The Lie (6 page)

However, she thought it was too risky to find a doctor in the city who took patients without an appointment. “He'd send you straight to the nearest hospital.” What they needed was a good old-fashioned country GP who had confidence in his own skill and knew from experience that there were patients who automatically resisted going into hospital. Nadia knew one like that - she'd last been to see him over a year ago. “He
might be a bit offended because I haven't been to him for so long, but we needn't worry about that. We can regard it as a dry run.”

Susanne paid no attention to her last remark, she was fully occupied keeping her cough under control, and the dizzy spells, and her stomach, which was rebelling against Nadia's driving. Johannes Herzog would have been delighted with such a journey. After a couple of miles on the autobahn there was a stretch along a narrow, twisty country road, where Nadia removed any remaining doubts that her driving skills might not match Johannes's. Still doing fifty, she roared into a small town, coming screeching to a halt a few yards past a large detached house. A sign beside the door indicated a doctor's surgery. Dr Peter Reusch.

Nadia took a powder compact and a folding brush out of her handbag and dabbed a little colour on Susanne's cheeks, after which a bottle of perfume was deployed. Then Nadia took the two rings off her finger, slipped them on Susanne's and stuck her handbag under her arm. Finally her nimble fingers tweaked Susanne's hair into something one, with a bit of effort, might call a style, before she asked, “You can manage on your own, can't you? It won't work if I go with you.”

It was unreal. In Nadia's clothes, with Nadia's rings on her finger and the bag under her arm containing everything that proved Nadia's identity. A little more lipstick, eye shadow and mascara, her hair freshly dyed and cut by an expert, Nadia's stud earrings in her ears - and the illusion would have been perfect. But her straggly hair did serve a purpose: a few strands concealed her un-pierced ears.

And on the photo in Nadia's passport her hair wasn't so brown. Despite her temperature, that made her feel as if lava were swirling round inside her skull, she still had the presence of mind to check the contents of the wallet. Hidden from Nadia in the Porsche by some tall bushes beside the door, she examined her ID card, passport, driving licence and credit cards. A packet of photos, mostly Polaroids, she ignored.

She did it for no other reason than to be prepared for all eventualities. She was convinced there would be doubts about her identity, which she'd have to counter with the ID card or passport. A woman who has to search though her handbag for her identity papers is not very convincing. Anyway, everyone should know their own address and date of birth. Private patients were bound to be asked where the bill should
be sent. It was a slight shock to discover that Nadia was three years older than her. At the moment it looked the other way round.

After she had replaced everything in the wallet and stowed that in the bag, she rang the bell. A middle-aged woman opened the door, her questioning look immediately changing to one of pure concern. “Frau Trenkler? Good heavens! Peter, come quickly,” she called back into the house.

Peter came. He didn't look offended. On the contrary, he seemed delighted to see a patient he thought he had lost. Frau Reusch led her to the surgery, where he washed his hands and quickly set about making his diagnosis. Her temperature was over a hundred and four, which gave rise to much shaking of the head and tut-tutting. He filled a syringe, found a suitable vein, then sounded her back, listened, got her to cough and immediately told her to stop - “My God!” While he was doing this, his wife got her file.

All the time alarm bells were ringing inside her head. He's a doctor, she told herself, he'll see the fraud as soon as he takes a closer look. But the risk of being unmasked by a doctor who hadn't seen Nadia Trenkler for a whole year was low. And she didn't have to talk very much. It was the doctor himself who expressed the thought that she hadn't come sooner because she hadn't had the time and wouldn't now have the time for a stay in hospital. Moreover he was sure, he said, that her smoking hadn't done her lungs any good. “How many a day is it now? Thirty? Forty?”

He didn't bother to wait for an answer. With a note of gentle admonition in his voice, he decreed, “For the next few days we're going to keep off the coffin nails entirely. We're very close to pneumonia.”

Croaking, she swore she wouldn't touch a cigarette for the next few days, even weeks. He'd believe that when he saw it, he said, but for the next few days he was trusting her to use her common sense. Asking how her husband was, he wrote a prescription: antibiotics, something to bring her temperature down and something to stabilize her heartbeat. Finally he told her to make sure she spent the whole of the weekend in bed and let her husband pamper her good and proper. Here he wagged his finger and grinned: “But only as far as food and drink are concerned, of course.”

Telling her to come back in a week's time for a check-up, he accompanied her to the door and peered out into the street. He couldn't
see much, because of the bushes outside, and certainly not the Porsche. Only at that point did it occur to him to wonder how she'd got there. All she could think of was to murmur, “Michael's waiting.”

“Then why didn't he come in?” Peter Reusch asked. She shrugged her shoulders and Reusch told her to give her husband his best wishes.

The door closed and she walked slowly down the path to the street. Her knees were wobbling by the time she reached the car. Nadia leaned across the passenger seat and opened the door, quivering with suspense. “Well?” She dropped into the seat and held out the prescription. “Great,” said Nadia, taking back the rings and handbag. Then she insisted on a detailed report.

They drove back - at roughly the same speed. On the way Nadia stopped at an all-night chemist's and got Susanne's prescription. She wanted to know why she had no health insurance and reacted angrily when she heard the reason. “Why didn't you tell me? Did you think I wouldn't understand? What does it matter if you take a bit of money from your mother? You're going to inherit it eventually anyway.”

Shortly after nine the Porsche turned into Kettlerstrasse. Despite her annoyance at Susanne's lie, Nadia had remained calm and proud of the success of the impersonation. Now she grew nervous. “Can you manage it up the stairs by yourself?”

“Of course.” She felt better already, presumably because of the injection. Even in the car her head had gradually cleared. Nadia's reproaches hadn't stopped that, perhaps even helped to stimulate it. But they had reignited the fear that she wouldn't repeat the offer she'd made in her letter.

“Fine,” said Nadia as she stopped the Porsche in the middle of the street. “Out you get. Make sure the main door doesn't shut and leave the door to your flat open. Then you can go straight to bed and won't need to get up again.”

She got out. Hardly had she closed the car door than the Porsche shot off. There was no need to prop the main door open, it hadn't shut properly for ages anyway. It was fairly quiet in the building and she got to the third floor without encountering anyone. She left the door to her flat ajar and took the first dose of antibiotics. Only then did it occur to her that she hadn't told Nadia which floor her flat was on.

The tenement had five floors. There was no lift. Despite that, she thought she should go down again, to save Nadia having to check every floor, but now that her vision had cleared, the mess in the flat was all too evident. She quickly tidied up so Nadia wouldn't think she'd given her clothes to a slattern.

Finally she pushed the little table back into place, straightened the leg that had given way and picked up what she had assumed was a screw. Looking at it more closely, she saw that it wasn't a screw at all. There was no thread and it was rectangular in section, both the thin, elongated part and the thicker end, which in her feverish state she had taken for the screw head. But it had to be part of the table, there was no other explanation. She tipped the table on its side, knelt down and examined the place where the loose leg was attached.

She was still doing that when Nadia came in. She closed the door behind her and immediately started telling her off: “Are you out of your mind? Why aren't you in bed? What are you doing down there on the floor?”

Quickly Nadia came over and knelt down beside her. Susanne explained the problem and she took the mystery object from her. She also examined all four table legs and declared, “Whatever it is, it's broken off. It's no use any more, I'll throw it away, OK?”

Saying that, Nadia slipped the object in her pocket and helped her up. Outside an Intercity express hurtled past, closely followed by a local train on the neighbouring track. The windowpanes shook. Nadia started and said, “You get to bed. I have to go, but it won't be for long and then I've got plenty of time. I'll bring something to eat.”

To make sure she did go to bed, Nadia took her into the bedroom, helped her undress, tucked her in, then picked up the worn imitation-leather holder with the house keys. “You don't mind? Then you won't have to get up when I come back.”

The last time Susanne had enjoyed such cosseting had been when she'd developed a temperature and a rash after some vaccination or other. Her mother had petted and pampered her with everything she thought would do her good - chocolate and cocoa, crisps and Coca-Cola, custard creams and apple juice. Agnes Runge had had to change the bedclothes five times because Susanne's weakened constitution couldn't cope with her idea of an invalid diet.

Nadia was more sensible. She came back after an hour and a half with three tinfoil containers giving off a delicious aroma. Chicken with mushrooms, fried noodles with pork and prawns, and, in the third container, rice. She'd also bought several bottles of mineral water. “I hope you like Chinese.”

“Sure, it's just that I've no appetite.”

“You're going to get some food inside you,” Nadia declared, and decided she should have her meal in bed. Without asking, she dragged over the two kitchen chairs, took a clean sheet out of the cupboard, spread it over one of the chairs, placed the containers on it and helped her to sit up. “Take whatever you like, I'll fetch some plates and cutlery.”

The cutlery was in the kitchen dresser. She heard Nadia looking in the sitting room first. She couldn't really say whether she was happy with the way Nadia took it for granted she could rummage round among her pitiful belongings; all she felt at the moment was immense gratitude for Nadia's determination, for the money in the blazer pocket, for her understanding attitude when she told her about stealing from her mother's nest egg and her willingness to let her assume her identity so she could see a doctor and get the medicine she needed.

Nadia took some of the noodles, sat by the door on the other chair with her plate in her lap and ate with obvious relish. Susanne forced a piece of chicken and half a mushroom down, waiting, as she had at their first meeting, for Nadia's offer. But all Nadia said was, “If you don't like the chicken, try the noodles.”

Noodles were the last thing she wanted if there was anything else on offer. “It's fine,” she said, “it's just that I don't feel hungry. I am thirsty, though.”

Nadia brought two glasses from the kitchen, filled them with mineral water and handed her one. “Have a drink then get some food inside you. You must, Susanne, you've lost a lot of weight. I don't think you were that thin before.”

Nadia had observed her very closely when she'd helped her get undressed and into bed. She'd noticed that and found it a bit embarrassing because Nadia had insisted she take off her panties and bra. She'd never been subjected to such intense scrutiny by a woman before.

Nadia paused for a couple of seconds, then said, “I'll make sure I can get away tomorrow and I'll bring you some soup. That's probably
best for you at the moment. I'm sure I'll have some chicken soup in the cupboard.”

Nadia smiled. It was a strange smile, presumably meant to emphasize the jokey conspiratorial tone. “We'll have to see how many tins I can smuggle out of the house without anyone noticing.”

But her humour seemed like a thin blanket concealing something utterly serious, something written all over her face saying that it could be extremely awkward if she was found smuggling out chicken soup. But it was presumably only meant as a joke. If necessary she could buy the soup, lots of shops stayed open till four on a Saturday afternoon.

“You've already done enough,” said Susanne. “I don't want you to get into trouble because of me.”

Nadia gave a quiet laugh. “It's too late for that. Michael didn't believe for one second that I've been stuck in a traffic jam for the last five hours.”

She couldn't understand why she'd lied to her husband. “Why didn't you tell him where you are?”

With a sarcastic smile Nadia said, “Oh yes, I'm sure he'd have believed that. I'd have had to tell him to come and see with his own eyes that I'm with a sick friend - a woman friend.”

It was nice to be called a friend. It put Nadia's help and generosity in a light that didn't make her look quite so poor. “Well,” she said, “surely you could have told him that?”

Nadia's smile turned into a laugh. “Not likely! I'm not going to spoil the best chance I ever had of a weekend to remember.”

 

Susanne had no idea what she meant by that remark. She stared at Nadia, uncomprehending, until she hung her head in embarrassment and said, “Now it's out. Pity. I'd have liked to spend a few more days feeling I was being altruistic. I hinted at it in my last letter, but when I saw you I thought I should let you get better before asking you to do me a favour.”