write your new name. (Your old name really, I guess.)

  I know this reply is late. I got your second letter first, ripped it open, and couldn’t understand what the hell you were going on about. That’s when I discovered that my downstairs neighbor thought he was being helpful, slipping your first letter under my door. It went under the mat. Anyway, I found it after I knew to look. And all this time I’ve been worried sick about you. You’d just disappeared into thin air. I began to think you’d been murdered. I thought about phoning the police.

  When I finally understood, it felt like a slap across the face to hear that you’d been lying to me all this time. I marched around my flat, talking to myself like a mad woman. I wanted to wring your neck. What the hell were you thinking? It just made a mockery of all our secret-sharing—all those moments I trusted you with MY truths. And you never fessed up. Never felt like it was your turn to tell the truth. That’s what friends do. They trust each other. But your second letter frightened me. You’re not alone. I’m here.

  I don’t think I’ll ever really understand why you did it. And why you kept up the pretense for two years. (Two years!!!!) But I don’t intend to lose you. Best friends are hard to come by. And underneath the fake name and the fake stories, I think it’s just you.

  I’ll be back this Christmas. I’m coming to London and we can see each other. I’ll meet your father. I have your address. Have you got a phone number there? Send it to me. I don’t want to be out of contact with you for so long again. I missed you, you crazy mixed-up kid. I’m rushing this letter off as quickly as I can—I don’t want you to think I’ve deserted you for a moment longer.

  I’m so sorry about your mum.

  Sending you hugs from Paris,

  Meg

  I sit on the bed, slumped over the letter. I’m trembling. Relief, frustration, happiness, hope, shame. Emotions stream through my insides, each one slippery as an eel. They writhe and twist so that I can’t pin down exactly what I feel. I close my eyes. I haven’t lost Meg. I haven’t lost her friendship. Her love. I have to hang on to that. In the end, what I feel is relief.

  I kick off my trainers and get out of my exercise clothes. In the shower, I turn the handle as far as it will go, wanting to be deluged with heat. Instead, tepid water drips and dribbles from the showerhead. My parents were never ones for modernizing. The pipes clank. I lather soap in my hands, rinse the salt from my face. The shower curtain flaps against my skin, cold and clammy.

  Meg’s words are giving me courage. I must go back to Brixton. I don’t know if Cosmo told them about Shane. But I imagine that everyone overheard the conversation. By now it will be common knowledge. Despite the cold water spurting over my shoulders, the thought of walking back into the club and facing them makes me hot with embarrassment and shame.

  * * *

  My father’s in the kitchen, pairs of shoes on newspaper spread over the table, glasses perched on the end of his nose. He attacks the toe of a black lace-up with fierce swipes of a brush. “Any shoes need cleaning?”

  “No thanks.”

  He pauses, peering at me over his glasses. “When are you going back? Your new term must be starting soon.”

  I press my thumb to my front teeth. My heart begins to thump.

  “I’m not going back.” I control my hands, stopping myself from fidgeting. “I dropped out of my degree. It was a mistake. I want to dance. I’ve always wanted to dance.”

  He puts the brush down slowly, sits back in his chair and frowns. “You want to dance.”

  He repeats the words as if I’ve said that I wanted to rob a bank, expose myself in a public place, murder the nearest pensioner.

  I clear my throat. “Yes.” My voice wobbles. “I’m going to apply to do a BA in dance and choreography.” Each syllable is a struggle. “At the Laban Center. It’s in London.”

  “Ridiculous.” He rises and walks to the window. Looks out into the garden, shoulders rigid with tension. “Your mother would be disappointed.”

  Anger coils around my guts. I am breathless with it.

  “No. Mum would understand.”

  He swings round. His face is puce. His eyes swivel to find me. Irises almost colorless in this light, pale blue as skimmed milk. He blinks.

  “I knew her like no one else. And I’m telling you that she would be disappointed, Klaudia. As I am. You lied to us. You have let yourself down, as usual. Let us both down. Your mother was always in agreement with me.”

  “Well maybe she shouldn’t have been.” I clench my hands into fists. “Maybe she felt she didn’t have a choice.”

  I turn and leave the room, keeping my back straight, but my legs are trembling, weak and boneless under me. I grab the banister and haul myself up from one step to the next.

  “I’m giving you time to reconsider,” he shouts after me. “If you do start that … that dance course … you won’t be living at home anymore.”

  He follows me into the hall. “Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you.” His voice is quivering with rage.

  I don’t answer; don’t look back. His feet are on the stairs behind me. I hear the creak of spindles, joists complaining under his tread, the rough tearing of air in and out of his lungs. I slam my bedroom door in his face
. But he’s yelling through the wood.

  “Where were you after term finished, Klaudia? You knew how much your mother looked forward to you coming home. Although she never complained when you were late. She was so proud of you for taking a degree. And now you tell me you weren’t even at the university!”

  I’ve got my eyes screwed shut, hands tight over my ears, but I can’t block out his words. He won’t stop.

  “While you were gallivanting around, your mother was sitting at home waiting for you,” his voice goes on, and through the muffler of my fingers, I hear his bitterness. “Imagine how she would have felt if she’d known about your lies. So don’t tell me about what did or didn’t disappoint her, or what she would have thought. You have no right. You are worthless and selfish. Always have been.”

  The door suddenly judders, as if he’s slammed his fist against it, and I catch my breath.

  * * *

  I put my palm to my forehead to rub away the clattering feelings. But it’s guilt that takes over. I sink onto my bed, dropping my head into my hands, and a noise rises out of me, thin and broken. The sound shocks me. I press my fingers over my mouth.

  We have never understood each other. As a child, he frightened and overawed me. I wanted his approval while slinking away, embarrassed by his lumbering height and German accent. The shame I felt when I believed he might have been a Nazi never really left me. The residue is inside me still, like a kind of poison.

  The room closes in: walls encroaching, furniture looming, ornaments and shoes and discarded clothes rising up to smother me. I can’t breathe. It’s the way I’ve always felt at home. I swing my legs up onto the bed and lie down, pulling my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around myself.

  * * *

  I post my application to the Laban Center on my way to the station. As my fingers relinquish their grip, I wonder if I’ll get the chance to tell Scarlett, to thank her. I stayed up all night agonizing over the wording. If they like the sound of me and approve my qualifications, the next step will be an audition and interview. Whatever happens, I’ll have to move, find a place of my own. Mum would understand. She always knew that she was the go-between, the glue that stuck us all together.

  Rush hour has finished, so the train to Victoria is quiet. I have a double seat to myself; I slump, head pressed against the glass, watching back gardens go by. There are lines of washing. Children’s toys left in the grass. We go under a bridge with graffiti on the dirty brickwork. More back gardens. A cat on a doorstep. A woman staring over a fence, smoking. We catch each other’s eyes but neither of us smiles. And then she is gone.

  I travel down vertiginous escalators. The dusty Tube platform is half empty. I stare at the advertisement opposite without seeing it. I have a novel in my bag, but I won’t be able to concentrate on that either. There’s a scurrying below me. A gray mouse hurries alongside the metal rails. It makes a sudden dash for the wall, disappearing through a hole, as the train arrives in a rush of color and sound. Doors slide open into a bright carriage. I find a seat and clutch my bag on my lap, trying to make myself take deep breaths.

  It’s raining when I emerge into dull daylight on Brixton High Street. I turn up my collar and put my hands in my pocket, walking quickly along darkened pavements. Shoppers holding umbrellas over their faces barge into me and I duck out of the way of spokes, dodge around people blinded by rain and their anxiety to get out of it as quickly as possible.

  I cut through the market, hurrying past bright mounds of fruit and vegetables; stallholders, bundled up in anoraks, are hardly bothering to shout for customers. A dog barks at me. A boy holds it on a straining chain. The animal’s wide mouth is a ribbed cavern. I pull my coat closer and slip past, my heart crashing in my chest.

  At the Smokey Quartz I push the door, only to find that it’s locked. I shove against it. Rain splatters down my collar. I wipe the glass and peer through into the dark interior. It seems deserted. I try knocking. No one comes.

  “Who you lookin’ for, love?” A man with dreadlocks stops, staring at me with his head on one side. Raindrops catch in his eyelashes.

  “Nobody. It’s OK.”

  “You look for nobody, you find nobody.” He grins and wanders off, his head tipped towards the sky.

  I’ve been imagining Cosmo at the Smokey Quartz. Seeing him inside the club, frozen in an expression of disgust and betrayal, stuck inside the moment that Shane swaggered up to me and ripped the fiction of Eliza apart. But now I remember that only Josh should be here, sorting out the deliveries, making calls in the office. Scarlett will be at the flat, rehearsing or painting her toes or sleeping. With sudden blank horror, I understand that I have no idea where Cosmo is. I’ll have to go to the flat. Even if Cosmo’s not there, Scarlett might know where he is. I must apologize to her as well. I wish I knew what to say. I feel so tired. I’m empty of words.

  I walk slowly, water dribbling down my neck and into my eyes. As I turn into their road on the opposite pavement, I see number fourteen coming up on my left. There’s a figure standing at the front door, hunched in the rain. It’s Josh. I stop, sucking my lips, uncertain. His finger jabs at the doorbell, as he cranes his head to stare up at the first-floor windows. One of the windows is thrown open, the sash rolling up with a bang and Cosmo leans out.

  I catch my breath and duck behind a parked car, squatting on my haunches, my bag trailing along the gritty pavement. I can hear Cosmo’s voice.

  “Hang on. Scarlett’s coming to let you in.”

  “This had better be good. I’m wet through!” Josh shouts back.

  Cautiously, I lever myself up enough to peer over the car hood. The door opens and I catch a glimpse of red hair. I glance up at the house. The window is shut. They’re in there together. Heat flares in my face, travels across my body, sweat pricking under my arms. I visualize them in the kitchen, pouring vodka into tea. Maybe Luke is there too. They will say they always knew there was something odd about me. They’ll be outraged, angry, hurt. They’ll be sitting around the table in a circle, protective of their friendship, united in their exclusion of the outsider. I am catapulted back into school. The odd one out, being whispered about behind hands.

  I remain crouched on the wet pavement, shielded by the car. The tire has tiny stones stuck into the thick rubber tread. I see myself reflected in the chrome center: curled like a fetus. I nip my bottom lip between my teeth and try to picture myself standing up and walking over to the door, pressing my finger against the doorbell.

  I straighten, leaning on the hood to steady myself. A woman hurrying past falters in her stride, startled eyes flickering towards me before she carries on. I peer up at the first-floor window again, almost hoping that one of them will be looking out. But there’s only the empty glare of reflections.

  My hair’s plastered to my skull as I trudge back towards the Tube station, blinking rain-spangled lashes. A wave of dirty water swills across my feet as a car rolls past, wheels hissing.

  My insides ache. None of them will want to know me as Klaudia. I’ve lied to them for months.

  Cosmo. I mouth his name, repeating it like an incantation. He trusted me. He loved me.

  I should have been brave enough to tell him before it got out of hand. There were so many moments in Leeds, or that day when we bumped into each other at the Smokey Quartz; I should have corrected him then, explained everything, revealed myself as my father’s daughter. The lie distorted me. It’s ruined everything. I’ve ruined everything. There’s a pain in my heart. I put my hand over the soaking fabric of my coat, and stumble down the steps to the Tube station, into the gloom of the tunnels.

  ERNST

  1973, Cardiff

  IT’S AN UGLY STREET. The narrow terraced houses have mean proportions, the windows too small to let in any decent light. I sniff, smelling drains, damp brickwork, cooking. On the way over, staring out of the cab window through the drizzle, I’d noticed gaping holes in fences, glimpsed areas of naked ground: old bomb sites, overgrown with we
eds. Back at home I’d be putting in an offer for land like this, calculating how many properties I could get onto it. But I wouldn’t cram boxes together. I build good, solid houses. I’ve made my reputation on the quality of my work. Little details like verandas, and front doors with porches make all the difference.

  Standing on Otto’s doorstep, I’m suddenly afraid that I’ve made a mistake by coming, and I have the urge to run back to my hotel room. I sent a telegram warning them of my arrival, deliberately not allowing time for a reply before I set off. Maybe I’m getting soft, but I’ve begun to yearn for family. Despite everything, Otto is my only flesh and blood, the only one who understands my past. I want to try and mend our relationship. Over thirty years have passed. Maybe now we can be brothers. Otto is too stubborn to make the first move. That’s always been my role. I glance up at their house—poky and grimy as the rest of the terrace—and lean closer. I can’t hear anything. No muffled noises. I don’t even know if they have kids. I presume that they must have. They’ve been married since the end of the war. I put my shoulders back and press the bell.

  A small woman opens the door. She has soapy hands, her sleeves rolled up to the elbows. She wipes her wet fingers on her apron and simultaneously slips her hands behind her waist to pull the apron off.

  “Oh my goodness. You must be Ernst.”

  She smiles. I’d mistaken her for a young woman at first; there’s something childlike about her. Her pale skin appears unlined. But when she smiles there are fine creases around her eyes, a slight softening of her jaw, and I start, prickles running up my spine, because she looks so much like Sarah, as Sarah would look if she was alive.

  I gather myself and bow my head. “And you must be Gwyn.”