Bernhard Aichner - Woman of the Dead - A Thriller

Uma was standing in the road four days ago, shouting, Papa. You must come home. Please, Papa, come home. She had gone downstairs on her own, out of the drive, to the place where he died. Her shouting was loud enough to be heard on the top floors of the house. Blum ran down, picked Uma up, held her close. But she couldn’t say anything to soothe Uma’s pain, they were both helpless. The empty road hurt. There was nothing to be seen now, no blood, no sign of Mark, only Uma’s trembling at a reality that scared her.

The owls fly round the living room while Blum looks for Edwin Schönborn on the internet, while she clicks his homepage and rings his number. The owls land in the bathroom while she phones him and agrees on a date. It’s very spontaneous. She decides to play a game. She baits her trap with flattery, saying she doesn’t want any other photographer, only him, she wants some nude photos, she’s heard he’s the best in the country, so it has to be him. Blum doesn’t want to wait a day longer, she wants to know, at once. She’d like to discuss the photo-shoot with him, she says, she has some ideas and, as chance would have it, she happens to be in the city, money is no object. Blum secures an appointment. She should come to his studio in a hour’s time, he says, he looks forward to meeting her. She hadn’t thought their meeting could be arranged as quickly as that. Blum ends the call and asks Karl to look after the children again. Then she showers, changes and drives into town.

Her heart is thudding. There’s no time to be lost. It’s afternoon on Herzog-Friedrich-Strasse, in the Old Town of Innsbruck. A choice piece of real estate; his rent must cost a fortune. Blum stands at his door and rings the bell. Slowly, she walks upstairs. Blum is breathing deeply, in then out. She must keep her nerve, stay calm. She will meet him without preconceptions, she will just talk to him about photographs, about nudes, about his work. And she will record the conversation, she will take his voice home and play it to Dunya. Blum presses Record, then the studio door opens. Edwin Schönborn smiles and offers her his hand.

It’s a beautiful place, old and high with vaulted ceilings and white leather sofas. The studio is entirely white. Blum sits down and Edwin Schönborn beams at her. White, regular teeth, expensively dressed, a well-groomed man, handsome, maybe in his mid-thirties. He offers her coffee. The studio is perfection, one huge room with desks, sofas, make-up tables, and plenty of room to take photographs. Schönborn is the ideal host. A charming man who does nothing to scare Blum off or make her turn against him. Schönborn could be entirely innocent. Why would he, of all people, be the man – the monster – Blum is looking for? He brings the coffee and sits down. They begin talking and everything seems normal. Blum tells lies, Blum improvises, Blum is expecting to go back downstairs empty-handed. Only when the conversation is in full swing does she get the feeling that Schönborn is in fact the man she’s looking for. Without knowing it, from one minute to the next he is showing his true colours. He is coming into focus.

‘It’s great that you found me.’

‘Yes, indeed. I think I’ll be in safe hands here.’

‘The prerequisite for good nude photos is trust. I’m glad you chose me.’

‘Your work is very beautiful.’

‘You’re too kind.’

‘So sensitive. It’s as though you put your whole heart into your photographs.’

‘I give them everything I’ve got. Every picture ought to be a work of art; it’s meant to reflect your soul, show your desire.’

‘Desire?’

‘What you probably like so much about my photographs is the invisible part.’

‘The invisible part?’

‘What can’t be seen but nonetheless can be imagined: lust, desire. Showing too much ruins a picture. Destroys its eroticism.’

‘I quite agree.’

‘You’re a clever woman. And a beautiful woman as well.’

‘Thank you.’

‘So these photographs are for your husband?’

‘Yes. They’re a surprise.’

‘Underwear?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you want to wear lingerie in the pictures?’

‘No, I’d like to be entirely naked.’

‘A good idea.’

‘And I want to be masturbating.’

‘Wow.’

‘I’d like you to photograph me while I climax.’

‘That’s what you really want? A picture taken while you masturbate?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Okay. You’re on.’

‘But I just want you to photograph my face.’

‘What?’

‘You said a picture comes to life when it keeps secrets. When it doesn’t show too much. So no breasts, no fingers, no cunt. Just my face.’

‘That’s very unusual.’

‘As I said, money is no object.’

‘Very unusual indeed.’

‘If you have a problem with that, let’s just forget the whole thing. Maybe it’s a bad idea.’

‘No, it isn’t, quite the opposite. It’s great.’

‘You think it’s a good idea?’

‘A brilliant idea. I must admit I’ve already had a similar idea myself.’

‘Then it’s a deal?’

‘We’re on.’

‘In the forest?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I’d like to do it in the forest. There’s a wonderful spot between Igls and Patsch. I want you to shoot me naked on the mossy ground.’

‘You want to masturbate out in the forest? Walkers could come past. Are you sure that’s what you want?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it turns me on.’

‘Wow.’

‘I come more easily in public places. I get wild when I know someone might come along. And watch me.’

‘You filthy bitch.’

‘What?’

‘I’m delighted.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘You called me a filthy bitch.’

‘I’m sorry. Forgive me. That was very unprofessional.’

‘You needn’t let that bother you.’

‘That’s good. That’s very good.’

‘Yes, isn’t it just? I’m looking forward to this.’

‘Once again, to avoid any misunderstanding. I’m to photograph your face while you’re having an orgasm.’

‘That’s right. Shall we say tomorrow at four in the afternoon? I’ll pick you up in my car. We can meet outside the theatre. Don’t be late.’

Blum gets to her feet and leaves. Before he can say anything else she’s out in the stairwell. She must stop this, run away, what she said was madness. It simply came over her, she wanted to raise the stakes, see how he would react. She hadn’t expected to hit the bull’s eye. Edwin Schönborn. Blum is sure he’s the man, and Dunya will recognise his voice, his greedy eyes, every word he said. That perverse bastard. He’d already had a similar idea himself, had he? Down the steps fast, don’t look back, don’t react to what he’s calling. Just an offhand See you tomorrow , then out into the street. What would have happened if she had stayed? He’d wanted her to stay, he’d touched her arm. She must go to Dunya, fast, she wants to see her face change when she hears his voice. Blum is sure she will see fear in it, fear and horror.

She drove through the city in the hearse, an ancient Cadillac Superior from 1972. Her father got it from the United States; he wanted to offer his customers something special. Their last drive should be an unusual one. After Hagen’s death, Blum had wondered for a long time whether to part with the car, but she had decided against it. It was the jewel in the crown of the undertakers’ business and she had grown fond of it. So she wasn’t constantly reminded of Hagen, she had the black car resprayed. It was now a snow-white hearse. Blum almost screamed at the painter in the garage for asking her, at least ten times, whether she was really sure about the colour. A white Cadillac. Stately and elegant. An old lady in a white dress treating her passengers with care. White, not black. Life, not death. Blum wanted to be different, to stand out from her competitors. A white hearse was pure provocation.