Forever Yours (9 page)

October began without a breath of wind and gave out a floury, yellow light that cast oppressively long shadows, darkened the days early and stretched out the nights. Lukas called Judith regularly to sound out how she was. If she had been honest with him, he would have come to Vienna straightaway, to stand by her. In whichever way he could. Her preference would have been for hugs that lasted several hours, and to wake up each time with his fingers in her hair, as fortification against a series of nightmares. But, as Mum had so sensitively chiselled into her brain, Lukas had “a family”. In any case, what weapons did he have with which to combat Hannes, this ghost? So on most occasions she reassured him quite convincingly that she was fine, that she could feel her spirits slowly reviving, that she'd been on the Internet searching for a new partner, and that she was having great fun flirting online and off.

“Great, Judy. That's reassuring!” was Lukas' response. She was slightly irked that all he wanted was reassurance – and by how easy it was to reassure him. But at least she knew she could count on him if it got to the point where he was no longer reassurable. That was reassuring.

She wasn't searching for any partner, of course, and certainly not on one of those dating sites where unappealing men from the back rows of everyday life presented themselves as witty charmers. But on the evening of the first Friday of the month, when all shadows had temporarily vanished, she did in fact meet someone unintentionally. After closing up she'd popped into Café Wunderlich for a drink with Nina, the daughter of the owner of König's music shop in Tannengasse, a woman who had no luck with men. The “drink” turned into several. For hours on end they ordered just one last glass of wine, water or Aperol. To round off the evening they moved for a nightcap to Bar Eugen, which was little more than a candlelit meeting-place for schoolchildren to enjoy their first French kisses. But from Nina's distracted, sometimes rapacious looks over her shoulder, she realised that behind her must be sitting something approaching a real man. At some point she turned, and it was one of those moments when two pairs of eyes conclude a pact for a future together, irrespective of whether that future becomes the past after only one night.

His name was Chris, he looked Roman (like a Donatello bronze brought to life), he was not under age (twenty-seven), was interested in friends, football, fishing and females, in precisely that order (which was rather refreshing), and (this was a remote diagnosis) his fascination for the last on his list was always fleeting and exclusively in the plural. In this respect, Chris was the complete opposite of Hannes. So she took a note of his e-mail address and arranged to meet in the same bar a few days later, without any fishing friends and definitely without Nina.

He kissed Judith as soon as they met, thereby saving them both the trouble of working towards something which was already a done deal. For the next few hours in the bar she let him hold her hand and enjoyed the harmless stories he told of a life in which nothing had yet happened; a huge perch swallowing one of his hooks turned out to be one of the more dramatic highlights.

Later, when he asked to know more about Judith, whether she had just emerged from a difficult relationship – which he could guess just by looking at her – it seemed the ideal moment at which to introduce the my-place-or-yours question, but only theoretically, for in practice it was obvious that he would have to accompany Judith home.

“I feel so comfortable with you. You're doing me the world of good, you sweetheart,” she whispered into his ear as they waited for the lift. Yes, after a long time she was fearlessly happy again; she'd managed to trick her shadow, at last. She almost wished that Hannes could see her like this: so herself, so secure, so confident.

At home everything proceeded in a remarkably proficient and relaxed manner, as if she and Chris had been together for years. Judith sorted out the red wine, dim lighting and an appropriate throw for the sofa. Chris immediately found a suitable C.D. –
Tindersticks
– and the volume control, spent a gratifyingly long time (for a man) in the bathroom, during which he'd opened his shirt, offering an extremely appetising view. Poor Nina! Fortunately he belonged to that sympathetic group of men who undressed themselves rather than those who disrobed others, fiddling clumsily with buttons and zips, and spending ages tugging at tight skirts or trousers until the excitement had passed.

There was no more talking from that point, only breathing. Nor did he overdo the appraisal of Judith's body, but dived straight under the throw and began to caress and kiss her all over, before she closed her eyes and surrendered to the best feeling she'd enjoyed in many months. Later, Chris might well tell his circle of fishing companions that it had been “really good sex”. For Judith it was total security – and a warmth that flooded as far as her most remote brain cells, reaching that point still frozen from shock.

In just a few seconds the doorbell destroyed all the repair work of the last few days, just as it was about to be rewarded. At a stroke Judith was back to square one. Three short alarm jolts, piercing the very core of her heart. Chris sat up and pulled a bashful grin, like a young boy caught smoking a joint by an elder brother. “Have you got puritanical neighbours who'd be bothered by the noise?” he asked. She turned away to spare him the sight of her face paralysed by fear. “I don't know, I've barely met them,” she said. “Noise? Were we that loud? Surely we weren't loud.” She whispered to disguise the quivering in her voice. “Would you mind going to the door and taking a look?” she begged. “You don't even have to open it. Just ask who it is.” Chris looked confused: “Wouldn't it be better if you… I mean, you live here. Or shall we just ignore it?” Judith: “Please, Chris. Just ask who's there.” Him: “What if it's a friend of yours?” Her: “I don't have any friends at the moment. I mean, none who'd be standing at my door ringing the bell like that.”

Hearing the floorboards creak beneath the soles of his feet, she pulled the throw over her head and waited until he returned. “Nobody,” Chris said in a bored voice. “Must have been a frustrated neighbour.” He crept back under the throw and pressed his body close to hers. Now he felt like the Roman statue made of bronze. She was cold both inside and out. She stopped his hand at the top of her thigh and asked whether he would stay the night, just this once. Her bitter tone made this anything but an erotic proposal, and of course he noticed.

Him: “Judith, that'd be a bit tricky. I've got to get up early.” Her: “You can; I'll set the alarm for six. Is six too late? Five?” “Judith, don't get me wrong, but we only…” “I understand you perfectly well. But please understand me too. I can't be alone tonight, I can't, I – really – can't!” He gave her a puzzled look. In films people like her had a nervous breakdown moments later. How would he explain this phenomenon to his fishing friends?

More out of embarrassment than intent she began to stroke him, gently at first, then more firmly. And she did it so well that soon, in those parts of the body which are ultimately responsible for male decision-making, he felt it would be a shame to leave after all. “Shall we decamp to the bedroom?” she whispered. “O.K.,” he replied.

Chris also had that peculiarly male ability to fall asleep moments after orgasm, and to broadcast this split-second transition with loud snoring. Fortunately it wasn't long before it quietened down and turned into peaceful heavy breathing. Judith lay on her back and pushed his limp hand from her breast down to her tummy. His arm was now a safety belt which would protect her until early the following morning.

She focused on not thinking about Hannes, the person at the door and the bell ringer. At some point her eyes must have closed. When she became aware of this, the strange tapestry of sound returned: the reverberating metal sheets, then the whispers, followed by hissing noises, as on the previous nights. And then his unmistakable voice repeated the first words he had uttered in the supermarket after his apology: “Such a scrum in here, such a scrum, such a scrum.” Remaining calm, she didn't move a muscle and breathed slowly. She knew which words would follow. Judith was proud that he could no longer lead her on, that she had seen through him. Her lips moved in mockery: “Really sorry about your foot, sorry about your foot.” She felt a tickle in her chest and noticed that the corners of her mouth were turned upwards. She felt an urgent need to laugh, she could barely restrain herself. What a funny game! Where was Hannes? Where was he hiding? Where had he set up camp? Whenever she thought she could picture him the images blurred. Whenever she reached out to him he recoiled.

She wanted to touch her humming head, wipe the sweat from her brow, but her hands remained rigid. She heard herself giggling quietly. She tried to sit up. But a foreign body was weighing down upon her, fixing her there like a powerful clamp. All of a sudden she was gripped by panic. Hannes beside her in bed. Where were they? In the hotel room? Still in Venice? Still together as a couple? Hadn't he got the message? Didn't he have a clue? She tried to squeeze away with her belly. But the more she strained, the heavier the object on her became, pushing onto her bowels, blocking her air passages. She struggled for air, gasped, felt her temples getting hot. She had to act now before the beams crushed her to death. Hannes? What did he say? What were his next words?

“I know it can hurt like hell. I know it can hurt like hell. I know it can hurt like hell.” That was
her
voice. The volume startled her. The massive weight on her belly started to lift, getting ready to strike. With both hands she grabbed hold of the enemy weapon, brought it to her mouth, her teeth felt a hard resistance and there was a salty taste on her tongue.

“Ow! Are you crazy?” he yelled. “What are you playing at?” Now she was wide awake. From one second to the next a change of programme took place in her head. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath. She switched on the light. Chris was bleeding. Her jaw was aching. She leaped up, ran into the bathroom, fetched a damp towel and wrapped it round his arm.

Chris crouched in bed, his mouth and eyes both open wide. “What the hell are you playing at?” he said awkwardly. What kind of an awful question was that? “I, I, I… must have had a bad dream,” she said. “I'm terribly sorry.” He pushed the towel away and looked at his wound. His arm was shaking.

“It's just not normal, Judith. It's not normal,” he said. “You know it's not normal, don't you?” Now he was really angry. She began to sob faintly. “Do you do this often?” he snapped. “I must have had a bad dream,” she repeated. “Really bad.” He swiftly gathered his things together, nipped to the bathroom, and then made straight for the door. “One last tip,” he called behind him. “Never have a really bad dream with a heavy or sharp object in your hand!”

In the shop Bianca greeted her with the words: “Your make-up doesn't look too clever this morning, Frau Wangermann. You've got huge bags under your eyes.” Judith fell into her apprentice's arms and wept. “Don't take it so hard,” Bianca said. “We'll sort it out. I've got five different eye shadows on me today.”

Judith told her about her amorous escapade and how it had escalated. “It's not
that
bad,” Bianca said. “I think men actually quite like it if you get a bit rough with them.” Judith: “I didn't ‘get a bit rough' with him; I almost bit his bloody arm off!” Bianca laughed. “Stay cool, Frau Wangermann. Give him a call and tell him:
I promise that when we next have a shag I'll wear a muzzle
.” After that Judith felt much better.

Her real problem would be too much for Bianca to deal with, but Judith needed to articulate it to herself, too. “I can't get Hannes out of my head. It's getting worse and worse. I really think I'm starting to hallucinate. Sometimes I'm convinced that he's watching my every move and tracking my every step. And sometimes he's so deep inside me that I doubt whether it can be him at all, I mean as a person. Maybe I'm imagining the whole thing. Do you follow me?” Bianca hesitated briefly and looked at her. Then she said: “I don't think you're deranged. I mean, you're not like all those people who cut up dead bodies and then…” “O.K., Bianca. Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.” She went into the office.

A short while later Bianca followed her. Her cheeks were flushed and she spoke excitedly: “I've got it. I know how we can see if he's inside or out.” She placed her index finger against the side of her head. “We need to track him down. We need to be on the look-out, tail him, wait for him to make a mistake. And I know exactly the right man for the job. It's obvious really. Basti!”

*

Judith had seen him waiting outside the shop for Bianca a few times. Now Bianca beckoned him to come in. “Frau Wangermann, may I introduce my boyfriend, Basti?” she said formally, making one of her famous circular movements with her pupils. He was about twenty, red-headed and virtually twice as tall as her, as stiff as a flagpole and about as chatty, and he worked for the fire service. “Delighted to meet you,” Judith said. “Same,” Basti muttered grimly, running his tongue over the piercing on his upper lip.

“Basti's doing a course in detection,” Bianca announced. “He wants to specialise in mobile phone theft. He's had three of his own phones stolen.” He looked at her as if he were waiting for an interpreter to translate. “So I think a little practice wouldn't go amiss.”

Judith was extremely uncomfortable about the plan; Basti seemed indifferent. But there was no dissuading Bianca. Her boyfriend was charged with finding and following Hannes Bergtaler, and making a note of anything unusual. They didn't have a photograph of him, unfortunately, just a detailed description. As a reward Bianca promised to go out with Basti more often and spend at least half an hour in the passenger seat of his car, maybe even in an isolated car park of his choice.