The Lie (43 page)

“That's what I mean to do,” she said. “I'll go on to England, I can manage better with the language there.”

“Romania,” Dieter insisted. “I know a few people over there, I might be able to arrange something. They make good documents. Once the dust's settled I could try to transfer the money to Luxembourg somehow or other. Then you'd have to collect it. But we'll discuss that later. The first thing to do in France is to find a little guest house somewhere out in the country. Not a big hotel and don't use your credit card. Take enough ready cash with you. Ring when you've found somewhere, then we'll see what to do next.”

Shortly afterwards Andrea came back with ten CDs. She put the fifty euros back on the desk with them. “They weren't that expensive. I took it out of the housekeeping, I had to go to the bank anyway.” That was how she learned that Andrea had an account into which a certain sum was paid every month for food and the like.

After Andrea had left the house at two - and the bank had opened again after lunch - she went there herself, presented Nadia's ID card, as she'd done before, and took out two thousand euros. Hardly enough to finance the great escape, but she didn't want to arouse suspicion.

After that she copied a number of harmless-looking files for Wolfgang Blasting and put the CDs in an envelope, which she dropped into next door's letter box. Then it was high time she packed the cases. The maternity trousers, the new blouse, the bras and the baby clothes went right at the bottom, covered by a few pairs of Nadia's trousers, a few blouses and a warm pullover. She couldn't take too much or Michael might get suspicious. Anyway, in two months' time none of the things would fit any more.

She was still packing the cases when Michael came home. He was very distant. He urged her to hurry, took clean underwear from his drawer and went to the bathroom for a quick shower. She put the recorder and language tapes under the pullover in her case and had a look at Nadia's evening wear.

Paris - for her that meant things like the Moulin Rouge and the Crazy Horse, beautiful women, slim and tall, with feathers on their heads and swirling legs. Once she'd watched one of those shows on late-night TV in her old flat. She was sure Nadia would have actually been there. And Michael was probably planning to go to an exclusive bar. She packed two evening dresses and didn't forget a corresponding outfit for him.

Then Jo was given a house key so he could cut off the leads of the alarm in an emergency. They went in Michael's car. On the way there he didn't say a word, for which she was grateful, in her mind's eye she could already see herself disappearing somewhere in Paris. The Seine, Notre Dame, the Arc de Triomphe, the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower, that was more or less all she knew about the city. And of the two people with whom she was going to spend the next few hours she knew nothing at all. But that was the least of her worries. After all, she wasn't going to be there long. A “Nice to see you, Phil” or “Pamela” ought to be sufficient.

In the airport car park she was still on familiar ground. For the last time, it all went to plan. The tickets were there for them at the Lufthansa desk. Michael wanted to check in right away and then have a coffee and a bite to eat. From that point on it was all new to her but it didn't show, since all she had to do was follow him. He led her to an area of self-service snack bars, fetched two coffees and a piece of fruit flan for himself.

She didn't feel hungry. The parting lay heavy on her stomach. It sounded so easy: to disappear. To translate it into action was harrowing. To leave all the familiar places and faces behind, first and foremost her mother, perhaps supported by Dieter or Johannes Herzog at Nadia's graveside, as she had once dreamed. But she intended to ring her mother as soon as was feasible and later on to have her come and live with her. The thought was a comfort, if a small one.

While Michael was eating his cake, it finally struck him that she hadn't smoked for days. He expressed his surprise that she'd managed to stay off nicotine, given the way things were at the moment.

“It's not easy,” she said. “I just have to grin and bear it. Both the withdrawal symptoms and your suspicions. How else can I prove to you that I'm no longer the woman you take me to be?”

She had absolutely no idea why she'd said that. But it was out. Perhaps she wanted him to realize, at some point or other, that she'd really loved him in the few days she'd had with him. He didn't reply, just looked at her thoughtfully.

Then they went through security and boarded a Boeing 737. Everything seemed smaller and more cramped than on a bus, but that didn't bother her once she was in her window seat. Flying! To be up in the air for the first time, above the clouds! Tense expectation gradually blotted out all other feelings.

There was just one awkward moment when Michael pointed out that she hadn't fastened her safety belt and she didn't know how to adjust it to fit her. But he ascribed it, as he had all the other moments that threatened to give her away, to her nerves. It didn't arouse his suspicions.

 

The plane started to taxi, then accelerated. She felt herself being pressed back against her seat. Then the Boeing took of and it was as if her brain was being squashed down out of her skull. There was immense pressure in her ears and her stomach clenched. She'd never felt so sick before. Mouth wide open, she took deep breaths. Her hands, her forehead, her back, her whole body was damp with sweat.

Far down below the world slewed onto its side. She couldn't look, she felt as if she was falling and kept her eyes fixed on one of the lockers where hand luggage was stowed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the grey veil outside the tiny window thicken then suddenly clear. The plane had reached cruising height. Outside it was ablaze with light, the sky a radiant blue. In the gangway the stewardess was explaining where the emergency exits were and how the oxygen masks worked. It felt as if there was something like a whisk going round in her head and stomach. She put her hand over her mouth, trying to suppress the retching.

“What's wrong, Nadia?” she heard Michael ask.

“I feel sick,” she groaned. She meant to say she felt rather queasy. She was sure that's what Nadia would have said. “I think I'm going to be sick.” she didn't just think so, it was already coming up into her throat.

Michael took her handbag, which she'd stuck down the seat beside her. Presumably he was looking for paper handkerchiefs, but what he came up with was a bundle of banknotes. In the bank she'd just stuck them in her bag. Naturally he was surprised to find Nadia setting off with a large supply of ready cash when she also had two credit cards. “What's all this?”

Answering was impossible. She just swallowed convulsively and pressed her hand to her mouth. The stewardess was close enough to see what was happening. She passed over several paper handkerchiefs and indicated a brown paper bag in the net on the back of the seat in front. She was so wretched that she didn't even feel embarrassed. Michael apologized with a baffled shrug of the shoulders. “My wife doesn't normally have any problems flying.”

It didn't get better. She needed another paper bag. She couldn't understand that there were people who enjoyed flying. By this time drinks were being handed out. With the best of intentions, the stewardess offered them a cognac. Michael categorically refused and insisted on mineral water. She decided on a tomato juice with a lot of salt and pepper. That had perked her up on the morning after Lilo's party. It did so now. But before her head and her stomach could get completely back to normal, the plane began its descent and everything started up again.

There was no looking out of the window for a first sight of Paris from the air. The lockers were better. The Boeing lurched as it landed, her stomach lurched too. Then, at last, it was all over. Michael unfastened her safety belt, commenting, not without a certain satisfaction, “It must all have been a bit too much for you in the last few days.”

He waited for the crush in the gangway to subside, then helped her up. The stewardess asked how she was and wished her a pleasant stay. Michael led her out of the confines of the plane and along endless corridors. At some point he took their suitcases off a conveyer belt and looked round for a trolley because he couldn't carry two suitcases and support her at the same time.

“If you tell me where to check yours in I won't have to lug it all the way to the taxi.” Once again he seemed think - correctly this time - that she intended to take off.

“You don't have to lug me along,” she said, though she wasn't all that steady on her feet. The ground seemed to sway at every step. The lights on the ceiling were flickering. The throng all around her left blurred impressions, as if in a photo taken by a camera with the wrong exposure.

“Sit down,” he told her. “I'll go and see where Phil is.” He set her down on a chair somewhere, put the two cases beside her and went off. Ten minutes later he came back, surprised that Phil was nowhere to be seen. “Didn't you tell him when we were arriving?”

“I forgot.”

Irritated, he pulled out his mobile to remedy her forgetfulness. Unfortunately he couldn't get Phil and Pamela, so he said, “We'll go round to their place. Perhaps they're only out for a short while. If not, we'll leave a message and go to the hotel. She decided not to tell him she'd forgotten to book a room as well.

She staggered along behind him to the taxi rank. He asked her to tell the driver Phil's address, where it was, Montparnasse, and that it was best to go via rue de Vaugirard. Fortunately the driver had understood him, she wouldn't have dared open her mouth. She crawled into the rear seat, feeling like death warmed up.

Paris, the beginning of December. It was a grey dream and bitterly cold. All she saw of the city was drizzle, the reflections of streetlights on wet tarmac and the taxi's windscreen wipers. Her brain was still throbbing. The slightest movement of her head produced a horrible dizziness. The feeling of nausea stretched from her eyes all the way down to the backs of her knees. They were presumably driving past some of the sights, but she didn't dare turn her head to the side to look out of the window.

The driver tried to chat with Michael, asking what the purpose of their trip to Paris was. She did get a few phrases. Michael obviously couldn't understand what the man was going on about, at least he didn't reply. The handwritten lines to Jacques,
mon chéri
came briefly back to mind. It clearly wasn't a great risk to leave something like that lying around if her husband couldn't read French. By now she could perhaps translate one or two sentences, but she hadn't learned much from Dieter's language course yet. Nor was she likely to as long as Michael was close by. And it was so important.

The very idea of having to use any kind of transport in the next few days made her stomach heave. She couldn't even think of a hired car without retching. The taxi ride or, rather, the way the Frenchman weaved through the traffic, made her feel even worse.

Finally they were there - in a street that didn't look much different from the one where she'd spent the last few years. Cars tightly parked either side and, beyond them, the dreary façades of tenement blocks. That the university wouldn't provide luxury accommodation for a short stay by a visiting lecturer made sense. But she still had no idea why Phil and Pamela were here in Paris and just felt as if she was back in Kettlerstrasse.

The drizzle was getting heavier. Michael asked her to tell the driver to wait as they might have to go on. Then he got out and went to the entrance of one of the buildings. Only a few seconds later he came back, paid the driver - from her handbag - took the two cases out of the boot and told her to stay there until he came for her.

The driver turned round and asked something. Not wanting to start a conversation with him, she got out - with some difficulty. Michael was at the entrance. He hadn't noticed that she was following him, squeezing her way through between two parked cars. He pushed the door open and peered into the dark hall. Squeals of delight came from one of the upper floors. Michael dropped the cases and threw his arms round the man who had come rushing down to meet him. As they thumped each other on the shoulders and back, she leaned against the wall, feeling her knees about to give way as the first black spots signalling the arrival of a faint appeared before her eyes. Then the nausea and the terrible dizziness were no more.

Her awakening was almost the same as at Lilo's party: a gaudy picture on the wall and the face of an unknown woman. She was lying on a couch and the woman was holding a cup to her lips, giving her something to drink. It was just water. She took a few sips. “Are you feeling better?” Pamela - who else? - asked in English.

She sketched a nod and tried to sit up. Pamela pushed her back down onto the cushion. “No, stay in bed.” Then she turned to the door and shouted, “Mike!”

The room was even smaller than her “half-room” in Kettlerstrasse. A naked bulb was dangling from the ceiling, the window had no curtains. Apart from the couch there was just a small cupboard and when Michael came in the room was more than full. He was furious. “I told you to stay in the car. Did you hurt yourself?”

Just a scratch on her forehead. Her clothes were wet and dirty because she'd fallen in a puddle.

“We ought to call a doctor,” he said. He'd presumably never seen Nadia in such a state, apart from the time when she'd been on the bottle. But now, without a drop of alcohol in her blood, she was white as a sheet and her teeth were chattering so badly she could barely speak. “It's just a dizzy spell.”

“Nonsense. You've never had that kind of problem before.”