Forever Yours (11 page)

No doubt there would still be a few difficult phases to come, she thought, then her trauma would be done with. She'd even managed to think about Hannes now and then without getting anxious. As he'd manage to convince all her friends, including Lukas, of his good intentions, she decided that she herself had probably concocted the idea that Hannes was her demon, the dark side of her soul.

At any rate she heard neither noises nor voices at night, nor anything else strange. And she didn't expect to, either. Of course in the evenings her medication brought her down and allowed her to fall artificially into a deep sleep, but when she woke the following morning her head was clear and she was able to look into the future without anxiety. When she got out she would get to grips with her “private life”, so that someday she could start a bog-standard family with a suitable husband – maybe in about thirty or forty years. Whenever she entertained such thoughts she became one of the ninety-nine again.

*

On the Sunday afternoon, the day before she was due to be discharged, Bianca came to visit, beaming at Judith the moment she caught sight of her. “Wow, Frau Wangermann, your face has got well chubby; I can't see your cheekbones anymore,” she said. “But somehow you've still got a Kate Moss figure. How unfair is that! If I ever eat too much it goes straight onto my tits and bum.” Besides, the apprentice continued, she'd aged at least ten years in the past week; running the shop on her own had been seriously stressful. “As soon as it starts getting darker in the evenings, everyone's buying lamps,” she complained.

“Bianca, I'm so proud of you for coping with all this so well on your own,” Judith said, casting an eye over the figures. Bianca: “It was great fun, really. And…” she began to fidget excitedly, “I've got an epic surprise for you!” Judith: “Come on then, out with it!” Bianca: “No, wait till you're back in the shop. Then you'll see.” Her lips arched upwards to form a distinct purple semi-circle.

On the Monday morning Judith left the ward and took a taxi home, accompanied by ground fog. Once inside her building she would have liked to break the silence by saying hello to a few of her neighbours and chatting about the gloomy October weather, but as ever there was nobody to be seen and the stairwell smelled of its usual must, onions and dusty old paper. As she opened the door to her flat – triggering the first uncomfortable sensation she'd had for days – she thought of Herr Schneider, her neighbour who had died of cancer and whose death announcement had hung on her door.

She felt uneasy in the flat, which brimmed with reminders of a dreadful phase in her life. She tried to combat this with a frenzy of activity, changing her bed linen, rearranging furniture and pictures, reorganising her wardrobe, even parting with two pairs of shoes. Then she dressed in canary yellow, ready to resume her work in the shop.

The moment she entered the shop late that afternoon, as Bianca welcomed her with an exuberant greeting, she noticed the difference: the light had changed, it was duller, more muted, it lacked its quirky radiance. The chandelier had gone, the monstrous oval crystal chandelier from Barcelona, which everyone had been admiring for the past fifteen years, but nobody had bought, the jewel amongst Judith's lamps, her most expensive piece.

“Sold!” Bianca said. She stood erect in military fashion and beat her chest. “I don't believe it,” Judith spluttered. Bianca: “7,580 euros, Frau Wangermann. Aren't you pleased?” Judith: “Yes, of course I am, completely! I'm just… I just have to…” She sat on the step. “Who?” she asked. Bianca shrugged. “No idea.” Judith: “What do you mean?”

Bianca: “I mean I can't say who bought it 'cause the woman wasn't there, 'cause on Monday, or was it Tuesday? no, I think it was Monday… or was it Tuesday?” Judith: “Doesn't matter!” Bianca: “A man rang from an office, can't remember what it was called, and he was like, Frau Thingummy wants to buy a chandelier she's seen in your shop. And then the man who rang described the chandelier in such detail that I knew it could only be the massive one from Barcelona with the crystal that clinks so beautifully. And then of course I told him what it cost. And the man didn't freak out or anything, he was totally cool with the price, 'cause the lady absolutely had to have the chandelier and we should pack it up straightaway and someone would come and fetch it. So on Friday… or was it Thursday? Judith: “Doesn't matter!”

“Anyway, they
did
come and get it and paid for it cash in hand, wonga!” Judith: “Who?” Bianca: “The people from the company. It was two young men, not especially fit, sadly.” Pause. “Aren't you pleased?” Judith: “Yes, of course I am. It's just such a surprise, you know, I…” Bianca: “I know where you're coming from, that chandelier's ten times as old as me and it's been hanging there for ever and you sort of get attached to it. But for more than seven big ones…” Judith: “And you don't know who the buyers are?” Bianca: “Well, you know, I was kind of like curious too, and so I asked one of the young men, the taller of the two, with long blond hair…” Judith: “Doesn't matter!” Bianca: “So, I was like, where are you taking the chandelier? And he didn't know 'cause he had to ring the man at the company first, he tried calling a number of times and didn't get through, so he still didn't know.” Judith: “I see.”

Bianca: “But of course I delved a bit deeper and asked for the name of the lady who was buying it.” Judith: “And?” “So one of the young men, the other one, was like, we're not allowed to say, 'cause buyers often want to remain anonymous, 'cause maybe the lady's a rich art collector, maybe she's got a Picasso at home, and then you don't want…” Judith: “I understand.”

Bianca: “But he told me the name anyway, he probably wanted to make himself sound important or come on to me, even though, ugh! please! he was a right minger!” She pulled a face and then reached for a piece of paper that had been filled out. “Isabella Permason's her name, with one ‘m', I think. I looked her up, she's not famous and she's not on Facebook either.”

“Isabella Permason,” Judith whispered, staring at the piece of paper. “Do you know her?” “No, no,” Judith replied. “It's just the name… the name…” “Doesn't matter,” Bianca said. “The main thing's that she bought the chandelier. Don't you think?” “Yes, Bianca.” “But you're not over the moon about it,” the apprentice grumbled. “Yes, I am,” Judith said. “I will be, I will be.”

The first few nights back at home were a self-imposed psychological endurance test. Judith knew how dangerous it was to think of Hannes in the darkness of these unmonitored rooms. It was like doing weight training straight after slipping a disc. But she had no choice. Whenever she closed her eyes the unpleasant slideshow of images from recent months started up, and Hannes had always been their terrifying main subject. So she forced herself to keep her eyes open for as long as she could. By the next morning she'd invariably missed several hours of sleep.

But there were also new, contradictory thoughts. Hannes had suddenly changed sides, stepped out of her shadow; he was no longer her persecutor but her closest ally. These were pleasant, sometimes blissful thoughts. Shoulder to shoulder with him she freed herself from her anxieties, opened up to her friends, confided in her brother Ali, sought to be close to her parents – and succeeded. Hannes took the leading role, as her protector and intermediary, a long-overdue link between her inner and outside worlds, the guarantor of harmony, the key to her happiness.

Judith presumed it was her medication that was allowing these acrobatic mental leaps over to the safe side. To prolong this new-found feeling of security she upped the dosage of all three pills, even though Jessica Reimann had expressly forbidden her from doing so. This put her in a state not unlike intoxication, and she would feel the occasional pangs of longing for Hannes, wishing desperately that he would come back into her life.

When the effect wore off, usually sometime between midnight and daybreak, she found herself alone, back on the other side, isolated from everyone who was important to her, incapable of making even the slightest approach towards any of them. But the enemy in her shadow also returned: Hannes, the cause of all ills, the author of her illness. She was embarrassed at having felt close to this man, at having craved him. And her outbreaks of naïve trust and doglike servility surprised her.

But these hangover-like states had fissures, too; she would catch herself heading in the wrong direction down a path, distancing herself from everyone who meant well, and finishing in the dead end of isolation. She recalled the psychiatrist's warning. Stubborn, blinkered, mistrustful and hostile, Judith was charting a course towards the island of the eternal one-in-a-hundred people. To avoid it, she swallowed some pills and the next trip on her brain-cell rollercoaster began.

Bianca was waiting in the shop with another surprise. Basti was sitting on Judith's office chair, pen and paper in his lap, sheepishly fiddling with the piercing on his top lip. “We're tracking your ex,” Bianca said. It sounded like the text of a speech bubble in a satirical detective cartoon. “I bet you thought we'd forgotten all about it. Well, we just wanted to let you get your strength back first, isn't that right, Basti?” He gave a shrug of the shoulders and eventually nodded in agreement. She ran her fingertips through his red hair and planted a smacking kiss on his forehead.

Without being asked, they presented their first report. To begin with they'd tried to observe Hannes as he entered and left his architects' practice. “But whenever Basti waited for him, he never showed up,” Bianca explained. “Conclusion: either he's working somewhere else or at home, or he's sick or on holiday.” Basti scanned his notes, raised a crooked index finger and muttered: “Or out of work.”

On eight occasions at the end of the working day Basti had parked his car in Nisslgasse, opposite Hannes's block and, together with Bianca, had kept a close watch on the front door. “He turned up each time; I was able to localise the object myself with my own eyes.” Judith: “Identify the subject.” Bianca: “What?” Judith: “You mean you recognised him.” Bianca: “Totally, it was your Hannes alright, I mean your ex-Hannes. No-one else on the planet moves the way he does.”

There was little about his presence that could be construed as suspicious, Judith learned. Hannes always came or left alone, never accompanied. He never looked rushed or nervous. Once he held the door open for an old lady, once he said a friendly hello to a young couple at the entrance to his block. His clothes were obviously so inconspicuous that even Bianca couldn't find words to describe them.

Other observations. Some evenings he entered and left the house several times at short intervals – and never with empty hands. Sometimes he carried a folder or a black briefcase, or he had a purple rucksack on his back, occasionally shopping bags dangled from his hands, and once, when he was leaving the building, he was balancing on his shoulder a large object wrapped in paper, they could tell it was something very heavy by the way he was straining.

As yet they were uncertain when he left the house for the last time at night and whether sometimes he didn't sleep there at all. “But we'll find all that out soon,” said Bianca. “That's if you want us to continue. Do you, Frau Wangermann? It's quite a laugh really.” After a slight hesitation and having begged them not to overdo it, Judith agreed. She didn't want to spoil the pleasure they were taking in their first joint research project.

The letter from Hannes came at a time when she was experiencing a good, harmonious phase. It was his first communication since his ghostlike retreat in the summer. She took the fact that her hand wasn't trembling as a good sign. Leaning against the kitchen shelves and chewing on a croissant, she studied the letter as if it were a leaflet advertising window insulation. The two sides of text had been typed on a computer and printed out. The font (Arial) and font size (14 pt) were as nondescript as the letterhead: Hannes Bergtaler, Nisslgasse 14/22, 1140 Vienna.

His “Dear Judith” was followed by a comma rather than his customary exclamation mark, of which there wasn't a single incidence in the entire letter. “Dear Judith, I've heard you've been in hospital. I hope you're feeling better now. The ward I believe you were treated on, run by Prof. Dr Dr Karl Webrecht, enjoys an excellent reputation. I'm convinced you were and are in the best hands there.” And are?

“Two weeks ago you left a message on my voicemail that really shocked me.” She'd left a message on his voicemail? “I know that during our time together – the nicest time in my life, by the way – I slipped up many times and made some serious mistakes. They say that love can make you blind. As a consequence you turned away from me. In my infinite love for you I refused to believe it. I did things that I now deeply regret. I interfered in your family life, even though you begged me not to and despite the fact that it was inappropriate and unpleasant for you. For this, please forgive me. In my defence the best I can say is that at the time I was under a lot of stress, at work too, and I myself had to spend a while in hospital recovering from burn-out syndrome. It was my low point. I didn't want you to find out and worry, or even feel guilty about it.

“Gradually, however, I've managed to draw the necessary line under our relationship, and therapy has been a great help here. It's been a difficult process, believe me, the deepest and longest tunnel I've been down in my life. But I'm through it now, and the light is shining again. It's subdued, obviously, but it's getting a little bit brighter by the day. Judith, I'll never come too close to you again,
never closer than you yourself want me to
. I swear this by everything that is sacred to me.” She could work with that, Judith thought.

“I was devastated by your voicemail message, dear Judith. It was like you were transformed, not yourself at all, so aggressive, so wicked, so full of hate. Your words hurt me: I couldn't fool you, you knew I was watching you, I couldn't frighten you anymore, so I should show myself, coward that I am. And if I didn't, you'd find me wherever I was.” Had she actually said those words? Interesting. She hadn't just imagined it, then.

“Judith, I never intended to scare you, the very idea of it appals me. I thought it would be best for both of us if we didn't see each other or hear from each other for a while, that's why I kept out of the way. I followed the advice of our mutual friends, who explained that you didn't have a good word to say about me, even that you were allergic to me. But I don't want to hide from you. And I don't want to be a coward in your eyes, either. I've written this letter to tell you that.

“So Judith, here I am. Fortunately I've found I can exist without you. And yet, my greatest desire, my most fervent wish is that we could become friends. Whenever you need me, I'll be there for you, I promise you that. In any case, no-one can take away the feelings I have for you. In eternal fidelity, Hannes”

She put the letter aside, looked again at her hand, which had remained calm, poured herself a cup of lukewarm, caffeinated coffee from her blue thermos flask, took a glass of water, pressed out a pill from the packaging, brought it to her mouth, stopped, broke the pill in two, put half away, swallowed the other half, took a gulp of water, clenched her fist in silent anticipation of the victory that was now in her sights, and said: “No more fear, no fear.”

After that she pulled off the feat of sleeping all the way through for three nights in succession. And she was craving company. Both had to be celebrated. Just like in the good old days, she organised her Saturday evening from the bathtub. Gerd was delighted and said yes immediately, even though he and Romy had tickets for a soul concert at “Porgy & Bess”. Judith: “Romy?” Gerd: “Yup, Romy. It's been thirteen days now.” Judith: “If you make it to fifteen then she has to come too!”

Ilse, Roland, Lara, Valentin – all already had something planned for Saturday, but nothing anywhere near as enticing as an invitation from Judith (who had clearly recovered and was in excellent spirits) to a venison goulash dinner. These were good friends, they really did like her, they had been standing by to celebrate her re-entry into the glorious banality of weekend life. The following day there was also a yes from Nina, the music shop owner's daughter. (Maybe by then Gerd would be single again!)

And then, in her boldness, Judith was struck by an absurd idea, which only a few days before she could never have imagined would enter her head. But the letter had turned everything upside down. She was inspired by the fact that she could even conceive of letting Hannes enter her flat. It showed foolhardiness, it gave her back a proper chunk of self-esteem – something in which she was seriously lacking.

“My greatest desire, my most fervent wish is that we could become friends,” he had written in his inimitably over-the-top way. Well, that train had already departed, too many unpleasant things had occurred for that. But why shouldn't she offer this small gesture of reconciliation? Why not demonstrate to her most intimate circle of friends that she was once again capable of escaping from her shadow?

In just a few days this shadow had shrunk to a manageable size; it was no longer persecuting her, terrifying her, directing her, it wasn't leading her down the wrong path, to the edge of the abyss. Was she finally cured of her silly little illness or weakness or crisis, or whatever “the worm” was called which had crawled around her mind? She was desperate for proof. And for that she needed him.

*

“Hi Hannes, I've invited a few friends round for dinner on Saturday. Gerd with his new girlfriend, Lara and Valentin, Roland, and a business colleague, Nina. You can come too if you fancy it.” No, she changed the third sentence of her text message. “Please come if you've got nothing else on.” Then: “I'm cooking venison goulash. About 8 o'clock.” (Her friends were invited for seven.) And: “Best wishes, Judith.”

Not three minutes, but three hours later came the refreshingly short and sober reply: “Hi Judith, how nice. Love to come. See you on Sat at 8. Hannes”

First, she knew that her pills would not mix happily with alcohol. Second, she knew that she'd drink alcohol that evening (because she'd already started in the afternoon). Third, she didn't need the pills anymore because she was fearless. Fourth, she'd spent a wonderful late-October Saturday at the Naschmarkt, at Hofer's department store, at home in her kitchen and on the sofa with headphones, by the light of her laburnum lamp.

The seven o'clock guests arrived punctually. Romy was a bubbly Columbian tap-dancing teacher whose haircut looked like Diana Ross after a downpour. What made her seem even more exotic was that Gerd was head over heels in love with her; you only saw him like that once every ten or fifteen years. Astonishingly, neither of the other two couples played out any relationship problems, and Nina slotted into the group perfectly. Judith's friends noticed straightaway that she was in high spirits; these were ideal conditions for her to talk about her “crazy time” in an aloof, self-ironic way. She described in meticulous detail the bedroom scene at four in the morning, when Chris, the beautiful “Roman” fisherman, realised that “someone” had given him a hell of a bite. Nina, especially, couldn't get enough of the details.

She didn't even mention Hannes. She wanted him to surprise them all. He was going to be her trump card, his appearance her triumph. But he was already thirty minutes late and her friends were getting increasingly impatient about the venison goulash. Just before nine he sent her a text: “Dear Judith, I'm sorry, but I just can't come tonight. Too much work! Another time, though. Please give everyone my regards.” The message was as dry as the cognac she had afterwards.

She noticed her own gradual decline from the reaction of her friends. Was she alright? “Yes, yes.” Why was she pushing such delicious food around her plate? “I expect I had too many mouthfuls when I cooked it, you know how it is.” Was she really alright? “Yes, of course. Perhaps I've just had a bit too much to drink,” she said, knocking back another glass of cognac just to make sure.