Melanie Raabe - The Trap

Charlotte nods, nervously scratching her tattooed lower arm.

“Okay.”

I can no longer restrain myself and I fling my arms around her neck. Earlier today, I had asked her whether the journalist who had interviewed me had been in touch with her and she said no. In any case, I don’t believe that Lenzen would harm Charlotte. He’s not stupid.

Charlotte suffers my embrace. I hold her tight for a few seconds, then let her go.

“Er, thanks,” Charlotte mumbles, embarrassed. “I’ll go and pack the dog’s things then.” And she takes herself off upstairs.

I’m immensely relieved, almost cheerful even. I’m about to go in my study when I stop in the hall and stare in amazement at the little orchid I fetched in from my conservatory a few months ago. I’ve tended it with care, fed it fertilizer, watered it once a week, given it frequent attention. But it is only now that I see the new stem it’s put out. The buds on it are tiny, unspectacular and tight, but already they hold the lush splendor of exotic blooms. It seems a miracle. I decide to entrust the plant to Charlotte’s care as well. I wouldn’t want it dying while I’m away.

The rest of the day I’ve spent at my laptop in my study, reading. I’ve discovered that orchids can survive practically anywhere — in soil, on rocks and stones, on other plants. They can, in theory, continue to grow indefinitely, but almost nothing is known about how long they can live.

At some point, Charlotte left. Bukowski made a scene when she put him in her car, as if he feared that something awful was in store. He knows Charlotte’s car because she’s the one who drives him to the vet, but he was still distraught. I stroked him a bit and ruffled his fur, but only a little. I didn’t want him to think we were parting for good.

Hope to see you again, mate.

After Charlotte and Bukowski had left, I went into the conservatory and watered my plants. When I’d finished, I made myself some coffee. Then, cup in hand, I wandered into my library, breathed in its soothing smell and looked out of the window for a while, until my coffee began to grow cold and the world outside began to grow dark.

It is night. There’s nothing left to do. I am ready.

Epilogue

SOPHIE

She had bumped into him quite by chance. She had gone to a pub she’d never been to before and, although it was pretty full, had spotted him at once.

He was sitting at the bar on his own, a drink in front of him. Sophie could hardly believe it. Then it occurred to her that he might think she was stalking him, and was on the point of walking out again when he turned and spotted her. She gave an embarrassed smile and went over.

“Are you following me?” Jonas Weber asked.

“Pure coincidence, honest,” Sophie replied.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” he said. “Do you come here often?”

“I often walk this way, but today’s the first time I’ve been inside.”

Sophie swung herself onto an empty barstool.

“What are you drinking?” she asked.

“Whisky.”

“Okay,” said Sophie and turned to the barman. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

The landlord poured her a glass and set it in front of her.

“Thanks.”

Sophie contemplated the clear brown liquid, making it slosh back and forth a little in the glass.

“What shall we drink to?” she asked at last.

“I’m drinking to the official failure of my marriage,” said Jonas. “How about you?”

Sophie hesitated, unable to digest what she’d heard. She wondered whether she should comment but decided against it.

“I always used to say: to world peace,” she said. “But the world isn’t peaceful and isn’t ever going to be.”

“No toast then,” said Jonas.

They looked into each other’s eyes, clinked their glasses together and knocked back the whisky.

Sophie dug a banknote out of her trouser pocket and placed it on the bar.

“Keep the change,” she said to the barman.

She turned to Jonas. He looked at her with his strange eyes.

“You’re leaving already?” he asked.

“I have to.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I have someone waiting for me at home,” said Sophie.

“Oh. You and your fiancé are…back together?” His voice was neutral.

“No, I’ve found somebody else and I don’t want to leave him on his own for long. Would you like to see him?”

Before Jonas could reply, Sophie had pulled her mobile from her jeans pocket. She made a few hasty taps on the display and then thrust a photo of a tousled pup under his nose.

“Isn’t he gorgeous?” she asked. Jonas had to smile.

“What’s he called?”

“I’m thinking of calling him after one of my favorite authors. Maybe Kafka.”

“Hm.”

“You’re not convinced?”

“Kafka’s definitely a good name. But he somehow doesn’t look like a Kafka.”

“What does he look like then? And don’t come with any of your poets; I’m not calling him Rilke.”

“I think he looks like a Bukowski.”

“Like a Bukowski?” Sophie asked, indignant. “Wasted and boozy?”

“No, unkempt. And kind of cool.”

Jonas shrugged. He was about to say something when his phone rang. He didn’t answer, and a brief buzz announced the arrival of a voice mail.

“You need to call back,” Sophie said. “A new case.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I have to be going anyway.”

Sophie got down off the barstool. She looked Jonas in the eyes.

“Thank you,” she said.

“What for? You’re the one who caught him.” Sophie shrugged.

“Thanks all the same,” she said. She planted a kiss on Jonas’s cheek and disappeared.

My world is a thousand-square-meter disk and I am standing on the edge. Out there, on the other side of my front door, lurks my fear.

I push down the handle, open the door. Before me is darkness. For the first time in many years I’m wearing a coat.

I take a tiny step and the stabbing pain in my head is back. But I have to get through this — through the fear. The front door falls shut behind me; there’s something final about the sound it makes. Night air hits me in the face. The stars twinkle in a cold sky. All at once, I’m unbelievably hot; my guts seize up. But I take another step, and another. I am a lonely seafarer on foreign waters. I am the last human being on a deserted planet. I stumble on — ever onward. I reach the edge of the terrace. It is black all around me.

This is where the grass begins. I set one foot in front of the other, feeling the soft meadow beneath my feet. Then I stop, out of breath. The darkness is inside me. I feel sweat on my forehead.

My fear is a dark well that I have fallen into. I’m suspended vertically in the water. I try to touch the bottom with my toes, but there’s nothing there, only blackness. I close my eyes and let myself fall. I’m sinking in the dark, my body is drifting down, swallowed by the water; I’m being sucked down. The well is bottomless; I’m sinking deeper and deeper and I let it happen: my eyes closed, arms waving above me like waterweed. Then, all of a sudden, I reach the bottom of the well, cool and firm. I feel it brush my toes, and soon my weight is resting on it and I’m standing.

I open my eyes and notice in amazement that here, in the heart of darkness, I can stand and breathe effortlessly. I look about me.

The lake is still. A light breeze whispers at the edge of the woods. There are crackling, rustling noises all around me. Birds in the undergrowth, perhaps, or a busy hedgehog or prowling cat, and I realize how much life there is here, even if I can’t see it. I am not alone — all those animals in the woods, on the meadow, in the lake and on the shore — all the roe deer and red deer, all the foxes and wild boars and martens, all the little owls and tawny owls and barn owls, the trout and the pike, the grasshoppers, ladybirds and gnats. So much life.