“I’m so glad you’re alive,” she says, her first words since I entered the house. I watch her carefully, search her face for signs of deceit. But in vain.
“Oh really?” My voice sounds cold and sharp, even to me. “Are you sure about that?”
“Erik…” She pauses, then begins speaking again, her voice firmer this time. “You think I don’t know what happened in Munich? It’s all over the news. I was expecting the worst, picturing all sorts of horror scenarios. And then all of a sudden you’re here, and you’re alive. Yes, for God’s sake, of course I’m sure!”
For a brief moment, my entire being is pushing me toward her, with the burning desire to pull her close to me and forget everything around me. Then, the terrible images flood back. A knife, plunging down toward me. The train station. People screaming. Dead bodies, no longer recognizable as human beings.
“I’d like to believe you, Jo, I really would. But I can’t. Not anymore.”
She lowers her gaze, looks down at the floor tiles, and fixates on a spot for a few seconds. Then she shakes her head and walks away.
I wait until she’s reached the top of the stairs, then I sink down to the floor. I don’t want to go into the living room, nor the kitchen, I don’t want to be here and don’t want to be elsewhere either. I don’t want … anything at all. Is that possible? To not want anything? Is it possible to think of nothing at all? To just … be?
What’s the use of this nonsense? Am I losing my mind once and for all? But … is someone who’s genuinely losing their mind aware of the process, do they think about whether it’s happening?
I feel the last of my energy seeping out of my body, lean back against the dresser, slump down like a soulless rag-doll imitation of myself.
My eyes drift through the hall. I know the things I’m seeing, and yet they all seem strangely foreign to me. The small watercolor painting on the wall next to the entrance to the kitchen, the tall blue glass vase on the floor containing fronds of pampas grass, the curved sheet-metal umbrella stand on the other side … Things I’m familiar with, but which I suddenly don’t want to be part of me anymore.
What actually remains of everything that, until a few days ago, made up my life, that was my life? What does that woman who just went upstairs still have in common with my Joanna? What’s this house still got to do with me? And even my employer …
I close my eyes, opening them wide again when the image of the screaming man, and of his leg several feet beside him in the dirt, immediately comes rushing back. I shake my head to make sure the scene dissipates. It’ll come back again though, I know. It hasn’t let go of me since I left the train station.
And yet, despite the clarity of that memory, I can no longer remember how I got back home. I know I just started walking, it didn’t matter in which direction, as long as it was away from the terrible chaos. I left the car because … yes, why did I leave the car? Because I wouldn’t have been able to get it around all the ambulances and fire trucks? Yes, probably. And because there was a voice inside me telling me it was better to leave it.
People were coming toward me. A lot of people. They’d all been going to the train station, while all I’d wanted to do was to get away from there. Far away. Again and again I’d had to stop and hold on to something when things around me started to sway. Or when some loud noise would shake me to my core and make me jump in fright. And I kept on seeing these images in front of me. These awful scenes from the station. I’d tried to find a cab, but no luck. That was when the idea of using my phone had first come to my mind.
It’s crazy. You get so used to the device that you don’t go anywhere without it. And when you get a chance to really make use of it, you forget it exists.
It had still been in my inside pocket, but the screen was completely smashed. I’d put it back in my pocket. That’s all I can remember, that and suddenly finding myself in some courtyard. The old, rotten wooden bench in the corner, almost impossible to make out in the darkness. I’d collapsed onto it and closed my eyes. The explosion, the screaming … I’d reexperienced all of it, again and again.
When the old man had asked me if he could help me at all, it was already late evening. He’d called a cab for me.
I close my eyes, know there’s something sitting in a dark corner of my mind, just waiting to be formulated into conscious thoughts.
Gabor.
Was it really possible that he sent me to Munich so I’d die in the explosion? Right now, here on this wooden floor, the thought seems completely absurd. Looking back, the entire day seems completely unreal. The explosion and the debris, fire, people screaming and blood everywhere … and yet, all I have to do is look at my hands and clothes to know I really was there.
But Gabor? The only reason he sent me to Munich was because I kept insisting he include me in the project. He even put a limousine at my disposal, paid for by the company no less. Although now I’m wondering why the car was leased under my name if G.E.E. are bearing the expenses. That’s unusual. And then there are all those other strange things that have happened over the past few days.
It can’t be a coincidence, not anymore. There isn’t that much coincidence to go around. I don’t understand the meaning of it all, but whatever the reasons may be—Joanna’s involved. And if both Joanna and Gabor have something to do with these incidents, then they’re in cahoots.
My stomach rebels at the thought, and it turns out I have enough energy left to struggle to my feet and reach the guest bathroom.
Once the retching finally stops, I wash my face with cold water and collapse onto the couch in the living room. I can’t think anymore; I don’t want to think anymore. I want to run away from all of this, although I probably wouldn’t even if it was possible. I’m so dreadfully tired; I close my eyes, getting ready to open them again once the horrible images come flooding back. But apart from the merciful darkness, all I make out is a tiny glimmer of light coming through my closed eyelids.
I push aside the thought that all the doors are open and that Joanna might come into the living room, knife in hand.
All of a sudden, a memory of my mother comes into my mind. It’s as though she’s standing there in front of me and looking at me with her soft smile. I can’t recall having ever seen her angry, not even when she had all reason to get angry. She never lost that smile.