Melanie Raabe - The Trap

“A long time ago now — twelve years last summer.”

“ Merde !” says Norbert.

“Yes.”

“Did they catch the culprit?”

“No,” I say and swallow hard. “Never.”

“ Putain ,” says Norbert softly. “That’s awful.” We’re both silent for a moment.

“Why have you never told me this before?”

“I don’t like talking about it,” I say. “I’m not very good at pouring my heart out. Maybe that’s why I’ve never really got over it. I have a different way of dealing with things, you know; I get over what’s happened by writing about it. And that’s exactly what I’m doing now.”

Norbert is silent for a long time. Then he nods.

“I see,” he says.

As far as he’s concerned, that’s the end of the matter. He gets up, searches in the kitchen drawer for a corkscrew, finds one, uncorks the bottle of wine he’s brought me and pours us each a glass. A ton is lifted off my mind.

One hour, a great deal of talking, three espressos, a bottle of excellent French rosé and three quarters of a bottle of whisky later, we’re sitting at the kitchen table doubled up with laughter. For what must be the tenth time, Norbert is telling me the story of how he once got so smashed in a bar with a certain politician (who in those days was still fat and endearingly slobbish) that afterward he was caught by two policemen trying to fit his car key into the door of someone else’s Porsche.

Every time he tells me this story, I laugh. I even smile for Norbert when he gets onto the subject of his fiftieth birthday party and the way I freaked out because the band had the nerve to play “All You Need Is Love” by the Beatles.

I remember that evening as if through a veil. It was one of the better evenings not long after Anna’s death, in that strange in-between time, after the shock and before the breakdown, when I was by no means myself anymore but still functioning.

Norbert and I didn’t yet know each other well; I had only recently switched publishers and he had no idea what I’d gone through. Didn’t even know I’d had a sister. I remember drinking Prosecco despite the antidepressants and dancing with Marc, my fiancé, even though I no longer felt anything for him. I remember that I stuck to the dress code and wore white, although I had been going around in black up until then. I remember thinking that this could be my life — going to parties, and drinking Prosecco and dancing, and granting eccentric friends their innocuous wishes. And I remember that I was on the dance floor when the earthquake started — dancing with Marc as the first bars struck up love, love, love —and reality was swallowed up in an insatiable vortex, leaving me behind, leaving me with the blood — with Anna and the blood. I gasped for air and struggled to surface from the blackness, but the song had me in its grasp. I opened my eyes wide. The people around me were singing along. I was gasping for air. Stop! Stop! I cried, inaudibly, and they carried on singing; they didn’t hear me. All you need is love, la-da-da-da-da . Then I really screamed, as loud as I could: Stop! Stop! Stop! I screamed until my throat was sore, and the people around me stopped singing and dancing and turned to look at me, and the band stopped, nonplussed, and I stood there on the dance floor, shrieking: Stop! Stop! Stop! I was still caught in the vortex, still in Anna’s flat, still helpless, still alone, and Marc’s arms were around me and his voice was whispering: Shh, calm down, it’s all okay , and out loud it was saying: Sorry, my fiancée’s had too much to drink. Could you let us through, please?

Norbert doubles up with laughter as he recalls it. He has no idea what really happened that night — thinks I’d simply had one too many, and suffered from a deep-seated and unaccountable aversion to the Beatles.

I don’t talk about what happened to Anna now and I never have. The fact is, there is no longer a single person left in my life who knows that I once had a sister and what happened to her — not counting my parents, that is. No old friends, no classmates, no mutual acquaintances. For the people around me, Anna has never existed.

So how could Norbert associate my freaking out with the murder? That’s why it’s okay for him to laugh. He has no idea about that moment when I entered Anna’s flat and found her lying on the floor, dead or dying, and then spotted her murderer lurking, his eyes cold and pale. For a few horrific seconds I was turned to stone, while Anna had turned to stone forever. I was a statue and Anna was ghastly, rigid and unmoving. The whole room seemed to freeze, except for a single ghostly movement at the edge of my vision. The record player, so cruel and false, with the record — an old record of mine that I’d given to Anna — spinning.

All you need is love, la-da-da-da-da.

The song that is the reason I never listen to the radio, out of sheer terror it might be played.

I swallow the lump in my throat and push the thought far away. It’s good that Norbert’s laughing. Doesn’t matter what he’s laughing at.

I enjoy having him here. I love his sense of humor and his arch cynicism, the kind only those well treated by life can afford. I wish he’d spend the night; there is certainly no shortage of spare rooms. I want to call him a cab, but Norbert insists on driving home, saying something about a meeting the next morning. Damn it! Just when it’s all so nice and normal — a friend here with me who is as close as a big brother, and my dog asleep at his feet, his eyebrows twitching in a dream, as if he’s encountered something quite astonishing. It’s only the three of us, but at this moment my house is full of life.

I suppress a sigh. Of course, it can’t stay this way. I shouldn’t even hope to hold on to such a lovely moment. Any minute now, something will happen to destroy it. What will it be?

It’s Norbert. He gets up. I suppress the impulse to cling to him.

“Please stay,” I murmur. “I’m scared.”

He doesn’t hear me; maybe I didn’t even say it. Norbert takes his coat, glares at me, says that if I absolutely have to write a bloody thriller, the manuscript had jolly well better be good, and staggers off toward the front door. I shouldn’t let him drive in that state. I follow him. My limbs feel like lead.

He turns to face me, grabs me by the shoulders and looks me in the face. I can smell the whisky on his breath.

“A book must be an axe for the frozen sea within us,” he says in an almost accusatory tone.

“Kafka,” I say. Norbert nods.

“You were always quoting that. A book must be an axe, Linda. Don’t forget it. Thriller or not, I need something real from you — something about life and emotions and…”

He mumbles something incomprehensible, lets go of my shoulders and begins to button up his coat. Starts all wrong, gets in a muddle, begins over again, gets it wrong again, nearly blows his top, gives up, leaves his coat undone.

“This book is an axe, Norbert.”

He looks at me, suspicious, then shrugs his shoulders. With a single look, I try to say all the things I can’t put into words. I scream: I’m terribly frightened, I don’t want to die, I need someone to talk to, I’ll drop down dead if he leaves now, I feel like the loneliest person on the planet. I don’t scream loud enough.

My publisher says goodbye with a smack on each cheek. I watch him disappear into the night. I don’t want him to go. I want to tell him everything — about the earthquake, about Anna. I want to tell him my plans. He’s my last chance — the safety of the shore, my anchor. I open my mouth to call out to him, but I can no longer see him. It’s too late; he’s disappeared, cast off.