Alina Bronsky - Broken Glass Park

He looks away. Bingo.

“Go ahead,” I insist. “I’m not going to flip out. I won’t even get a bit upset.”

He remains silent.

“Come on, Felix. Did he tell you about. . about my mother?”

Felix nods and looks over at me. “Why are you laughing?” he says, appalled.

“I always laugh when I shouldn’t,” I say. “Let me guess what he told you. He said that my mother was shot by my stepfather. That it created quite a furor. A huge story that made headlines all across the country. That I’m a poor little orphan — but a smart one, and one whose story is well known. And that you shouldn’t bother me with questions. Am I right?”

Felix goes so pale that his freckles stand out. “That’s not the way he said it,” he mumbles hoarsely. “It was that you. . that your. . that. . there was a family tragedy or something. What you said. . is that. . is that all true?”

I sigh. “Where was the cheese again?” I ask. “I’m not into jam.”

Felix jumps up and nearly knocks his chair over.

“Here,” he says, still looking at me in shock. “I. . uh. . I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s the same for most everybody,” I say. “You’re in good company.” I smile encouragingly at him. He grimaces back.

“Hey,” I say. “Life is beautiful. Sometimes. You know who you look like?”

“Yeah, I know,” he murmurs. “The guy who plays Ron Weasley in the Harry Potter movies.”

“Yes, but more in the later movies. When he had long hair.”

“Have you seen them?”

“Yeah,” I say seriously. “Because of my mother. She loved Harry Potter. Like loads of people. She couldn’t wait for each new installment. And then. . you know. . I had to watch the last movie. . without her.”

I stand up and walk to the window.

When I turn around, big Felix looks very small sitting in his chair. He looks at me fearfully. I sit back down. Felix fidgets in his seat like Anton.

I try to imagine what Anton is doing right now.

“I have to make a quick call,” Felix says, getting up.

I nod, lost in my thoughts, trying to picture the scene at home.

A few minutes later I grab the John Irving book out of the guest room, lean it up against the juice bottle and read while finishing my breakfast.

That’s how Volker Trebur finds me.

He really scares me. I don’t hear him come in. He’s carrying a big box of groceries, puts them down on the table with a sigh, and bends to see what book I’m reading.

I jump.

“Did I startle you?” he says, smiling. “Enviable concentration power.”

“Hello. No, not startled.”

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, very well.”

He sits down opposite me and shakes his hands. “Heavy box,” he says. “I’m Volker.”

“Sascha.” I close the book, suddenly thinking it’s rude to have it open with him there. I start to load the dishes into the dishwasher.

“Sascha,” he repeats pensively. “I don’t want to pry, but what was wrong at home?”

“What do you mean?”

“You needed to get away so badly. Does that happen a lot?”

I gather the dirty forks and knives. I try to shrug my shoulders.

“There was unpleasantness,” I finally say, but it doesn’t sound very convincing.

“Are you eighteen already?”

“Almost. Seventeen and two months.”

“Does your guardian know where you are staying?”

“My guardian,” I say, “doesn’t know a thing, unfortunately. Not a thing. I can go where I want. I said I was going to a friend’s place. They can reach me on my mobile if there’s a problem at home.”

“So,” says Volker, reaching out and breaking off a piece of a croissant that’s in the bread basket, “you think it’s all right for you to be here?”

“I don’t think it,” I say. “I know it. Family services are never going to try to charge you with kidnapping.”

“Uh-huh. Very comforting.”

“I can leave if you don’t want me here.”

“That’s ridiculous.” And then, after a pause: “You’ve already met Felix.”

“Yes. Last night.”

“Yes, I heard. Thank goodness I sleep with earplugs in. Though I think I still felt the vibration.”

“What vibration?”

“From the TV when you stepped on the remote.”

“Oh, yeah, that,” I say. What did I think he meant?

“Monday is a holiday,” says Volker Trebur.

“Yeah?” I say indifferently. “Which one is it now?”

“May Day — first of May.”

“Aha.”

“But Tuesday you have to be back at school.”

“Let me worry about that.”

“Are you going to skip?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Do you want to get a doctor’s note?”

I sigh.

His eyes are laughing. “Am I getting on your nerves?” he asks.

“No,” I say and lose myself in his gaze. “But I must be getting on yours.”

“Not in the slightest,” he says seriously. “And I think Felix is pleased.”

“Not anymore,” I say. “I gave him the whole tragic family history over breakfast. He’s still in shock.”

Volker Trebur’s face tightens. “He didn’t. . ”

“He didn’t ask a thing, no. I told him on my own. I just assumed he already knew.”

“Yeah,” Volker says slowly, “it’s hard for him to deal with things like that.”

“He’ll manage,” I say a bit bitterly. “After all, I managed.”

“Please excuse me,” he says. “For god’s sake, I’m sorry.”

“No problem.”

I pick up the book again. I’m not sure what to do. Stay here or go back to bed or out into the garden? The magic of the morning has dissipated. Not sure when or why.

“I knew your mother,” Volker says as I’m deciding what to do.

“How?” I look at him.

“I was introduced to her once. She received an award, for. . ” He squints and snaps his fingers. “It was an oddlyphrased citation. Something like ‘aiding successful integration.’ I was on the jury. Sometimes you get asked to do these types of things.”

“Poor you.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I shouldn’t complain. Anyway, that was the setting.”

“So you saw her in passing? Or did you hand her the envelope with the 300 euros in it?”

“Why so prickly? I talked with her. She was an extraordinary woman.”

“Did you notice that right away?” I ask excitedly.

“Yes,” he says calmly. “I did.”

I fidget with the pages of the book.

“That’s why I was so shocked to hear that she. . ” He hesitates and cracks his knuckles. A horrible noise.

“. . was gunned down,” I say. “Shot in the head, in the stomach, in the. . ”

His face changes.

“. . in the legs,” I continue. “Luckily in that order. I think as a result she didn’t feel much. Why are you so pale?”

His hands fall from the table to his lap and his fingers interlock.

“Oops,” I say. “Have I said something you didn’t already know?”

“Stop,” he says, not meeting my gaze. “Please stop.”

“Does it sound grisly? I thought you would have seen all the articles, because of your job. Every entry wound was thoroughly discussed in the press. Have to keep people up to speed.”

“Not those details,” he says barely audibly. “I haven’t read about those.”

“When it’s about someone you know a little, it all sounds very different, right?”

“Stop,” he says, suddenly getting up. “Please.”

“Volker,” I say slowly. “Did you possibly know my mother a little better than that?”

He sits down heavily and folds his hands. “What do you mean by that?” he asks.

“It’s crazy,” I say, “how small the world is.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks haltingly.