The Watcher

31

The building Philip Storm works in is tall. I count twelve stories from my vantage point outside the front door. It contains the offices of a number of different companies. Men and women in serious business attire and equally serious hairdos pass through the front doors. I lean against a column and observe them, looking for someone with dark hair combed back flat. Only a couple of minutes after arriving, I already think I’ve spotted him twice. Both times I was on my way over to him but stopped myself when I realized my mistake.

What should I say to him when he does turn up? How should I explain who I am and why he needs to listen to my warnings? What exactly am I planning to warn him about?

I should have a plan, think through what I’m actually doing. On some level I understand that, but the throbbing in my head has taken over. My sense of urgency, that something is imminent—something I need to stop—makes it hard for me to complete a full thought.

Finally I can’t handle waiting any more. I walk toward the stream of people coming out, walk through the doors and over to the reception desk by the elevators. I say his name in a voice that is a bit too shrill. The receptionist, a woman with her hair up in a tight bun, types something into the computer in front of her and then looks up again.

“Philip Storm left the office over an hour ago.”

I stare at her, thinking back to what Leo said, that his father had an important meeting and would be home late.

“That’s not possible,” I say. “Please check again.”

She does. Then at my urging, she even tries calling him.

“Unfortunately,” she says shaking her head, “he’s turned off his phone.”

“But this is important. I need to get in touch with him!”

My voice is bordering on falsetto now. I put my hands on the counter and lean forward. The woman with the bun-shaped face stiffens.

“Please calm down. Mr. Storm will be back in the office Monday morning, and you can simply—”

“If he’s not here and not at home, then where is he, hmm? What about that?”

Then I realize that the answer is obvious. I leave the receptionist’s counter, and in somewhat jerky steps, I head for the exit. Once back out on the street, I hurry along the sidewalk. Of course. I know where he is and who he’s with.

I jog past the same restaurants and shops I had passed a few days ago in Philip Storm’s tracks. There are more people out and about this time, couples and families and groups of friends. One family is walking toward me side by side, taking up nearly the entire sidewalk. I almost run right into the mother. Without letting go of the baby carriage, she grabs her three- or four-year-old daughter who’s walking next to her, and protectively pulls her in closer. We watch each other and—for a fraction of a second—I see something flicker through her eyes, something that cuts right through me. No, I want to yell, I’m not like that, not really.

I rush on, but something is different. There’s a roaring in my ears. What am I doing here? What am I doing? It’s as if I’m seeing myself from the outside, seeing how I’m acting, with no plan, how I’m not thinking any further ahead than my next step. The look in that young mother’s eyes lingers in my mind.

My legs slow down. Soon I’m there, on the street, at the door where I saw Philip Storm with the red-haired woman. What now? I don’t have the entry code, but even if I find a way to get into the stairwell, I can’t just run around knocking on doors at random. Or can I?

I look around, take in my surroundings. Cars and street signs, display windows and restaurants. People. Everywhere there are people talking and laughing and hugging. Something is in the air, something joyful and full of expectation. The weekend is practically here. People are on their way home or off somewhere to unwind and hang out. I look at my own reflection in one of the restaurant windows and discern the contours of a lonely, gloomy figure. Then my eyes change their focus, switching from looking at my own reflection in the window to perceiving what’s inside, a restaurant full of happy people sitting together around sturdy tables. Couples, friends, colleagues. And then I focus again on the lonely figure in the reflection—she who is no longer with anyone, she who doesn’t have anyone’s hand to hold or eat with or hug.

Thinking about you. Hope you’re doing well.

What are we doing? What have we done?

Without any demands or expectations, just to see each other and talk a little. I miss you so much.

Suddenly I just want to cry, go back home and shut myself in, lower the blinds and never show myself to the outside world again.

And right then, that’s when I discover them.

They’re sitting at a table fairly far back in the place, near the bar. They’re each holding a beer, and the redhead is drinking from her glass as Philip says something. He’s clearly saying something extremely funny, because she gives a start and lifts her glass away from her mouth, sets it down on the table in front of her, and then blossoms into a burst of laughter. It’s just the two of them at the table. They’re sitting across from each other with no bodily contact as far as I can see, but they can’t take their eyes off each other.

He’s sitting in there, the man who’s the reason I’m here at all. The man who needs to know what I know, needs to have the chance to… My head is spinning, and my mouth is dry. Where do I start? How should I phrase this? And, last but not least, how will he react? The personal trainer at the gym, the receptionist in the lobby of his office building, the young mother with the baby carriage I almost ran into, the expressions on their faces flash through my mind. What if Philip Storm looks at me the same way they all did? What if he turns what I say against me and accuses me of being mentally ill, maybe something even worse… My pulse picks up, but I think, One thing at a time, and the words are sort of calming, so I repeat them silently to myself: One thing at a time. My indecision abates. I take a few steps to the side, open the door to the restaurant, and go in.

A skinny man dressed all in black greets me, and I tell him I just want to have a drink. He directs me to the bar. There are still a few barstools free. I sit down on the one closest to the table where Philip and his companion are seated and order glass of white wine. As soon as I have it in my hand, I turn to face out toward the rest of the restaurant. I need to see Philip and the redhead together, need to hear what they’re saying to each other. Then I’ll figure out what the next step will be. One thing at a time.

I’m close to them, but of course they don’t notice me. I’m a stranger, an anonymous face in the crowd. I’m looking at them in profile. The redhead is resting her cheek in her hand and smiling at Philip. He leans in over the table, and I can hear his voice, but the murmur of the other diners around us makes it impossible for me to make out his words. I take a few sips of wine and survey the room, trying to blend in while at the same time contemplating how best to position myself so that I can hear their conversation. The minutes pass without any good ideas popping into my head or any suitable opportunity presenting itself.

Finally I stand up with my wineglass in my hand and slowly walk toward their table. I pretend to have eye contact with someone farther back in the restaurant, try to look like I’m heading over there. When I pass behind Philip’s back, I perk up my ears and listen attentively.

“…each drive separately… you wait for me… and meet there so she won’t…”

“…so close now… really looking forward to it. The cabin… so wonderful.”

The words ring in my ears. Then I’m past them and find myself in the middle of the restaurant without anywhere to go. What do I do now? I stop and check the time, look around, scanning the room as if I’m looking for someone. Then I walk back over to the bar. The redhead looks up and our eyes meet, just a quick glance. Still I veer quickly off to the side and go around a different table.

The barstool I was just sitting on is taken now, so I lean against the edge of the bar for a while instead, finishing my wine and then ordering another. This time I down half of it in a few gulps. Then I turn around and repeat my same little foray through the restaurant, holding my glass tightly. As I approach their table, the redhead looks up again, and this time her eyes linger on me for a few seconds. I turn away, but when I look back, her eyes are still trained on me. Her attention doesn’t return to Philip for what feels like an eternity. My ears are buzzing and everything grows blurry. I can’t understand what they’re saying to each other as I walk by. I need to establish contact somehow. I need to make him understand!

Yet again I find myself in the middle of the room without anywhere to go, without anyone to latch on to. My body turns of its own accord, my eyes seek out the dark hair on the back of Philip’s head and stop there. No matter how I try to make them move on, it’s like they’re locked on him. There I stand in the middle of the restaurant, among all these seated people, just staring.

They’re chatting with each other, leaning so far in over the table that their faces are practically touching. If he kisses her here, in front of all these people, what do I do then? Something inside me tightens, harder and harder, while the redhead once again looks up at me. This time her eyes linger even longer. I know that I have to look away, that I need to stop staring, but I can’t. An eternity passes, or maybe it’s only a second. Then several things happen in rapid succession.

I move forward as Philip gets up and strides away toward the area behind the bar, where the restrooms are located. I increase my pace and approach their table. You’re in danger. My lips form the words, but his back is to me. He doesn’t seem aware of my presence. Someone else is, though. A hand shoots out and unfamiliar fingers circle around my wrist.

“Do you need help with something?”

Philip disappears around the corner, and I turn my eyes to the woman beside me. Her eyes are hazel, and her cheeks rosy. Curly strands of red hair fall from her careless updo. It is as far from a tight, well-brushed, glossy ponytail as you can get. Maybe that’s why Philip is attracted to her, because of the contrast to his wife.

We stare at each other for a second, then my eyes roam down to her fingers, which are still gripping my wrist. She’s holding on tight. Let go of me! The words form, rising up from inside my body, but don’t make it out. They stop at the idea stage, stuck in my throat. I gather all the strength I can muster to tug my arm free. I use too much force and tip to the side, losing both my balance and my wineglass, which falls to the floor and shatters.

I look down, glass and wine everywhere. Somewhere, someone screams. I become aware of a harshness in my own throat and realize that’s where the scream is coming from. It grows quiet around me, or maybe my ears are plugged up. The redheaded woman is looking at me differently now, her eyes wide, her hands up in the air in front of her, palms up, and her body pressed against her chair back. My eyes slide over to the next table and then the next and the next, flickering around the restaurant. And no matter where I look, I encounter the same raised eyebrows, the same furrowed brows and concerned looks. A crazy woman, that’s what they take me for.

From a distance, I see the skinny man dressed in black making a beeline toward me through the crowded room. I cast one last glance down at the redhead. Her lips are moving, but I can’t hear her words. Maybe I say something to her, maybe I don’t. Then I turn around and dart through the room as quickly as I can, rush to the door, out onto the sidewalk, and hurry down the street without looking where I’m going, rushing across crosswalks and around street corners, through light and through darkness, into nothingness.

Back to the ruins of what was once my life.