The Lie (35 page)

“Good afternoon,” she said. “The tickets are on the piano, I'll just go and get them.”

“That can wait,” he said. Peering over her shoulder, he asked, “Is the cause of all the trouble upstairs?”

“No, I've shut him in the kitchen,” she said, adding, “but that won't keep him out for long, he can open the door himself.”

At this the professor didn't look at all concerned, rather puzzled. “May I come in?” he asked. He gestured with a sweep of the arm at the front garden, and what he then said made it clear whom she was talking to: “Or do you want me to take your computer apart on the lawn?”

The boat! Seeing the car parked outside, she made a connection she'd missed in all the confusion. A yacht and a young, gawky computer nerd didn't really go together. And it must be quite a big yacht if you could spend your holiday on it. It was so embarrassing, she didn't know where to look. She just pointed at the stairs and whispered, “Up there.”

Professor Danny Kemmerling set off. How did a man in his fifties come to be called Danny? A trendy English name like that really went with a younger man. And how come a young thing in the lab could call him to the phone in such familiar fashion? A “Herr Professor” would surely have brought the boat to mind and she certainly wouldn't have asked a favour of him. She closed the front door, leaned back against it and fought down a rising but completely inappropriate fit of laughter. Then she went upstairs too.

Danny Kemmerling had already located the study. He knelt down at the desk and pulled the computer towards him. “I thought if I came a bit sooner, there'd be no danger of Michael surprising us,” he said. “He'll be occupied for a while yet.”

Inserting a jumper took no more than five minutes, most of that being taken up with removing all the leads and unscrewing the housing. Danny Kemmerling placed a tiny object somewhere between the clusters of wire and circuit boards, replaced the housing over the tangle, tightened up all the screws and put all the leads back in. When the machine had
been pushed back into its place, it worked perfectly. Danny Kemmerling started it up and immediately the operating system was loaded up and the familiar file manager appeared.

“I don't know how to thank you,” she said.

“Don't mention it.”

“No, no,” she said. “You've no idea what a help you've been.”

She took the mouse and quickly skimmed through a few folders. She felt somewhat easier, even though reason told her that it didn't make her situation any better simply because Nadia's computer was working. It was highly unlikely she'd find the address of the holiday house on the Bahamas on it, never mind the telephone number. And if that's where Nadia was, a new mobile number for Jacques was hardly any help either.

Danny Kemmerling was looking at the laptop, which was still on the desk, plugged in. It sounded as if he intended to buy one for himself and he asked if she was happy with it.

“Yes, very,” she said. “It's a P4 with three gigahertz.” At the same moment she remembered that Hardenberg had asked Nadia to ring him if she had any problems with the laptop. What problems could she have had? If Philip had spoken to Nadia on the phone on Thursday evening, then he must have known that it was she who had the laptop and not Nadia. Was that a problem? Or had Hardenberg not got anywhere with it because of the empty battery and had assumed the thing had broken down? Why had Nadia left the laptop with its empty battery in Hardenberg's office and the lead at home? To stop Hardenberg looking at something?

She shut the computer down and went downstairs with Danny Kemmerling, wondering how to get a few hints about the laptop's operating system from him without arousing his suspicions. But that receded into the background when she picked up the open envelope from the piano. She took out the tickets and removed the greetings from Frederik attached with a paper clip. And saw that that wasn't Niedenhoff's first name. Jacques Niedenhoff it said on the tickets.

At first she thought it must be a coincidence. Two men with the same Christian name, there must be thousands of Jacques in France or Switzerland. At the same time the holiday photos in the attic appeared in her mind's eye - and on one of them Nadia had been sitting at a grand piano beside the blond Adonis. Her first love and a pianist living nearby.
She also recalled that Nadia had told her Niedenhoff had only moved in at the beginning of the year. At the same time as the Beckmann had been bought - as a housewarming present perhaps? How convenient!
Mon chéri
just across the road.

Professor Kemmerling was in the hall waiting for the tickets. “Would you like a coffee?” she asked. “I have some delicious chocolate-chip ice cream in the freezer.”

He accepted the tickets with thanks and her invitation with pleasure. Then he was sitting at the table with her and, despite her nervousness, the serious gaps in her knowledge and the urgent need she felt to dash across the road and ring the bell of the house opposite, it turned out to be an informative afternoon.

Danny Kemmerling devoured two helpings of ice cream and did almost all the talking. First he told her he'd taken advantage of his wife's stay in Malta to buy himself a new computer. Now he too had a P4, a dream of a machine with not just three, but three point four gigahertz. Then he turned to the work in the lab and to Michael.

Their project was at a critical stage of development and certain allowances needed to be made, he said. He didn't say what it was that was being developed, he just emphasized that at the present time research work was impossible without men like Michael. Then he dropped his friendly, chatty tone and asked what the point was of financing such an expensive course of study if, after a few years, one was going to object to him carrying out his profession? Should a man of just thirty-five, hard-working, able and ambitious, spend the rest of his days lazing in the sun? No one could object to a little holiday house. A bit of relaxation on the beach or out sailing now and then was fine, but that was the limit for Michael, any more and he'd wither like a plant without water.

She understood very well what he was getting at. “I don't know what gave him that idea,” she said. “I have no intention of trying to get him to resign, my own work's much too important to me for that. I haven't got two computers upstairs just for fun.”

Then she tried to exploit Danny Kemmerling's enthusiasm for the laptop. She was just about to bring it down and let him play around with it while keeping a good eye on him to find out how to work the operating system, when Michael returned home unexpectedly.

He came into the dining room with a look on his face suggesting he was uncomfortable with the situation. “What are you doing here, Herr Professor?” Another bad habit, she thought. Addressing him with his title to his face, but otherwise referring to him simply as Kemmerling. How could a person see the connection?

“Drinking coffee,” Danny Kemmerling said and asked if Jutta had also gone home. When Michael replied that she had, he stood up, thanked her again for the coffee, ice cream and an enjoyable afternoon. “I'm the one who should be thanking you,” she said, as she accompanied him to the door. When she came back into the dining room Michael had just established that the coffee pot was empty.

“I'll make you some more,” she offered.

“Don't bother. What was Kemmerling doing here?”

“Collecting tickets for the Niedenhoff concert.”

“Goddammit, Nadia,” he snapped, “do you think I'll fall for that? You've been moaning to him again, haven't you? If you imagine you can undermine my position in the lab…”

His vehement tone sent her tumbling back into her shattered marriage and into uncertainty. “You don't need me to do that for you. You should have seen yourself yesterday! Like a lovesick baboon!”

With that she turned on her heel and went up to the study. She was left to herself for fifteen minutes and by the time Michael came in she'd established that the whole of the card index as well as the Alin Letters had disappeared. It looked as if Nadia had deleted everything that was of any importance. The discovery made her heart sink.

Michael put his cup and the coffee pot down beside the laptop, sat on the edge of the desk and asked, “Can we talk sensibly?”

“I don't know if you can.” She clicked on the next folder. “I can definitely talk sensibly.”

“But not with me, apparently. Did you talk sensibly with Kemmerling?”

“I certainly did.”

He breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. When he went on, her heart sank even lower. “Given the circumstances, I think it would be best if I applied for a divorce. I'd be happy to avoid the year's obligatory judicial separation. I'd prefer it if we could get it over with as quickly and as painlessly as possible. How do they put it? Separation from bed and
board. Well, who could prove that we've slept in the same bed during the last twelve months. We've both got enough alternatives.”

She could hardly bring herself to listen and clicked at random all over the screen. He gave a brief laugh. “And as far as board is concerned, we wouldn't have to lie. You've never cooked for me. The financial side? Your accounts can't be in all that bad a state or you'd hardly be talking about moving away. But of course I'm prepared to support you if it should be, or ever become, necessary.”

She gave a quiet, slightly hysterical laugh. “And how much did you have in mind? Two thousand a month and the rent for a three-room apartment with balcony?”

“Fifteen hundred,” he said. “And the running costs for the house. I'll move out. There's just one condition, Nadia. You don't come to the lab again; you don't ring either, neither me nor Kemmerling. I know I owe you a lot, but you haven't purchased the right to ruin my life completely.”

She managed to make eye contact and hold it. “I've no intention of doing that. I only called Kemmerling because…” She indicated the computer with a gesture of helplessness, ready to tell him what she'd told Jo, that she must have changed something while she was drunk. “He inserted a jumper for me.”

“Haha,” he said, unamused. “If I want the piss taken I can do it myself.”

“Go ahead, then,” she said. “Go ahead and leave me in peace.” She was starting to stutter, she couldn't do anything to prevent it. “I've said nothing to your disadvantage and I've done nothing to damage your reputation. Yesterday - I was just furious because of the way… you and that Palewi… and I'm…” She broke off. She was about to say pregnant. But if she told him that and Nadia came back after all… Nadia had to come back. Nadia couldn't simply leave her in her life, like a primary-school kid in a university lecture theatre.

He picked up where she'd broken off. “You're what?”

She managed to relax her clenched fingers and let go of the mouse. “Tired,” she said, “very tired. Would you leave me alone, please?”

“Do you agree to a divorce?”

“I can't say yet. It's too sudden. But I'll think about it.”

He sat on the edge of the desk for a few more minutes, apparently wondering whether he should say anything else. Then he picked up
his cup and the coffee pot and went out. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry and went on clicking the mouse without seeing anything. A divorce! It was a possibility. She'd need to consider it if Nadia didn't come back. He could have the house, but she'd have to accept his money if she wanted to keep the child and not have to live on benefits. With his income he'd hardly notice the fifteen hundred.

She heard him clattering about downstairs. It sounded as if he was in the kitchen. You've never cooked for me. What for Christ's sake had Nadia done for him? Financed his studies in the States, helped him get two doctorates. Used it to keep a hold over him, to tyrannize him. Been unfaithful to him. Left him?

Shortly after eight he came up with a full plate and went into the television room. For a moment her nostrils were filled with a spicy aroma. It faded almost immediately and, anyway, she wasn't hungry. Despite that, she finally switched the computer off, went downstairs and got something for herself. Just a ready-to-eat dish. She took her plate and followed him.

He was sitting on the couch. Leaning forwards, his eyes glued to the TV, he was cutting large chunks off an almost raw steak and putting them in his mouth. He ignored the blood on his plate, just as he ignored her. On the screen Carlos Santana was abusing his guitar. She couldn't stand the blood or the sound of the guitar. Even less his silence and rigid posture.

“I love you,” she whispered, almost drowned out by the racket. “Things could be all right again if I could talk to you openly and you give me a chance.”