My perplexity must have been written all over my face, because the stranger points his finger toward the bed.
“My blanket. My pillow. They were here when I got up this morning. So was my wardrobe. And the shoes and jackets downstairs in the hall.” He comes a step toward me, but stops when I flinch.
“If I go into the bathroom, I bet I won’t find my toothbrush either, will I? Or my aftershave? My shower gel?”
He must have spun together an entire world in fine detail. A life that doesn’t exist.
What if I play along? Simply act like I’m remembering everything bit by bit? Would he believe me, or is it too late now?
I look him directly in the eyes, even though I find it difficult. There is something about him that makes me wish I had a knife. A knife I could stab him with. Again and again.
My God, what am I thinking?
I press my hands against my forehead, and the impulse to use violence to free myself from this situation abates. “You’re wrong. I’ve been living here alone ever since I rented this house. There is no second pillow and no second blanket and there’s most definitely no aftershave in the bathroom.”
“Damn it, Joanna.” He tries to force his mouth into something resembling a smile. “What am I going to do with you?”
The question makes me edge backward again. Nothing, there’s nothing he should do with me. He should just go.
“I thought your suggestion before was a good one.” My voice was trembling a little. “We’ll do it the way you said. I’ll ask you questions that you could only answer if you really live here. And if you know me as well as you claim to.”
He nods as his eyes flit around over the bed, the walls, the floor. Before eventually locking back onto me again.
“OK.” I scour through my memories, searching for something that even the most cunning of stalkers wouldn’t be able to find out. Details that don’t appear on Facebook or my website.
But the stress is taking its toll, and all I can think of are mundane details, nothing significant. Nothing that would convince me if he knew it.
So I start with something random instead. An old habit. “I’m sure you’ve found out what I do for work.”
“You’re a photographer.” He says it slowly, but without hesitation. “You’re doing an apprenticeship with Manuel Helfrich, because you admire his work so much; that’s one of the reasons why you came to Germany. Your pictures are wonderful, I love your portraits. You’ve photographed me so often…”
I try to interject, but he doesn’t let me. “You had a favorite photo of me,” he says. “You framed it, and until this morning it was hanging right there.” He points at the wall, at a spot over the dresser.
“First, that’s nonsense, and second, that wasn’t my question!” Even as the words are still coming out of my mouth, I realize how reckless I’m being. Just because he hasn’t done anything to hurt me so far doesn’t mean it will stay that way. Aggravating him is definitely a bad idea.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “But I’d like to ask my question now.”
He nods and prompts me to continue, with a despondent gesture.
“When I photograph people who are nervous and feel uncomfortable in front of the camera, I always play a song at the start of the session. A very particular song. Which one is it?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it again. “I don’t know. I went to see you in your studio a few times, but as soon as the clients arrived, you kicked me out right away. You said that third wheels are just as unwelcome at photo sessions as they are on dates.”
I feel my stomach cramping up. He doesn’t know the song, as expected—but the rest really does sound like something I would say. Word for word, even.
But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.
New question. Quickly.
“What’s my middle name?”
If he knows me, then he’d know it. I would have had him try to guess it, like I do with everyone I get to know, usually over the third and fourth glass of wine. He would have failed miserably, like all the others. But eventually I always give in and tell. Always.
The stranger glances to the side, as if he can’t believe what I’ve just asked him. For a moment I think he’s about to burst out laughing. When he starts to speak again, his voice is quiet. “You haven’t told me. Not yet. You wanted me to guess it myself, but so far I haven’t managed to.”
My mouth is dry. What I’d do for a sip of water right now. Once again, the man hasn’t answered my question, but once again, what he said lies close to the truth.
You wanted me to guess it myself.
He can’t have gotten this information online. Or by following me. He must have spoken to people who know me. Who told him what makes me tick, what I like, what I don’t like …
He’s still blocking the door. His gaze wanders over my face, like he’s looking for something he lost.
“One more question,” he says. “Something different, something that has more to do with you as a person, with your history, with this house, our life together.”
“I asked you two questions, and you couldn’t answer either of them.”
He closes his eyes, looking tormented. “Please,” he says. “Stop talking to me that way. You can’t imagine how—” He interrupts himself. “You don’t remember what my name is, do you?”
I cross my arms in front of my chest. “I never knew.”
A stunned shake of the head. “This is so … unbelievable.”
“I’m sorry. But I can do the guessing this time if you want.” Now the man looks vulnerable, and hope is slowly growing within me that perhaps I can get the situation under my control after all. At least enough so I can flee from this room.
My suggestion makes the stranger’s eyes light up. “Yes—that’s a great idea! Maybe your consciousness saved some information, then everything else will fall into place.” He takes a step toward me. “Just say the first name that comes into your mind,” he says in an imploring tone. “Without thinking about it.”
I do exactly as he asks, and the result is surprisingly clear in my mind. “Ben.”
Wrong. I can see it in his face. In any other situation, his disappointment would have awoken my sympathy. But now it’s giving me a further advantage I have to exploit.
“OK, so not Ben. I’ll ask you another question. One last one, OK?”
He nods in resignation, in a way that shows he’s lost hope.
“There on the wall, above the wardrobe—do you see it? That little round hole?”
No, he can’t, there’s no way he could from where he’s standing. I beckon him closer, even though I don’t feel comfortable about it. “There, do you see? What made that hole?”
I take a step back to make space for him. One step, then another, toward the door. By the time he sees there’s nothing there, I want to be out of the room already and put as much space between us as possible so he can’t grab me again.
“But there was never,” I hear him say as I fling the door open and run out onto the landing … toward the stairs, quickly, two steps at once, please don’t fall now.
“Joanna!”
He comes after me, of course, but I’m almost downstairs already, almost at the front door.…