You (34 page)

Afterward the guests drove in a convoy to Ulvtannen, they parked in all directions on the cliff, it looked chaotic, it looked beautiful. Strings of lights and garlands were stretched all over the place, children were running around, the music could be heard all the way to Lunnis. You were barely aware of the party. You drank, you ate. One of the bridesmaids flirted with you, another tried to make you drink homemade aquavit, and again and again Oskar appeared by your side, beaming with joy, putting his arm around your shoulders and saying how happy he was to have you there.

“It wouldn’t be real without you.”

You left at dawn, when everyone was still asleep. There was mist on the water again, the garlands rustled in the wind, no one encountered you, no one stood and waved at one of the windows. You left a short message. Work calls. Hope to see you soon. And you wished the couple the very best.

Over the next few weeks you headed further north to lose yourself in loneliness. No one knows anything from that time, and no one must know. Your thoughts revolved around that woman who now belonged to your brother. You didn’t think about your pregnant angel. Not for a second.

On your return to Berlin you were a different person. You plunged into your work with controlled rage, and stopped imagining any kind of future with Majgull. You didn’t plan to involve yourself any further in your brother’s life. Darian was born in the middle of May, and you became part of a new family.

When your mother died three days after Christmas, you went back to Norway. This time you borrowed Tanner’s jeep. A dark winter landscape embraced you, it matched your thoughts. The hotel looked far too inviting, the snow too white.

You spent only one night in Ulvtannen. Oskar didn’t leave your side the whole time, which was quite good. It made it easier for you to stay out of Majgull’s way. She must have sensed as much, because she let you brothers have your space. You grieved, you drank yourselves into oblivion and got into a fight in a pub. The next morning you carried your mother to the grave, and then you put on your sunglasses and set off for home. You wanted to mourn in private. You drove through Norway without taking a break. Your decision was made: no matter what, you would never come back. It was a pledge. Your family was waiting for you. Your son, your wife. And for a while your life went smoothly again, and it looked as if you no longer had any dreams. For a while you were the hungriest person in a world of the sated.

“Can I go now?”

The words pull you out of your thoughts. You look at the boy who lied to you openly and who wanted to go now. You know he called the girl. You heard what he said about you. You ask him, “Do you know what seriously pisses me off about little fuckers like you?”

He shrugs, and again there’s that martyr’s smile. If you were thirty years younger, you’d fight him. You tell him what you think of him and his generation, but your words lack fire, you’re not really interested in this boy anymore. End it now, enough’s enough.

You ask him for his cell phone.

“I haven’t got a—”

“ARE YOU TRYING TO MESS WITH ME? GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING CELL PHONE RIGHT NOW!”

He takes it out of his back pocket and is about to hand it to you when he realizes why you want it. His arm swings back, Leo is faster.

“Let go.”

Leo takes the phone and steps back again. The boy is uncertain. He’s probably wondering if everything’s okay again now. Then comes the understanding. He has spotted the connection—the girls, the drugs, the swimming pool, and of course his own part in this story, it all makes sense. His lies, his truth, his pathetic little life. Everything. And that makes him step back, his chair tips over and clatters along the ground, if he could he would run. You don’t move from the spot, you read his eyes, every reaction is predictable. He wants to say something, but it’s too late for that. You raise the gun and shoot him in the head.

“Well?”

Leo frowns and hands you the boy’s phone. The last number dialed is linked to a name.

“Stink?”

“Must be some sort of nickname,” says Leo.

You call the number. It rings six times, then you hear a rustle, someone shouts, someone laughs, you recognize her voice immediately, she says, “Girls, will you shut up, I can’t hear anything. Hello? Mirko?”

“Hello, Stink,” you say.

Silence, the background noises have faded away. She knows now that you’re not the boy. She probably knows who’s talking to her.

“We had a deal,” you remind her.

“Fuck the deal.”

“I’ll find you. You can try and hide, but I’ll find you.”

“I told you, you don’t scare me.”

“You little—”

“Asshole,” she says and cuts you off.

I

We’ve heard a lot about you and got to know you a little better, but we still don’t know where you come from and why you exist. Let’s go back a bit. Back to the day when you first discovered that the world turns differently as soon as you take a step outside of reality.

It is December.

It is 1976.

It is late afternoon.

A family’s having dinner, while outside the winter rages and the streets suffocate beneath the snow with silent resignation. No sounds of cars, no playing children, even the dogs aren’t barking at each other on the pavements. Father and son sit silently at the table. Mother leans over the stove. She never sits down. She’d prefer to eat later on her own, because she’ll have more peace then. She says. Your mother, your father, you. You are aware that your parents haven’t got on for years. They endure one another. Your father sleeps on the sofa. Your mother locks herself in the bathroom. In public they’re two shadows that never touch. In the house they act as if one or the other of them is in a bad mood, as if you kids don’t understand what’s playing out in front of you. They don’t believe in divorce. Divorce is for losers. Your father’s a winner. He wouldn’t
dream of letting your mother go. You sit facing one another at the dinner table. Your mother on your right, your sister on your left. Her chair is empty today. She’s at dance class. She’s allowed to turn up late.

“Sit down, now,” says your father, and your mother ignores him and lights a cigarette. She leans against that bloody stove as if she couldn’t stand up on her own. You wish they’d yell at each other. It would be nice if your mother won for once. A lot of things would be easier.

The news reaches you when your sister comes back from her dance class. You know when you hear her running along the corridor. The pace of her footsteps, her toneless panic. It’s only when she’s standing in the doorway that she says, “Robbie’s dead!”

Your father looks at you startled, as if you’d said the words. Your mother throws her hands to her mouth, her cigarette slips from her fingers. You lower your eyes because you can’t think how to react. You watch the end of the cigarette slowly burning a hole into the linoleum. When you look up, your father is still looking at you, startled.

Ten minutes later. Your father is shoveling the snow from the drive. He doesn’t need to do it, you could walk easily across the garden to the Danisch house, but your father needs an excuse. He stalls. He scatters sand. He puts the shovel in the garage. He shuts the garage. He comes into the house. Your mother spoke to Robbie’s mother on the phone; your help is needed. You sit in your room and watch the snow pelting the window like a raging swarm of insects. Your parents are talking downstairs. You hear them through the door. Perhaps they’ll forget about you.

Your sister looks in and asks if you’re coming or what? You get up, push past her, and hear your father say, “This isn’t for me.”

“What does that mean, this isn’t for me?”

“It means what it means.”

“But Karen and Thomas are our friends.”

“They are not my friends. They are neighbors.”

“How can you …”

They break off when you come downstairs. Your sister close
behind you. You hear her humming quietly. She always hums when she’s anxious.

“You go on ahead,” says your father and disappears into the living room.

His boots stand like twin stumps in the corridor. The snow under the soles is firm and lumpy and refuses to melt. Your mother opens the front door and slings the boots outside. The TV comes on in the living room. You want to join him. You wish they’d actually pull knives on each other. And now your father’s free to win.

“Coward,” you hear your mother mutter.

“What’s wrong with Daddy?” your sister asks.

“He’s tired,” your mother replies.

“I’m tired too,” your sister says with a glassy look in her eyes as if there were tears that couldn’t get out. Your sister is seven, Robbie was thirteen. Your mother wants you both to put on something black. You go upstairs and get changed.

“What’s that?”

You look down at yourself. Your only black sweater is the one with Jaws on the front. Its mouth is wide open.

“You’re not serious.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

“If Robbie’s parents see you like that, they’ll get …”

Your mother breaks off, puts her hand in front of her mouth, and shakes her head as if she doesn’t know what to say. You go back into your room and get a dark blue sweater out of the wardrobe.

“Better?”

Your mother stands at the window blowing her nose with her back to you. She couldn’t really give a damn about the sweater. In the reflection in the window you see that her eyes are shut. From somewhere there comes the sound of your sister humming. You want to check on her, but you know your mother has to let you go first.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you hear her saying, as if that had anything to do with anything.