Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, No. 1. Whole No. 797, January 2008

Peter in St. Paul’s by Sabina Naber

Sabina Naber began her career in theater, where she worked as an actress and director, and a writer of musicals and song lyrics. In 1996, she began to do some screenwriting as well, and also turned her hand to prose fiction, first with stories for anthologies. Her first novel, The Namesake, was published in 2002 and was followed by 2003’s The Circle and 2005’s The Debutante. Her story for us received the renowned Friedrich Glauser Prize for best short crime fiction of 2007.

Translated from the German by Mary Tannert

The tourist bus was coming straight at her. Or was she moving toward it? Think! 280 feet from the ground, dizziness seized Antonia. Think! Don’t feel, think! Breath tried desperately to get through her throat. 280 feet down and the few, maybe 150, that were horizontal, that was a2 times b2 — the CO2 burned in her chest. Pythagoras. Exactly how many feet away was that damned bus, anyway? Her sweaty hand slipped off the smooth stone wall next to the door, her arms flailed wildly and at the last second made contact with the railing of the spiral staircase behind her that she had climbed to get to the topmost observation platform. The movement was uncontrolled and her hand struck the iron hard; the pain from the blow made fear loose its death grip on her throat. She sucked in air with a whistling noise.

She was the stupidest person on earth.

A small girl pushed past Antonia, squealing with joy, and ran across the platform, which was only a couple of feet wide. She leaned over, leaned right out over the railing! Just like that! She chattered excitedly in some kind of Spanish at a plump woman who was dragging herself, gasping, up the last stairs of the spiral staircase. Mama was supposed to hurry. But Mama just leaned, smiling benevolently, against the stone wall, fanning herself. Why didn’t she do something? Didn’t she realize her child was practically looking death in the face? Just then, the little girl bent her head over the balustrade again. Antonia forced herself to the stone doorway and took a step out onto the platform, her hand stretched out to grab the girl’s T-shirt and pull her to safety, but as soon as she did, the square in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral came rushing at her again. Her mouth formed meaningless signs and the air in her lungs became very scarce. As if acting on its own orders, her other hand closed over the frame of the door opening and pulled the rest of her body away from the waist-high railing back into the protective darkness of the small domed room.

A drop of sweat tickled Antonia’s nose. The mother joined her little girl and together they practiced spitting over the balustrade into thin air. Antonia leaned against the banister at the top of the spiral staircase and waited for the blackness in her head to stop whirling.

She was the stupidest person on earth.

The man down in the church wasn’t Peter. And he couldn’t have been; Peter was dead. She had followed a doppelganger up to the Golden Gallery. And because of him, because of this chimera, she was risking her life.

She was truly the stupidest person on earth.

The woman in the security guard’s uniform had begun to scrutinize her more and more closely. Antonia forced herself to smile vacuously and assume a friendly but slightly bored expression at all the people arriving, panting painfully, at this highest point in St. Paul’s. Only a few stayed next to the stone wall of the tower, the rest went and looked curiously over the railing downward. But that wasn’t what had begun to make Antonia nervous. Of all those people who’d forced their way past her through the narrow doorway onto the platform, none had come back her way! First it was just a vague feeling that came over her while she was still fighting her panic and just looking down the spiral staircase made her sweat twice as much. But then she confirmed her suspicion by monitoring the movements of a fat man in a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, and the realization fought its way into her consciousness, though it came with such potential for panic that Antonia involuntarily refused to entertain it. The man had been on the platform for twenty minutes already, and that alone wasn’t normal. And to top it off, meanwhile at least fifty people had come up after him and gone out onto the Golden Gallery. They couldn’t possibly all have fit out there. The only logical explanation was that there was an exit you only reached by going out onto the platform.

Not on your life!

Antonia’s glance flickered around the domed room in the illogical hope of finding a hidden inside exit. She saw nothing but a window with opalescent glass in it; she could see shadows moving past it on the other side. And no one passed the next window. That made things pretty clear. And just exactly what was it, this audacity of an exit? An unprotected exterior staircase, perhaps? A man who’d been blocking about a third of the opalescent window for some time now also seemed to regard the descent as a challenge. Or maybe he was waiting for someone? He wiped his face and lifted a hat or cap that Antonia couldn’t see clearly through the window until he turned and stood in silhouette. It was a beret — just like the one a few minutes ago, worn by that man who looked like Peter... Was that this man? Was it Peter after all? Was he waiting for her? Without thinking, Antonia took one step toward the platform. The act pulled her out of her visions. Yes, that’s what they were, visions, because just at that moment, the man on the other side of the window turned toward the exit and his silhouette disappeared. Antonia forced herself to breathe out. This beret wearer was just a Fata Morgana, a déja-vu. His old-fashioned beret, unusual for a man these days, had confused her so much that she’d lost her grip on the facts. Because she’d seen Peter’s body. Yes. So that man out there could not be her one true love.

Not on your life.

The security guard was mistress of the spiral staircase, a Cerberus between Antonia and the road back to life. Her eyes caught and held Antonia’s restless glance. Antonia smiled conspiratorially and, as unconcernedly as she possibly could, whispered, “Exit,” and pointed toward the platform. The guard nodded severely. Antonia nodded. Slowly and more often than was necessary. Don’t lose your poise now. Cerberus began to swell. She seemed to crowd Antonia, to push her away from the stairs that would rescue her by taking her down, but were only meant for coming up.

So Antonia got up from the cold stone ledge she’d been sitting on and took a small step outside. Two teenagers stormed past her, taking her with them a few inches. Her heart stopped, and then began to race. There! Wasn’t that bit of stone giving way under her feet? The floor tilted forward, she could feel it; it tipped toward the edge with an almost lustful speed! Why didn’t anyone else notice? But the railing stayed where it was — how could that be? — and came closer and closer. Antonia gripped it and pushed back. But the magnet on the other side of the railing was much stronger, and it sucked at her head. The square in front of the cathedral tilted and began to pump like a huge heart. At the same time, its surface became soft, tempting her to jump. It looked like one of those rescue air-cushions used by the fire department. How long would a free fall last? Ten seconds? Twenty? Or just five? Suddenly the picture shook and someone behind her bellowed, “Sorry!” at her neck. Antonia turned around reflexively — the instinctive British “Sorry!” had become such a habit over the last two weeks. The stone wall was solid and the siren call of the railing behind her grew weaker. She grabbed the man, and, using him as a pivot, took one giant leap back into the darkness of the dome.

Not on your life!

Why did her sister have to be sick today of all days? Hypochondriac! Lying around in their hotel room. A sniffle was really no reason to miss all the exciting new things on this trip. And Valentina would have seen that man for what he was — a figment of Antonia’s imagination, not in the least like the original. They would have listened in peace to the choir rehearsal, and right now they would probably be sitting somewhere, enjoying a hamburger with those wonderful homemade French fries. Instead, Antonia crouched in a trap set for her at dizzying heights.

But why? Why?

Cerberus looked at Antonia like a predator studies its prey, and then motioned outside. Twilight was dissolving the skyline; the black of the railing softened and blended into the dusky air. Antonia looked at her watch. The cathedral would close in twenty minutes. Shouldn’t her life, threatened by such a steep fall, be passing before her eyes? Or would this much-vaunted phenomenon only occur during the final five seconds, when she was eye to eye, so to speak, with the asphalt rushing up to meet her? And what would her unconscious show her then?

Suddenly, Antonia felt a terrible desire for a cigarette. It was a feeling she thought she’d gotten over three years ago. She began to laugh. If she’d only known then that she’d die in a fall from St. Paul’s Cathedral, she’d have gone on puffing. She’d have dismissed Peter’s health mania with a languid wave of her hand. She’d probably also have gone on smoking if she’d known they only had eighteen more months together. What were a couple of black spots in your lungs compared with a gunshot in the head? None of it had helped, not his obsessive workouts, his abstinence, his vegetarianism, his vitamin candies. Nothing. Coincidence had decided to send him across the path of those hoodlums in the parking garage. And they weren’t the least impressed by his flawless face, they’d just shot it all to a bloody clump of flesh. They’d done the job so well that Peter could only be identified by his just as flawless body and the W-shaped scar above his right hip. In just a second or two, those thugs had rendered everything senseless, all their work and dreams, hers and Peter’s.

But why? Why?

It was all part of a giant clown’s act. Why, after all, had she insisted on this trip to London, a trip that now spelled her own end? What had she hoped to find here in Peter’s hometown? Words of comfort? That was the farthest thing from Scott’s mind; she’d seen that in his dulled eyes once he’d finally realized who she was. A loser in the suburbs, come down in the world and with a bad case of acne he would doubtless carry to his retirement. Presuming anyone ever gave him a pension. It hadn’t been easy to find him. But she’d finally hunted him down in the eighth pub named “Bloody Mary.” It was astonishing how different best friends could be. And it was a little clearer to her now why Peter hadn’t invited Scott to their wedding. He must have been ashamed of him. Which threw a shadow across her hero, admittedly: A truly noble man is not ashamed of his friends. Or maybe it was true, what Peter said, that Scott had a fear of strangers so bad that it would cause his acne to swell and smother him if he ever had to leave England. That he really was the living proof of the saying “My home is my castle.” At any rate, all her efforts had been for nothing. Scott was one of the tight-lipped of this world — and, to conclude from his darting eyes, he had a big problem with women. Which was neither surprising nor particularly noteworthy.

And why hadn’t she listened to Valentina and banished all thought of a visit to Peter’s parents? If she’d gone to Cambridge with Valentina instead, she’d have spared herself one of the most painful experiences of her life. Oh yes, it was really helpful, this if-onlying of hers. Because if she hadn’t been so frustrated by Scott and her own stupid ideas, she wouldn’t have gotten into a drinking match the night before with that pro golfer, and then she wouldn’t have been hung over when she met the Clarks. And if she hadn’t been hung over, she would have been more quick-witted, would have told the two of them exactly where they could stuff their accusations. Because if she had gone to the parking garage with Peter — against his express wishes, let it be noted — then she’d be dead too. Yes indeed. And if she’d never been born, she wouldn’t now be maneuvering herself into a situation with no way out.

But why? Why?

Because none of the therapy had helped. Countless conversations that had served only one purpose: to make sure her therapist could pay the rent. Because yes, Peter’s death was her fault. It was her fault. The Clarks were right, dammit, even if they didn’t know why. The why had begun hours earlier, before that critical moment when Antonia and Peter had decided to go home separately.

Antonia became aware of a pair of feet in sturdy black shoes, planted in front of her own feet, which she was pressing together. There were legs attached to the feet, legs in gray trousers, of the same fabric as the uniform jacket. Cerberus was staring down at her. A short exchange followed: The guard pointed at her watch and held it up for Antonia to see, and Antonia stammered out an answer. Cerberus pointed at the platform and touched Antonia’s arm, and Antonia burst into tears. Never. Niemals. Jamais. Was there any language at all that would soften the heart of this adversary?

As Antonia wiped the smears of mucus from her face, she saw that her hand had become a claw with bloodless yellow knuckles. All that hanging on for dear life had to be paid for — in blood. Ha! Ha ha. Were the condemned always that funny? A figure wearing a sweet perfume squatted next to her. The figure’s high-pitched voice and a third, sonorous voice began to duel with the flat, dead voice of Cerberus. Their bodies swayed back and forth, accommodating the day’s last surge of courageous visitors up the stairs. Allegedly, fear of heights diminished in the dark. Antonia did her best to hold on to that thought, but her body resisted, shaking.

Never. Not even in a formless nothing. Because the formlessness was just to fool the eyes. Her head knew better. A2 plus b2. A hand pulled her up. For the first time, Antonia looked at her new tormenters. They were even smiling soothingly. What now? “We’ll hold on to you?” “We’ll push you?” Just try! I’ll take you all over the edge with me!

The roar in her ears thinned, began to admit other noises. What language did people speak here? She was in England. English. Think, Antonia! Something like “You don’t have to” trickled through to her consciousness. Her eyes followed the couple’s waving, gesturing arms. They were pointing down the spiral staircase. Antonia’s glance sought Cerberus’s, who was looking at her with a mixture of condescension and capitulation. Could it be true? Certainty arrived in the form of gentle urging in the direction of the stairs and a swift glance downward by the man to assure himself that the stream of visitors had stopped. The miracle had happened. She would never have to go out onto the platform again.

What madness! She’d spent hours in deathly fear just because of the smug stubbornness of a security guard. Clack. Clack. Her heels clattered on the metal steps of the spiral staircase, just like in a comic book. Clack. The jerking in her brain had the same noise. What utter madness.

Antonia stepped out onto the wide ring of the Stone Gallery and took a deep breath of the evening air. It was already cooler. The lights of London twinkled in the distance. The view must be impressive, and she could have been enjoying it here, ten feet from the balustrade. But no: Like an idiot she’d had to run after a beret-wearing stranger. Was he French? Antonia giggled, feeling foolish at the way she kept thinking in clichés. The giggling became louder and louder. She held her breath. If she couldn’t stop, the other tourists here on the Stone Gallery would think she really was crazy. But her mouth stretched against her will, wider and wider, and she laughed uncontrollably. An elderly lady coming around a corner stared at her indignantly. Antonia waved her arms in a paroxysm of excuses. The elderly lady appeared to understand her; at least, she smiled reassuringly. Then Antonia understood. The woman was one of the last visitors to the Golden Gallery; she’d witnessed Antonia’s hysteria. The embarrassment of this recognition choked off the laughter. Antonia moved away from the woman, using her flight to inspect the other side of the gallery. On that side was also the door to the exit — to an interior flight of stairs! — because the helpful couple had just come down and was giving her a friendly wave. They tried to start a sensible conversation with her, but Antonia nipped that abruptly in the bud with a cold nod and an even colder smile.

What madness.

She’d made an utter fool of herself over a couple of yards of concrete. She couldn’t let that happen anymore. And she had to get over her obsession with Peter, too. From now on, she’d look at London through her own eyes, not through Peter’s. She straightened her head, and her eyes fell to the floor across from the stairs. Suddenly, everything began to swim. Slowly she dropped, shaking, into a crouch, and put her fists against her eyes, pressing away the tears. The paper from the vitamin candy was green, and the writing on it was familiar. Antonia’s hand trembled its way over to the scrap of paper, the second hand followed the first, and together they smoothed out the paper. It was the same writing. Yes. Really. From the company that made the vitamin candies Peter always ate.

A flood of tears burst from Antonia’s eyes and then stopped just as suddenly as it had started. At the same time, she felt the cold and the trembling creep into her limbs. Still crouching, she began to rock back and forth. Before the roar in her ears crowded out everything else, she heard a woman explain to a man that the figure squatting over there probably first had to get over the shock caused by her fear of heights. The woman spoke German. Tourists. Think, Antonia. There were only tourists here, nothing but tourists. No ex-husbands all shot to pieces. Think. It was a syllogism. Peter was a fan of vitamin candies wrapped in green paper. The vitamin candies came from England. She was in England. So it was nothing more than — indeed, it was almost certainly — coincidence to find green vitamin-candy wrappers in England on the floor of the Stone Gallery in St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was only logical. Period.

Antonia forced her knees to stretch. Felt her way to the protruding base of the stone wall. Using her arms for support and taking what seemed like an eternity, she managed to sit down on it. It was just a candy wrapper, of a sort sold all over England. Nothing else. Nothing more, nothing less. Something utterly, completely normal. But what about the man in the beret? The same blond hair? The figure? The way he walked? The duffle coat? The clump of flesh for a face. The scar. The waiting shadow. His knowledge of her fear of heights. The man’s nonexistence? His funeral. His parents’ grief. Falling into nothing?

Breath got stuck in her chest, couldn’t find its way out. And her heart thudded in her neck, the echo ringing in her ears. Roaring. Taking off. Think, Antonia! Look at yourself. Breathe. Think!

This was madness. A clear sign of clinical insanity. She shouldn’t have quit her therapy, because it definitely wasn’t healthy to be seeing ghosts everywhere. Ha, ha. Antonia’s fingers fumbled for her mobile phone, pressed the speed-dial button for Valentina. It rang only twice, and then the voice of her sister dispelled the hammering noise of her own heart. Antonia’s report on the last few hours came out disjointedly, but her sister understood even the words Antonia didn’t say. She responded with a “Mmmph!”, a familiar, annoyed snort. Antonia felt the world enclose her, take her up in its midst again. And then came the sentences that broke up the frozen brittleness in her body, word for word: Saw body. Funeral. Valentina herself saw body. Just imagination. Silly thing. Other mothers have “wonderful” sons, too. Berets “in” again. And if not, then logically and probably Peter not the only freak on earth. Valentina loves Antonia. Even if she is going around the bend. Laughter. Hugs. Valentina feeling better. Hungry. Antonia come home, time for pub. Nothing but a stupid trauma.

Or madness. Antonia wasn’t sure what she ought to think of herself as she hung up. At any rate, she was back in the Here and Now. She got up in almost childish anticipation of the remainder of the descent.

Amazing. The Whispering Gallery. In her rush to the top, she’d completely overlooked it. Antonia looked around her, saw no security guards. Which was logical if you consider that genuine tourists go all the way up, which is to say keep strictly to the order in which you’re supposed to tour the points of interest in the cathedral. First the Whispering Gallery, then the Stone Gallery, then the Golden Gallery. And then down and out to the next tourist attraction. Based on that approach, Antonia had missed a stop on her tourist itinerary. She looked around again and stepped out onto the empty Whispering Gallery, where allegedly a word whispered on this side of the gallery would reach the ear of a listener on the other side, across the cathedral, with complete clarity.

Amazing. Sweat poured from every pore even though the distance to the railing was at least a yard and she hadn’t even looked over it. But she felt it. Just ninety-nine feet, that’s what it said in the guidebook. Antonia pressed herself back onto the stone bench. She’d give anything to feel Peter’s hand in hers. Hear his reassuring murmur that he would carry her, Superman-style, across every abyss. Peter. He’d loved teetering on the edge of a sheer drop. The police had made that much clear to her. If he hadn’t died at the hands of those thugs, he’d have shuffled off his mortal coil in the thin air of his high-flying business deals, that’s what they meant. It hadn’t comforted her to hear that, it had been more of an illuminating shock. His stock deals had been nothing more than hide-and-seek. Insider trading and a few other tricks had contributed to soiling his image. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, even after all those months of therapy. She’d found excuse after excuse for him. He’d been blackmailed, he’d been naive. But never guilty.

Antonia ran her hand across the stone of the bench rubbed smooth by billions of visitors. Her new insights felt smooth like that. There was no way to evade them anymore. She’d been blinded by love like a teenager. The thought relieved her mind, because in a strange way it excused her as well. Peter had been her first love. She’d had sex before, and what people generally referred to as “relationships.” But love, she’d only found that with Peter. He’d been her God. Antonia laughed. The sound died away, nothing came back to her. Would it work if she giggled quietly against the wall, her hand held in front of her mouth? Abruptly the giddy feeling dissipated and gave way to strange sentences and images that came into her mind. There was something negative and important about them, but Antonia couldn’t pin them down. Never mind.

Amazing. An experience as mean as her fear of heights had brought her to this insight. And when she looked at it like that, Peter’s death wasn’t her fault. Yes, the fight they’d had was bound to happen, but it could just as easily have happened any other time, given the foundation of their relationship. It was all the same whether she’d spoken of her desire for children that day or any other day. He would always have reacted the same way, because he would always have had problems with his illegal business deals. He would always have gotten angry, and she would always have responded by bursting into tears. And they would have sworn eternal enmity, as they always did. And in time he might have gotten into another nasty situation, probably one that had more to do with his business. Oh yes. And when you looked at it that way, his death at the hands of those thugs was merely justice served a little early. But why justice, why did she think of it as justice? Because the images rose up, unbidden, that’s why.

The color green. A bloodbath. A dead mobile phone. Arriving home late. Green.

That strange raid on the nightclub around eighteen months ago. It had been green candy wrappers and his image in that blurry newspaper photo, but she’d buried that fact deep inside her, so deep that she hadn’t known it anymore. Amazing, the admission didn’t hurt at all. Yes, admission — because those vitamin candies might be common in England, but they weren’t in Austria. Who was he, really, the man she’d been planning to grow old with?

Antonia sat hunched on the stone bench. Maybe there really were hobgoblins, spirits with a strange sense of humor who thought they knew what was good for us. She had to travel to London and climb to dizzying heights chasing after a stupid and insignificant beret wearer to realize that the great love of her life had been a ridiculous self-deception. At least her fear had been productive. She didn’t need any more therapy. She’d probably jerk instinctively the rest of her life every time she saw a green candy wrapper, but that was nothing in comparison with the feeling of seeing Peter around every corner.

Amazing how easy it was.

Antonia looked around. Other than her, there was just one solitary figure on the other side of the gallery. She glanced from a distance down into the cathedral. Visitors were scarce down there, too. She leaned against the wall: The guidebook said you had to whisper behind your hand.

“Peter can kiss my ass.”

She smiled, because she knew she was free.

“I’ve always liked doing that.”

Antonia stared, first at the wall, and then at the man across from her, but he was looking out into the air. There was no one else there. She was crazy after all. The hallucinated answer was proof of that. She’d only imagined she was cured. Wished it. She was a nutcase. Yes, he’d always had fun saying the things she knew but didn’t want to say. And she’d enjoyed it. Her fantasy, her longing — they’d all played tricks on her. Was that necessary for the healing process, too? Whispering her feelings in public? What would her imagination answer?

“You’re the nightclub murderer.”

“You’re right about that.”

Yes, it was her imagination that said this thing she’d never admitted to herself. How liberating. But did it free her from every fear? Antonia leaned forward, peered over the railing down into the depths. It wasn’t that far down at all. It wasn’t dizzying in the least. What was it about her fear of heights? It was a childish refusal to grow up. Nothing more. That’s right. Children live in a fantasy world; adults live in the real world. And reality knows no fear of heights. Antonia leaned on the railing and looked down into the cathedral. Looking downward had a liberating beauty. Exhausted, she fell back onto the stone bench. She’d overcome her worst fear. She’d have to tell Valentina right away. She was free. Yes, she was. Smiling, she leaned toward the wall, held her hand in front of her mouth, and whispered.

“You’re dead, Peter.”

She felt the sound wave reproduce itself down the length of the smooth marble wall. What would all the tourists think of that sentence if they could hear it? But they weren’t there; they were all being ushered out by the security guards. There was only the one man on the other side, staring into the air. Who pulled something out of his coat pocket. Something soft, that looked to her, standing on the other side, like a hat made of felt. And then he bent toward the wall.

“You’re wrong about that, Butterfly.”

That name, his pet name for her, drove her to her feet like a jolt of electricity. She looked out across the divide, which dissolved before her eyes into a nothingness that invited panic. She pressed her fists to her eyes, against the tears, and for a fraction of a second her vision cleared and she saw the man unwrap something from a piece of paper. Green rushed across the distance between them. Reflexively she dropped her eyes and the pews began to rush up at her. Or was she rushing at them? The floor of the cathedral tilted and began to pump like a huge heart. At the same time, its surface became soft, tempting her to jump. It looked like one of those rescue air-cushions used by the fire department. How long would the fall last? Ten seconds? Twenty? Or just five? Her eyes registered, only half aware, that the man put the candy into his mouth and pulled on the beret. Peter was alive. And the fall didn’t even take two seconds.

Amazing.

(c)2007 by Sabina Naber: first published in the anthology Morderisch unterwegs (Milena-Verlag); translation (c)2007 by Mary Tannert