Borkmann's point

15

When Beatrice Linckx had parked and locked her car in Leisner

Alle, the clock in the Bunges church tower struck eleven p.m.

She’d been on the road since four in the afternoon, having skipped the final evaluation session of the conference, and now there were only three things she was longing for.

A glass of red wine, a hot bath, and Maurice.

She glanced up at their apartment on the third floor, saw that the light was on in the kitchen, and concluded that he was waiting up for her. It was true that she hadn’t been able to get through to him when she’d tried to phone on the way home, but he knew she was due back tonight. No doubt he’d opened a bottle of something, and maybe he’d have some toasted sandwiches up his sleeve as well. Onion rings, mushrooms, fresh basil and cheese… She took her bags out of the trunk and crossed the street, stiff after the long journey but looking forward to what lay ahead… keen to get into the apartment.

To come home.

What Beatrice Linckx hadn’t the slightest inkling of was that the kitchen light had been on for more than twenty-four hours and that although Maurice was in fact up there, he was by no means in the state she’d expected. Nor were there any toasted sandwiches, and nobody had opened a bottle of wine to breathe-and she wouldn’t be able to snuggle down into that hot bath for many hours yet. When she eventually did so, it would be in a neighbor’s bathtub, and in a state that she would never have been able to foresee.

The door was unlocked. She pressed down the handle and went in.

Afterward, a lot of people wondered about her behavior. She did as well. Given the circumstances, pretty well anything might be regarded as normal; but even so, you had to ask questions.

She switched on the light in the hall. Stared at Maurice for a few seconds, then picked up her bag again and backed out through the door. Closed it and went back downstairs. Hesi tated for a moment when she emerged onto the sidewalk, then crossed the road and sat in her car again.

Sat there hugging the steering wheel and trying to heave the heavy stone of forgetfulness over the opening to her con sciousness. Trying to rewind time, just a few hours… back to when she was happy and unaware… the hours before, the unsullied normality… the road, the cars, the oncoming head lights, the Waldstein Sonata over her loudspeakers, the rain on the windshield, the mint pastilles in the bag on the empty seat beside her… looking forward to coming home.

She hadn’t seen anything. Still hadn’t gone up to the apart ment. She sat in the car and rested for a while before going up to see Maurice… to the sandwiches and the wine; her warm red dressing gown; the sofa and the plaid throws; Heyman’s

String Quintet; candles in the designer candlestick… sitting here waiting…

…

Nearly two hours later she wound down the window. The evening air and a veil of drizzle crept in and brought her back to reality. For the second time, she picked up her bags and crossed the street. Didn’t look up at the apartment now. Knew that all she could expect to find in store for her was Maurice, and at ten minutes past one she had calmed down sufficiently to phone the police and inform them that the Axman had dis patched another victim.