The Other Me

by Saskia Sarginson

  I’ve struggled all my life to make the wrong father love me. It’s every child’s nature to love. When it isn’t returned they think it’s their fault. The moment Ernst told me that he was my father, I felt that old wound heal and a new wound open: his guilt scorching me. He did something unforgivable. But it’s haunted him, all this time. I know it has. What he did was evil. Yet, despite it, he’s a good man. My mother said that once about Otto. This time I believe it.

  It was my mother who told the biggest lie. What must it have been like to live with her lie every day? I’d thought she’d lived a dull life. I’d thought nothing had ever happened to her. Now, when I consider the choices and sacrifices she made, the agony that must have gone with each of them, I wonder how she squared it with her God. When she prayed, was she asking forgiveness? Was she asking for the strength to endure, to fulfill her duty with a man she didn’t love anymore? Or did she love him? Did she love them both?

  I wish I’d known Ernst when I was growing up. I wish I could spend time with him. We don’t have that luxury. It’s funny; he should still be a stranger to me, but there has always been a familiarity between us, a sense that I’d known him before. I’m glad that I can do this for him, that it’s me who will fulfill his last request.

  A shadow falls over me. There’s the rustle and flicker of someone walking past and I glance up. The scent of lavender hangs in the air. I look around at the empty pews, the closed double doors into the street. I’m alone. I feel a sense of urgency, a need to get home, strong as a hand tugging at me. I struggle to my feet and walk quickly out of the chapel.

  I turn and begin to run along the pavement. It’s drizzling: a freezing sleety rain. I forgot to put on a coat. The chill bites at my skin, seeps inside my bones. Afternoon is drifting into evening. All the streetlights have come on. Cars pass, their headlights picking out the rain in shimmering beams. The snow has gone from the street, except the rutted, blackened remains lying in drifts at the side. Car tires leave mushy tracks through the wet.

  * * *

  There are no lights on. No noise or sound of voices. A deep, dense silence exists. I break it as I close the door behind me, like breaking a spell. I hear my lungs pulling air in and out, the creak of my shoes, the rustle of my clothes against my skin. I pause at the foot of the stairs, standing with my hand on the banister, afraid of what waits for me. My pulse quickens in my wrists. I drag my feet up each stair tread, my hand sliding along the polished wood.

  The door to the spare room is closed.

  * * *

  There’s a shape hunched by the bed. At first I think that Ernst has somehow pulled himself into a chair. Then I realize that it’s my father. He’s slouched low, his head hanging forward. Ernst is a motionless shape under the sheets. I stand for a moment with my hand on the door handle, hardly daring to breathe, not wanting to go in. I don’t want to disturb a final reconciliation. Neither of the men moves.

  I approach quietly, standing by my father’s shoulder. He doesn’t acknowledge me. When I glance at Ernst’s face my body goes cold. I know at once that he is dead. He is vacant. Empty. His body lies on its back and his face, parched and yellowed, stares up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. His mouth gapes. I want to close it. I want to slide his lids shut too. But I’m afraid to touch him. He looks like a creature that has been excavated from a tomb, something that is thousands of years old. His wounded hands lie over the sheet, fingers spread as if in surprise. I force myself to lean forward and touch them. There is a hint of warmth inside the skin; I feel it drawing back like a tide.

  I gasp.

  My father doesn’t move. And I notice the pillow on his lap. He clutches it tightly, his hands curled into fists.

  I shake him. His fingers curl even tighter around the fabric, and he lets out a low moan.

  “What have you done?” My voice scratches the air.

  A sound breaks through the gloom: the doorbell, its chimes loud and ordinary. A trilling electrical noise that echoes before it comes again. It can’t be Amoya. She has a key. I stand, my heart beating. It chimes again, insistently. Someone is pressing the bell repeatedly, as if they know I’m here.

  I obey its call, turning away from the bed. I walk slowly down the stairs. Through the frosted glass of the front door I make out a tall shape. The shape has its face pressed against the pane, trying to see in.

  * * *

  I’d expected a policeman to be on the step, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. I blink at the man who’s there instead, a dark silhouette against the streetlight and the silver needles of drizzle.

  “Eliza?”

  My old name shocks me. The sound of his voice makes my mouth dry. Light catches his face, slides around his features. The face I’ve kept alive in my imagination for months.

  “Klaudia?” he tries again in an uncertain tone.

  “What are you doing here?” Longing runs through me. I want to throw myself into his arms. I want him to rescue me.

  Cosmo steps closer. “Can I come in? I’m soaked.”

  I swallow, holding the door open. He comes into the hall, shaking drops from his hair. He looks the same. I shiver. The shiver intensifies, becoming a violent shudder that forces my shoulders to hunch and drop.

  “It took me a long time to track you down—” He stops when he sees me tremble. “What’s the matter?” He pushes a hand through his soaking hair. “Have I done the wrong thing by coming?”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t think you’d ever want to see me again.”

  “Not want to see you?” He stares at me. “That night. Shane turning up. He dropped a bombshell. But I didn’t expect you to disappear.”

  “I was just about to tell you, before—” I stop. This is no time for excuses. “Shane … he’s no friend of mine. He bullied me at school. It wasn’t what you thought…”

  “I didn’t think anything. I didn’t have time to. And in the end, it was Shane that gave me your address. Or I’d never have found you.”

  “Shane?” And then I understand what he’s just said. “You’ve been trying to find me all this time? I thought you were in Rome.”

  “I didn’t go. I couldn’t leave you again. I got together with the others, Scarlett and Josh. We all tried to pool our resources. Put scraps of information together to help find you. But none of us had any information. Josh had paid you in cash, and the address and number you’d left for him turned out to be false.” He blinks. “I went back to Leeds. But I couldn’t track you down there either. Shane was my only hope. The bouncer on the door said he was from Croydon, that he had a prison record. I eventually got hold of him and he gave me your address. For a price, of course.”

  I press my hand over my mouth.

  “Hey,” he says gently. “You don’t think I’d really give up the chance to hear your explanations? Miss out on you waving a magic wand, coming up with a reason for all this?”

  He’s trying to make a joke. He’s never been good at them. But he’s offering me a way back from my lies. Only he doesn’t know what’s upstairs. I edge away. In the spare room Otto sits with a pillow on his lap. Ernst is dead. Nausea rises and I have to breathe out sharply. I reach out and hold on to the hall table.

  “I wish you hadn’t disappeared.” Cosmo’s face crumples in concern. “None of us thought that you’d tricked us out of spite. I’d known for a while that something was wrong. Even at the beginning, the night you were drunk, you said some odd things that didn’t add up with the rest of your story. You were always evasive about talking about your family, as if you were embarrassed or afraid. I began to think you must be running away from something…” He looks into my eyes. “Are you?”

  My knees buckle and I grip the table tighter.

  “What’s the matter?” His voice rises. “Are you ill?”

  I manage to shake my head. “My father … my uncle … he’s dead. He’s dead. Upstairs…”

  Cosmo startles, his chin jerks away and he stares up the dark stairs and back
at me. His dark gaze is full of pity and something else that makes my legs weak. He takes my hand, and his fingers are strong and warm.

  Otto is in the chair. He hasn’t moved.

  Cosmo lets out a low breath. He goes to the bed and sits down carefully; he picks up Ernst’s stiff hand and puts two fingers behind his wrist. Leans over and looks into his face. Places his cheek over Ernst’s chest, closes his eyes to listen. He sits up and looks at me and makes a small movement with his head. “I’m sorry. We’d better call someone.”

  He bends to close Ernst’s lids gently. “Your uncle?”

  I can’t explain now. I nod.

  He puts his hand on my father’s shoulder. “What’s his name?” he asks in a quiet voice.

  I moisten my lips. “Otto.”

  “Sir? Are you all right? Otto?” He talks clearly and loudly. Then he stops and I see him notice the pillow. He reaches down and takes it from my father’s frozen fingers. Cosmo holds the soft mass for a moment, frowning, and places it on the bed.

  I wait for him to make the accusation. But he stands up. “I think he’s in shock. Can you get him a drink of water? I’ll call for an ambulance.”

  I’m grateful to be told what to do. I can manage that. I walk downstairs to run the water at the sink. I fill a glass and return to the spare room with it. I bend over Otto, offering him the drink.

  He ignores me. He doesn’t seem to see the glass.

  I glance at Ernst’s body. Why? I bite back my question. The man I thought was my father is sitting below me, human, alive; but he’s retreated. He’s unreachable. I remind myself that he’s in a state of shock. He looks through me, blinking.

  He stumbles up out of his chair, spilling water over my hand as he pushes past me on stiff legs. At the doorway, he pauses to move one hand to his other arm, rubbing it as if he’s cold. He coughs. “Must have … air,” he says in tight gasps.

  He’s gone. I hear unsteady feet on the stairs.

  I’m alone with Ernst. I feel his absence now, feel it as the emptying out of something irreplaceable. The loss winds me.

  I slide to the floor by the bed, kneeling as if I’m praying, and take Ernst’s cold hand in my own. I clutch it to me, and kiss his fingers. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’m sorry. I should never have left you.”

  But perhaps they planned it this way. Perhaps this was what came out of their reconciliation. For Otto to take a life, it went against everything he believed in. He must have loved his brother very much. I turn Ernst’s hand over and bury my face in the thin, worn skin of his palm. His poor, blunt fingers fall open. His hand is wet. I’m crying.

  “I love you,” I murmur.

  Cosmo is at my shoulder; he bends down, steadying me. “The ambulance is on its way; come on. Let’s get you something warm to put on. Find a cup of hot tea. You need sugar.”

  I’m shivering. My teeth are rattling. I stand and lean against him and he closes his arms around me. I press my damp, crumpled face into his chest, remembering the smell of him. He holds me tightly.

  I manage to stop crying and pull away, wiping at my eyes. “Amoya should be here soon.” But he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “My father.” I remember. “I’d better make sure he’s OK. He went outside.”

  “Outside?” Cosmo frowns. “It’s wet and cold. He shouldn’t…”

  We both go quickly down the stairs and I lead the way through the dazzling, empty kitchen out into the garden. Everything is indistinct in the dim, dying day. Shapes blur in a drizzly mist. The melting patches of snow are stained and pitted with criss-crossing tracks: footsteps and paw prints. The apple tree holds up its naked branches, and its twigs make accusing fingers that clutch at the last shreds of light.

  At first I can’t see him. Then I make out the crumpled shape in the slushy remains of snow at the bottom of the apple tree. I run, feet slipping on the soaking ground. He’s caught in the roots, his back against the trunk. Spittle hangs from his mouth. He’s wheezing, horrible, scratchy sounds rattling from his throat. I crouch by his side. He turns frightened eyes to me; he’s trying to speak, slurred words. I can’t understand. He’s clutching his chest.

  And Cosmo is there too, kneeling down beside me. “He’s having a heart attack.” He looks back towards the house. “Aspirin. Do you have any?”

  “In the bathroom cabinet … upstairs.”

  “Right.” He stands up, staring towards the house. “I’ll find out where the ambulance is—tell them it’s an emergency.”

  He’s gone. I take off my jumper and wrap it around Otto’s shoulders. He’s been sick. It’s all down his front, sticky and stinking. “It’s going to be all right.” I try to make my voice sound bright and hopeful. “Hold on. Help is coming.”

  He shakes his head. He’s grimacing. He squeezes his eyes shut and moves his hand from his chest to his arm. I let out a sob. Putting my hand over my mouth. And then his eyes snap open. He focuses on me. He can see me. I know he can. His eyes drill into me. He wants to say something; I lean forwards. He can’t speak. His lips move. I stare hard, trying to decipher his words.

  “Ernst…” he struggles.

  I take a deep breath. I shake my head. “It’s all right,” I say loudly. “He’s at peace now.”

  He gives a tiny impatient shake of his head. His lips are moving around another word. I strain to hear. “Daughter…”

  He reaches wavering fingers to me. I hold them, squeezing tightly, and try to smile through my tears.

  “Dad,” I manage to whisper. It’s my last lie.

  He’s closed his eyes again.

  There is noise and activity behind me. Two paramedics are hurrying across the garden, bright yellow jackets startling in the gloom. I step back, letting them crowd around him. There’s a stretcher and the woman is talking to Otto, getting him to open his mouth, slipping a pill under his tongue.

  Cosmo is there beside me. I walk next to the stretcher. Otto is ashen. His eyes sealed shut. There are neighbors peering out of windows, standing in doorways. On the pavement, they put the stretcher into the ambulance. He is being hooked up to a drip. His chest is bare and covered in wires. I glimpse his sagging flesh, a smattering of gray hair around the plastic equipment suctioned to his heart. The doors slam shut and the ambulance roars away, siren screaming.

  My legs can’t hold me, and I stagger. Cosmo’s arms slide around my shoulders, holding me tight, bearing me up.

  1997, London

  January

  They say grief lowers your immune system. I woke up with the flu after the funerals were over. I’m still red-nosed, with hollow, aching bones and a stubborn, ticklish cough. Huddled into my coat and scarf, I escape the bitter streets through glass doors, beginning to unbutton and unwrap as I approach the reception desk to ask the way to the auditions.

  Cosmo offered to come with me. But I need to do this on my own. There’s the sound of laughter and piano music in distant studios. Students hurry past, gossiping, soft-soled dance shoes whispering across the floor. I find the right room. There are three other candidates already inside, warming up in their leotards and leg warmers. Their eyes slide towards me, the newcomer, assessing my chances. I can feel their anxiety. The space is ringing with adrenaline. I put my hand over my heart. It’s beating fast. But I don’t feel sick or faint. My perspective has shifted. Nerves seem irrelevant in the face of life and death.

  I unpeel my outer clothes, blow my nose. I go through my stretches and focus on deep, steady breathing. I’m going to do the audition in a simple black leotard and black tights; I’ve managed to weave my hair into a short plait with the help of hairpins. A girl with a clipboard calls me into a hall. Three people are waiting behind a desk in front of a stage: a man and two women. None of them smiles. One of the women looks over the top of her glasses and tells me that I can begin.

  I have two pieces of choreography prepared. The first is for my mother. I’ve chosen Bach’s Goldberg Variations. The piano notes drop into the silence, slow and glea
ming. It’s a piece that is dignified, delicate, but certain. I move through the music, holding positions. I create patterns, finishing every movement so that there are no untidy edges, no trailing threads. The dance has to be a shining thing. Something pristine and whole. After I finish, I look up and see the woman with glasses talking to the man next to her. She turns and gives me a nod that I should begin the second one. She’s already writing notes as I look away, waiting for the music to begin.

  I discover that it’s easier to perform if you think of the performance as a gift. Performing is not about you; it’s about what you want to give.

  This is for Ernst. I’ve chosen “Debussy’s Arabesque No. 1.” The lilting, elusive music is part of me. Everything I have to say takes shape through movement. In dance there is call and response. Like prayer. The words I didn’t say can be said now. The years we never had can be remembered. Past and future flow through me, and I am there as a child in the kitchen; I am Klaudia and Eliza; I am Otto, Ernst and Gwyn. They slip through the avenues of my body, meeting and mingling. I imagine that together we are dancing across a slate-colored lake, through a forest whitened with snow, over the rooftops of terraced houses. I want to make the impossible possible: to make my body sing with their stories.

  1997, New York

  Two months later

  WE’VE BEEN HERE A WEEK and I’m still dizzy with excitement. I love the water tanks perched on top of buildings, the air-conditioning vents hanging from windows and the zig-zagging fire escapes patterning the long flanks of buildings. New York is even more densely populated and multicultural than London. The streets are seething with crowds; every road is pitted with potholes; sidewalks are dirty with rubbish; ravaged, weedy tenements exist beside vast, sweeping skyscrapers of glass and stone. We stroll past doormen in gold-trimmed uniforms, watch them tip their hats to people getting in and out of shiny limousines. Ella Fitzgerald plays in my head. I hum. I’ll take Manhattan. The Bronx and Staten Island too. I keep putting jazz songs to this city. They just seem to fit.