I nodded, stunned, and turned to the door; a few seconds later a nurse hurried through.
On the way home, David and I hardly spoke; we were both too preoccupied by what had just taken place. Of course, it was true that I looked very much like my mother with my short hair, but, regardless, Uncle Matthias should have recognized me. But his reaction baffled me even more than his confusion. Why had he become so desperate? I simply couldn’t make sense of it.
At the mansion I said good-bye to David, who had to stop by the law office to pick up a few documents, and went up to my room. I looked around, suddenly restless; I had to distract myself somehow. I took my camera and tripod and went downstairs. If anything could deter me from my thoughts, it was photography. Every time I looked through a lens and concentrated on a subject, everything around me fell away, and I found myself in a completely different world.
I crept through the woods, at some distance behind Elisa, as she walked down the path armed with her camera and tripod. I was concerned about making a sound. I kept an eye on the ground to avoid stepping on any rustling leaves or snapping branches.
Elisa suddenly stopped, obviously confused.
On the way to the clearing, I sensed a strange prickle on the back of my neck. Unsure what had caused it, I stopped and looked around. But I couldn’t detect anything suspicious. Only trees and bushes, with scattered sunbeams filtering through them.
I quickly hid behind an old oak tree. My heart was in my throat. I hoped she hadn’t spotted me. I closed my eyes, dug my trembling fingers into the thick bark, and pressed my forehead against the trunk. I listened but couldn’t hear a thing.
I slowly peeked around the tree and saw Elisa set off again.
To be on the safe side, I let the distance between us grow a bit. I knew I would be able to see her even from afar in that T-shirt I knew so well.
Relieved to have finally found a subject, I set up the tripod in the painterly light. I hummed to myself as I set to work attaching my camera, an old Hasselblad.
Because I only used a digital camera for my work, I especially enjoyed taking photos with my old device in my nonexistent free time. Even though it was a lot of work developing photos in a darkroom, I was so thrilled by the results that I had begun taking the Hasselblad on all my nature trips. The black-and-white photos possessed so much more depth and meaning than the perfect promotional photography that I produced daily, as though on a production line.
Of course Uncle Justus was right—I had given myself over to commerce—but I had to pay my rent somehow. And Berlin wasn’t cheap.
I crept as close to Elisa as possible. She looked completely innocent, absorbed as she was in her work. Had she not noticed that she was being watched? Did she have no sense of fear, being all alone in the woods?
I rebraced my camera and focused the lens.
A dragonfly landed on a bush right in front of me and sat motionless in the sun. A striking pattern adorned its wings, a beautiful contrast to the bushes’ white flowers, whose name I could never remember.
I slowly crept closer to Elisa and concealed myself in a tall bush on the edge of the light. My hands trembled uncontrollably. I frantically balled them into fists. My knuckles turned white under my skin.
I loaded some new film. The photo series of the dragonfly would definitely turn out well. I noticed the absolute tranquility that came over me as I concentrated on my work.
I stared at Elisa as she shot one photo after another.
No one would hear her scream in these deserted woods. It would take days for someone to find her. If anyone ever found her.
I was profoundly ashamed of my sinister thoughts, but I couldn’t dispel them from my head. They danced playfully in front of my closed eyes, screaming at me.
Horrified at myself, I crept back out of the clearing.
On my way back to the house, I once again had the feeling that I was being watched. But no matter how much I looked around, I couldn’t detect anything. I realized that my sleep deprivation and worry for Uncle Matthias were taking their toll, because I didn’t usually tend toward paranoia. I nonetheless quickened my pace and breathed a sigh of relief as I approached the east patio. None of my relatives were visible. Grateful for the unexpected quiet, I went through the open door into the dining room where Agathe had just set the table.
“Elisa,” she called out, grabbing at her heart. “You frightened me.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” I smiled apologetically at her.
“Were you able to take some beautiful pictures?” she asked, pointing at my camera.
I shrugged. “I’ll know once they’re developed. Does the old darkroom still exist?”
“Yes,” Agathe answered and furrowed her brow, “but it must be completely covered in dust. No one’s used it since you left.”
“That’s fine.” I made a dismissive hand gesture. “What matters is that I’ll be able to develop my film in there.”
Agathe muttered something to herself as she continued to place the silverware around each plate.
“What did you say?” I asked. Even though I knew what came next, I couldn’t resist.
“Dear.” Agathe sighed. “Why is it that you insist on hiding behind a camera and in dirty darkrooms?”
“Because that’s how I make a living.”
“And have you ever met a handsome young man in a darkroom?”
I shook my head and smirked. I didn’t tell Agathe that in Berlin there were other kinds of dark rooms where activities took place that would surely have taken her breath away.
“Put on a beautiful dress for once and go out to the disco with Kristina.”
“First, no one says ‘disco’ anymore, and second, I don’t think Kristina wants anything to do with me.
Agathe looked concerned. “Can’t you understand why?”
It slowly became clear to me that my relatives weren’t the only ones to blame for my misery, but also myself. Because of my stubbornness, I often couldn’t see the forest for the trees. “Of course I understand—”
I didn’t have a chance to finish my thought because Aunt Helen entered the dining room right then. “Oh, Elisa,” she said, walking up to me. “Here you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“I’ve been taking pictures in the woods,” I explained. My aunt didn’t seem to have heard my explanation. She appeared tense.
“How was it at the hospital?” she asked. “What did the doctors say?”
A wave of guilt washed over me, because I had disappeared into the woods before giving her an update. “Uncle Matthias was somewhat confused,” I reported. “The doctors assume it’s related to his medicine.”
My aunt nodded calmly and scrutinized the table. “Agathe, we’re going to need seven place settings tonight. Valerie is joining us again.”
I felt a flicker of disappointment. Once again, I wouldn’t be spared that bitch’s fake smile. Agathe sighed and hurried out of the room. Aunt Helen painstakingly smoothed a little wrinkle out of the damask tablecloth and turned back to me. “We always eat at seven. Please be punctual this time.”
I nodded and went up to my room to avoid being subjected to further remarks regarding my behavior.
I shut the door behind me with a heavy sigh, relieved that I’d successfully repressed my feelings about the social norm of showing up to dinner on time. In Berlin, I watched horror movies with my roommates at all hours, devouring cheap frozen pizza and junk food galore whenever we liked.
I tried to open the camera hatch to take out the exposed film. But my thirty-year-old Hasselblad resisted my efforts. “Damn!” I cursed, breaking a fingernail in the attempt. I scowled as I looked at my right hand. Unfortunately, I hadn’t inherited my mother’s gentle hands, but rather my father’s long, powerful fingers with angular fingernails. I was never going to win any beauty pageants with the
se hands, but they were an advantage in my work with larger cameras.
I went into the bathroom to get a nail file and looked around, confused. Something was different from this morning. The zipper on my old toiletry kit was pulled shut, even though I was sure I’d left it open.
As in the woods earlier, I had a bad feeling. Why would someone go through my toiletry kit? I had no answer.
Back in my room, I was trying to figure out what to do next when my cell phone chirped. I scurried over to the bureau where my phone lay.
I felt a pang of disappointment when I realized that the message was from my ex-boyfriend and not, as I’d hoped, from my mother. I’d broken up with Carsten, a business school student, when it became clear how different we were—and how much his predictability annoyed me. I can still remember the exact moment I came to that sobering realization.
We had just had dinner with his parents, both of whom were accountants, at their favorite Italian restaurant. As they did every Sunday night, they had quarreled over who should order which dish. As always, Carsten ordered a Margherita pizza—yes, he really chose the most boring pizza on the menu every damn Sunday.
As he shut the menu, I envisioned Carsten and me at the same Italian restaurant the following year, ordering the same dishes, his parents carrying on the same debates about tax reforms, and this vision really shook me to the core.
That same night, I let Carsten know how I felt and packed up the few things that I had brought over to his sterile apartment. But Carsten wasn’t satisfied with my decision that it was time to go our separate ways. Every few days he tried his luck and sent a pathetic message that left me completely cold.
Because I still had an hour to fill until dinner, I snatched my iPod and the rolls of film I wanted to develop and made my way to the cellar. As I passed Kristina’s room, I heard her speaking through the closed door. Her generally restrained voice sounded distinctly upset.
I stopped, suddenly curious. She seemed to be on the phone, but I could make no sense of the little snippets of conversation I could make out. But eavesdropping wasn’t my thing, so I continued on.
I was confronted by a cloud of musty air as I descended the steep stairs into the vaulted cellar. The lamp only sparsely lit the whitewashed rooms that sprawled under the mansion like a labyrinth. The small darkroom was located right next to the wine cellar that my uncle had established in his youth.
When I’d lived with my parents in Düsseldorf, I used to disappear into the darkroom for hours to develop my prints. I hoped I could still remember how to use the paper and chemicals after such a long time.
I turned the key in the lock of the black-lacquered door and stepped into the small light-trap area—it was built from two doors and prevented light from entering when someone went into the darkroom.
Submerged in total darkness, I felt blindly for the other door handle and pushed it down forcefully, because I knew the mechanism would snag, just as it always had.
In the darkroom, I turned on the red light and the ventilation fan, which sat rattling in the hall.
It wasn’t as dirty down here as Agathe had feared; only a thin layer of dust covered the table and equipment. I quickly dampened an old cloth in the sink and wiped the workspace clean so I could set the developing trays there. Then I was ready to go. I put my earbuds in my ears and listened to Bruno Mars at full volume as I started my work.
As I crept carefully down the cellar steps, I tried to remember which steps creaked, so as not to be discovered. I heard off-key singing through the doors of the darkroom. I grinned. Elisa was probably listening to music so loud, she wouldn’t be able to hear a herd of elephants if it came rumbling down the cellar stairs.
I slowly approached the door.
Elisa’s song cut out briefly.
I held my breath. I hoped she wouldn’t open the door. But nothing happened. I nonetheless waited a few minutes before I moved again. Anxious not to make a sound, I cautiously reversed the key in the door lock and crept back up the stairs.
This moment—when the first contours began to appear on the print—always enchanted me. I gently rocked the tray with the emulsion in it, back and forth. The longer I waited, the more detailed the photo got. Using wooden pins, I attached the prints to a clothesline that stretched across the other side of the darkroom.
I considered my work and was satisfied. The close-ups of the dragonfly had turned out beautifully, revealing every detail of the insect’s wings. The wing’s pattern appeared before the bush’s white flowers like a black lattice, making the dragonfly look like a fossil from a long-forgotten time, archaic and wild.
I began to clean up and put everything back in its place. I left the prints hanging to dry. Then I grabbed my iPod and turned off the red light and the fan. But as I tried to open the outer door, I was shocked to discover that it wouldn’t move.
Confused, I pushed the handle up and down a few more times. But there was no doubt about it. The door was really locked. I broke out in a light sweat as I realized that someone must have locked me in. I pounded furiously against the wood.
I crouched motionless on the bottom step of the cellar stairs and listened ecstatically to Elisa’s desperate calls, which faded ineffectively in the depths of the vaulted cellar. She could scream as loudly as she liked—no one on the ground floor would hear her.
A rare feeling of satisfaction welled up in me as her screams faded to silence.
After I had yelled and beat on the door in vain for a few minutes, I gave up. Despite my panic, I tried to organize my thoughts and approach the problem logically. But my claustrophobia interfered with my ability to think clearly. The darkness seemed to be collapsing in on me and drawing away the air I needed to breathe. I quickly walked out of the claustrophobic light trap back into the darkroom and turned the red light and the fan back on. I calmed down with the realization that when I didn’t show up for dinner, Agathe would immediately know to look for me in the darkroom.
All I could do now was wait.
It took hours for my relatives to notice my absence.
“Elisa, are you here?”
When I recognized Lukas’s voice, I sighed with relief and jumped up from my stool. “I’m in the darkroom,” I called as I ran to the light trap, “but someone locked me in.”
As the key turned in the lock and the door opened with a jerk, I breathed an immense sigh of relief. I looked at Lukas’s confused face. “Why were you locked in?” he asked and furrowed his brow. “I don’t understand why . . .”
“I have no idea,” I answered. I pushed past him and quickly went to the stairs.
Still rattled by the incident in the darkroom, I sat tensely at dinner. Even my favorite dish, coq au vin with rosemary potatoes, provided no solace. I pushed the food listlessly from one side of the plate to the other. “Elisa, is something wrong?”
I cringed and looked into my aunt’s worried face. Should I tell her what had happened? There was already enough excitement in the Westphal house for the moment.
“I suppose you could say that . . .” I broke off, suddenly aware that all eyes were upon me. “This afternoon I went down to the darkroom to develop some photos. When I wanted to leave, the door wouldn’t open.”
“What do you mean to suggest?” asked Valerie in a mocking tone from across the table. “That someone deliberately locked you in?”
David looked at her angrily and turned in my direction. “Are you absolutely sure? Maybe the old door was just jammed?” His gray eyes studied me doubtfully.
I looked to Lukas, who was savoring his chicken, and indicated for him to stand up for me.
After swallowing his last bite, Lukas complied: “Agathe asked me to go look for Elisa, because she’d disappeared down to the darkroom and been down there for hours.” He shrugged. “When I entered the cellar, the door to the darkroom was locked.”
Kristina, who
had not exchanged a word with me since my arrival, looked disbelievingly at her brother. “It had to have been a mistake. Why would someone do something like that?”
I was already simmering with anger when my aunt jumped on the bandwagon. “Elisa, none of us came up with the idea to lock you in the cellar.”
“Are you suggesting that I’m lying?” My voice almost cracked.
Uncle Justus obviously found my outburst amusing. “You’re being a little melodramatic, Elisa, don’t you think?”
Valerie’s snicker rang shrilly in my ears and spoiled what little remained of my appetite.
I slammed the door to my room behind me. Everyone had come to the flimsy conclusion that the somewhat senile gardener must have unwittingly locked me in when he went about doing his daily check of the premises in the afternoon; once that had been determined, a tense silence had once again descended upon the dinner table.
As I walked over to close the window, I noticed a small piece of paper on my pillow. I grabbed it and turned the bedside lamp on. I was baffled as I read the typewritten sentence: Get out of here, before it’s too late!
Was that supposed to be some kind of joke? If it were, I didn’t find it funny but tasteless. Whoever wanted to chase me out of here must have left me this ridiculous message when I was confined to the darkroom.
I lay awake all night wondering who would do such a thing to me. I eventually came to a conclusion.
Sunday
Since I was fed up with my relatives, I grabbed an apple from the kitchen at the crack of dawn and skipped Sunday breakfast. After letting Agathe know my plans, I crept out to the shed—hoping not to run into anyone on the way—in search of my old bike.
And there it was—my red Holland bicycle—tucked behind my uncle’s slipcovered antique cars. I pressed on the tires. I was in luck; someone had evidently taken care of it in my absence. The tires were good, and it wasn’t rusted.
Shuttered Life Page 3