The Lie (5 page)

“You don't exactly look pleased,” Nadia commented, leaning back against the car and surveying her thoughtfully. “But I can understand that. I've been asking myself what I would feel like in your situation. I almost got kicked out myself after Michael's career took off.”

So it was Michael. Susanne glanced at the photo on the dashboard. The photo of the blond man was still there.

Nadia rummaged round in her handbag for her cigarette case. After she'd lighted the cigarette, she went on, hesitantly, as if she wasn't sure whether Susanne wanted to hear more about her life or not. They had a lot more in common than face and figure, Nadia said. “What you told me could have been the story of my life.”

Nadia had also trained in banking and until two years ago had worked for a private bank in Düsseldorf. She didn't have a mother-in-law who needed looking after, just a husband who was earning nothing during the first years of their marriage.

“Michael was still a student when we got married,” she said. “When he finally graduated, he didn't find the right job immediately. And when he did, I was still earning three times as much as him. Until…”

When Nadia broke off, Susanne completed the sentence for her: “Until there was a hold-up at the bank.”

Nadia gave a pained smile. “Nothing so dramatic. I just thought I'd been on the treadmill for long enough. Michael's career was going places and I wanted to take more time for myself and for him. And with more time I quickly found out that he was sleeping with one of his little laboratory mice.”

For a brief moment Susanne wondered whether to ask about Nadia's further career. She must have found another job by now - the document case and what she had told her about the laptop with its irreplaceable data indicated that. But she was shocked by what Nadia had said about her husband. She would never have associated the nice holiday face with infidelity.

“But he didn't want to marry her and have a child?” she asked, forcing herself to make a joke of it.

Nadia gave a brief and decidedly unamused laugh. “No idea. If he did want to do that, I managed to talk him out of it. Since then we've been behaving as if I'm the only one he loves, and I'm too busy to get bored in the evenings.”

“You think he's still cheating on you?”

Nadia gave another laugh, a mocking laugh this time. “What's this? Suddenly we are interested after all?” She pouted. “But it's not worth talking about. I've stopped letting it bother me. He's not the only attractive man around.”

“You're unfaithful to him as well?”

Nadia's shrug of the shoulders said everything. “I'm really short of time today, Susanne. We'll talk another day, OK? Can you manage with the suitcase?”

She nodded. Her thoughts were still on the mutual adultery and the question of why Nadia had not left her unfaithful husband, if she'd
found a replacement. Nadia put the clothes, including the shoes, back in the suitcase, and put it down in front of her. She thanked her again.

“Don't mention it,” said Nadia. “All you need now is a chic hairstyle. How do you like mine?”

“It's great.”

“Good,” said Nadia, glancing at her wristwatch. “Hey, I must be off. See you.”

Seconds later the Porsche was gone.

Another trip to the old folks' home was scheduled for Sunday. Even as she carried the suitcase back through the streets Susanne was wondering what she could wear. Then she was home and trying the clothes on. Her heart missed a beat when her fingers felt the thin piece of paper in one of the blazer pockets. Two hundred euros. With a handwritten note attached by a paper clip: “For the hairdresser.” And she'd assumed it was just a casual remark.

She would certainly have been able to find a hairdresser on the Saturday morning who would have taken her without an appointment, but why spend more money than absolutely necessary? She bought a pair of sharp scissors in the supermarket and some brown tinting lotion. Using the mirror in her tiny bathroom, she first of all cut off most of what she needed to get rid of, then, bending her head as far forward as possible, managed to get a fairly straight edge at the back. Finally she applied the tinting lotion.

At two o'clock on Sunday afternoon she was standing on the edge of the pavement with slightly straggly but dark brown hair. She could hardly wait for Johannes Herzog to arrive, for his look of astonishment and a remark such as, “You're looking very elegant today.” She did look very elegant in the white blouse, a narrow, dark-blue skirt, a pair of court shoes and, casually draped over her left arm, the blazer which had contained such a momentarily embarrassing surprise.

At half-past two she was still standing on the pavement. Up above, Heller was leaning out of the window pouring forth speculations as to why her toy boy had stood her up and, with obscene suggestions, volunteering to help her pass the time, even the whole afternoon if necessary, so that she wouldn't know whether she was coming or going. She ignored him, wondering, with a mixture of irritation and concern,
where Johannes could be and whether he'd had an accident. The way he drove that wasn't impossible.

After a further ten minutes Heller's abuse was just too much for her. But she wasn't going to abandon the trip to see her mother. Nadia's money gave her other possibilities. She went to the station, took the suburban railway and did the last part by bus. From the bus stop it was only eight hundred yards to the old folks' home.

Agnes Runge was delighted to see her but said it would have been better if she hadn't come. There was flu in the home, half of the inmates were ill and some had even gone into hospital. That was why Johannes Herzog's grandmother had told him not to come. Naturally it had not occurred to Johannes to pop over to Susanne's and tell her. But you couldn't expect a young man to think of that. And since she didn't have a telephone - so as not to be disturbed during her weekends, she claimed - her mother hadn't been able to tell her either. It was easy to lie to Agnes Runge - she wanted to believe all was well with her daughter.

On the way back to the bus stop Susanne was caught in a heavy shower and got soaked to the skin. On the Monday she felt under the weather and spent most of the day in bed, hoping that would nip any flu in the bud. Despite that, she had a cough on Tuesday. It wasn't so bad as to cause concern, it just gave her a headache, as did any physical exertion since her skull had been fractured.

On Wednesday the cough was worse. She bought some bronchial tea from the chemist's, drank two cups and went to bed, sweating profusely. Her poor nourishment over the past few months was taking its toll. Sometimes she was sweating so profusely the sheets stuck to her, at others she was so cold the shivers gave her cramp in all her muscles. Every breath she took was a struggle and set off fits of coughing that made her feel as if her head were about to explode. In the evening she remembered she hadn't checked her post, but she couldn't face the effort of dragging herself down the stairs.

Shortly after two in the morning she woke from a nightmare in which her mother was standing by an open grave, supported by Johannes Herzog, who was reading the inscriptions on the wreaths out to her. As the coffin was lowered, her mother asked through her tears, “Why did she never say anything?” It was a while before she realized she was lying in bed and not in her coffin.

She had a high temperature. With difficulty she managed to stand up and stagger to the bathroom, where she soaked two towels in cold water and wrapped them round her calves. She placed a third damp towel over her head. And since the tiled floor was so lovely and cool, she spent the rest of the night wedged between the shower and the lavatory. Early in the morning she forced herself to go to the kitchen, made another cup of bronchial tea and drank it in little sips, almost coughing up her lungs as she did so.

All was still quiet in the building, it was only just after five. Heller was presumably sleeping off the effects of the previous evening's drink. At least at that time in the morning there was hardly any danger of him popping up and exploiting her pitiful state to abuse her in one way or the other. Really she was in no condition to bother with her post, but she had a feeling that sent her down the stairs. And, indeed, one of the familiar envelopes was in her box.

When she got to the couch and unfolded the letter, the clear print was swimming before her eyes. “Dear Susanne,” Nadia wrote, expressing the hope that she had not used the money in the blazer pocket for experiments and reminding her of her first letter and her desire to do something for her. Then came the sentence that suddenly brought everything back into sharp focus: “I may have a job for you. It's only as a stand-in, but we ought to discuss it.” She suggested they meet in the multi-storey car park where she'd given her the suitcase. Below were day and time: Friday, five o'clock.

 

It was Friday. But it was crazy even to think about setting off for the city centre. She'd stumbled over her own feet going down the stairs and just managed to catch onto the wall to stop herself falling. When she tried to get up off the couch to make herself another cup of bronchial tea in the kitchen, the floor and walls started to sway, forcing her to flop back onto the couch.

It was well after midday when she managed to get to her feet again, staggering so much she knocked the little table, sending it skidding across the floor. One of the legs gave way. Something fell on the floor: a thin, elongated object, thicker at one end. Her vision blurred by fever, she assumed it was a screw. It was a self-assembly table and, not having a screwdriver, she'd put it together using a butter knife. It had always
been a bit wobbly. She left it where it was and dragged herself to the shower.

The cold water washed the tint out of her hair but cleared her head sufficiently for the idea of taking a taxi to occur to her. She thought she could make it as far as the telephone kiosk. There was one close by, round the corner only fifty yards down Kettlerstrasse. Shortly after four she was standing at her wardrobe on shaky legs. She chose a pair of Nadia's trousers, one of her blouses, the second pair of shoes and the second blazer.

The next fit of coughing came while she was on the stairs. She was close to turning back. But she struggled on determinedly until she reached the street. The humid air made breathing a little easier. She made it as far as the telephone kiosk. Once there, however, she realized that all the effort had been in vain. The receiver had been torn off. It was lying on the metal holders for the phone books, the flex dangling. She leaned against the side of the kiosk and slowly slumped to the floor.

More than half an hour must have gone when a dark-blue Mercedes drove past - as had countless other cars already. In contrast to the others, however, the Mercedes stopped a few yards further on, as if the driver had realized there was a woman squatting on the floor of the kiosk. The Mercedes reversed, stopped. The driver got out, rushed to the kiosk, opened the door, leaned over her and asked, his voice full of concern, “Don't you feel well?”

He must have been in his late forties, early fifties. Of average height and severely overweight, he was wearing an expensive suit and, on his left hand, a showy signet ring. He didn't look like a criminal. He stretched out his right hand to help her up. There was no ring on his right hand.

“I wanted to call a taxi,” she mumbled and pointed to the torn-off receiver. “But it's not working.” That set her coughing again.

“That's a nasty cold you've got,” the man said. “You ought to see the doctor about it.”

“That's where I was going,” she wheezed as he pulled her up. The man put his hand under her arm to support her.

“I can drive you there,” he said as he helped her out of the kiosk. Hesitating, she looked at the Mercedes. It was one of those models that are out of the reach of ordinary mortals. The man gave her an understanding smile and pulled out a mobile. “I could ring for a taxi.”

“No need,” she whispered, “I'll go with you.”

She let him assist her into the passenger seat. He got in behind the wheel and gave her an encouraging smile. They reached the city centre just before five. She got out, thanked him and headed for the pedestrian precinct. There were still a few minutes to go. She felt sick. In the last few days she'd had nothing but bronchial tea. She bought a cherry waffle at a snack bar and wolfed it down. After that she felt a little better. Only it didn't last long.

When she came to she found herself sitting on a concrete slab in a vault, with no idea how she'd got there. At first she thought she was back in the disused factory. It was several minutes before she realized it was just the multi-storey car park. The air was full of exhaust fumes. Her cough got worse. There was a pillar behind the slab of concrete. She leaned back against it and dozed off.

Hours later someone was shaking her shoulder, a hand gave her several gentle slaps. She became aware of a voice. It sounded as if it were coming through cotton wool. “Susanne, for God's sake wake up.” Nadia's face, looking worried, appeared in front of her in the murky half-light and didn't go away when she blinked as hard as she could.

Angrily, Nadia said, “Have you gone out of your mind? You look like death warmed up. What are you doing here?”

Her answer was to cough up the cherry waffle over the concrete floor. Nadia prattled on, something about a lorry blocking two lanes, making it impossible for her to be there on time, and something about an acquaintance who was supposed to tell Susanne. That must have been the man in the Mercedes. But he hadn't said Nadia had sent him.

Finally Nadia thought of helping her to her feet. Two minutes later they were sitting in the Porsche. Nadia told her off for being so irresponsible with her health. In between fits of coughing, Susanne explained why she couldn't go to the doctor. At that Nadia gabbled some instructions, finishing with, “That's no problem. I have private insurance.”