The driver in the car behind beeps his horn; the car behind that one follows suit. Nina changes into first gear and accelerates just as the light changes back to red, leaving a column of angry drivers stuck at the traffic light in her wake. She continues on up Mecklenburgische Straße, which would lead her in the opposite direction to home. The street seems to go on for ever, its blandness underlined by the rows of now-naked trees that claw the low sky. It begins to rain; she switches on the headlights and wipers. The wipers whisper and groan across the windscreen. She has to turn left at some point, but decides to stay on the main road, after all, stick with the route she’s sure of, even if it takes her three times longer than usual to get home.
Warm air blows out of the ventilator on either side of the steering wheel in a monotonous whoosh, but she’s freezing, nonetheless. A chill penetrated her body a while back, all the way deep into her bones, and there is nothing she can do – no amount of clothing, or heating – to prevent herself from feeling constantly cold.
She managed to drag herself out of the bath last night, her skin wrinkled and bloated, when the temperature had dropped to a numbing cool. She stepped out of the bath and immediately began shivering so fiercely that it was an effort to detach the bathrobe from its hook on the back of the door, and an even greater effort to force her damp arms through the sleeves. She didn’t bother wrapping a towel around her head; the hair on her scalp was almost dry, while the hair from her ears downward hung like heavy rats’ tails, plastered to the sides of her face, dripping water onto her towelled shoulders.
She opened the bathroom door and found herself face to face with Sebastian.
He didn’t look her in the eye. ‘I’ve just put Kai to bed,’ he said. ‘Bekka’s in her room.’
She swallowed, didn’t know what to say.
‘I’m going out,’ he added and went to walk past her towards the stairs.
She reached out to place a hand on his arm, but he sidestepped her without stopping.
‘I rang Jan today,’ she said, noticing how helpless her voice sounded.
‘Good for you,’ he said, not breaking his stride; increasing it, in fact, as he lunged down the stairs, taking two at a time, eager, it seemed, to get away from her as quickly as possible.
She reaches the busy junction at Berliner Straße, where she needs to take a left. But there is a broken-down car in the left lane, and she’s somehow, involuntarily, swept up by the other drivers and misses her turning. So here she is, in the middle of the junction, able only – if she follows traffic regulations – to drive straight ahead, or else turn right. She turns right. Immediately, she knows where she’s heading. She looks at the clock on the dashboard, but it just flashes 0:00. Great. The car really is giving up the ghost as well. She tries to estimate the time. She left the surgery at one, closing early. Anita offered to stay behind and straighten out the patient database, put it in order and make it more easily understandable for whomever replaces her when she leaves. So far, Nina has consciously avoided thinking about the fact that Anita will be gone in just over six weeks.
She fumbles in her handbag on the passenger seat and pulls out her mobile, looks up and has to swerve violently to the left to avoid hitting a man who is getting into his double-parked car. The front wheel of her car hits the kerb on the central reservation, just missing a tree, and she’s jerked a couple of inches up out of her seat. The engine stalls; a cacophony of hooting begins behind her.
She takes a deep breath, puts the gear in neutral and restarts the engine. Calm down. Nothing’s happened, everything’s fine. She gathers speed again and when she stops at the next red light, she checks the time on her mobile. 1:32. Meaning she has over two hours before she has to pick up Kai from school.
When she turns onto Gärtnerstraße, the rain has stopped. There is a space between two parked cars in front of number 31, not quite big enough for her car to park properly, so she bumps up the two front wheels onto the pavement at a slant and switches off the engine. She doesn’t hesitate, gets out of the car and strides towards the front door of the building, although her legs still feel stiff after yesterday’s run in the park. The strap of her handbag digs into her right shoulder. It is heavy. She stopped off at an electrical appliance shop on Grünberger Straße – not one of those huge, brightly lit and low-ceilinged warehouse-style megastores with gaudy advertising banners and stunningly incompetent staff, but a small, dilapidated corner shop displaying faded signs for VEB Robotron radios, in which an impossibly old man took an age selecting an assortment of different battery types. She grabbed the batteries before he could even offer to put them in a bag and tossed a couple of twenty-euro notes on the counter, calling a thank you, but leaving the shop without waiting for her change.
She scans the scuffed brass plate with doorbells and residents’ names, and with a stiff, cool finger rings the bell marked “Lehmholz”. The nameplate on the adjacent bell is empty. The intercom crackles into life more quickly than she expected.
‘Hello? Who is it?’
She moves in towards the loudspeaker, her mouth almost touching the brass plate. ‘Hello, Frau Lehmholz? It’s Nina Bergmann. Marie’s sister. I thought I’d . . . I’d pay you a visit.’
There is a pause. The intercom is silent. Then a click-click, and Nina places her hand on the doorknob, waiting for the noisy buzzer. When it sounds, she gives the door a hard push and enters.
Frau Lehmholz is waiting on the landing. She smiles when she sees Nina coming up the stairs. Nina smiles back, picks up her pace despite the protest of her sore thigh muscles. When she reaches the second floor, she’s unsure whether to offer her hand or to embrace the old woman. She settles for an awkward in-between: a hand on her left shoulder, which feels shockingly bony beneath the woollen cardigan, and a grasp of the wrinkled right hand. But Frau Lehmholz is not a woman of half-measures. She pulls Nina towards her and hugs her closely. Nina’s chin touches the top of her head.
‘So nice of you to come,’ she says into Nina’s chest.
Surprised by her warmth, both physical and emotional, Nina hugs her back as tightly as she dares without running the risk of snapping her in two. She’s fiercely grateful that Frau Lehmholz appears to be ‘with it’, as Rebekka would say.
‘You’re lucky,’ Frau Lehmholz says, releasing herself from the embrace. ‘I can’t hear a thing,’ she pats the hearing aid she’s wearing on her belt, ‘but I was just coming out of the toilet and I saw the light flashing.’
Nina frowns. Frau Lehmholz gives her a girlish smile and leads her into the flat, pointing to a round light bulb above the intercom system at the front door that Nina hadn’t noticed on her first visit.
‘I had this installed a few years ago, when my hearing first started going,’ she says. ‘It’s linked to another light in the kitchen, but that one’s been broken for ages. It lets me know when someone’s ringing the doorbell.’ She shrugs. ‘But, of course, it’s only of use if I happen to be looking at the stupid thing while the bell is ringing.’
She shakes her head, crestfallen, as if suddenly disappointed by the unkept promises made by modern technology. ‘Never mind,’ she adds, more to herself than to Nina, and starts walking towards the living room door.
Nina follows her, looking around, oddly pleased that the place is familiar, that her mind doesn’t have to bother with the effort of processing wholly novel information. The light is lazy, as it was during her first visit, lending the apartment a pleasantly cavernous feel. However, when she reaches the living room and follows Frau Lehmholz in, she’s struck by the disorderliness of the place.
Used tissues lie crumpled on the floor surrounding the armchair, crusted with a brownish substance Nina assumes must be dried blood – from a nosebleed maybe, or perhaps Frau Lehmholz has a more serious chest condition? She should enquire delicately, if the opportunity arises. People don’t like to be reminded of their physical deterioration. The horizontal surfaces on various items of furniture – the armoire, bookshelves, coff
ee table – are covered in a carpet of dust. Everything looks shabbier than on her previous visit. The only clean item, one that seems to be freshly polished, is the photograph of Frau Lehmholz and her husband. As Nina steps forwards, the light from the overhead lamp catches on the glass and reflects a brilliant flash into her eyes.
‘Sit down, please,’ Frau Lehmholz says, who has eased herself into her armchair.
Nina sits down in the same spot she sat in last time, on the sofa opposite. The room smells of mildew and cat food, although Nina can’t remember Frau Lehmholz mentioning a pet.
‘I –’ she begins, not knowing quite how to start the conversation. ‘I was wondering if social services have been in touch?’
Frau Lehmholz looks at her with pale, cloudy eyes. ‘I’m afraid we won’t be able to have much of a chat,’ she says. ‘I can’t hear a thing.’ She nods towards her hearing aid. ‘The batteries died a few days ago.’
Nina, happy to have something to do, heaves her handbag onto her lap.
‘Here.’ She scoops out two handfuls of batteries and dumps them on the sofa beside her. The old man in the shop recommended zinc air cells for hearing aids, so she bought an assortment of these (they varied in colour), but also some standard AAA and AA batteries, just in case. She looks up at Frau Lehmholz. The old woman raises an emaciated, leather-skinned hand to her mouth and holds it there, quivering slightly, her mouth in the shape of an O. She looks straight at Nina.
‘So like your sister,’ she says. ‘She was so thoughtful, so . . . sweet.’ This last word is said in a reverent hush.
The old woman’s affection brings Nina close to tears. But she doesn’t want to cry, not now, not knowing if Frau Lehmholz will be this clear of mind another time. She needs to make use of her lucidity, while it’s here. She gestures to Frau Lehmholz to remove her hearing aid, and begins trying out the different batteries to see which one fits. The old man in the shop was right – the device requires a zinc air cell, of which she has bought five different sizes, all designated by different coloured sealing tabs: blue, red, green, brown and yellow.
‘It’s the green one, dear,’ Frau Lehmholz says, pointing.
Nina slots the battery into place and hands the device back. Frau Lehmholz takes it, clips in onto her belt, and switches it on. She winces – perhaps the volume is turned up too high – and after fiddling with a small knob, relaxes into a smile.
‘There, that should do it,’ she says. ‘Now, dear, do say something, so I know this thing is working properly.’
‘Um –’ Nina is not sure what to say. She nods at the batteries beside her. ‘Do you think you might have a use for these?’
Frau Lehmholz peers towards the pile of batteries. ‘These’ll fit my remote control,’ she says. ‘If you wouldn’t mind leaving those ones, I’d be grateful. I don’t get out much.’
‘Of course.’ Perhaps Nina should offer to go shopping, get some groceries, or fill those prescriptions she mentioned last time. But she wants to ask her some questions first. That’s why she’s here.
She clears her throat and leans forward slightly, suppressing a growing feeling of – what? Unease? Guilt, that she wants to suck some information out of a woman who might drop dead at any moment, or else – more probably – sink back into the pitiless clutches of dementia? She clears her throat again, wondering if she should supply some other reason for why she’s here. In the end, she decides to be honest.
‘I’ve come to ask you about that man you saw in Marie’s flat. The one you mentioned the last time I was here.’ She pauses for the woman’s reaction, concerned that she might take offence.
But Frau Lehmholz sits there, hands folded over her stomach, smiling. Perhaps the hearing aid isn’t working properly.
‘You said that you saw a man in Marie’s flat once. A tall man. Remember?’
Frau Lehmholz nods slowly. ‘Yes, I remember. Why do you ask?’
‘I’d like to know if you can recall anything else about him,’ Nina says. ‘His name, perhaps.’
Frau Lehmholz drops her gaze to the floor. Nina watches her face intently, as she rummages around in her mind, opening one drawer of memories after the other. Nina becomes aware that she has placed her fingers on her temples, as though by some magic this posture will help Frau Lehmholz retrieve the one, all-important detail. After what seems like an age, the old woman lifts her head and leans back in her chair.
‘No,’ she says. ‘Nothing.’
‘Are you sure?’ Nina’s disappointment is like a physical pain. ‘It really is so important. You said it was a short name. Can you think of the first initial? Was it a common name? Perhaps it rhymes with something? Was it Thiel, perhaps?’
Clutching at straws.
A shadow of irritation passes over the old woman’s face. ‘No. I can’t remember. It was a short name, yes. A snatch of a name. But that’s all I can tell you. And you badgering me won’t help. You can’t force these things. That I do know.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Nina can barely hold back her tears. She swallows and begins putting the batteries back into her handbag, except for the AA ones; these she places on the coffee table. Then Frau Lehmholz speaks, quietly:
‘No, dear. What was your name again, Nina? No, Nina, I’m the one who should be sorry. Don’t hold it against me. Please. It’s just – I get so angry with myself, with my stupid, stupid brain.’ She lifts a hand to her head and raps her knuckles against it, hard, as though to shift some lost memories. Then she leans forward and grabs onto Nina’s hand. Her fingernails are sharp, and dig into Nina’s flesh. ‘Don’t go just yet,’ she says. ‘Keep me company for a while? Have a cup of tea with me?’
And without waiting for an answer, she lets go of Nina’s hand, shuffles forward on her chair and, with a heavy breath, positions her walking cane in her hand.
‘Let me make the tea,’ Nina says, jumping up before Frau Lehmholz has quite managed to heave herself out of her chair. ‘I’ll be right back.’
She crosses the hall into the kitchen and fills the kettle. It was a dead end; she knew it even before she came here, spurred on by some desperate hope that if she found out the man’s name, it would somehow turn back the clock – not to before Marie’s death, this she understands, but to before all the pain and despair she has caused since then. She was foolish to believe that a confused old woman could recall a name she’d heard only once; foolish to believe that the man’s name would solve anything anyway. He might not even be the one, who . . . who . . . she can’t bring herself to think it.
But the name – the hope of it was all she’s had to keep her from falling. She’s light-headed; she drops her chin onto her chest just as the kettle clicks off, but then her head starts spinning, or rather, she starts spinning, her entire body is whirling around the cramped kitchen, and she’s actually enjoying the sensation, hearing only the wind whooshing past her ears, feeling only her heartbeat ricocheting off the sides of her ribcage. But then the nausea hits, and she reaches out to steady herself on the kitchen counter, loses her balance, and falls, the side of her head narrowly missing the corner of the square kitchen table on her way down. She lies there for a minute, or maybe ten, she can’t be sure, until she hears Frau Lehmholz calling her name.
‘Nina? Nina? Did you find the tea? It’s on the shelf above the sink.’
Nina gets to her feet slowly, mentally sweeping the inside of her body for any vestigial signs of vertigo.
‘Oh yes, I see it,’ she calls back across the hall, and her voice sounds strangely high-pitched. ‘I’ll be in in a minute.’
She switches the kettle back on. It only takes a couple of seconds for the water to reboil. She picks up the teacups, but her hands are trembling hard, and a splash escapes from one of the cups and scalds her hand. She looks around and finds a small tray propped up against the splashback. When she re-enters the living room, Frau Lehmholz looks at her with concern.
‘Are you feeling all right, dear?’ she asks. ‘You look dreadfully pale.’
>
‘I’m a little tired, that’s all.’ Nina places the tray on the table. ‘I’m sorry it took so long.’
‘Oh, never mind,’ Frau Lehmholz says. ‘I closed my eyes for a moment, and I wasn’t sure if I’d fallen asleep. But you’re here now.’
They sit in silence and sip tea. An ancient-looking wooden clock that hangs on the wall beside Frau Lehmholz’s collection of postcards chimes out a melodious dong. Nina looks up. It is half-past two. She has to be at Kai’s school in an hour.
‘You seem terribly troubled, dear,’ Frau Lehmholz remarks, before Nina can think of a polite way to make her excuses and leave.
Nina doesn’t reply. She hears the ticking of the clock, only now aware of how loud it sounds. She glances at Frau Lehmholz and finds her staring. She feels awkward and ashamed, as though these pale eyes can see right through her, right through to her shameful hopelessness and unbearable loneliness. She averts her eyes, can’t bear the exposure.
‘You can’t just ignore it,’ the old woman continues. ‘If you pretend it isn’t there, it eats away at you, little by little.’
Nina fixes her gaze on a corner of the coffee table. It looks bruised and scarred; tiny dents and scratches reveal the yellowish untreated wood beneath the dark varnished surface.
‘I stopped living for a while after Manfred died,’ Frau Lehmholz says, her voice lucid. ‘I didn’t die, I stopped living. It isn’t the same thing. I stopped eating, I stopped sleeping, I stopped laughing – I would have stopped breathing if I’d had the choice. And then, one day, as though I’d actually heard the sound of gnawing, I realised it was eating me alive. The grief. So I had to take the decision not to provide it with any more nourishment, before it devoured me completely. I can’t tell you exactly how I did it – it was slow, and painful – but I know that as soon as I realised what was happening to me, I was able to fight it.’
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