Sascha Arango - The Truth and Other Lies

Somewhat reassured, Henry put on his slippers, took the bottle of scotch, and crept softly down to the wine cellar to treat himself to a cigar. Not that there was anything to celebrate, but tobacco is a good antidote to negative thoughts. He sat in the cellar on the wooden stool under the naked lightbulb and smoked the entire cigar. Like all those years ago when he’d smoked his first cigar, a factory reject left by his dead father.

On that fateful night, which from a psychological point of view had marked the end of Henry’s childhood, his father had come ranting and raving up the stairs to punish Henry. Henry had hidden under the bed, his urine-soaked pajamas clinging to his legs. His father came into the room snorting like an ox, his sour beery breath polluting the air. He didn’t even turn the light on; he just reached under the bed and pulled him out. Henry could still feel that painful grip, the incredible strength with which the old man grasped him by his pajama top and then felt his trousers.

“Gone and pissed yourself again, have you, junior?”

Of course he had. It happened every night. His father dragged him out of the room to the stairs. Henry clutched the banisters and screamed for his mum. That made the old man even more furious, and he tugged at Henry, who was still clinging to the post. Then the cloth of his pajamas ripped and the heavy man crashed down the stairs to the bottom. There he remained, never to get up again. He was carried out of the house in a black plastic bag with all the neighbors looking. What happened afterward was to prove even worse.

Today, so many years later, Henry came out of the wine cellar completely drunk, tripped over the sleeping dog, and fell sideways on his face. He saw gracefully dancing lights.

The doorbell rang. Poncho leaped up and began to bark. Henry looked at the clock; it was almost eleven. The police — could they be that quick? It is well known that modern investigative techniques can perform wonders, but how the devil had they worked it all out that quickly? Maybe it had been Betty’s emergency call from the car. She hadn’t rung him ; she’d rung the police. That had been her last act of revenge. Now the house was surrounded, and marksmen were lying in wait in the fields. He’d better not get up until they came into the house.

So Henry stayed lying down a little while longer. He saw the glowing cigar butt burn a small hole in the wooden floor, but it didn’t matter anymore. He remembered Dostoevsky’s superb description of the last moments of a man condemned to death before a firing squad. Never again would one minute be so intense. He didn’t like Dostoevsky otherwise, because he was so long-winded and his stories always interlocked in such a complicated way.

The doorbell rang again.

This time urgently, long-long-short, like a Morse code signal. Once again Henry saw into the future. Any second now Martha would come down the stairs. Awful idea, he thought, her watching them handcuff him and read him his rights. I expect she’ll pack my toothbrush and a change of clothes. Bound to cry then. Why did you do it? she’ll ask. I’ll have to come up with a good answer, Henry thought, and he got up to open the door on the inevitable.

Outside in the rain stood Betty.

She was alone. She looked pale and serious. Under her raincoat she had on the tailored houndstooth suit she looked so fantastic in. She’d put up her blond hair, presumably because she knew how much he liked it that way. She looked stunningly healthy and didn’t seem the least bit upset with him.

“Henry, your wife knows everything,” she said.

It was a complicated feeling. On the one hand, joy. Yes, he was glad that Martha knew everything and that Betty wasn’t hurt. Not a scratch was to be seen on her immaculate skin; she hadn’t even caught a cold from the icy water, although that could still happen of course. On the other hand, he was more than a little surprised. How had Betty managed to free herself from the sinking Subaru without ruining her hairdo? She must somehow have gone home and changed. But what was she doing turning up at his house in the best of spirits rather than going to the police? A mystery. Well, there was sure to be a straightforward explanation.

“Have you been drinking, Henry?”

“Me? Yes.”

“Henry, I must have rung you fifty times, but you just didn’t answer.”

There was no tone of reproach in her voice, Henry noted. He would have bet on her at least reproaching him for what he’d done; after all, he had tried to kill her. Instead she stepped out of the rain and kissed him on the mouth. Her kiss tasted of menthol. It was the first time she’d set foot in Henry’s house. Henry could smell the lily-of-the-valley perfume he’d given her. She’d even found time for that.

“It’s so dark here. Have you hurt yourself, my poor love?”

“I fell over.”

“You’re bleeding. Did you understand what I said?”

“No. What did you say?”

“I said: Martha came to see me earlier.”

“Who?”

“Your wife.” Betty spoke to him as if to a child. Henry didn’t like that, but now was not the moment for such trifles. “She already knows everything. Why have you been keeping it from me all this time?”

Henry could hear himself breathing.

“What does Martha know?”

Betty gave a ringing laugh. “Don’t play dumb. She knows about us two. Everything. Has done all along.”

He wondered whether he should go back to the cellar and see whether he’d fallen asleep smoking.

“Did you tell her?” he asked.

“Me? No, you told her everything.” Betty poked his chest with her index finger. Another thing he couldn’t stand.

“She came to see me. In my apartment. It’s all a lot easier than we thought.”

“How does she know where you live?”

The conversation was beginning to tire Betty. She took off her raincoat. “Well, really, she can’t know that from anyone except you. She was sad, and she was very angry and very worried about you. We drank tea together and she told me about your writing crisis. Really, she understands you and she loves you. Afterward she drove to the cliffs.”

Something cold reached into Henry’s chest. It broke through his ribs and churned everything up inside him. Betty saw him turn gray.

——

Martha’s room was neat and tidy as usual. The standard lamp was on, there was a white sheet of paper in the typewriter and the wastepaper basket was empty. Her bed was untouched. A book lay open on the pillow; her swimsuit was next to the bed. She wasn’t in the bathroom either. Henry flung open the window. Martha’s white Saab was parked below in the rain. The headlights were on; the windshield wipers were moving to and fro. He called out her name, but she did not reply.

As he was going slowly down the stairs, he saw Betty’s raincoat on the marten trap. Her slim shoes stood beside it. In the visitors’ bathroom it was dark; the door stood ajar. There were no lights on in the kitchen. Henry followed the smell of cigarette along the wood-paneled corridor to his studio. She came toward him soundlessly out of the dark.

“What’s happened, Henry?”

“She’s gone. Martha’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone? Just like that?”

“Why did you come here?”

“Martha and I had arranged to swap cars again. She asked me to. Hasn’t she come back?”

Betty wanted to walk past him out of the dark corridor. He held her back.

“What are you doing in my studio?”

“You’re hurting me! I was looking for Martha. She’s bound to come back soon. Don’t worry.”

Henry noticed that she was no longer holding the cigarette.

“What did you talk about?”

“What do you think? About you , of course. We must have talked for a whole hour about you. She idolizes you. Then I told her where we always meet.”