Sorry. Shaun Whiteside

       Part VIII

       After

       Before

       After

       My Thanks To

       A Note About The Translator

       A conversation with Zoran Drvenkar

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       In Between

      YOU

      YOU’RE SURPRISED how easy it is to track her down. You’ve been hiding in such a deep hole that you thought nothing was possible any more. You lost yourself more and more, and when you thought you’d never see light again, his other address book fell into your hands. He had two; you didn’t know that either. There was so much you didn’t know about him.

      One address book is bound in leather, the other is an octavo notebook like the ones you had in school. You happened to find the octavo notebook among a stack of magazines on his bedside table. It’s full of names. You counted them. Forty-six. You’re still filled with longing when you see his handwriting. Sloping to the right, with the despair of the left-handed. Your fingers wandered over names, addresses, and phone numbers as if you could sense what he felt as he was writing them down. Two of the names are underlined; they are the only names you know.

      The day you found the octavo notebook, light entered your darkness. The names are the signs you were waiting for. Six months of waiting, and then this light. And how could you have known that sometimes one must search for a sign?

      No one told you.

      One of the two addresses is no longer valid, but that’s not a problem for you. You’re experienced in tracking people down. Our system works chiefly through information, and these days nothing is easier to get hold of. It took you two minutes. His wife moved to Kleinmachnow. On the map you find out that her new home is exactly three kilometers south of the old one as the crow flies. The new block is very much like the other one. We are creatures of habit. When we turn around we want to know what lies behind us. You wait patiently until one of the tenants leaves the building, then you climb to the third floor and ring.

      “Yes, who is it?”

      She’s in her late forties and looks as if the last few years have been a long, tough journey that she had to travel on her own. It doesn’t matter what she looks like, you’d have recognized her anywhere. Her posture, her voice. You’re surprised that you’ve internalized her gestures. You have never had a relationship with this woman, but everything about her is familiar to you. The way she leans forward when she looks at you, the narrowing of her eyes, her quizzical expression. Every detail has burned itself so deeply into you that it’s more than just memory.

      “Hello,” you say.

      She hesitates for a moment. She isn’t sure whether you’re a threat. You’d like to ask her what kind of threat turns up in broad daylight outside a block in Kleinmachnow and smiles.

      “Do we know each other?”

      Suddenly there’s interest in her eyes. You aren’t surprised. She’s a curious person; even if she can’t place you, she doesn’t show a trace of suspicion. The most dangerous people aren’t suspicious, they’re interested. You know that expression. As a child you studied an accident on the highway. All that blood, the broken glass, firemen running around, flames and oily black smoke. Every time you drove past the place of the accident with your parents afterward you felt that same excitement.

       This is where it happened. Can you still spot anything? Is it all gone?

      She looks at you the same way.

      “We know each other from before,” you say and hand her the photograph. “I just wanted to say hello.”

      You know that as soon as she sees the photograph she’s going to be filled with panic. Perhaps she’ll shut the door. She’ll probably deny it.

      She surprises you, as she has always surprised you. She’s good at surprises, because she’s unpredictable.

      “It’s you!”

      A moment later she opens her arms and gives you a warm, safe hug.

      In the apartment she explains that her husband will be back around six—there’s more than enough time. You know she’s divorced, and her ex lives near Bornholm. It’s good that she’s pretending to trust you. Any insecurity is good.

      You sit down in the living room. From where you’re sitting you can look out at the balcony. A table, no chairs. Beside the table a sculpture. A boy lowering his head, hands clasped in prayer. You’ve noticed sculptures like that at the hardware store. Some of them hold books, others have wings on their backs. You look quickly away, you feel dazzled, although the sun shines down pale and weary today.

      “Would you like something to drink?”

      She brings you a glass of mineral water and sets it down on the coffee table next to the photograph. Two boys on a bicycle. They’re grinning, they’re so young that it hurts.

      “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she says and leans forward to brush a strand of hair from your forehead. Intimate. Close. You don’t flinch. Your self-control is perfect.

      “Did you miss me?” she wants to know.

      I’ve dreamed about you at night, you want to reply, but you’re not sure whether that’s the truth. There are dreams and there’s reality, and you wander back and forth between them, struggling to keep them apart.

      She smiles at you. Now there isn’t just curiosity in her expression, there’s also a trace of desire. You force yourself not to look at the sculpture, you force yourself to return her smile. At the same time something in you tears. As silently as a cobweb. Her desire is too much for you. And you thought you had self-control. And you thought you could do that.

      “I need to use the bathroom.”

      “Hey, come on, you’re not ashamed of me, are you?” she asks.

      Your face is red, your fists clenched under the table. Shame.

      “Second on the left,” she says, tapping your knee. “Hurry up, or I’ll have to come and get you.”

      She winks at you, lascivious and playful. I’m not nine years old any more! you want to yell at her, but there’s only a cold stiffness in you, and that stiffness lets nothing through. You stand up and walk into the corridor. You open the second door on the left and shut it behind you. In front of the mirror you look up, but your eyes avoid you. It hurts, it hurts again every time. You hope it will be different one day, and that hope holds you upright and eases the pain.

       It’ll soon be over.

      You kneel on the tiled floor and lift the lid of the toilet. You’re quiet, no coughing, no groaning, just the sound of a splash. When nothing more comes you take the toothbrush from the toothpaste cup and shove it into your throat to be sure that your belly really is empty. Then you wash your hands and rinse out your mouth. Before you leave the bathroom, you put the toothbrush back and, with some toilet paper, carefully wipe clean all the surfaces you have touched.