The Missing

5

On unsteady legs, I leave the bedroom. Not that the conversations I have with my mother are ever very relaxing, but this one bothers me more than usual. Those mundane words we spoke, those banal phrases. All of it such a glaring contrast to the confusing, nightmarish circumstances in which I find myself.

I pause halfway between the living room and kitchen, feeling my phone vibrate for the third time. How long is it going to take for her to give up? Tirith, who’s lying on the sofa, raises his head to give me a demanding look.

“I will, I will,” I murmur.

I have no idea what I mean by that. Something has to be done, but what? The conversation with my mother knocked me off balance. I need to back up, start over. Didn’t I have some sort of plan? First find the phone, and then… then what? What should I do now?

I stare at the hard object in my hand. It was on Alex’s side of the bed the whole time. Stuffed under the duvet, tucked away. Like someone put it there on purpose. Hid it. No! I shake my head, dismissing the vague notion taking shape. How and why my cell ended up there is irrelevant. The only thing that matters is now I can connect with the outside world. Now I can call Alex. Yes, of course. That’s what I need to do.

With trembling fingers, I punch in the number and wait. The sound of his voice makes my throat close up. For a fraction of a second I think I’m actually listening to Alex speaking on the phone. And this whole thing is over. But then I realize it’s just his voice mail. I hit the “End” button and try again. Listen again to the rapid-fire words spoken in Alex’s professional-salesman voice. I call four or five times. Each time, I get the same recording. And when the beep tells me it’s time to leave my own message, I say nothing. I have no idea what to say. What are the right words when all you want is an explanation for something inexplicable?

“Hi, this is Alex…” The greeting sends me back in time, to our very first meeting.

He came into the shop with one of his colleagues. Katinka was the first to notice him.

“Hey, look,” she whispered, giving me a poke in the side.

I turned around, and there he was. His suit was perfectly tailored, his head shaved. His white shirt was neatly pressed, but when he held out his hand, the cuff slid back to reveal intertwining tattoos on his forearm. There was something about the contrast that captivated me. He told us he was introducing a new line of beauty products promoted by a famous singer. His colleague may have said something too, but if so, I was only vaguely aware of it. I recall a brief silence in which Alex fixed his steel-blue eyes on me.

“Greta? Is that your name?”

Just then, the shop owner showed up, greeting him with a polite smile and quick handshake. Apparently, they had an appointment. Alex gave us a nod and followed our boss to the small office at the other end of the shop. I was sure he could feel my eyes glued to his back. I thought he’d turn his head to smile at me, but he didn’t.

The launch of the singer’s beauty line turned out to involve an unusually elaborate and expensive promotion. Life-size cardboard cutouts depicting the singer in various glamorous poses were set up in the shop. Pink alcohol-free bubbly in tall glasses and fancy chocolate pralines were displayed on gilded trays. In front of an audience, Katinka and I showed customers how to apply the makeup. On one occasion I noticed Alex among the spectators crowded below the podium where I was standing. The look in his eyes sent a bolt of desire through me. The attraction was so strong I lost my voice. Afterward, when things settled down and we were cleaning up, he suddenly appeared at my side.

“Greta,” he said. “Like Garbo.”

Or Gretel, I thought. Mine was almost the same name as the girl in the fairy tale about the gingerbread house and the evil witch in the woods. But I didn’t say that. I didn’t manage to say a word. That was how strong an effect he had on me. A nod was all I could manage. He gave me a crooked grin.

“So your mother named you after a movie star?”

I cleared my throat. “Actually, it was my father who came up with the name.”

I instantly regretted mentioning him. Don’t ask. Please don’t ask. But Alex didn’t ask any questions about Papa. Not then. Instead, he leaned nonchalantly against a shelf of perfume bottles and took a sip from the glass he was holding.

“Well, it suits you, at any rate. Garbo was a real beauty.”

He was staring at me with such intensity in his blue eyes that I had to look away. I straightened the black T-shirt with the shop logo I was wearing, keenly aware of his gaze following the movement of my hands on the fabric.

“And she was not only beautiful, she was also a mystery. I have a feeling that you are too.”

Something warm rubs against my leg and I look down, giving Tirith a distracted look. Only later did I tell Alex about Papa. And even then I didn’t reveal the whole truth. A mystery. I have a feeling that you are too. Yes, well. Maybe.

I lean down to stroke the cat under the chin. With my other hand, I hold the phone to my ear. Tirith blissfully closes his eyes and leans his head against me, butting at my fingers. I check my own voice mail, but there’s nothing from Alex. Again I punch in his number. This time I do leave a message. How would it look otherwise? That’s what pops into my mind. The next second, I frown. How would it look otherwise? What a strange thought.

Restless, I wander into the kitchen. I find a rag and make a halfhearted attempt to wipe the mud off the floor. In the living room, I pick up all the pieces of the broken figurine. Wondering what to do next, I make another round of the cabin, entering one room after the other. In the entryway, I pause. I stand there for a long time, listening for any sounds outside, for footsteps coming up the steps and loud voices approaching. I’m waiting for someone to grab the door handle and call my name. Call out: We’re here! But nothing happens. My mind feels both jumbled and completely empty. Missing. Gone. It’s impossible.

I turn to look in the mirror that hangs on the wall across from the coat hooks and hat shelf. I study the dark-haired figure with carefully applied makeup. I take her in. Take in the whole picture. Except for the purplish shadow on her neck. My eyes move quickly past that. Then I look into my own eyes, trying to penetrate the barrier that separates me from the rest of the world. The barrier that has always been my protection. My weapon. What would other people do in my situation? What would an ordinary, sensible, normal person do now?

I know the answer even before those words take shape in my consciousness. Call for help. That’s what an ordinary, sensible, normal person would do under these circumstances. How could I have let all these hours go by—and by now many hours must have passed—without sounding the alarm about Alex and Smilla’s disappearance? Why don’t I instantly pick up the phone and contact the police? My cheeks are burning as I tear myself away from the eyes, now looking even sterner, staring at me from the mirror. Calling the police would mean acknowledging the likelihood that something terrible has happened. The worst of all possible scenarios. And I refuse to think along those lines. Alex and Smilla are unharmed and safe. That’s what I want to believe, what I need to believe. But then why aren’t they here? Here with you? A shiver races down my spine, making the tiny hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end. I need to go back to the island. I have to.

When I try to put on my shoes, I sway and almost fall over.

Only now do I realize how worn out I am. Totally exhausted. Before I leave I should probably sit down for a while. I can’t eat anything, but I should at least drink something.

I stumble into the kitchen and run my hands over the cupboards above the sink but don’t open any of them. Instead, I open the lower cupboard and survey the bottles stowed inside. What I really need is a drink. I slam the cupboard door and sink into a kitchen chair. I can’t have a drink. Not now. Definitely not now.

The outline of a face hovers in front of me. I can make out a man’s sharp features. Hair falling in a wave over his forehead, full lips curving in a strongly defined arch. Papa? Papa. It’s too much. The last shreds of self-confidence and determination seep out of me. I bury my face in my hands and slump forward.

Damn you, Alex!