The Stranger Upstairs

by Melanie Raabe

  I’m turning into Miriam’s street when I realise I can’t do it—if I go through her front door, if I let myself be enveloped by my friend’s warmth, the cheerful chaos of her house, I’ll break down. If I see Leo, see my beautiful son, I’ll fall apart.

  I take my foot off the accelerator, flick on the right indicator and park at the kerb.

  Yes, I decide. I take out my phone, ring Miriam and ask her to keep Leo a little longer—just for this afternoon, or possibly this evening, too. I’m not sure yet, I tell her.

  ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘You know how much we love to have him here. But is everything okay, hon?’

  ‘Tell him I love him,’ I say, keeping my voice as steady as I can. ‘And that I’ll see him very soon. How’s he doing?’

  ‘Honestly, hon, he’s fine. I’m sure the scene at the airport must have been completely overwhelming, but you know what kids are like—one minute they’re having a full-on tantrum, and the next they’re fine. Three seconds after he came in the front door he was right as rain. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to stay a little longer, too, so no need to worry. You know what those boys are like when they’re together—they’re out in the backyard, playing in the treehouse Martin built for them. I practically had to climb up there myself and drag them down last night when it was time for bed.’

  I force a laugh. ‘Thanks, Miri,’ I say, ‘I owe you one,’ and then, before she can ask me about Philip, I hang up.

  Then I turn the car around and set off again.

  The nursing home where Philip’s mother lives is in one of the nicest parts of town. The park surrounding the buildings, lush and green in spite of the heat, is deserted—no dutiful children or grandchildren strolling beneath the old trees with their fragile relatives, no carers ferrying residents about in wheelchairs. It must just be too hot. I haven’t been here for a long time, and I’m sorry about that now—although Constanze and I were never close, even before the wedding. She had wanted something more for her son than a humble teacher—maybe one of the beautiful daughters of her wealthy friends. The kind of woman who can wear white without messing it up and organise charity events—the kind who looks good in pearl necklaces and tailored suits.

  The wedding was the final straw for her, though. Philip and I had been married in Las Vegas, without family, without anyone. Just him, me, the registrar, the fat Elvis, a hired witness and the neon signs, flashing in our eyes. It had been Philip’s suggestion, a spur-of-the-moment thing, while were on holiday in California. Tasteless, Constanze had pronounced it. Utterly tasteless. I wondered then what my own mother would have said. I think she’d have been pleased. Philip told me not to worry—Constanze was annoyed, but she’d get over it. She wasn’t annoyed, though—she was furious. He was her only child, and she hadn’t been invited to his wedding. We had our American marriage officialised as soon as we got back to Germany—Philip insisted on doing everything properly—but Constanze refused to accompany us to the registry office.

  He’d been thinking of me, I know it—trying to protect me. I had no family, and if we’d had the big society wedding Constanze wanted for her son, it would have been painfully obvious—but she couldn’t see that, or didn’t want to.

  I sit in the car, the air-conditioner humming, my thoughts shooting about like ball bearings in an old-fashioned pinball machine, lighting up now this part of my memories, now that one. I think of Las Vegas, the fat Elvis impersonator, my ring from the bubble-gum machine, our friends’ cheers when we returned from the States a married couple. I think of Philip, so handsome in his rented tuxedo, and what it felt like when he took me in his arms and kissed me. My body responds to the memory of it, even after all this time, a delicious warmth spreading from the pit of my stomach. When Philip held me I was astonished every time at how perfectly my body fitted into his, my cheek pressed into the hollow between his shoulder and neck. I think of Leo’s birth, of Philip cradling him in his arms for the first time and not crying, but laughing. I think of the night we met. Being young. Thunder and lightning. Summer skies. I would so much rather think of the first time we saw each other than the last. I don’t remember what Philip was wearing when he left for the airport. I don’t remember whether he kissed me on the forehead or the mouth. I only remember the banality of the last things we said.

  ‘Give me a ring when you get there.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And don’t forget to get in touch with your mother. You know what she’s like.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Then the phone rang inside the house. I usually waved to Philip until he was out of sight, but this time I didn’t watch him leave—he never looked back anyway. I went back into the house and shut the door. I can’t even remember who was on the phone.

  Yes, I much prefer to think of the first time we saw each other than the last.

  I shake my head, turn off the engine and step out into the heat.

  Yesterday, when Barbara Petry asked me who could confirm my husband’s identity, I immediately thought of Johann and was perhaps too quick to reject the idea of involving my mother-in-law. Constanze has, I’m afraid, gone rapidly downhill mentally in the past few years. It was only when she could no longer cope at home even with professional help that we could persuade her to move into a home, but she still has her lucid moments—and right now, she’s all I have.

  I march resolutely into the reception area. White, pastel tones, orchids—but these attempts to make the place more homely with soft colours and flowers have only made it more clinical. I breathe deeply, ignoring the pungent smell of PVC flooring and disinfectant. If I want to pull this off, I have to seem confident. No nervousness. That’s another thing I learnt from Philip.

  To my astonishment, there is no humming and hawing from the nursing-home staff when I announce that I’d like to borrow my mother-in-law for coffee. Instead, I am greeted with congratulations. Mrs Kawatzki, the director of the home, a spindly little woman with kindly pale blue eyes and short hennaed hair, tells me they’ve been expecting me. Her fat blond colleague, whom I don’t know, gives a friendly nod, and I understand: they have heard about Philip’s homecoming. I have no time to be thrown off my guard.

  ‘We thought your husband might be dropping in,’ says Kawatzki, ‘to see his mother again after all these years. But this is nice too, of course—that you’ve come to pick her up. You can all have a lovely cosy chat with each other at home.’

  I nod, only just managing to keep my impatience in check.

  ‘We tried to tell Mrs Petersen about her son yesterday, when we heard the good news, but she didn’t understand,’ the blond nurse says. ‘But she’s having a good day today, so you’ll be able to tell her yourself, which is even nicer.’

  I nod politely, smile and promise to bring Constanze back in time for supper. But the two women, I realise, aren’t remotely worried about that. The return of the long-lost son, the newspaper and TV reports—it’s just like seven years ago. They all want their share of the drama. I swallow heavily and brace myself to meet Philip’s mother. It’s been so long since I last saw her that I don’t know what ‘a good day’ means nowadays. I hold my breath as Mrs Kawatzki knocks at the door of her room.

  ‘Come in,’ Constanze calls. She is sitting in an armchair, knitting. She looks up and sees me in the doorway behind Mrs Kawatzki. She hesitates, then her face brightens. ‘Sarah,’ she says, ‘what a surprise!’

  We are hurtling over the asphalt, which is so hot that the air above it is shimmering. It took a while to bundle Constanze into my car. She insisted on walking rather than letting me push her in a wheelchair. I could appreciate that—I wouldn’t be too keen on having anyone push me either, certainly not someone I didn’t particularly like.

  Constanze sits beside me in silence, looking out at the summer-green landscape flashing past.

  I glance across at her. How fragile she is, with her translucent, parchment-like skin, her fine white hair. A little plucked bird. She stares dreamily out of the wi
ndow, a faint smile on her thin lips. I don’t like to think about how small her world has grown in the past few years. I should have visited her more often. I shake the thought off and focus on the road, glad that she is as taciturn as ever.

  I suppose what I’m doing is wrong—I ought to tell her what’s going on. But I want a genuine reaction from her and I want it in front of witnesses. It is crucial that I get back before the stranger does. I’m racing along the road, ignoring the speed limit, ignoring Constanze’s occasional disapproving comments on my driving style. I brake abruptly at a zebra crossing, and then, almost eaten up by impatience, decide not to drive the usual way, but to take a short cut through town—it’s still early, and the roads are reasonably clear, so I should save myself a few minutes. The staid part of town where I live gives way to a hipper neighbourhood and I realise I’ve made a mistake—the traffic is heavy here, in spite of the weekend. Too many zebra crossings, too many prams and pushchairs, too many double-parked cars, too many red lights. At one set of lights, I watch, irate, as an old woman ambles across the road with a small shaggy dog. Then my attention is caught by something else. A movement. A man. He’s walking down the street, away from me—I see him only from behind. His back. The back of his head. I know the back of that head. I know that gait. I would recognise it among thousands.

  My heart lurches. I watch him walking down the street until he vanishes amid all the other people waltzing along the pavement. Then, at last, I react. I cut the engine, pull out the key and fling open the door. I leave the car where it is with my mother-in-law sitting in it. She calls out after me, a surprised ‘Sarah, what on earth are you doing?’ I ignore the angry hoots behind me. Nothing matters anymore, nothing. I sprint down the street after the man. When I reach the spot where I lost sight of him, I pause for a moment, look left, look right. Where is he? Where’s he gone? I set off at a run, striking out at random, straight ahead—he can’t have disappeared—I saw him—he must be somewhere about. But I can’t see him. He’s not in front of me. I’m standing on a street corner; he must have turned left or right; if he’d carried on straight ahead I’d have seen him. So left or right, left or right, don’t waste time thinking—left or right, all or nothing? I pull myself together and turn left. I run, but the crowds hamper my progress, I dodge, I weave, I fight my way through, I push and shove, I don’t apologise. Where is he? Then I see him. The back of his head, his white T-shirt, only a few metres away. I yell. At the top of my voice.

  ‘Philip!’

  A few people turn and stare, wondering what’s going on. I ignore them and fight my way through to the man. I’m almost level with him when he turns his head slightly, revealing his profile. It’s not him. It is not him. I followed the wrong man. I stop, devastated. I made the wrong decision—I should have turned right. I hurry back the other way, against the current of people and come to the corner again. I take the other street this time, scanning the crowd for the back of his head, the white T-shirt—but I don’t find him. He has vanished.

  The world around me suddenly seems frenzied, like a video that’s been artificially speeded up. I close my eyes for a second. What have I done? I’ve left Constanze in the car. What if she’s gone when I get back? What was I thinking, for Christ’s sake?

  Worst-case scenarios run through my head all the way back to the street where I left the car, but when I arrive it’s still parked there at the pedestrian crossing, angry drivers swerving around it. I breathe a sigh of relief. Constanze, too, is still there. She gives me a look that is part anger, part confusion.

  ‘What on earth’s going on?’ she asks.

  I get in, ignoring the horns blaring at me.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, my mouth dry. ‘I thought I saw someone.’

  I drive off. Constanze is silent.

  I tell myself that I didn’t see Philip—it wasn’t him. I tell myself I am very tired. I tell myself that I must focus on the task at hand.

  At home, I offer Constanze a seat on the living-room sofa, help her to sit down, give her a glass of water and withdraw to my bedroom to make a phone call. I don’t bother to check whether the stranger has got back. He has no keys, so he can’t be in the house, but he’s bound to turn up sooner or later. If he wants to carry on playing the part of Philip Petersen, he’ll have to come back. This time I’ll be ready for him. He’s going to like the little surprise I’ve planned for him, I’m sure.

  I dial Miriam’s number and invite her to an impromptu coffee party. She’s delighted—partly, I suppose, because she thinks she’s going to meet Philip at last.

  ‘I’ll go get Leo down from the tree house,’ she says. ‘We’ll be right over.’

  ‘No!’ I say. ‘No, don’t bring Leo. Let him stay and play a little longer.’

  Miriam hesitates. ‘Is everything okay, Sarah?’

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ I say, but I know that won’t convince her. ‘I’ll explain later. You don’t mind him staying a little longer, though, do you? Martin won’t mind having both boys and the baby to look after on his own?’

  ‘God no,’ Miri says. ‘Martin loves having Leo here too—the more the merrier, as far as he’s concerned.’

  She tells me that everything will be all right, that she’s coming right round, and if there’s anything—anything at all—that she and Martin can do to make things easier for me, all I have to do is ask.

  After talking to Miriam, I go and check up on Constanze, who is leafing through one of the poetry books on the coffee table. She looks up when I enter.

  ‘I do like that print,’ she says, pointing at the framed picture on the wall opposite.

  Either she has forgotten she gave it to us herself—or else it’s her strange sense of humour, which I never understood. Constanze looks at me, a thin smile playing on her hard lips, her eyes sparkling. A joke, then.

  ‘Hasn’t changed much here,’ she says, looking about her.

  Any minute now she’ll get up and run her finger over the furniture to check for dust. I sigh inwardly. I know exactly why I visited her so rarely.

  ‘The bookshelves are new,’ she says, pointing at the wall. ‘And my rug’s gone.’

  Patience, Sarah.

  ‘Personally,’ Constanze says brusquely, ‘I find bare boards rather vulgar, but tastes differ.’

  I try not to roll my eyes.

  ‘Sarah? Are you even listening?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, of course.’

  Constanze looks at me with a frown and returns to her poetry book.

  I decide it’s all right to leave her by herself for a few minutes longer, and then, feeling a little giddy, I go and call on my neighbour, Mrs Theis.

  When I get back to the house, I notice that I’m still wearing the white summer dress I put on for Philip’s homecoming. I hurry upstairs, jump in and out of the shower, dash into my bedroom and put on jeans, T-shirt and trainers.

  Then I fetch my handbag and take out my phone. I don’t even bother to work out what time it is in China—I just try Johann again straight off. Who cares if I wake him? What matters is that I get hold of him. It’s a long time since we had a proper chat—it was from the papers, not from him, that I found out about his company’s financial difficulties. Is that why he’s so hard to get hold of?

  Once again, he doesn’t take the call. Frustrated, I give up.

  The broken table in the spare room is still lying there in pieces. The stranger’s holdall is also on the floor. I quickly open the zip and rummage through the things inside. Clothes, mainly clothes. Also a razor, shaving foam, deodorant, a book, a phone, a charger. I stop short. I haven’t yet seen the stranger with a phone. Was that what he tried to hide from me? I swipe the screen, but it’s switched off. I curse under my breath. Then I pick up the book and open it at random. It’s in Spanish, a language I don’t read.

  I leaf through the pages. There are no underlinings, no notes. There doesn’t seem to be anything special about this book at all. I’m on the point of putting it away when so
mething occurs to me. Unlikely, but still. I open it at the first page and can hardly believe it. Handwriting. Blue biro. For Vincent. From Dad. May 2005.

  Vincent.

  I suddenly hear Constanze calling.

  Quickly, I stuff everything back in the bag.

  Before long, we’re sitting round the kitchen table, which is laid with tea and coffee, milk, sugar and lemon, cake and biscuits. Mrs Theis has brought brightly coloured dahlias from her garden.

  Constanze is sitting in state opposite me. On my right is Mrs Theis, and opposite her, Miriam. It was a good idea to invite Miriam and Mrs Theis, not just because they’ll be witness to the meeting between Philip’s mother and the stranger, but also because their pleasant chatter fills the kitchen and soothes my nerves.

  Mrs Theis, as always, talks about her garden. Miriam, as always, talks about her children. To my amazement, Constanze regales us with anecdotes from Philip’s childhood. I ought to listen, but it’s not easy.

  The party can begin.

  The stranger

  My discovery of a spare key under a flowerpot has made things rather easier. I was surprised that she should be so negligent, but then some people think they can get away with murder.

  I unlock the door and go in, satisfied with the day so far. The conversation I had was disagreeable but helpful. I’ve taken a significant step forward. Now I know exactly what I have to do. All I’m waiting for is Grimm’s call—the last piece in the puzzle. Patience. No giving up. No mistakes, now that the end’s in sight. It did me good to get out of the house and stretch my legs. My body is refreshed, my thoughts in order. I see more clearly than I did. I slam the door shut behind me—I want her to know I’m back. I cross the hall with a firm tread. She put me slightly off my stride, but that’s over now. I just have to keep going.