Melanie Raabe - The Trap

“Anyway,” Friederike said, jolting Sophie out of her thoughts, “it wouldn’t have made sense for Britta to go on dates. Why would she have carried on dating?”

“What do you mean?” Sophie asked.

“Oh my God,” said Friederike. “Didn’t you know?”

I am having trouble getting used to the idea that Charlotte’s in the kitchen making coffee, when I wanted to avoid having her here at any price. Nothing I can do about it now.

Victor Lenzen looks at me with raised eyebrows when I enter the dining room.

“Everything all right?” he asks, and I have to admire his cold-bloodedness, because of course he knows I’m not remotely all right.

He’s still sitting in the same place, digital recorder in front of him, while the photographer has spread out his equipment on the floor and is eating cake.

“Everything’s great,” I reply, taking care not to let my body language say the opposite. I look at the glass of water at my place at the table, and make a mental note not to drink another drop from it now it’s been unsupervised for a few minutes.

I wonder whether Lenzen has had the same thought and thinks that I might try to poison him . Is that the reason he’s not eating anything?

I’m about to sit down when the photographer stops me.

“Frau Conrads, could we get the photos out of the way first? Then I won’t have to interrupt the interview later.”

I hate having my photograph taken, but of course I don’t say so. Fear of cameras is a weakness. A minor one, perhaps, but a weakness nevertheless.

“Of course. Where would you like me?” He considers for a moment.

“Which is your favorite room?”

The library, no doubt about it, but it’s upstairs and I’m damned if I’m going to let these men traipse all through the house to my inner sanctum.

“The kitchen,” I reply.

“The kitchen it is, then,” says the photographer. “Great!”

“See you in a second,” says Lenzen.

I register the look that the photographer gives him. It’s only a brief glance, but I realize that the two men don’t like each other. This makes the photographer immediately sympathetic to me.

I lead the way. Lenzen is left alone in the dining room. I can see him out of the corner of my eye, playing with his phone. I hadn’t intended to let him out of my sight for an instant, but I have no choice. This has all got off to a bad start.

We enter the kitchen, where Charlotte has put the coffee on. The gurgle of the machine, the smell — it’s familiar and comforting.

“We’re just going to take a few photos,” I say.

“I’m on my way out,” Charlotte replies.

“You’re welcome to stay and watch if you like,” I say, to prevent her from going into the dining room. Even as I say it, I realize it might sound strange. Why would I want her to watch me having my photo taken?

“I’ll go and see what Bukowski’s up to,” Charlotte says. “Where is he?”

“In my bedroom. Make sure he doesn’t get out — we need peace and quiet down here,” I say, and ignore her disapproving look.

She slips out. The photographer positions me at the kitchen table, arranges the newspaper and coffee cups in front of me, takes aim and shoots.

I’m having trouble focusing. My thoughts are on Lenzen in the dining room. I wonder what he’s doing, what he’s thinking, what his plan of action is.

I ask myself what he knows about me. He’s read the book: that much is clear. He will have recognized the murder he committed. I can only speculate on what he felt as he read it. And what about his feelings in the hours, days and weeks that followed? Anger? Fear of discovery? Uncertainty? He had two possibilities: to turn the interview down and keep out of my way, or to come here and face me. He’s gone for the second option. He’s taken the bait. Now he’ll want to find out my plans, and what I have that can be used against him. Over the years, he’s bound to have given a fair amount of thought to the witness to his crime — to that moment when, for an awful instant, we looked each other in the eye in an apartment laid waste by death. Has his crime haunted him? Was he afraid of being discovered? Did he make any attempt to find out who the witness was? Did he find out? Did he think of getting rid of her? Her — me?

“You’re completely different from what I’d imagined,” the photographer says, startling me out of my thoughts.

Concentrate, Linda.

“Really? In what way?”

“I don’t know. I thought you’d be older, crazier. Not as pretty.” That is blunt, but it’s clear that he means it, and I give him a smile.

“You thought I was an old lady?” I say, feigning the amazement that befits a reclusive but by no means crazy author. Then I add coyly, “Didn’t you say you were a fan?”

“Oh, yes, I think your books are terrific,” he says, as he focuses the camera. “But I somehow imagined the author to be old.”

“I see.”

I really do. Norbert once told me I have the mind of an eighty-five-year-old man, and I know what he meant. I’m stuck in my head. I have nothing in common with other women my age. The reality of my life is far removed from that of a normal thirty-eight-year-old. I lead the life of an old lady, with children grown up and gone, husband dead a long time, most friends likewise dead. A frail, housebound old lady. Bodiless. Asexual. Stuck in her head, as I said. That’s the way I live, the way I am, the way I feel — and presumably also the way I sound when I write.

“Apart from anything else,” the photographer continues, “when you hear about a woman who never leaves the house, the first thing you think of is some dotty old thing who lives with twenty cats. Or else a wacko eccentric — Michael Jackson style.”

“I’m sorry I don’t live up to your expectations.”

I say that more brusquely than I’d intended and he falls silent. He goes back to fiddling around with his camera, takes aim once more and shoots. I look at him. He is the picture of health. He is tanned and athletic. He’s wearing a T-shirt, even though it’s winter. He has a small graze on his left hand — I bet he goes skateboarding or something.

The photographer pours a cup of steaming coffee and hands it to me.

“This will look great — with the steam from the coffee in front of your face. I’ll see if I can capture it.”

I take the cup, drink. He shoots.

I look at him and try to guess his age. He seems so young. He’s probably in his late twenties. We’re only separated by a decade, but I feel a hundred years older than him.

My stomach seizes up as if I had a cramp. Charlotte is sitting opposite Lenzen. There’s something the matter with her face; it looks…different. Wrong. There’s something not quite right about her eyes, her mouth, her hands, her whole body; her entire manner is somehow wrong . She looks up when I enter the room and leaps to her feet. I’ve interrupted a conversation — damn it, they’ve been talking to each other for goodness knows how long; the photo shoot has taken a while. Think of all the things that could have happened in that time! I recall my nightmare — Lenzen’s bloody hands, Charlotte with her throat slit, her little boy, the “cheeky devil,” sitting in a pool of blood, and Lenzen looking at his hands and grinning.

I run through all the things Charlotte knows about me and wonder whether she could have said anything that might get me into trouble. But she knows nothing. She knows nothing, thank God, about the microphones in the house, or the cameras, or any of that. But here she is, face-to-face with my sister’s murderer; she exchanges another glance with him, brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, touches her throat with the tips of her fingers, and Lenzen notices — his laughter lines deepen (he has laughter lines and I hate him for his laughter lines; he doesn’t deserve them) and, for a second, I see him through Charlotte’s eyes — an attractive middle-aged man, educated and sophisticated — and at last I know why she looks so wrong to me. She’s flirting. I realize that I have a very one-sided idea of Charlotte. I’ve never seen her with other people, and I realize how out of touch I am with real life, and how little I know about people and relationships. Everything I do know is informed by distant memories and books. Charlotte is flirting quite openly with Lenzen!