Richard House - The Kills

The video is puzzling: the man picking up stones and placing them elsewhere achieves nothing, however deliberate the action. On TV the characters speak to you, the radio plays songs overstuffed with meaning. This, similarly, feels directed. It’s a pointless activity with no result. That’s what she sees, and what troubles her is that by looking directly into the camera the panda-headed man appears to know it too. And he knows that you know. That, day to day, most of what you do is pointless. Aren’t you ever going to figure that out?

* * *

The rain stops abruptly at eight o’clock. Rike walks without purpose and finds herself on Tomas’s street, outside his apartment. She’s much more interested in the hospital and the idea that Sutler Number Three lies inside in some private room with security guards. A lot of people are working hard to keep him safe and alive. She hurries across the street to the café conscious that if Tomas sees her she’ll have to explain herself — although, would that really be so bad? An hour’s longer meandering through the shuttered streets of the main town than she’d intended means that she’s missed the preparations for the day — and isn’t Saturday always a day in which a routine is followed: families go shopping, provisions are bought, obligations are fulfilled. Time is spent with the people you live with, the people you love. Isn’t this what Saturday means?

As she steps into the café Rike is treated to a quick view of Tomas on his balcony. Tomas, four flights up, comes out, the morning’s first coffee in his hand, and gives the street a quick overview. Nothing in particular to be discovered, nothing to observe.

The day has long-started and Rike has missed the judge’s walk, missed seeing also how he dries the dog’s paws on his handkerchief before he returns to his apartment, how he pets and spoils the dog with treats from his jacket pocket. The street is wet and the air smells of rain, vehicles drum by occasionally, faster than they should. One ambulance, and two police cars. People walk with open umbrellas as balconies and awnings funnel down the last of the rain. To the east the sun strikes the glass front of the judge’s apartment to throw spars of light onto the opposite wall — and in these bright patches she can see where the plaster wasn’t always painted magenta, underneath appears a faint ghost of decoration. Inside the apartment, a man, the judge, sorts through sheaves of paper stacked along a table. He walks to the window to stand in the sunlight, the papers held high as he reads. A woman cleans in the kitchen behind him. Light bounces through to illuminate pans and book spines and bleach colour from the walls. Down in the darker street a waiter takes coffee to a car and squats beside the driver to talk. As she sips her coffee she imagines the driver peeling back the foil cap, sweetening, stirring, then looking out at the same street. He pauses for a moment, anticipating the taste. That, right there, is the story of the morning.

Behind her, on the radio, is news of a massacre in Syria. Thirty-four civilians killed, among the number are men queuing for temporary work, and thirteen children, all of them deliberately sought out and shot. Here, in Limassol, there are reports of a hotel fire, suspicions suggested, but not spoken outright. Bad things are happening everywhere and they must be announced.

The waiter brings a second coffee, and because it’s quiet she allows herself to be caught in a conversation.

The water speaks excellent English, some German. He asks where she’s from and when she says Hamburg, he’s suddenly enthusiastic. His favourite place is Berlin. The Funkturm. The Political Sector, not so new now. He wants to study architecture, and Berlin is his preferred choice if he can get a place and a scholarship.

Rike asks about the café, and he answers, less interested, that it’s been here forever, although they’ve only run it for, what was it, four years now? He can’t remember. And no, the owner is an English woman who used to be a nurse.

‘There are some characters here. On this street. The judge.’

The boy asks her to repeat what she’s just said.

Rike answers in German. ‘A judge. With the dog, a small dog. On the top floor?’

The waiter shakes his head. There’s no judge.

‘His driver?’

Again, the man doesn’t know what she’s talking about. ‘Does she like Berlin? All of the buildings? It’s a nice place.’

A nice place, she agrees, a little put out that he hasn’t understood.

* * *

Rike receives a call from Isa as she returns to the apartment. Isa asks where she is and Rike explains that she couldn’t sleep so took an early walk. Is everything all right?

‘I’ve just spoken with Mattaus.’ Isa sounds weary. ‘He’s coming for dinner tonight with his new friend?’ Isa’s voice is strained and it’s clear that this isn’t the reason for the call. Rike says she could be back in five minutes, is there anything she needs to pick up?

Isa takes in a long breath. ‘Mattaus was asking questions about the apartment in Hamburg.’

‘What did he want to know?’

‘His plans have changed.’

‘About the apartment?’

‘Yes. It looks like Franco is being difficult.’

‘Why hasn’t he called me directly?’

‘I don’t know.’

The reason for the call becomes blindingly obvious. ‘I can’t stay there, can I?’

Isa begins to explain that she understands how inconvenient this all is, but understandable.

‘It isn’t his. It’s Franco’s, they bought it together. It’s their place. I’ve had everything shipped there already. I’ve paid to have everything delivered.’

Isa heaves out a breath. ‘That’s not the point, is it? The problem here is that Mattaus and Franco have broken up, and Mattaus needs his place back.’ Isa pauses. ‘Look. We can arrange for someone to pick up all of your things. It can all go in storage. You don’t have to go back.’

‘And what am I supposed to do now? Where am I supposed to live?’

Rike stops at the entrance to the apartment.

‘I’m not happy.’

‘He wants you to think about it before tonight.’

‘Think about what? If I can’t stay there then there’s nothing to think about except what I’m supposed to do with my belongings and where I’m going to live.’

‘Then think about that.’

‘I could have stayed in London. Do you know how much this has cost me?’

‘He said he was sorry.’

‘Then he can call me, he knows my number. He can tell me just how sorry he is.’

‘Maybe he didn’t call because he knew you’d react like this. I don’t understand why you are so hostile to him. This is his business. His life, his apartment. Why do you have these expectations of him?’

‘I should have known that you’d take his side.’

Isa complains that this isn’t about taking sides. If Mattaus is starting a new relationship then he needs to resolve the details from his old one, in his own time, in his own way. The apartment is one of those elements. Surely she can understand?

Rike’s shoes scuff on the steps. ‘Isa, this is too much, it really is.’ She comes quickly to the door fixing a hair clasp as she walks and decides that this isn’t where she wants to be. If Mattaus is coming tonight with his new friend, there will be arrangements to make, a whole day of preparation, which, given how things usually work out, will fall on Rike, not Isa.