The Whisperer

Chapter 8

Someone had sent her a letter. Not the kind that she feared, this was something else, a bigger envelope with her full address and full name. It was franked in Berlin. Ragna stood by the mailbox and froze under the street light, pressed the letter to her heart, overwhelmed with joy and relief. She walked the forty-eight steps up to the house slightly faster than usual, pulled off her coat and put the letter on the table by the sofa. Big, white and wonderful, it lay there waiting for her. She wanted to save it, savour the moment. I’ve got a letter from my son, the hotel director, she thought. He wants to tell me something. She was fizzing from head to toe. She would have to tell them at work tomorrow, they talked about their own children all the time. Now it was her turn, her son and his career. She had gone into Irfan’s and bought some food, a jar of pickled pumpkin, some habanero, a jar of garlic cloves and some spicy sauces. She put the things down on the kitchen table. She wanted to make something that would burn, first in her mouth, then all the way down to her stomach. She put some water in the espresso machine. Rikard Josef had not sent just a little card. This was a proper letter, she could feel that the envelope contained more than usual. So he must have some news to tell her, something big that he wanted to share with her. Was it possible that for the first time in years she would find a hint of concern for her and how she was? Had he realised that all was not right when he received her letter, even though she had said nothing? Was he so sensitive that he had read between the lines? Yes, she believed he was. Or was he writing to invite her to Berlin? Perhaps he wanted them to celebrate Christmas together, walk arm in arm along Unter den Linden as small white snowflakes danced in the air. She was so excited when she sat down with the letter in her lap. But there was something unusual about the envelope that made her uneasy, that she could not put her finger on. There was no sender address written on the back of this one either, but then lots of people did not bother with that, although she was particular about such things. She also did not recognise the writing on the front, she realised. But she knew no one else in Berlin. She tore open the envelope and pulled out the contents and then sat back, stunned. Inside the big envelope was a smaller envelope. She saw her son’s name and address in Landsberger Allee that she had written herself. In addition, there was a blue stamp with the two words: ‘Not known at this address’. The letter she had sent had been returned. She was so disappointed that she leapt up from the chair and started to pace around the room, glancing back in despair at the envelope. She was alone in the house. No one could see her, no one could hear, and yet she still had the strange feeling that someone was standing in the corner laughing at her. Celebrating Christmas in Berlin, how silly. What was she to do, what to think or believe? Not known at this address. He had been living there for years.

At first, she wanted to cry. But she pulled herself together and started to think rationally. Her letter had been returned, so what? He had moved. Well, people moved all the time. Irfan had moved from Turkey to Kirkelina. The Soi family had moved from Thailand and were now going to live in the Teigens’ house. Her son had now moved away from Landsberger Allee. Nothing to get upset about. She sat down again and studied her own handwriting. It was quite fine writing, though she said so herself. Meticulous and easy to read, with tight, beautiful loops and curls. And yet her cheeks reddened in shame. A friendly nudge, this careful sign of life that she had sent out into the world had been thrown back in her face, as though she was a gift that nobody wanted. It was humiliating. She felt rejected. No one must know that she was the sort of person that was ignored. For a second, she considered opening the envelope and reading her own letter; it was innocent and simple, only it had not reached him. There were two voices talking in her head now, one hurt and dejected, the other firm and sensible. The fact that the letter had been returned meant the post office in Berlin was doing its job. They had kindly returned the letter after they had looked for her son’s mailbox without finding it. There was only one thing to be done. She had to burn it. Ah well, she had not managed to get hold of him. Maybe she would never get hold of him again. Her thoughts were as black as the paper when it started to burn. Her thoughts smouldered into ash as well. She slammed the door of the burner shut, put it behind her and pulled herself together. He would send the usual Christmas card sometime in December, and he would tell her that he had moved, and he would explain why, and give her the new address so she could write back. No worse than that. What a fuss! Perhaps he had started his own family and needed more room.

She drank her espresso, which was no longer warm, and the black coffee left its mark in the corners of her mouth. Her head felt empty, the rooms were numbingly silent. They somehow felt alien too, something was missing, something she had forgotten. She sent an inspector into her brain to look for any irregularities, but without result. She switched on the television and watched the news, focused on the voices and images and after a while she calmed down again. It was not until much later that she realised she had forgotten about the meal she had planned, and immediately felt hungry. She went into the kitchen. She looked over at the Teigens’ house and saw the light in the window. No, it was no longer the Teigens’ house, she had to get used to the Sois. Sooner or later she would meet them out on the road. And either they would be embarrassed by her lack of voice, they might even pull back and subsequently avoid her, or they would come closer so they could hear, listen to her with a friendly and attentive expression, give her the time she needed. You never knew the way things would turn out.

After her meal, she sat and dozed in the chair. Every time her chin hit her chest, she started. She daydreamed about her son. He had been offered a fabulous opportunity at a luxury hotel in Johannesburg. Because his qualities as a hotel director were legendary. His reputation had gone before him and a headhunter had recommended him for the post, so now he had left Berlin. And had he not as a teenager talked about South Africa with stars in his eyes? Clear images came to mind like doves of peace: hotel staff in white uniforms, gardens full of exotic flowers, big glittering swimming pools with blue bottoms. All his life, he had dreamt about running a hotel like that, and he had worked hard for many years with that goal. And now, finally, his dream was reality. The negotiations had taken some time, which was why he had never invited her to the Dormero. He had wanted to wait until it was all settled. He might even send her a telegram. This thought pleased her and she got up and went to her computer. She searched luxury hotels in Johannesburg. The hotel had no less than five stars, she was sure of that, he would not lower his standards. First she found the Radisson Blue, but it was a chain hotel, and he had greater ambitions than that. But it could be the Michelangelo Hotel or the Residence Boutique. She ended up with the Intercontinental. From the photographs, it looked like exactly the kind of place he would choose. In her mind, she was already standing at reception. Perhaps there was a stuffed lion guarding the main entrance. She might need a visa to get into the country, or vaccinations; she would have a lot to organise once he had written and invited her. Reality took hold again and she recognised it for what it was, nothing but a childish daydream. She stood up, turned off the computer, her cheeks flushed. It was a good thing no one could read her thoughts.