The Whisperer

Chapter 23

Dear Rikard Josef,

To think that you’ve written to me! A proper letter, and a long letter at that. After all these years of cards with printed messages. You have no idea how much it means to me. I could fill a thousand pages describing how I feel right now, because when I write, I don’t need a voice, and I can be bold and strong. And you will hear me, loud and clear. Finally, I have some new pictures of you in my mind. And these images are made all the more vivid by your voice, which is much deeper now, and your breathing, which I heard on the phone so clearly, as though you were in the room with me, as though I could reach out my hand and touch your face. I no longer carry you in my arms or push you around in a pram, but you are so close to me now. And I can see from your letter that you are a mature man. When you talk about the priest and Peter and Helmut, you do it with such respect. I can see that I managed to teach you the important things in life, that people should be allowed to live in peace and be who they are. I may not have managed other things so well.

You have lived a long life since we last saw each other, and I have too. You say that you wanted to be something, that you studied while you worked night shifts, that you wanted to make me happy and proud. So you exaggerated and told me you were a manager at the Dormero. And I was happy and I was proud, and I told everyone at work, and Olaf, my neighbour, and the man in the shop over the road. But don’t let’s dwell on that now. I would have been just as proud if you were still a bellboy in a red uniform. And I can’t tell you how happy I am now! Even though you, like me, have gone off the rails. But what does embezzlement mean anyway? Your only crime is that you fiddled some numbers, and as a result, people feel bitter and betrayed. They felt you had let them down, but you have not hurt anyone, no one lies sleepless at night because of you. And nor should you, or I, for that matter. You will do your time, and people will forget your crime. But I will be in prison for the rest of my life, until my heart beats for the last time. What I have done is so terrible that people will talk about it for generations.

So, I told everyone that you were the director of the hotel. Lars and Gunnhild at work, and anyone else who wanted to listen. You know how everyone talks about their children, about how clever they are and where they work and what they study and how much they earn. I wanted to boast about you, show you in a good light. In my world, you are still the boss and you still shine brilliantly. You must never believe anything else.

I was not driving ‘at monkey speed’. I can’t drive at all, you know that, I have never had my hands on the wheel. I take the bus to work every day and always sit on the third seat to the left, by the window. And apart from that, I don’t have much to do with other people. You know what I’m like. And what I have done is so much worse than driving ‘at monkey speed’. I will tell you more when I have mustered the courage. But please don’t sit there in prison in Berlin and worry about me, somehow I will cope.

Everyone here looks after me well, especially the inspector. He makes no grand gestures, and when we sit together and talk, his big, heavy hands are always still, never twitchy. I have not met any of the other inmates, and that suits me fine, I think so much better when I am alone, and I have plenty to think about. I’m sure you do too. Or have you done all your thinking and are now focused on serving your sentence, so you can hold your head high again? How do you get on with the prison staff, do you like them? Are they friendly? Do they treat you with respect? The officers here are very correct, they never overstep any boundaries, and they are never facetious or patronising. When they are in my cell, they are friendly and give me all their attention, but I know that as soon as they are out the door, they forget me. They blow me out like a match, because they are going into the next cell, and there are quite a few of us. But there is one exception, and his name is Adde, and he has a blind eye, or what we call a glass eye, even though it is probably made from plastic or acrylic, I have no idea. I often sit looking at that eye, the one that doesn’t look back. I think his glass eye is more beautiful than his real eye, it is bigger, and the colour is clearer. There are even tiny, thin red vessels in the white, which were presumably painted on by hand. Sometimes I play with the idea that it is that eye that sees me and the other that is blind.

I have never had a man in my life, Rikard. Since you went to Berlin, after my parents died, I have lived alone, and I have chosen to live alone. I was a little in love with a man I met not so long ago, called William. He was from Mayfair in London. But nothing will ever happen between us, because I am sitting here now. Please don’t ask me about William, as it just upsets me.

You heard my whispers on the phone, and perhaps it made you think. You may have read about people who have lost their voice box talking with the help of technology, in a distorted, mechanical voice. The sort of voice that frightens small children and gives them nightmares. Other people learn a technique whereby they swallow air, and then release it with a burp to create the sound of a word. I don’t want to talk with a voice like that. Even though the doctors encouraged me to. I have never been a beauty, but I did not want to make things worse by having a hideous voice. When you speak like that, using either air or a talk tool of some kind, people step back in alarm. But when you whisper, they lean in so they can hear. But I was talking about Adde, and he can only see me with one eye, but my goodness, does he stare. And I both like it and don’t like it. I don’t know what he sees or thinks, because he says nothing. But I can tell that he has drawn his own conclusions, even though he knows nothing about me. And I think I can safely say that I could surprise him.

You said you were in a big prison, with nearly six hundred inmates. I know the Stasi had many prisons in Berlin, is yours one of them? You must tell me all about your days, and nights as well. Tell me what you eat, tell me more about Peter and the priest. You must all be kind to them. Be kind and wish them well, and maybe they will find each other. But I know that you are kind, Rikard. I now keep the letter you wrote safe in the drawer of my desk, by the window. I often go over and open the drawer, just to make sure it is still there. I hold the envelope up to the light, and see your writing shine through. I will treasure your words like jewels and take them with me wherever I go. Not that I am going anywhere for a while, it will be a long time before I am allowed to walk the streets again or catch a bus, but your words will be with me in my dreams. From now on, let us think about each other every day, in the morning and evening. My dear boy, I only have eight square metres, but what more does a person need? A desk and a bed and a window, so the sun shines in on a good day. The cell makes me feel safe. I know where I am. It is impossible to get lost in eight square metres, but equally, it is impossible to hide. Now I am out where everyone can see me, like you. Tell me what you can see through your cell window. If you can see a patch of sky, then remember that I am serving my sentence under the very same sky.

With love from,

Your mother