When I’d calmed down, I went into the living room and sat down to leaf through an engineering periodical. The sun had gone down but it wasn’t necessary to switch the lights on as yet. I leafed back and forth through the pages. The veranda door was open. I lit a cigarette. I heard the distant sound of an airplane, otherwise it was completely quiet. I grew restless again and I got to my feet and went out into the garden. There was nobody there. The gate in the wooden fence was ajar. I walked over and closed it. I thought: she’s probably looking at me from behind the scrub. I went back to the garden table, moved one of the chairs slightly so that the back of it faced the woods, and sat down. I convinced myself that I wouldn’t have noticed it if there had been someone standing in the laundry room looking at me. I smoked two cigarettes. It was beginning to grow dark, but the air was still and mild, almost warm. A pale crescent moon lay over the hill to the east and the time was a little after ten o’clock. I smoked another cigarette. Then I heard a faint creak from the gate, but I didn’t turn around. She sat down and placed a little bouquet of wildflowers on the garden table. What a lovely evening, she said. Yes, I said. Do you have a cigarette? she said. I gave her one, and a light. Then, in that eager, childlike voice I’ve always found hard to resist, she said: I’ll fetch a bottle of wine, shall I? – and before I’d decided what answer to give, she stood up, took hold of the bouquet and hurried across the lawn and up the steps of the veranda. I thought: now she’s going to act as if nothing has happened. Then I thought: then again, nothing has happened. Nothing she knows about. And when she came back with the wine, two glasses and even a blue-check tablecloth, I was almost completely calm. She had switched the light on above the veranda door, and I turned my chair so I was sitting facing the woods. Beate filled the glasses, and we drank. Mmm, she said, lovely. The woods lay like a black silhouette against the pale blue sky. It’s so quiet, she said. Yes, I said. I held out the cigarette pack to her but she didn’t want one. I took one myself. Look at the new moon, she said. Yes, I said. It’s so thin, she said. I didn’t reply. Do you remember the dogs in Thessaloniki that got stuck together after they’d mated, she said. In Kavala, I said. All the old men outside the café shouting and carrying on, she said, and the dogs howling and struggling to get free from one another. And when we got out of the town, there was a thin new moon like that on its side, and we wanted each other, do you remember? Yes, I said. Beate refilled our glasses. Then we sat in silence for a while, for quite a while. Her words had made me uneasy, and the subsequent silence only heightened my unease. I searched for something to say, something mundane and diversionary. Beate got to her feet. She came around the garden table and stopped behind me. I grew afraid, I thought: now she’s going to do something to me. And when I felt her hands on my neck I gave a start and lurched forward in the chair. At almost the same instant I realized what I had done and without turning around, I said: You scared me. She didn’t answer. I leaned back in the chair. I could hear her breathing. Then she left.

  Finally I got up to go inside. It had grown completely dark. I had drunk up the wine and thought up what I was going to say – it had taken some time. I brought the glasses and the empty bottle but, after having thought about it, left the blue-check tablecloth where it was. The living room was empty. I went into the kitchen and placed the bottle and the glasses beside the sink. It was a little past eleven o’clock. I locked the veranda door and switched off the lights, and then walked upstairs to the bedroom. The bedside light was on. Beate was lying with her face turned away and was asleep, or pretending to be. My duvet was pulled back, and on the sheet lay the cane I’d used after my accident the year we’d got married. I picked it up and was about to put it under the bed but changed my mind. I stood holding it while staring at the curve of her hips under the thin summer duvet and was almost overcome by sudden desire. Then I hurried out and went down to the living room. I had the cane with me and without quite knowing why, I brought it hard down across my thigh, and broke it in two. My leg smarted from the blow, and I calmed down. I went into the study and switched on the light above the drawing board. Then I turned it off and lay down on the sofa, pulled the blanket over me and closed my eyes. I could picture Beate clearly. I opened my eyes, but I could still see her.

  I woke a few times during the night, and I got up early. I went into the living room to remove the cane, I didn’t want Beate to see that I’d broken it. She was sitting on the sofa. She looked at me. Good morning, she said. I nodded. She continued to look at me. Have we fallen out? she asked. No, I said. She kept her gaze fixed on me, I couldn’t manage to read it. I sat down to get away from it. You misunderstood, I said. I didn’t notice you getting up, I was lost in my own thoughts, and when I suddenly felt your hands on my neck, I mean, I see how it could make you…but I didn’t know you were standing there. She didn’t say anything. I looked at her, met the same inscrutable gaze. You have to believe me, I said. She looked away. Yes, she said, I do, don’t I?

  Sunhat

  They sat reading. Neither of them had spoken for a while, when she suddenly said: “When we go to Yugoslavia I’m going to get one of those sunhats I didn’t buy myself last year.”

  “What page are you on?” he asked.

  “Thirty-three. Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  She did not say any more and continued reading. For reasons he did not understand he found himself thinking about an exchange he had heard the previous night through the open window. First, a man’s voice, from the street: “I couldn’t be bothered flirting with you anymore.” Then the voice of a woman, from a window (he thought): “Why not?” “I never get anywhere with it, do I?” That was it, not a word after that.

  She was reading. He was sitting with his book open but was not reading; he looked at her. He thought: what was it that made her think of a sunhat?

  After a while she put the book down.

  “I’m going to fry an egg,” she said. “Do you want one?”

  “No, thanks.” He didn’t like fried eggs.

  She went out to the kitchen and he picked up her book and turned to page thirty-three. He could find nothing there to account for the calling to mind of a sunhat or Yugoslavia. He thought: I can’t figure her out, I thought I knew her, but I understand less and less about her. He decided to read all the pages preceding number thirty-three, maybe the answer lay there, but she came back in to fetch a cigarette, and he quickly put the book down again. Because he felt like a snoop and thought she had seen him looking at the book, he said:

  “Is it an exciting read?”

  “Exciting? Interesting.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “A person who wants something else…I don’t know how to put it…someone who thinks she’s doing fine but still longs for something. And she doesn’t quite understand why, but sort of does, in a way. You know, the way people are.”

  “People?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not that way.”

  “Well, you.”

  “Am I not people?”

  “What do you mean by that? Oh, the egg!”

  She began to hurry towards the kitchen, but turned, came back, and picked up the book.

  He did not read any further. He thought: what did she mean by well, you? He tried to interpret the way she had said it but was unable. I’m going to read that book, he thought.

  She returned, having eaten the fried egg in the kitchen; which struck him as unusual, she normally brought her evening snack into the sitting room.

  He remarked upon it.

  “Why did you eat in the kitchen?”

  “What?”

  “You ate in the kitchen,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “You usually eat in here.”

  “Do I? No, I sometimes eat in the kitchen. What’s with you? I eat in the kitchen all the time.”

  He didn’t answer. He thought about it for a moment, but failed to see how that could be right. I eat in the kitchen all the time. That couldn’t possibly be true.

  “I think I’ll go to bed,” she said.

  He looked at her but did not reply. She made eye contact, then in a calm, almost impassive tone said: “I think I’m going mad.”

  “Oh?”

  “I said I think I’m going mad.”

  “Maybe.”

  She looked at him, a hardness in her eyes, but only for a second.

  “Maybe,” she said.

  He looked at her, coldly, and he was aware of it, even though he felt a hot unease within.

  “Maybe,” he repeated. “And what’s brought on this madness?”

  He saw her raise her shoulders. Then let them sink.

  “Good night,” she said. Then stood for a moment, before leaving.

  He felt she had duped him and was withdrawing with a victory of sorts. He felt like he had been the loser and worked himself up. Bloody woman! he thought, what has she got into her head! Trying to make herself interesting, coming up with this insanity – her!

  After a while he calmed down, but was not calm. He went to the kitchen and took a bottle of beer from the fridge. It was a quarter to ten. He returned to the living room, sat down, then got to his feet, and began pacing back and forth on the green carpet, pausing now and again to take a gulp of beer, while thinking conflicting thoughts. He thought: as if she has anything to complain about? And: she wants something else. Someone who thinks she’s doing fine but still longs for something else. You know, the way people are.

  One thing – due to whatever connotations she had in her head – had suddenly turned into something else entirely. Something harmless had become something complicated, serious. I think I’m going mad. She had meant that in one way or another, but in what way?

  He fetched another beer, dismissed the idea she might have discovered something, about Anne, for instance, or Lucy. That was unlikely, she didn’t know anyone in those circles, and he had taken every conceivable precaution.

  He could not figure it out; he finished his drink and switched off the lights.

  She was in bed reading. She barely glanced up before reimmersing herself in her book. He pretended nothing was wrong. He thought: she’s acting as if nothing’s wrong, fine by me, I won’t go there.

  He lay down, then turned his back to her as he switched off the lamp on the nightstand and said good night.

  “Good night,” she said.

  He could not sleep. After a good while he became aware she was not turning the pages of the book. He lay listening to make sure. No, she was not turning them. Believing she had fallen asleep, he was about to stretch across to switch off the lamp on her nightstand but found she was lying with her eyes open looking at him over the top of the book. Her gaze was quite calm, yet there was something about it he found unsettling, something distant and simultaneously searching.

  “Is my reading bothering you?” she asked. “Do you want me to turn out the light?”

  “No, no,” he replied. “I just thought…since you weren’t reading.”

  “Yes I am. You can see that.”

  He jerked the book from her hand and looked at the page number. Thirty-eight. He gave it back, without saying anything.

  “Why did you do that?” she said.

  “You’ve read five pages since you went to fry an egg,” he said.

  “I’m thinking every now and then.”

  “I figured that much!”

  “You remind me of my dad,” she said.

  He made no reply for a while, then said:

  “I thought you liked him.”

  “Did you? Well I was fond of him.”

  What a thing to say, he thought, what the hell does she mean by that!

  “Ha-ha!” he said, turning away from her.

  “Dad was always playing God,” she said. “If you know what I mean.”

  “No!” he said. “Nor am I interested! And now I’d like to go to sleep!”

  “Of course, yes. Night-night.”

  Seething with anger, he suddenly got up, seized his duvet, pillow, and sheet and went to the living room, slamming the bedroom door behind him. He threw everything on the sofa, switched on the main light and strode purposefully out to the kitchen to fetch a bottle of beer. You remind me of my dad. Dad was always playing God.

  Later, he went and took another bottle, and thought: I’m not going to the office tomorrow, will serve her right, she’ll see the mess she’s made.

  Eventually he lay down, and eventually he slept.

  He awoke with the sun in his face. For a moment or two he was disoriented, then he remembered everything.

  He got up, walked quietly into the bedroom and got his clothes. She didn’t wake up. He made a simple breakfast, then went out to the car and drove to the center of town. The electrical firm he was employed at had secured parking spaces for senior office staff on a demolition plot a few minutes walk away; it helped make the company a more attractive workplace.

  He had a lot to do and didn’t think very much about what had happened, but on the drive home, everything loomed so large that for a moment he considered punishing her by eating out. And although he thought it would certainly serve her right if he did, he decided that would only postpone matters and strengthen her hand. And he was not going to grant her that pleasure.

  He let himself in, and all that met him was strikingly similar to what he usually encountered on coming home. She was friendly, and dinner – pork chops and stuffed cabbage – was ready. At first he was relieved, then he grew annoyed. Initially participating in the everyday chit-chat, then growing silent.

  “Is there anything wrong?” she asked, but without concern, as though she might have asked: would you like more potatoes?

  He decided not to answer. Then he said:

  “No, why would there be?”

  “I don’t now, was just wondering.”

  Neither of them spoke after that. After eating, he went for a lie-down, as was his habit. What’s the problem? he thought. I do love her after all.

  He did not sleep, but lay down longer than usual. He could see no reason to get up.

  She normally came in and woke him after a half hour so his afternoon nap did not affect his sleep at night. Today she did not.

  After an hour he got up. She was not in the living room when he came in. A sheet of paper lay on the coffee table: “Just gone for a walk, Eva.”

  Oh, he thought, so she’s suddenly just gone for a walk.

  He was used to getting a coffee after his rest. He went out to the kitchen and put on the coffee maker.

  He suddenly remembered the book. He wanted to read what she had read. He began to search for it, first in the living room, then in the bedroom, then finally the kitchen. He couldn’t find it. He looked in drawers, behind the books on the bookshelf, in the kitchen cupboards, but without success.

  He drank two cups of coffee. She did not come home.

  He turned over the sheet of paper on the coffee table and wrote: “Just gone for a walk. Harry.”

  He went for a walk. He set out in the direction of the park, but changed his mind as there was a good chance Eva had gone there; she might think that he was looking for her.

  He took a side street and headed north. After that he wandered aimlessly, thinking about himself, until finally arriving at the conclusion that he should have stayed at home; he would have been better off sitting on the sofa, looking composed when she arrived back.

  He hurried home.

  She was sitting on the sofa, looking composed. She glanced up from her book, smiled, then continued on reading. But it was a different book, he saw right away that it was much thicker than the one she had been reading the previous night.

  He weighed up the cost of victory against defeat and decided he was going to take control of the situation. He turned on the cold-water tap, let the water run while studying his face, and thought: she has nothing to complain about – what the hell does she have to complain about! He turned off the tap and walked quickly into the living room. He said:

  “If you’ve so much to complain about then you can just leave.”

  She looked at him, quizzically at first, then with that hard expression he had seen the night before.

  “Leave? What do you mean by that?”

  “If you’re not happy with things, well then you can just go, can’t you?”

  “Oh? Can I? Go where?”

  “Anywhere.”

  She put the book down, without closing it, but with the cover and back facing up, the way he had been taught not to lay down a book. Then she said:

  “Why don’t you sit down?”

  “I’m fine standing, thank you.”

  “Please sit down, Harry.”

  He took a seat, looked down at his hands, and began scratching at his left thumbnail.

  “We need to talk,” she said. He did not reply.

  “Can’t we talk together,” she said.

  “Talk away.”

  “Talk together, Harry.”

  He scratched at his thumbnail.

  “I feel isolated, Harry. I know what we agreed, but it…back then I didn’t know what staying at home all day would mean. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve nothing against the things I do, but it’s not enough, and well…I’m stuck here all day long feeling…So, this morning I applied for a job, and it’s mine if I want it, I’ve said yes, but I can of course change my mind, but I told them I can start at the beginning of the month.”

  There was a long silence, then he said:

  “I see.”

  “I think I have to take that job, Harry.”

  “Oh? In other words I’ve no say in the matter.”

 

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