The Weeping Girl

14

13 July 1999

Sigrid Lijphart managed to get a room at Kongershuus, thanks to a cancellation — the phone call came while she was still in reception, wondering what to do. It was the holiday season, and vacancies in Lejnice and district were just as hard to come by as usual. In a brief moment of weakness she had played with the idea of turning to somebody she had known back in those days — in her former life, sixteen years ago and more — but she rapidly decided that doing so would be about as pleasant as a foul-tasting belch.

Mind you, there were quite a lot of possibilities for her to choose from. Quite a lot of people who would no doubt have received her with open arms. In order to demonstrate how much they sympathized with the problems she’d had, and to find out a bit more about the details, if for no other reason.

But that was all in the past. She had left those people and those relationships — every single one of them — without a moment’s hesitation, and she had never missed them at all. The very thought must have been no more than a piece of jetsam floating around in the back of her mind, that was obvious. The idea of making contact with somebody from the past. It would never occur to her to make use of any of those ancient contacts that no longer existed in her consciousness, not in normal circumstances and not now either. It would have felt like. . well, like opening a box and being hit by a foul stench from something that had spent the last sixteen years rotting away. Ugh, no!

I’d rather sleep on the beach, she thought as she stepped into the lift. Thank goodness I got a room.

It was on the fourth floor with a balcony and a splendid view to the west and south-west over the dunes and the long, gently curving coastline as far as the lighthouse at Gordon’s Point.

It was rather expensive, but she only intended to stay the one night, so it was worth it.

She phoned Vrommel and told him where he could contact her, then took a shower. Ordered a pot of coffee from room service, and went out to sit on the balcony.

It was two o’clock. The sun came and went — or the clouds, to be more precise; but it soon became so warm that she could easily have sat there naked if she’d wanted to. Nobody could see her, apart from helicopter passengers and seagulls. Nevertheless, she kept her bra and pants on. And her wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. As if there had been somebody watching after all.

Now what? she thought. What the hell am I going to do now?

And panic came creeping up on her like a fever in the night.

Guilt?

Why should I feel guilty? she asked herself. She’d only done what she had to do. Then and now.

She had done what she knew was inevitable. Sooner or later. A child must know the truth about its parents. One side of it, at least. A child had a right to that, an incontrovertible right, and there was no way round that fact.

Sooner or later. And her eighteenth birthday had been decided on long ago.

She thought about Helmut, and his grumbling the previous night.

About Mikaela and her immediate reaction, which had been just about what she had expected.

Or had it really been? Had she really thought that her daughter would take her mother’s advice and let the whole matter rest? Leave everything just as it was, untouched, like something dumb and withered away and forgotten? Not even try to open the lid on it?

Is that really how it was? Had she really believed that her daughter wouldn’t try to find her real father?

Of course not. Mikaela was Mikaela, and her mother’s daughter. Mikaela has reacted exactly as she had expected. Just as she would have done herself.

Had she blamed her?

Had Mikaela blamed her mother for not telling her sooner? Or for telling her now?

No, and no.

Perhaps to some extent because she hadn’t been told the full story — but when she discovered all the facts she would no doubt understand. Definitely. And she had to leave something for Arnold to tell her. Or at least, give him a chance to do so.

But what about Helmut’s grumbling?

Not worth bothering about. As usual.

So why this suffocating feeling of guilt?

She’d bought a packet of cigarettes to help her out if an emergency arose. She went to fetch them from her handbag. Went back out onto the balcony, lit one and leaned back on her chair.

The first drag made her feel dizzy.

Arnold? she thought.

Is there something I owe Arnold?

A preposterous thought. She took another drag.

And started thinking about him.

Not a single telephone call.

Not a letter, not even a line, not a word.

Not from him to her, nor from her to him.

It suddenly struck her that if he were dead now, she wouldn’t have known. Or was there some kind of duty to inform? On the part of the Sidonis Foundation? Had she signed any documents to that effect? Did they have her name and address? She couldn’t remember.

If he’d moved out of the home, perhaps Mikaela would never find him?

But he was still there. She’d rung yesterday to check. Oh yes, Mikaela had been there, and he was still there. Those were the facts.

Presumably he’d been sitting there in his own silent hell for all those years. Sixteen of them. Waiting. Perhaps he’d been waiting for her? Waiting for Mikaela to come? Or maybe for her, his lost wife, to visit him?

But probably not. Most likely he had no memory of anything. He hadn’t been well when she took their daughter and abandoned him. There had never been any question of sending him to prison. Not as far as she was aware, at least.

Mad. Completely out of his mind. He’d even wet himself in the middle of the legal proceedings — for some reason that was the detail she had remembered down to the tiniest detail. How he’d just sat there in the middle of the courtroom and let it come gushing forth without moving a muscle. . No, Arnold had crossed the border into insanity sixteen years ago, and there was no way back.

No way, and no bridges. Just oblivion and a new inner landscape. The more barren and desolate the better, presumably.

She stubbed out her cigarette. Too many words, she thought. There are too many words whizzing around inside me, they’re preventing me from thinking clearly.

Arnold? Mikaela?

But underneath the swirling mass of words was only panic, she knew that — and suddenly she wished she had taken Helmut with her.

Helmut the solid rock, the primary rock.

He had offered to come, insisted in a way, but she had kept him at bay.

This had nothing to do with him. Helmut had no part to play in this situation. It was a transaction to be sorted out between Mikaela and her father. And possibly also her mother.

A transaction? she thought. What on earth am I saying? What do I mean?

And what has happened?

It was not until she’d smoked half of her second cigarette and realized that she’d soaked it through and through with her tears that she went inside and made a phone call.

He wasn’t at home, but eventually she remembered the number of his mobile and got through to him.

She explained that she had spoken to the police, and that they would no doubt have sorted it all out by the evening — but that she’d taken a room for the night, for safety’s sake. And because it would have been a bit too strenuous to drive all the way back home that same day.

Helmut didn’t have much to say in reply. They hung up. She went back out on to the balcony. Sat down on the chair and prayed to God for the first time in fifteen years.

She didn’t think He was listening.