But—I could have Professor Luttges come to Munich. For a price, of course. I could finance his next research project in exchange for him finding out what’s wrong with me.
No. Stop. It’s though I can hear my father thinking. He always solves his problems with money. After all, we have more of it than we have of anything else. One of the reasons why I had come to Germany in the first place was because I was so sick of this mind-set.
But it would be foolish not to use all the tools at my disposal. Wouldn’t it?
I search the Internet for more experts—there was someone in Bielefeld, but that’s not exactly just around the corner either.
Should I just entrust myself to any old neurologist? Or to a psychiatrist? Should I take Ela up on her suggestion after all, and get treated in the clinic at her hospital?
I rest my forehead on my hands and close my eyes. I’m still too accustomed to other people solving my problems for me, and that’s coming back to haunt me right now.
But I can organize it myself; I just need some time. If Erik really is gone, then there’s no immediate hurry.
My research and the reading of a few complicated academic articles lasts over an hour; the coffee that I barely even touched is now ice-cold.
So, back downstairs to make another one. I keep glancing at my phone while waiting for the machine.
I wish I could speak to someone, right now. Is there some kind of hotline for amnesia patients?
I sink onto the living room couch with my phone and coffee, but that turns out to be a mistake. The surroundings are enough to bring the scene from yesterday back into my mind. Erik, confronting me with every last bit of his justified distrust. Accusing me of having hired a killer. Which I would be able to afford, after all. The sentence had been lying in the air between us, unspoken.
Had money been an issue for us before? This nonsensically large fortune which I’ve never earned, which is far too much for one single person? Had I picked up the checks in restaurants or had he? Had we shared? Assuming, of course, that this before really did exist.
I turn on the TV in search of distraction; I’m so fed up with the dead-end thoughts running through my mind. The first channel is showing cartoons; the second has one of those unavoidable political interviews which are just as omnipresent in Germany as they are in Australia whenever there’s an upcoming election. I zap through the channels until I find an animal documentary—about the rearing of orphaned otter babies.
Just watching something and no longer having to think feels good. A program about penguins comes on after the otters. My thoughts begin to drift away again.
It’s almost half past twelve. Did Erik maybe go back to the hospital in order to have the dressing changed? My phone is in front of me on the coffee table, and, without stopping to think, I’ve typed Erik’s name into the contacts search box. If he doesn’t want to speak to me, he doesn’t have to pick up.
A ringing tone. Once, twice, then a crackling sound after the third ring.
“Yes?”
“You were gone, just like that.” I try not to let it sound like an accusation, but instead it comes out as though I’m afraid of being alone in the house. My God.
“Yes.”
“How … well—are you all right? Your arm?”
“As can be expected under the circumstances.”
OK, so calling him was a bad idea. I’m desperately searching for words, and Erik clearly has no desire to talk to me. Maybe he’s already on his way back and will be here soon.
“Will you tell me where you are?”
He sighs, as though my question is the last thing he needs right now. “In the car, I’m driving to the station in Munich for work, to pick up some VIPs. Well, if this goddamn traffic jam breaks up in time, that is.”
And then on top of it all I have to deal with you. The words he’s clearly thinking remain unsaid.
“OK.” At the very least my guilty conscience is gone. “I won’t keep you then. Drive safe.”
The conversation hasn’t made anything better, in fact very much the opposite, but that’s my own fault. What did I expect, really?
I lean back on the sofa, ready to spend the day with the documentary channel. To not have to think. Or make any decisions.
A new program has just started, and I find myself unexpectedly moved by it. A documentary about dingoes in New South Wales.
Home.
The pictures of the Australian mountain landscape and Sturt National Park awaken within me, for the first time in months, a sense of burning homesickness. Is my father right? Do I belong there after all?
I hardly know the places rushing past me on the screen, but they still feel so familiar.
Here, on the other hand, if I’m completely honest, I still feel like an outsider. Especially given my current situation.
Suddenly, I know who I really want to talk to.
It’s half past ten at night in Melbourne now. It’s late, but I still want to try my luck. If there’s anyone in the world who’ll be there for me, then it’s her.
The phone rings three times, four times, then someone picks up.
“Hello?”
“Mama.” I’m filled with such a sense of relief, I almost start to cry. No. I can’t do that. I don’t want her to worry.
“Hey, sweetheart! How wonderful to hear your voice.” Her transition from English to German no longer sounds quite as effortless; she briefly pauses at times and has a soft, light accent. Maybe it’s because of the late hour, or the fact that she only rarely speaks her native language these days.
“How are you?” I try to sound cheerful. “Is everything OK there with you guys?”
“Oh yes. We miss you of course, so much—but other than that we’re good. Daddy’s blood pressure counts are finally OK, and I’m going to give a presentation about my projects at the nutritional congress in Sydney soon. Isn’t that … fabulous?”
“That’s wonderful, Mama.”
“But now tell me: how are you doing? What’s the news?”
Well, the day before yesterday I almost stabbed someone to death. Imagining how my mother would react to such a revelation almost makes me break out in hysterical laughter.
“Really good. Although, health-wise I’m a little run down at the moment, but…”
“Ah yes, the German autumn.” She sighs in a way that sounds nostalgic. “You just need a few more layers, darling; buy yourself a few chic jackets.”
“I will.” If I don’t get to it soon, we’ll drift off into small talk. “Mama, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Have I ever had problems with my memory before? Like, gaps in it?”
There are thousands of miles between us, but I know exactly how her face would look right now, in the three or four seconds she stays silent. Her forehead wrinkled in thought, her lips pursed just a little. She is trying both to find an answer to my question and to figure out why I’m asking in the first place.