Melanie Raabe - The Trap

“Do you have a light?” Lenzen asks.

I shake my head. Hope I’m not going to have a coughing fit; I haven’t smoked for ages. Hope to goodness it’s not all for nothing, and that Lenzen’s going to take one too. He feels in the breast pocket of his jacket for his lighter and finds it. He gives me a light across the table. I get up and lean toward him. His face comes closer; my pulse quickens, and I can see that he has freckles — how amazing, he has a few freckles in among his wrinkles. Our eyes meet, I lower my gaze, my cigarette catches. A click tells me that the photographer has pressed the shutter release button.

I suppress a cough, my lungs are on fire.

Lenzen turns the cigarette packet over in his hands — once, twice — then puts it away.

“I smoke too much,” he says and returns to his notes. What a shame!

Bravely, I smoke the cigarette in long, slow drags. It tastes revolting. I am dizzy. My body isn’t used to the nicotine; it rebels against it. I feel weak.

“Where were we?” Lenzen asks. “Ah yes, the switch in genre. Do you read thrillers yourself?”

“I read everything,” I reply.

I had hoped that, as time went on, I would get used to his wolfish eyes, but it’s not happening. For some minutes, I’ve been trying not to run my hand through my hair, because I know it’s a gesture of insecurity, but now I can’t hold it back any longer. Once again, the photographer releases the shutter.

“What thrillers have impressed you recently?” Lenzen asks.

I list a handful of authors I rate highly — a few Americans, some Scandinavians, the odd German.

“You live an extremely secluded life. Where do you find your inspiration?”

“There are good stories on every street corner,” I say, stubbing out the cigarette.

“Only you never go out on the street,” Lenzen replies smugly. I choose to ignore him.

“I am very interested in what goes on in the world,” I say. “I read the papers, watch the news, spend a lot of time on the Internet, gathering information. The world is full of stories; you have to keep your eyes open. And, of course, I’m extremely grateful to modern means of communication and to the media for making it possible for me to bring the world into my house.”

“How do you research? Also on the Internet?”

I am about to reply when I hear it. My breathing and heartbeat suddenly quicken.

It’s not possible. You’re imagining things.

My jaws tighten.

“I do most of my research by…” I say, trying to concentrate.

“For this book, I read, I read…”

I’m not imagining things; it really is there. I hear music. Everything’s spinning.

“I read a lot about the psyche of…I…”

Love, love, love. The music swells. I blink, my breathing is galloping, I’m close to hyperventilating. Lenzen is right in front of me, his cold, pale eyes turned on me, cruel and patient.

I gasp, disguise it as a cough, break off. For a moment, everything goes black. Keep breathing! Nice and calm! I grope for an anchor, find my water glass, feel it in my hand, smooth and cool. Up, help me up, I have to surface! Here, this smooth, cool feeling in my hand, this is reality — not the music. But it’s still playing; I hear it quite clearly, that awful tune.

All you need is love, la-da-da-da-da…

My throat is so dry. I pick up the glass, try to guide it to my lips, spill a little. I’m trembling. I struggle to drink, and then remember that I’m not supposed to drink out of the glass, and put it back down.

“Sorry,” I manage to croak.

Lenzen says something. I hear him as if from under water. The photographer comes into view, a blur. I try to put him in focus. I get hold of the edge of the pool and although the music is still playing— la-da-da-da-da —I surface. I look at the photographer. I look at Lenzen. They don’t react. I can still hear the music, but they can’t. I don’t dare ask them. I mustn’t seem mad.

“I’m sorry, what was the question again?” I say, and clear my throat.

“How did you go about the research for your latest book?” Lenzen asks.

I get a grip on myself and reel off the answer I’ve prepared. The photographer circles us and snaps, and I’m back on track, talking on autopilot. Inside, though, I’m in shock. My nerves are playing a trick on me; I’m hearing things, terrible things, and just when I need to be mentally tough.

Bloody hell, Linda, bloody hell.

Lenzen asks another trivial question and I reply. The music goes quiet. The world is turning again. The photographer is staring at his camera. Lenzen looks at him expectantly.

“Are you done?” he asks.

“Yep,” the photographer replies, without looking at Lenzen.

“Thank you, Frau Conrads,” he says. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” I reply and get up, weak-kneed as a newborn calf. “I’ll see you to the door.”

It does me good to walk a few meters and get my circulation going again. I had almost fainted. It was a near thing. It mustn’t happen again — not as long as that man’s in my house.

The photographer packs up and shoulders the bag with his equipment. He gives Lenzen a nod, then follows me to the front door. The dizziness is only gradually subsiding; it’s still coming at me in brief bursts.

“See you,” the photographer says, taking his parka down from the coat hook. He gives me a warm handshake and looks me in the eye for a moment. “Take care of yourself,” he says, then he’s gone.

For a few seconds I watch him go, then I throw back my shoulders and head back to the dining room. I come to an abrupt halt when my eye falls on Lenzen’s coat. I’d better give it a quick frisk — you never know. I glance at the dining-room door. I can’t hear anything. Quickly, I search the coat pockets, but they are empty. My heart skips a beat when a sound comes from behind me. I spin around.

Victor Lenzen is standing in front of me. He looks at me searchingly.

“Everything all right?” he asks. His gaze is inscrutable.

“Everything’s great. I’m looking for a tissue,” I say, pointing at my cardigan, which is hanging on the hook next to the coat.

For a moment we stand there, neither of us saying a word. The moment drags on. Then Lenzen’s face brightens and he smiles at me. What an actor.

“I’ll wait for you in the dining room.” And he turns around and is gone.

I take a deep breath and count to fifty. Then I, too, return to the dining room. Lenzen is sitting at the table; he gives me a friendly look as I go in. I’m on the point of telling him we can continue when the landline starts up again. Who can it be?

“Maybe you should answer it,” says Lenzen. “It seems to be important.”

“Yes,” I reply. “Maybe I should. Please excuse me.”

I walk into the living room and approach the mad ringing. I give a baffled frown when I see the Munich number on the display. I know the number; I dialed it just the other day. With trembling fingers, I pick up the receiver, well aware that, in the next room, Lenzen can hear every word I say.

“Linda Conrads.”

“Frau Conrads,” says Professor Kerner. “I’m glad I’ve got ahold of you.”

He sounds strange.

“What is it?” I ask, instantly alarmed.

“I’m afraid I have rather bad news for you,” he replies. I hold my breath.

“You inquired about the traces of DNA at the scene of your sister’s murder,” Kerner continues. “Well, I was curious and looked into the matter.”

He hesitates. A dark foreboding creeps over me. If he’s going to say what I think he’s going to say, I don’t want to hear it. Least of all now.