• • •
Mark had been on his way home. It was pure chance that he saw the man with the sledgehammer at all. A brief glance to his right changed everything, and Reza’s life took a sudden turn for the better. Instead of ending up in prison, he was in Mark and Blum’s villa. Instead of being kicked and humiliated, he was given food and a roof over his head. No one had seen them, no cameras, no passersby. Nothing had been stolen; the only harm done was some damage to the cash dispenser. Mark had made his decision; he thought he was doing the right thing. The man on the ground represented no threat, and locking him up was no solution, so he took Reza home with him. He and Blum took the homeless Bosnian in, for the time being. At that time, no one guessed that he would stay for years. Blum made chicken soup, they sat at the kitchen table and listened to his story. Thank you, he kept saying, over and over again, thank you. Blum didn’t hesitate for a moment. Mark had decided to help him, and she did what Mark wanted. She was looking for a new employee at the time, which probably had as much influence on her decision as the fact that Reza was not afraid of death. It had been an everyday occurrence for so long he did not fear the corpses on the preparation table. Everything came together. They extended the workshop under the Institute building to make it into living quarters for Reza. He had arrived.
• • •
Reza is standing in the garden, washing the hearse. He has been Blum’s devoted assistant for the past six years. Reza has improved everyone’s life; the clients, Karl, and the children all like him. To Uma and Nela, Reza has always been there. The man with the funny accent is part of the family. He tosses them up in the air in summer, catches them as they come down, and smiles. Now Reza is carefully polishing the hearse. Mark is getting on his motorcycle, Karl will take the girls to school, and Blum and Reza will finally attend to the old man lying in the cool room.
• • •
Blum is curious; she hasn’t seen the body yet, all she knows is that it was a gunshot to the head, the suicide of an eighty-four-year-old man who no longer wanted to live, who put an end to it all with a bullet. Reza and another driver collected him from the forensic lab yesterday. Blum is interested to know what his head looks like, how large a hole the bullet made. Only a little kiss stands between her and her next adventure, a kiss for Mark. I love you, he says again. Then he rides away.
• • •
Blum watches him go. Everything follows its normal course; the engine snarls as the man she loves sets off for his day’s work. When he has driven twenty meters, he switches on the turn signal and turns back once, briefly, to look at Blum and Reza, then he twists the right-hand throttle and accelerates. Blum is just about to go back into the house when she hears the bang.
She sees it, a Rover, a large black car. At first she can’t work out what is happening, she doesn’t understand. The car. The way Mark disappears. The way the big car pushes him aside, knocks him over. The way he falls, and the car drives over him. Reza beginning to run, with Blum in pursuit. Mark disappearing under the car, the loud sound of metal as the motorcycle is dragged along. Mark’s body turns like a puppet, flies through the air like a toy. She runs to him, she wants to help, Reza tries to hold her back. And the car simply drives away, fast and forever. Without stopping to help, without expressing regret or horror. Just the back of a car driving away from an accident, from a motorcycle lying smashed on the asphalt, from a lifeless body. He lies there, he doesn’t move. There is no sound. There’s nothing anymore. All that was loud is silent again, as if nothing has happened. A fine day is beginning, the sun is shining. Mark lies in her arms. Blum screams. Long and loud.
• • •
For minutes on end her voice rises above the road. She pleads, she begs, her mouth opens and closes. Her upper body rocks forward, rocks back, Mark’s head is in her lap, blood everywhere. Tears everywhere, running down her cheeks, splashing him, wanting him to move, to breathe, to say something. She has taken off his helmet, she holds his face in her hands, she looks at him, looks into his empty eyes, she howls, she whimpers, she strokes his hair again and again with the palm of her hand. Everything is blood, everything is broken, nothing is whole anymore.
• • •
Reza calls the emergency numbers, an ambulance, the police. He is running around in circles like a frightened animal, he doesn’t know what to do, how to help, there is no way out. Staring neighbors, horrified faces, no one can help. No one can bring Mark back. Five minutes ago everything was all right, five minutes ago there was still life, and now there’s only death. It has knocked everything over and crushed it. Blum knows that there is no going back now. That he will never touch her again, that his fingers will be silent, his hands, his mouth. She knows this. She has seen death a thousand times, she has seen life departed, only a body, only skin going cold. There will be no more talk, no laughing, no one to protect her anymore. Mark will not come back. Blum knows it, senses it, feels it. Feels it tearing at her heart, feels everything in her cut to pieces as she screams and screams because the pain is growing worse every second.
• • •
Blum and Mark are in the middle of the road. The motorcycle lies fifty meters away. Blum hears the children screaming too, they are crying. Blum sees Karl and Reza holding them back. They want to go to their father, they want to go to Blum, they can hear their mother. They hear how desperate she is. Police officers climb out of their car and paramedics drag her away. Blum’s fingers touch Mark one last time. The needle goes into her arm. They hold her, they press her down to the ground, she screams. Until suddenly it is warm, and the light goes out.
She has slept for thirty-six hours. Again and again she was briefly awoken, again and again she forced her eyes to close. She didn’t want to come back to the light of day, to reality, didn’t want to feel anything, see anything, accept that it had really happened. Her sole wish was to sleep, immersing herself in the fog that made everything bearable. Blum turns over and goes back to sleep. She never wants to wake again. She wants to numb herself for days on end, for weeks. Not until Uma and Nela crawl into bed with her and little hands begin stroking her cheek does she come back.
• • •
She senses the fear and desperation in their small fingers. She hears her children’s consoling words; they are trying to be strong, they want their mother back, they want her to get up and go on living. Mama, you mustn’t be dead. Please get up, Mama. You must open your eyes, Mama. Please. Nela’s voice. She wants to be cuddled, she wants Blum to dry her tears, she wants to be told that everything is all right. Those two magical little creatures don’t understand why their papa isn’t there or why he was covered with blood or why he was taken away. They don’t want their world to collapse; they want to snuggle up to their mother, crawl into her, hide in her, be safe. They want to act as if everything were still the same. As if Mark were still there beside them. Breathing, smiling. Mama, you must get up now. Please, you must. Grandpa won’t stop crying. We need you, Mama. Their words sink far down into Blum. Their words tear Blum away from sleep and suddenly give her strength. She can’t lie here for another moment. With all her might, she sits up and comes back to life. I’m not dead, she says.
• • •
“We’ll manage, my big girl.”
“What, Mama? What will we manage?”
“Come here, you two.”
“What’s the matter with Papa, Mama? I want him to come back.”
“Papa won’t be coming back.”
“Why not?”
“Nela, don’t you know that Papa is a prince?”
“So?”
“So princes ride through the forest fighting dragons.”
“Dragons aren’t real, Mama.”
“Oh yes, Nela, there are dragons, and your papa has gone away to fight them. Your papa is a very brave prince.”
“Why was there all that blood, Mama?”
“That was dragon’s blood. The dragon wounded your papa, but he’s better again now. Now he is riding
through the forest on his white horse.”
“You’re telling stories, Mama.”
“Imagine it, Nela, think of him smiling as he rides.”
“Papa doesn’t have a horse, he has a motorcycle. And the motorcycle is broken. It was lying in the road. Just like Papa.”
“Your Papa is all right.”
“Papa is dead.”
“No.”
“Yes, Mama. Papa is a corpse now too.”
“Hush.”
“They’ve just brought him back.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Papa is in the cool room.”
• • •
Blum jumps up. Nela’s words are like ice-cold water into which she is falling, nearly drowning, while her heart almost stops because it hurts so much, because everything is suddenly real again. Because the idea that the children have seen their dead father is like a blow to the face. It mustn’t be real. Not like that, not before she has done what needs doing. She must get up, she must think clearly, she must see to everything, bring the sinking ship back on course. Where is Karl? Where’s Reza? Why does everything hurt so much?
Mark. She is screaming inside, she is weeping, pleading. Come back, please. I need you. I can’t do it without you. I can’t. The children. How am I to do it without you? I don’t know. Please, Mark. Look at them. They’re so small. Look at them clinging to me. I can’t do it, Mark. I can’t do it without you. But all the same she gets dressed and goes into the kitchen with the children. All the same, she opens the fridge and makes them something to eat. All the same, she acts as if she has everything back under control. Never mind how loudly she is screaming inside, never mind if everything in her is collapsing; every piece of skin crying out, every inch of flesh. It hurts as if she were being torn apart by a herd of wild beasts. But she spreads butter on her toast and even tries to smile, to soothe the children’s fears. She mustn’t cry now. Mustn’t lie there motionless and desperate, never to stand up again, as if she were dead.
• • •
They are sitting side by side at the table. The children are munching away; Blum watches them. Everything will be all right, she says, knowing that’s not true. Nothing will ever be all right again. Everything that was once all right is now lying in a cool room on the ground floor. He will never read the children a story again, never play with them again, never make them another bonfire in the backyard. No more singing together, no more suppers together, no more outings, no vacations on the boat. The children were so happy when he put their life jackets on. In her mind’s eye Blum sees them on the loveliest beaches in Croatia, a month ago. They ran into the water, he tossed them up in the air, they were so happy, and nothing threatened their little world, Mama and Papa were there, and when they went to sleep Mama and Papa sat out on the deck, drinking wine. She heard their voices, their giggling, there was such confidence that no storm in the world could make their boat capsize. Love was there, everything was all right. By night on the sea.
• • •
“Do you still want more?”
“Lots more.”
“My lady, you need to get your sea legs.”
“I’m on vacation.”
“You’re drunk, my love.”
“And?”
“And nothing.”
“Well, there we are.”
“I’m afraid you may molest me again tonight.”
“You’re right, but not just yet. There’s half a bottle left to go.”
“Drink up quickly, my lady.”
“There’s no hurry, my good sir.”
“Hurry up, the stars will soon be setting.”
“No, they won’t.”
“They will.”
“Then I suppose I really ought to drink more quickly.”
“We don’t want to lose any time.”
“Do the stars just fall out of the sky, or what?”
“Yes, they all fall into the sea, just like that. They dive into the water and disappear. One after another. Until the sky is empty.”
“I’d like to see that.”
“It’s a beautiful sight, Blum.”
“That’s what you are.”
“What?”
“A beautiful sight.”
“Mhmm . . . Do you think you’ll ever tire of this? You’ve been sailing in these waters for twenty-five years.”
“They’re my home.”
“Home?”
“I was always happy here.”
“Until the day I found you.”
“How do you mean?”
“That was a very sad time.”
“Do we have to talk about it now?”
“I’m sorry. Forget it, Blum.”
“I wish it was as easy as that.”
“I can kiss you.”
“Will that help?”
“I’m sure it will.”
“My happiness began the day you came on board the boat. Before that, I wasn’t really happy except in summer. There was one season, not four. No autumn, no winter, no spring. Just a couple of weeks in summer.”
“Lovely.”
“What’s lovely?”
“You. Everything. You’re like a poem.”
“I’m drunk, don’t you forget.”
“You’re like a beautiful turn of phrase.”
“A turn of phrase?”
“A beautiful turn of phrase that intoxicates you and never lets you go. Not a word too many, simple and clear.”
“Like what?”
“The sky has been turning slowly.”
“Doing what?”
“The sky has been turning slowly.”
“You’re crazy.”
“But it’s beautiful, right?”
“Mark, darling Mark, my romantic cop. First the stars fall out of the sky, and then the sky itself is turning.”
“That’s exactly it. And all just for you.”
• • •
Somewhere off Zadar, they were naked on deck, entwined with one another, the sea as smooth as a mirror, and as silent. The sea was their home. But now their lives have been switched off, there is no sound of waves breaking, no blue sky. Mark will never see it again. Nothing is left but the munching of the children, their sad eyes, the silent kitchen. Blum forces the images of the sea back into her mind the way she wants to remember them; she wants to go back to yesterday, back to the boat, back to his warm skin. That’s where she wants to be. She can’t get there. She has to hug her children, play with them, read to them, she has to look after them. Until their little eyes close, until night rescues her. Then she will go to those images. Then, not now.
She looks at his ruined body, his injured skin. They have cut him open and sewn him up again, they have opened up his head, they’ve tested his blood and internal organs to ascertain whether he was under the influence of drink or drugs; they wanted to make sure that he was not to blame. After her collapse, he had been taken to the forensics lab. No one wanted to make a mistake. It was up to the investigators and the public prosecutor to decide whether there should be an autopsy in the case of a hit-and-run, and the public prosecutor had decided to cut his skull open, remove his brain, open his rib cage like a shopping bag, and stitch it up again. They have left him looking worse than before, even more wounded.
• • •
Blum wants to be alone with him. She has asked Reza to leave them. She doesn’t know what will happen, whether she will weep and scream. She doesn’t know anything anymore, except that her husband is lying motionless in front of her, naked and dead. Like all the others she has tended to over the past twenty years. Corpses, lifeless bodies with open mouths, torn away from life. But she has never had to shed tears, never felt pain and grief, never. Death is an everyday thing for Blum, it doesn’t frighten her, or at least it didn’t until now. This time is different. Entirely different. Everything she’s ever seen in her life is a joke, ridiculous compared with what lies before her now.
• • •
All
she can do is stand there, surveying his torn, hollowed corpse. She can’t cry yet. The dried blood, his face that, as if by miracle, has been preserved intact. Blum’s eyes move over his body; it is all familiar to her. She has kissed every inch of his skin. She loves every inch of him so much that she doesn’t know whether she can go on living without him. She stands there, looking, breathing, swallowing. She wants to die so much, simply to be done with it all, to feel nothing anymore. She doesn’t want to be reminded that life was once good, that she was happy. Blum feels like bashing her head against the wall, smashing it a hundred times against the white tiles, she wants the pain to stop, she wants the knife in her breast to stop burrowing and digging and cutting. She wants to be dead like him.
• • •
She works in her usual way, as if operated by remote control. All of a sudden she sets to work preparing him, rubbing the blood away from his skin with cotton wool and albumin solution, she cleans his injuries, lovingly treating them all. Her hands do not tremble as she stitches up his wounds, she tries to reconstruct everything; she opens the stitches on his head, removes clotted blood, and carefully stitches the cut up again. She puts him back in order as best she can. She fills deep wounds with cellulose, restores the distorted parts of his body to their proper shape, washes his hair and blows it dry. She shaves him. Blum goes about her work. For a split second she even forgets that it is Mark lying there, that it is his mouth she is closing forever, exactly as Hagen taught her. She inserts a curved needle into a fold of skin behind his chin, runs it through the soft palate, brings it up below the right-hand side of his upper lip and into his right nostril, and out again into a small fold of skin by his septum. Then she puts the needle through the septum into the left nostril, and takes it back in the opposite direction, through the left half of his upper lip and down. She stitches his mouth up, a mandible ligature, just as she has learned to do. It is the most natural thing in the world for her to run the needle back through his chin, pulling the jaw shut with the ends of the thread and tying the knot, forming his lips into a smile. She stares at those lips, and begins to cry. Her tears collect on his skin. Then she forces herself to go on and bandage his head to hide the wounds. Next his clothes. With great effort, she gets him dressed. His body is heavy, but even without Reza’s help she rolls him onto his side. His broken legs. His favorite trousers, his white T-shirt.
Woman of the Dead Page 3