You Should Have Left, Page 4

  It must have been due to my confusion, to the fact that the world was ending. And yet it made no sense. Slowly and carefully I constructed another right angle and checked the measurement: ninety degrees. With two more right angles I completed it into a rectangle. I drew a diagonal. Two angles in the rectangle were now perfectly bisected. But something was wrong. They weren’t exactly oblique, more blurry, my eyes couldn’t bring them completely into focus. I placed the ruler against the line that divided the right angle and measured the angle below it: forty-nine. I placed it against the angle above it: fifty-one.

  I stared at the drawings. Something was disconcerting: When you didn’t force your gaze to stay on them, it glided over them as if of its own accord.

  A trick ruler, what else! I held the triangle up to the light and shut one eye. The right angle looked unsuspicious and the degree scale normal, no numbers were missing. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that someone was standing in the doorway. I started. It was Susanna. For a moment I had forgotten her.

  The phone, how obvious, she said, as she placed the baby monitor on the table. Whenever you hear about people getting caught, it’s the cell phone, because they couldn’t bring themselves to delete the damn messages. She brushed her hair back and gave me an exhausted look. Of course, she said, you think you would be smarter. You consider yourself clever, and then you develop such a ridiculous attachment to those saved messages that you can’t bring yourself to delete them. Like all the other idiots. You keep the thing with you at all times and never leave it lying around, but you underestimate the tenacity of the jealous husband, who swipes it from your bag. And the way things stand, you can’t even fault him for his jealousy. She sat down and rested her head on her hands.

  I said in a shaky voice that I absolutely did not steal her phone from her bag. Something like that never would have occurred to me. It had been lying here on the table, and I had wanted to find this Steller’s—

  Nonsense, she said. She never would have just left it on the table. She stood up, looked at me for a long time, and said in an actor’s voice: You went through my bag.

  I stood up too, felt the blood rushing to my face. I had just enough air to yell: That’s absurd, and besides, I’m not the one who has to justify himself—but at that very moment we heard Esther’s voice from the speaker. She was sitting up in bed. Susanna ran out. Seconds later I saw her on the screen, kneeling next to the bed and singing.

  I sat down. I felt like everything inside me had turned to stone. I didn’t know how much time passed. Finally, she came back.

  Of what happened next my memory has retained only fragments. I see myself shouting and throwing something on the table, I see myself pounding my fist on the table. She’s speaking slowly, she’s pale in the face, I’m crying, I’m calming down again. I’m speaking, she’s listening silently. I’m asking questions, she’s walking back and forth. Then she’s the one who is sitting at the table and crying, and I’m standing silently by the window, then I’m shouting at her, but that must be a while later, because the darkness outside is already dense and impenetrable, and then she’s shouting too, and I see myself on one side of the table and her on the other, and we’re yelling at the same time, but then I’m sitting at the table again and resting my head on my hands and see her leaning limply against the window, and I would like more than anything to stand up and go to her and place my hands on her cheeks and say: Let’s forget everything, I love you. But I know that it’s not possible, because I can’t forget it, and then I go to her anyway and place my hands on her cheeks, but before I can say anything, she says: Just leave me be, leave me be, please leave me be, you don’t understand! And then both of us are shouting again, so that I can’t listen to her or she to me, and then I’m sitting at the table and hear the front door slamming and the engine starting, and then I’m listening to the faintly rushing silence and have written everything down and still don’t understand it, she’s right. I don’t understand it.

  —

  What am I going to do tomorrow when the little one wakes up?

  —

  Night, still. Who is this David?

  Doesn’t matter, I tell myself immediately, it makes no difference. The only important thing is that he exists.

  But who is he?

  An actor, a dancer maybe, or something even stupider? And immediately I think: What makes you come up with such clichés, you don’t know anything about him, he could be a surgeon or a meteorologist. It doesn’t matter either. That’s not the point.

  But who is he?

  Maybe one of her colleagues from the last movie, I have to check whether someone named David was involved. But what would that prove? That’s not the point.

  But who is he?

  Tomorrow morning, I have to manage to act in front of Esther as if everything were normal. I have to call the lawyer and ask whether we actually have separate or joint property; crazy that I don’t know that, but it’s probably still too soon to think about it, I mean, who thinks so quickly about divorce? Though I wonder, on the other hand, how this is supposed to disappear from the world. If I just picture it, her and him, but I’d better not, that’s the most important thing: that I don’t picture it.

  —

  Still night. No idea what time it is. I can’t find my phone. I haven’t worn a watch in a long time.

  I would need the phone too, because it’s possible that she’ll call.

  I have to go back and read it. The past several days, all the lies. I wrote it down, after all. I turn back the pages, and there we are in the living room, on the first afternoon, fighting in the old familiar way, and there we are standing at night by the window, as if everything were as always and as if she weren’t thinking about him the whole time, and there we are sitting at breakfast, and I describe her eyes, not actually blue, more turquoise, with a sprinkling of black, and the phone is lying next to her, and David is writing to her and she to him and he to her and she to him and he to her, while I—why does it say Get away there?

  I didn’t write that. That wasn’t me.

  But who else, who could it have been, stay calm, who—she must have done it! Especially since she can forge my handwriting, I know that. I turn the page, and there I am driving into the valley to go grocery shopping, while she stays in the house and has time to talk on the phone with David, and there I am coming back—why does it say Get away again there? Think logically. If she had written it in your notebook, then how could it fit in the line like that, wouldn’t she have been able at most to write it in the margin?

  I can’t worry about this now, I can’t clear it up, I just can’t. I turn to another page, read about our hike. In my naiveté I even wrote down that she was constantly texting on her

  —

  It must be almost morning. I’ll write very quickly, write down what just happened. I have to write it down so that I don’t go crazy. Or in case something happens to me. Esther is lying on the sofa. She’s asleep again. It was awful.

  I was sitting there and reading my notebook and suddenly heard a noise. It sounded like a human voice, only very high, and it formed words that I didn’t understand, a singsong, rising, falling, and rising again, like nothing I’d ever heard before. It took me a few seconds to realize that it was coming from the baby monitor. But on the screen I saw Esther fast asleep: her head on the pillow, her hand sticking out from under the blanket, no one with her. I ran out, up the stairs, down the corridor, I staggered into her room and turned on the light. No one there. She was fast asleep. What else. I listened. Everything was quiet.

  So light out again, softly close the door, down the stairs, but as I was walking down the hall to the living room, I heard the voice again, and it spoke words, strange and ancient, half whisper, half sigh, and when I reached the room and saw on the screen a large figure leaning over Esther’s bed, I felt my heart stop.

  Only then did I see that it was me. On the screen, next to the bed, it was me myself. Apparently a delay in the transmissi
on; it was the image from a minute ago, and what I heard was probably a radio signal, and as I realized that and heaved a sigh, I saw my daughter sit up in bed with a jerk, open her eyes, stare at the figure, which was me, and begin to scream.

  I ran up the stairs, stumbled, banged my knee on a step, struggled to my feet, hobbled on, and called: I’m coming, I’m coming! Door open, light on, there she lay, asleep.

  I pulled up one of the colorful children’s chairs, sat down, breathed heavily, and thought with a clarity as if someone else were speaking to me: You should have left. Now it’s too late. Slowly I stood up. I couldn’t leave Esther alone, but I couldn’t sit on the tiny chair for the rest of the night either. So I gently lifted her out of the bed. She murmured in her sleep, then she moved a little to snuggle up closer to me; her face sank into the crook of my neck, I felt her breath warm on my skin. As I went down the stairs, careful not to fall, she began to snore softly. I went into the living room and laid her down on the sofa. With a sigh she curled up.

  And that’s where she’s sleeping now. I’ve locked the door to the living room. Esther is here, that’s all that matters, who or what is up there I don’t want to know. Just a moment ago I saw her still on the screen, sleeping peacefully while the strange voice sang to her—and while she undeniably lay next to me on the sofa. It was unbearable. I pulled the plug.

  Then I checked the measurements again. For one of the angles the result remained the same, for the other it changed: The lower one is now thirty-nine degrees and the upper forty-one. I’ve torn the page out of the notebook, crumpled it into a ball, and thrown it away.

  My knee hurts from the fall on the stairs. How much I’d like to turn out the light to make the reflection in the window disappear, but the darkness would be even worse. A moment ago I took a brief look at it. Everything was as it should be, I could see myself and Esther, only the door was wide open. The door that I’d locked.

  They’re only images, I tell myself again and again, only phantoms, they can’t touch anything or do anything, not to you, not to her.

  It’s completely silent. Only my breathing can be heard.

  There’s a picture hanging on the wall.

  A photo in a thin metal frame. It’s hanging next to the steel surface of the kitchen cabinet across from the television. It’s hanging slightly askew, and it shows a man leaning against a tree. He’s wearing a suit, of a sort that can’t have been in fashion in a very long time, in his hand he’s holding a hat, and his bearded face looks more than somber, it’s despairing. The colors have faded. I remember having written down that there are no pictures hanging in the whole house. I could look it up, but I don’t want to now. I don’t remember that wall, I could have overlooked the picture. But would I have overlooked a picture like that? And I know I wrote down: There are no pictures hanging anywhere in the house. Would I have written that if there had been a picture here?

  Eventually the night will end.

  —

  How long was I asleep, stretched out on the floor? My back hurts. Still night. Write down the dream.

  I stood outside on the slope and looked into the valley. Then I looked up, above the glaciers, and saw the other mountain.

  It was immense, and the drop from it was deeper than any abyss I had ever seen. You could have fallen for hours before you reached the ground, past cliffs and even more cliffs and crevices and jags and deeper crevices and more and more rock, and all this got lost in a distance that made me dizzy. While I stared at it, I felt a pull—a weak suction that felt like a current of air, but it was gravity. The mountain had so much mass that you felt its gravity, and I realized that all you had to do was jump and your own weight would pull you toward it and nothing would hold you and you would fall.

  And now that I’m sitting at the table and scribbling in my notebook, with aching limbs, the term World Mountain comes to me. I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean, but I can’t push it away, because that’s what it is; that’s what I saw.

  December 6

  Hurry, while Esther is watching her cartoon.

  She woke me up at dawn, and of course she immediately wanted to know where Susanna is.

  Mommy has to run an errand in town, I said, but this is fun, just you and me, this is great.

  Why was I sleeping on the sofa?

  Because that’s also fun now and then, sleeping on the sofa!

  Why is that fun?

  Wait here, I said, I have to look for my phone.

  On my way out I looked at the white wall next to the kitchen cabinet. The picture of the man next to the tree was hanging there, as if it had always been there.

  As I was going up the stairs, I heard Esther calling for me again.

  Be right there, I called, and went into the master bedroom. There were the packed suitcases, she hadn’t taken anything with her. And here, attached to its plugged-in charger, was my phone.

  I called Susanna, she didn’t pick up, I didn’t leave a message. More importantly, I had to call a taxi. Even here in seclusion there had to be taxis, if not down in the village, then in the next one, if not there, then in another; as long as I could pay for it, someone would come and get us.

  When I returned to the living room, my phone vibrated. On the screen it said Schmidt. I hesitated. But since I couldn’t afford to displease him, I picked up.

  Well, he asked, how are the two beauties doing?

  At first I didn’t understand, but then I realized that he meant Jana and Ella. They’re fantastic, I said. Endless ideas. Already a whole notebook full.

  Esther tugged on my pants leg. I pushed her away. She began to cry.

  Fabulous, said Schmidt. Really great.

  Yes, exactly, I said.

  Give me a brief pitch, he said. Tell me.

  Not the best moment right now, I said.

  Come on, he said, a taste! His voice sounded odd. Could it be that he didn’t trust me?

  I took a deep breath, opened my mouth, closed it again. Nothing came to me. All the things I had sketched and thought through, all the situations and punch lines were as if erased. I clamped the phone under my chin and opened the notebook—here I was describing how I drove down the road of hairpin bends. I turned the page—here I was buying groceries in the village. Next page, where were Jana and Ella? Be quiet for a minute, I hissed at Esther. Just a minute, Daddy has to talk on the phone, stop crying!

  Excuse me? asked Schmidt.

  Well, Jana has to move out, I said. Ella throws her out. Because Martin wants to move in with her.

  Martin?

  The tax official, don’t you remember? That causes problems. Complications. Crazy stuff.

  I don’t know, he said. When the movie came out I was audited that same month. And again the year after. And what crazy stuff exactly?

  Esther was now tugging so hard on my pants leg that I had difficulty keeping my balance.

  All different stuff, I said. The craziest stuff.

  Well, then say something. Tell me about the crazy stuff!

  Can I call you back?

  I’m about to meet the people from the funding commission. If you tell me something now, I’ll have something that I can—

  The reception is bad!

  I can hear you fine.

  I hung up, then I kneeled down and kissed and hugged my sobbing child. Esther’s shoulders jerked, the crying shook her body. Where is Mommy? she shouted.

  I told you already, I whispered, and realized with horror that I couldn’t remember what white lie I had resorted to.

  Where is she?

  What was I supposed to say now? If I told her something different from before, she would notice. You know the answer already, I said, lifted her into the air, and whirred like an airplane engine as I heaved her to the right and left and right. She liked that, it actually always worked, and indeed she began to chuckle. The phone vibrated, Schmidt was calling again. I broke out in a sweat, in my fright I whirled Esther with too much force through the air, and again she beg
an to cry.

  Sh-sh-sh, sh-sh-sh, I said. It’s fun. It’s okay. I saw one of her picture books on the floor. I immediately put her down on the sofa, picked up the book, opened it, and began to read aloud. The phone stopped vibrating.

  The book was about a stuffed bear who is for some reason named Tumtwimbly, and is searching in a land that is actually a large bed for a golden treasure that really is a golden treasure and was hidden by pirates a long time ago. In a hoarse voice I read:

  I’ll look over there,

  said Tumtwimbly Bear,

  and I’ll look everywhere,

  until I behold

  the treasure of gold.

  Who writes this stuff, I thought, how do you keep going, how do you live with yourself when you write things like this?

  Why is the bear named Tumtwimbly? I asked. What’s that about?

  Because of his hat, she said.

  I looked at the colorful picture. The bear wasn’t wearing a hat. I decided to let the matter rest. In the last pages Tumtwimbly Bear doesn’t find the treasure, but realizes that there’s something more important than riches: that people are good to each other and live together in peace.

  But why people? I asked. What does he care about people? He’s a bear.

  Esther began to cry again.

  Do you want to watch TV?

  She immediately trembled with joy. Hastily she wiped away her tears. She loves TV more than anything in the world. Normally we don’t allow her to watch it, but now was a good time for an exception. I took the remote control and turned it on. The news was on, I changed the channel, the news again, I changed it again, the woman with the narrow eyes. Her face filled the screen.

  I turned it off. I was ice-cold, the room seemed to be spinning slowly.

  You promised, Esther screamed, why did you turn it off!