Decompression

15

Before I reached the sandlot, I could already see that Antje wasn’t home. In all our years in Lahora, I’d never been able to teach her to shut the gate only when the VW van was parked on the property. Whenever I came home, I always had to climb out and open the gate. There were days when that inconvenience galled me to my soul; on this day, however, seeing the gate standing open caused me only frustration. It meant that Antje wasn’t there. I’d been looking forward to spending the evening with her, to eating and chatting, to discussing the day just past and the new day tomorrow. To putting our heads together under the light of the dining-room lamp. It almost seemed as though I was observing that scene through a lighted window, while I myself stood outside on a cold, wintry German street.

Without Todd’s yapping, the house positively boomed with silence. There was nothing extraordinary about Antje’s driving to town in the afternoon to do some shopping, meet girlfriends, or tend to a holiday apartment. It was only that she usually called me up before she left and asked what I was doing at the moment and whether she should come to the dive site and bring fresh scuba tanks or hot soup. When there was nothing on schedule for the evening, we’d sometimes arrange to meet for coffee and cheesecake at the Wunder Bar café. Or to take Todd for a walk on the promenade. Suddenly it became clear to me how much had changed since Jola and Theo arrived on the island.

I put the wasp-waisted espresso pot on the stove and filled a big glass with lemonade. “Making things nice for yourself” described a method women resorted to; nevertheless, male though I was, I was determined to give it a try. I picked up the scattered pages of Theo’s short story from the floor near the living-room couch and put them in the proper order. I carried the coffee, the lemonade, and a bucket of ice cubes out to the terrace and pushed a deck chair into the shade.

Two hours later, I called Antje’s number. All I got was her voice mail. Just in case she was in a dead zone, I called her three more times at intervals of a few minutes.

It had cost me an effort to read Theo’s story all the way through. In the end I’d felt downright loathing for the typed pages themselves. It was as though the content of the words had bled onto the paper. As though they might dirty my fingers.

The sun had sunk behind the flat roofs of the neighboring houses. Antje knew a lot about literature. I wanted to ask her how much real life entered into storytelling. Would she think an author who described something abominable in great detail must necessarily have had practical experience in his subject? I didn’t understand why Theo had given me that story. The feeling it had produced in me was that I never wanted to see him again. Several times, while I was reading the thing, I’d been on the point of calling up Bernie and asking him whether he’d agree to take over my clients. One of my basic principles was to accept money from my clients only at the end of their course, which meant that I hadn’t yet seen a cent from Jola and Theo. If I terminated the contract now, I could most probably kiss all fourteen thousand euros good-bye. Antje and I needed that money badly. That was why I wanted to talk with her. I wanted to ask her whether it wouldn’t be better to cut all ties with a guy who was capable of writing such stuff. I figured she’d look at me as though I’d made a joke. She’d say something like You want to ditch the best contract you’ve ever had in your life because your client wrote a story about two people who aren’t nice to each other? Hasn’t anyone ever informed you that literature is never about nice things, not even on islands? You’re acting like a child who’s seen a scary movie and now he’s afraid of the dark! Maybe the wretched feeling I had would go away if I could hear her talk like that.

Her voice mail again. Antje never turned off her cell phone. That little gadget was always freshly charged and ready to work. For her, the ability to be reached constituted a kind of proof of existence. Just as some physicists thought that if no one looked at the moon it wasn’t there, Antje believed that anyone who couldn’t be called up disappeared. Voice mail, one more time. I resolved not to try her number again. Fortunately, I wasn’t the sort of person who always jumped to the direst possible conclusions. You just had to bear the normal probability distribution in mind. Getting in an automobile accident was much less probable than losing a cell phone or not hearing it ring. Even in Antje’s case. It struck me that I couldn’t think of anyone I could ask about her. I didn’t even know the names of most of her girlfriends, much less their phone numbers. Quite apart from the fact that holding a telephone conversation in Spanish was a physical impossibility for me. Bernie didn’t really have anything to do with Antje, and if I called him and inquired about her, he’d answer by immediately asking me what the devil was going on with us. I had no contact with her parents in Germany. And in any case, it was only eight in the evening.

A strange restlessness drove me to pace through the house. I might also have been a little queasy. And probably hungry as well, but I couldn’t make up my mind to eat anything. As though attached by barbs, Theo’s story hung on my thoughts. There was even something baleful about the sunset in the beginning of the story, when he had his two characters go out for an early evening walk: The sky was an arrangement of bloody pieces of cloud, as if some enormous being had exploded overhead. The gathering darkness was a cloak, the gulls’ cries a jeering sound track. Even a literary lowbrow like me could tell that the woman wasn’t identical with Jola. Her name was different too. On the other hand, she seemed to share many of Jola’s characteristics. First and foremost, a dark beauty. And a certain unpredictability. It slowly became clear to me why I didn’t care for literature. Like jurisprudence, it was about the art of judging. The author acted as the highest judge, decided the facts of the case, called in witnesses, and in the end handed down the verdict. Punishment or acquittal. Unlike in the legal process, there was not even a possibility of appeal.

I roamed around the living room like a man looking for something. Everywhere in the house, there were objects I would have sworn I’d never seen before had they been pointed out to me in some neutral place. It was time for me to get a grip on myself.

I went into the kitchen and whisked three eggs and some Maggi seasoning sauce, tore off a big chunk of bread for dipping, and carried everything into the office. By way of distracting myself, I wanted to watch one or two episodes of Jola’s series. If it succeeded in making me sleepy, I’d be able to take advantage of Antje’s absence by spending a night in the bed for a change.

For the sake of completeness, I’d started watching the series in chronological order from Bella Schweig’s first appearance. I sat at the computer, opened the Up and Down archive, and clicked through to Episode 589. Just as I hit the START button, I saw him. He was lying on his back just a few centimeters away from the mousepad, his four delicate legs with their high-tech suction cups thrusting stiffly upward. It was as though he’d been positioned to send a message: Look here, this thing’s dead. I jumped up and probably cried out. Emile. The chill of his little body burned itself into my hand. I prodded him with my index finger again and again, tried to warm him, turned him right side up, and set him on my arm in the usual spot. He fell back onto the table, reduced to a piece of rubbery matter. I thought there was a vaguely chemical scent, perhaps insect spray, in the room.

In the middle of my reflections on which would be more absurd, throwing a friend down the toilet or burying a reptile, the doorbell rang. Without Todd’s hysterical barking, the rooms seemed so unfurnished that I myself thought I wasn’t home. Antje had her own key and would have made more noise upon arriving. The doorbell rang again. Three short, three long, three short. It was someone who knew the Morse alphabet. Even without that hint, I would have guessed who was outside.

When I opened the door, she fell into my arms. I caught a fleeting glimpse of her mascara-smeared face. She hadn’t had makeup on that afternoon. Her shoulders were twitching. She clung to me hard. Sobs shook her body all over. I held her in my arms and buried my nose in her hair. We hadn’t even said hello. While I inhaled the smell of her, I felt myself becoming indifferent to everything else. To the torpedo fish, to Antje, to Theo’s story, to the gecko. I thought, I mustn’t think about anything anymore, I mustn’t want anything more. She told me through tears what had happened, but I barely understood what she said.

She and Theo had taken a walk on the promenade at sunset. Suddenly Jola had spotted a swimmer struggling with the current far from the shore. Her first impulse was to jump into the water, but Theo had held her back. They ran around pointlessly for a long while before finding a lifeguard. Meanwhile a crowd had gathered on the promenade, a coast guard boat was on the way, and a helicopter was arriving from one of the other islands. They were all too late to recover the swimmer alive. I thought fleetingly about Bella Schweig, who turns up weeping at her ex-boyfriend’s place with a story about a cyclist run down in traffic.

While I stroked Jola’s hair, I told her that tourists often died on the island. They drowned or fell from bicycles or paraglided into a cliff or got drunk and drove off the road. There was a whole rescue industry dedicated to helping people who fell victim to their leisure activities. There were helicopters, boats, hospitals …

I’d probably long since stopped talking, assuming that I’d said anything at all. In any case, I found myself on the living-room couch again, with Jola on my lap. Her hair formed a black curtain, behind which we kissed. A great peace came over me. As if I’d finally arrived. The tension of the past several days fell away. There was no more conflict, no doubts, no confusion. My hands felt completely at home on Jola’s body. Nothing about her seemed unfamiliar to me. The room revolved around us, and so did the house, the island, the whole world. The universe had found its center, from which it expanded and into which it would one day collapse.

Until Antje was standing in the room. I’d heard neither her car nor her key in the door. Todd growled at Jola. I wasn’t able to react. I simply sat there blinking. As though Antje’s entrance had turned on a dazzling light, had subjected us to pitiless illumination. A diving instructor with his half-naked client on his lap, caught in flagrante by his domestic partner.

“Okay,” Antje said. “We can handle it this way too.”

In duty bound, Jola jumped from my knees, took a few steps away, and rearranged her clothes with downcast eyes. I’d lost all further interest in the scene before it got properly started. As soon as I stopped touching and smelling Jola, she looked like Bella Schweig again. The way she was staring at the floor, her hair hiding her face, her hands smoothing her T-shirt over and over. Maybe the actors’ curse was that they couldn’t stop playing themselves.

Antje stood three meters away, unquestionably identical with herself. She was quivering. I felt impatient. Where were you so long, I have urgent matters to discuss with you, I wanted to ask you a few things. Can we please call a halt to this nonsense and have dinner. A glass of wine, the warm lamplight on the table. In the actual situation, there was nothing to say. Once again, I’d let myself be caught off guard by a chimera. Jola was a mistress of her trade. I would have gladly gone back to the usual order of the day, even though I knew, of course, that such a thing couldn’t happen without further ado. Because it was becoming absolutely necessary for someone to speak, I asked the only question that interested me: “Why did you kill Emile?”

That worked as though I’d thrown a switch and activated a brand-new, hitherto-unknown Antje. She didn’t even raise her voice. In fact, she spoke rather softly, but with a sharp edge in her tone more penetrating than any volume. “Actually,” she said, “I was willing to let the whole thing rest. All this”—she made a sweeping movement with her arm that took in me, the house, and herself—“is more important to me than your childish affair. But I won’t allow myself to be humiliated. Bringing your lover here now is just outrageous.”

“Jola’s not my lover.”

The edge turned into hate. “Maybe,” Antje said, “I’ve made it too easy for you the past few years. I’ve let you withdraw further and further into your own world and lose all sense of reality. In the end, it’s probably all my fault.”

Her speech was seriously getting on my nerves. That wasn’t the Antje I knew. She didn’t sound like the girl who’d lain on the floor of my room at home, eating jelly babies with the first Todd. She sounded like a public prosecutor. Moreover, I now knew that she had Emile on her conscience. It was typical of female perpetrators to avoid answering the main question and to react instead with recriminations. I had no desire whatsoever to thrash the matter out. I didn’t want dinner anymore either. I just wanted to get in bed, pull the covers over my face, and sleep for twenty hours. After that, everything would be normal. Normality was the least a person could demand of life. But Antje wasn’t finished yet. She looked at me pensively, hesitating as though she had to make a decision. Then it came.

“Let’s put everything on the table,” Antje said. “I’ve got a lover too. His name’s Ricardo. We’ve known each other for a year.”

I stared at her, dumbfounded.

“It’s a draw,” she said, smiling painfully. “Maybe the only chance for a new beginning.” She swept her hair off her face and took a deep breath. “I love you, Sven. Unlike you, I have no problem saying so. The thing with Ricardo is purely sexual. You’re a pretty sporadic lover. And sex is very important to a young woman like me.”

When she came closer and put out a hand, I stepped to one side.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve always taken care to protect you. Nobody knows about this. We’re in Spain, after all. Only Valentina and Luisa are in on it, because I sometimes need help with logistics.”

I didn’t know any Ricardo. I was convinced she was lying, and precisely that was what hurt. Her wish to wound me wounded me. It was so important to her, she’d stooped to an absurd story that insulted us both. “I think you should go now,” I said.

She began to weep silently, nodding as she did so. While she was in the bedroom, stuffing some things into a travel bag, I realized that Jola wasn’t there anymore. She must have dissolved into thin air at some point during Antje’s lecture. In any case, I couldn’t remember when she’d left.

Antje came back in. She stood still in the middle of the living room, uncertain about what form to give her farewell. I would have liked to stand up, take her in my arms, and say a few nice words. But I remained on the couch, empty-headed and heavy-legged, unable to move. At some point, Antje turned around and left. I heard Todd’s paws clicking on the tiles in the hall. I heard the front door close and Antje’s Citroën start up. Then the sound of the engine faded into the distance. The ensuing silence was different from what I’d imagined it would be. Less restful.

JOLA’S DIARY, ELEVENTH DAY

Tuesday, November 22. Morning.

Life can be so strange. A naked nightmare one moment and wonderful the next. As Daddy used to say: Child, never forget you’re a girl. When you feel like shit, it’s because of hormones. Or Mama: The question isn’t how you feel, but how you look. Or Theo: You only feel lousy so I’ll feel guilty.

Sven said, I’ll kill the son of a bitch. Before that, he said, Everything’s going to be all right. Both times, he looked as though he meant it.

Sven as a murderer — unimaginable. Even though by now I can actually imagine just about anything. All I have to do is walk on the promenade and someone starts dying. A little spot out on the sea. It’s weird, the things that cross your mind at times like that. When I wanted to get in the water, I was thinking only about what a good swimmer I am, and that I could do it. And that such a heroic deed would get news coverage in Germany as well as here. And that in the end they’d have no choice but to give me the role of Lotte Hass. I could see it already: I’m sitting in my apartment, candles lit, music playing, and on a shelf the Silver Bear from the Berlin Film Festival. The cell phone’s switched off, because I can afford the luxury of being unreachable. I’m sipping wine and reading one of the scripts from the pile on my desk.

But the old man held me back. While we searched for a lifeguard, he was probably thinking about how he could use the scene in a story. Two desperate tourists run up and down the beach, and out in the sea a swimmer struggles for his life. Stark and brutal. Nothing kitschy. When someone’s dying, that’s always art.

One hour later we were on the promenade, standing a little apart from the other rubbernecks. We watched the swimmer’s body on a stretcher as it was raised up to a helicopter. There wasn’t much to see. It was completely covered by a tarpaulin. We couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. Seeing that packaged corpse didn’t bother me. I don’t cry at funerals, either. Grandma, Grandpa, Uncle Lukas, Aunt Miriam — the Pahlen family is numerous and given to drink. I never cried on any of those occasions, they didn’t matter. What’s the fuss about, when we all know we’re going to die? In the presence of death, everybody acts as though it doesn’t exist. It’s the opposite with love.

But when the helicopter lifted away, the tourists relaxed their necks, and the old man pressed me against him, I suddenly knew what I must do. Apparently I had to come here in order to realize it. I had to meet Sven. I had to see someone drown. You only live once. That’s something Daddy always says, but he just means you shouldn’t have any consideration for anybody else when it comes to making money. I watched the helicopter fly away and decided to live my life without Theo, starting now. Because I can’t do it alone, Sven will help me. Only four more days. Things have to be clarified before our time here is up. I must force Sven to come to a decision. I must tell him what the old man does to me. Then we’ll see how serious Sven is.

Theo wanted another drink, so he went to a pub and I took a taxi. Antje’s car wasn’t parked in front of the house. That was a sign. I immediately rang the doorbell at the Residencia. Sven opened the door and pulled me into his arms. I pushed him away. I wanted to speak as soon as I could, before I changed my mind.

Some creased typewritten pages were lying on the coffee table. I recognized the font at once: Theo’s old travel typewriter. He’s got it with him in case some inspiration comes to him while we’re on our trip. The thing is hellishly loud. He must have used it when I was diving without him. The sly dog. And him constantly moaning about his ongoing writer’s block. There can’t be any doubt that the story’s about me. The old man likes writing about women. He calls them Lola, Nora, or Josa, lights up the dark torture chambers of their souls, and describes with gusto the ways they destroy their male victims. He probably wrote the piece especially for Sven. The title could be “So You’ll Know What You’re Letting Yourself In For.” But the text appeared to have missed its intended effect. Sven was still talking to me. Or rather, listening. The words just came pouring out. Tears ran down my face. The pressure must have been enormous. It was the first time I’d ever told anyone. As I spoke, I had a lot of trouble with word choice. Should I say dick or penis, pussy or vagina, asshole or anus? In any case, what I told him sounded harrowing. It frightened even me. It was as though I was living through what I was talking about, really living through it for the first time, right then. As though it became steadfast reality only when Sven heard it.

Sven said, Everything’s going to be all right. And then, later: I’ll kill the son of a bitch. I wonder whether one might be the result of the other. Of course, he won’t kill Theo. Both of us know that. I was sitting on Sven’s lap. He held me tight, rocked me, kissed me, shielded me, put me back together. And then Antje came in. Sven didn’t even try to defend himself. He’d probably decided a long time ago. He needed only a final push, just like me.

I left while Antje was talking. Not because I found it disagreeable, but out of respect. Later I heard the dog, and then Antje’s car drove off. Still I remained seated at the table in the Casa Raya, staring into the darkness. I felt it would be better to let Sven spend the night alone, even though everything in me cried out to him. The old man came home and fell into bed at once. I spent the rest of the night out by the sea.

Now I’m looking at the rose-colored sky and wondering if the future isn’t just a mug’s game. In half an hour Sven will drive his VW van onto the sandlot and toss out his cheery “Good morning,” as though every morning’s a good morning, especially this one. The old man didn’t come looking for me — maybe he’s done us all the favor of dying in his sleep. The sea is calmer than usual, as if its mind is elsewhere. The obvious indifference of the elements soothes me somehow. Do what you want, the sky and the rocks and the ocean say. We really don’t care. How many of you do you think have sat gaping at us and thought yourselves special? Doesn’t bother us. You all scuttle around and make a huge fuss and then you go away, one after another. Nothing remains from your little catastrophes; whole islands go missing now and then in ours. That at least is something, although not much, because after all, who cares about an island?

The smartest thing to do in the face of so much indifference is simply to be glad. To be happy. Sven and I are a couple now. What that means exactly will reveal itself soon enough.