Christian Jungersen - You Disappear

When we get home, Frederik goes up and takes a nap, and I start to text Niklas, telling him the apartment wasn’t anything for us, and that I have an appointment to look at another one a little later.

As I stand there, cell in hand, Bernard calls. The prosecutor’s misplaced some of the files, and Bernard wants to hear if we have a backup somewhere. I’m sure we do. When Frederik still had his act together, he always backed up our most important files on an external hard drive. It’s over at Vibeke and Thorkild’s, in case of fire or theft at our place. I promise to make him a copy.

“Now that I’ve got you,” I say, “are you doing anything forty-five minutes from now?”

“No …”

“Any chance you want to go with me to look at an apartment?”

“Yeah … Sure, I can do that.”

• • •

The apartment’s on the second floor of an old house on one of the residential streets nearby. The ground floor has large bricked-up windows and must have been a store once. From the outside, it all looks a bit run-down, but that’s also probably why the apartment’s affordable.

Another realtor from the same agency lets us in. His colleague must have said something about Frederik, for the realtor looks at Bernard oddly, as if he keeps expecting him to act weird.

An old narrow stairway leads up to an apartment that is darker than the one I saw with Frederik. A converted attic, but I can see right away that it’s got character. We walk around wordlessly and look. From the small bay windows in back, I look down on a hidden yard that is larger than the one we have on Station Road. It’s neglected and overgrown, but it looks like it has some interesting plants, suggesting that at one point, somebody invested some effort in it. In a few summers, it could be very nice.

The agent follows my gaze. “The yard has potential. You’d be sharing it with the tenant downstairs, but you can see they haven’t had the time to use it very much or take care of it. You can put your own stamp on it, and most of the time you should be able to use it without being bothered.”

Without saying anything, I turn to see what could be done with the central room. If we tear down the wall it shares with the kitchen, we could have a large open room for cooking and eating. We’d probably spend most of our time there, and then the other two rooms could be bedrooms.

The outside wall between this room and the backyard also catches my eye. Apparently, Bernard sees the same thing I do, for he asks the agent, “Would it be possible to put in some large windows and a balcony here?”

“It’s certainly possible. If you wanted to put in a full balcony, it’d block some of the light for the downstairs tenant, so you’d have to get permission from them. But there shouldn’t be any problem with putting in windows and a French balcony.”

“And this wall here,” Bernard says, indicating the wall between the central room and the kitchen. “It doesn’t look like a load-bearing wall.”

“No, you could knock that out if you wanted.”

I catch Bernard’s eye: French balcony doors on an open kitchen and living room, looking out over a yard that’s all but our own. There’d be a flood of light up here, and a view. We could eat, relax, sit in the balcony opening, and watch the sun drop behind the trees.

Then Bernard says, “The garage that the listing mentions — is that the one I can see down there?”

“Yes.”

“There wouldn’t be any problem using it for a workshop, would there?”

“You can do what you want with it.”

I have to sit down. This is much more than what I resigned myself to: Frederik would have his own workshop. I struggle to keep my cool so that we can push them on the price.

Bernard walks past me and his fingertips brush my shoulder; I think it’s a signal, to warn me that my excitement is a bit too obvious. He turns, and his face expresses calm, but when the realtor looks away, I can see Bernard’s relieved on my behalf.

On his way into one of the other rooms, the agent says, “If you made this the master bedroom, you’d get some fantastic morning sun.”

At some point, I suppose we’ll have to tell him that Bernard isn’t my husband.

“The stairs are very narrow,” Bernard says, with convincing dissatisfaction.

He’s well aware that I’d be only too happy to have a narrow stairway. It would create a little psychological distance from the street in case the Medico-Legal Council report goes against Herdis Lebech’s recommendation, and lots of people continue to despise us.

The realtor’s phone rings. He excuses himself and goes down the stairs. After making sure he’s out of earshot, Bernard comes over within whispering distance.

“This place — it really is you.”

In my relief I could almost hug him.

“Your dinner table could stand here, right next to the balcony doors.”

“Yes, and the paneling’s from the same period.”

He walks over to a corner of the main room that would make a nice quiet nook. “Your armchair would be perfect here.”

I place myself at his side and try to see the corner the way it would look after we arranged the furniture.

“And then the two chairs you used to have in Frederik’s office could stand here.”

“Yes,” I say, “but there’s not much room for my coffee table. Yours, however, would be narrow enough — and work great with the chairs.”

The words just fly out of my mouth. I wasn’t thinking of anything except how perfectly his table would fit.

We look into each other’s eyes. Is it my imagination, or could we kiss now? What would he do if I brought my mouth closer to his?

I allow myself at last to look at his face, long enough to take in the curl of his eyelashes, the pores of his skin, a broken blood vessel on his temple; the crow’s-feet in the corners of his eyes. I see everything.

So aren’t we going to kiss? Isn’t he going to come closer? Isn’t there going to be an exchange of glances and small advances, a drawing of breath, a dilation of pupils?

“The slanting walls here make for great acoustics!” the agent’s voice exclaims.

I turn around and find him looking at Bernard.

“And it shouldn’t be any problem to install extra electrical circuits,” he adds while the corners of his mouth tighten slightly, as if he’s suppressing a smile.

I clear my throat. “There must be some misunderstanding,” I say. “Bernard’s just a good friend.”

“Ohhh.” Now it’s me the realtor stares at.

“I need to see the bathroom too,” I say, leaving the room quickly. Inside the bathroom, I lock the door behind me.

Maybe I’ve also become unbalanced; maybe Frederik infected me. Two of the women from support group say they feel as if they’ve contracted their husbands’ disease. They become confused just like their men, take the initiative much less often, fumble for words.

And maybe, just like Frederik, I believe that I’m fully rational and well when in reality I’m doing something crazy. It’s not something I’d be aware of. I wouldn’t realize it any more than he does.

I fall into my usual escape fantasy about playing tennis. The sultry heat, the low sun. The strike of ball against racket; the sweat running into my eyes. A stroke. The sweat reaching the bridge of my nose now. Skidding on the crushed stone. Another stroke. I glimpse my opponent, and it’s Bernard I’m playing. He’s good. Athletic, power in his strokes. A handsome profile in the evening light. The fantasy’s mine, but Bernard has followed me here. Stroke on stroke. I’ve got to get away from him.

Another fantasy: my happiest years with Frederik. Sitting in the hanging sofa in our yard. We’ve blown off the neighbor’s garden party to be by ourselves. I rest my head against his chest. The sun still coloring the northern sky. His strong arm around me … but wait, Frederik’s arms aren’t strong! I turn my face and find myself looking up at Bernard. I’m not resting my head on Frederik’s chest; it’s Bernard I’ve run off with. I’ve been to the neighbor’s party with Bernard. I’ve got to leave again.