Britta spends the rest of the night waiting for Babak. The seconds pass like minutes, the minutes like hours. Julietta has bought three children’s watches at a gas station, and one of them—bright green in color—is lying next to Britta’s makeshift bed. Living without a watch was torture, but now even just staring at the dial is becoming a torment. In spite of the Ativan, she hasn’t had more than two hours’ sleep. The thought that the pills might stop working causes Britta heart palpitations and respiratory distress, which she regards as proof that the pills don’t work anymore, an assessment that makes her heart beat even faster, until her chest hurts so much that she has to stand up and open the window again to get some air. During the psychiatric clinic stay prescribed in Step 5, almost all the candidates are treated with Ativan. Dependency sets in after fourteen days, and withdrawal from the drug is said to be as brutal as withdrawal from heroin. Julietta needs two tablets a day in order to remain capable of functioning. Since she doesn’t plan to outlive her Ativan supply, she’s indifferent to the dangers of addiction.
Shortly before five, Julietta returns and hands over her purchases—food, newspapers, cigarettes—which Britta sorts into her resources management system, and which will be distributed according to fixed rules. Julietta’s so exhausted she can hardly stand up. Every night she has to go a little farther, without knowing where and when she’ll come upon the next gas station with twenty-four-hour service. Tonight she went beyond Celle and had to summon up all her remaining strength to get back to the house in good time. She asks Britta if she can start going back a second time to gas stations she’s already stopped at, making sure that a sufficient interval of time has passed between visits. Britta replies that she’ll put the matter on the agenda for discussion at the next status meeting, scheduled for three p.m. sharp. When she asks where Babak is, Julietta shrugs and goes off to bed.
Britta remains in the kitchen, standing at the window. The first daylight is dissolving the darkness. At this hour, there are no animals to be seen—the nocturnal ones are already asleep and the diurnal ones haven’t gotten up yet. Any minute now, Babak must appear. He’ll be frustrated from his efforts to make Lassie produce the desired results, even though the algorithm for an alternative search pattern is ready for implementation. Britta has grown accustomed to not knowing where he spends the nights. Even if he’s in some damp, nasty cellar, hunched in front of a screen, she envies him. Anything’s better than this house. With every passing minute, her aggravation increases. She has decreed that he absolutely must be back before five a.m. at the very latest; now it’s already a quarter after, and no trace of Babak. Anxiety makes it impossible for Britta to lie down again. She paces around the house, peering out every window, watching the light redden the treetops on the east side of the garden, flinching when she hears the first songbird. Why can’t Babak simply do what he’s told? Even Julietta gives her all to be back on time. Britta will have to reprimand him, and then he’ll tell her once again that she needs to control her paranoia. That she gets a kick out of bossing people around because she has no other way to feel loved.
It’s five thirty. Britta’s boiling with rage. She’s sweating so much that her T-shirt is glued to her back. The dust drives her crazy, the cats drive her crazy, there’s no escape, the heat will get hotter, the cats will continue to lie on the chairs in the conference room, on the window bench, even on the rocking horse, and on Britta’s pallet if she forgets for just one minute to close the kitchen door, it absolutely doesn’t matter how many times she chases the wretched creatures away, they always come back, always, changing colors, dwindling and then multiplying again, another pointless day is beginning to turn, slowly, excruciatingly, on its axis, only to arrive at its starting point, at another sunrise, always another sunrise, and in the midst of this imploding universe, which is held together only by laws, by rules, Babak doesn’t stick to the rules, he comes and goes when he feels like it, as if they were on a family excursion here, as if he were still incapable of recognizing the seriousness of the situation, as if Britta were the only rational being in the world, his tardiness makes her feel unbearably alone, if the Hearts have grabbed him, she thinks, I’ll kill myself.
It’s shortly before six when the front door opens. Babak carries his bicycle into the entrance hall and simply lets it fall to the floor. He doesn’t seem to care whether Britta or Julietta is sleeping, or whether the crash can be heard on the street. Britta’s standing as though paralyzed in the conference room, where she’s been walking around the table for the past several minutes.
“Good morning,” says Babak.
He’s pale. He leans heavily against the wall. He’s trembling. He is pure accusation, reproach made flesh, something she’d like to knock over with both hands so she wouldn’t have to see it anymore. The sight of him intensifies Britta’s wrath.
“Are you drunk?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Babak wearily shakes his head. “But you look pretty weird,” he goes on, smiling a crooked smile.
Britta looks down at herself. She’s wearing nothing but underpants and a T-shirt. And yet she’s sweating. Dirt’s sticking to her skin, she needs a rinse, that’s all, she has to wash up, and then she’ll be like new.
“Don’t change the subject,” she says. “You’re too late.”
“Do you have any idea how much I hurried to get home?”
“Not enough, apparently.”
With a sigh, Babak crumples, gives up trying to talk to her, shakes his head again, and tries to get past her and up the stairs.
“Stay put, pal.”
Never before has Britta called anyone “pal,” but these days she’s doing many things for the first time. When Babak keeps walking away from her, she grabs at his arm, catches the sleeve of his T-shirt, and hears the sound of tearing fabric, which must be absurdly delicate, because she didn’t have a very tight grip on it. A cloud of male scent rises up. We all stink, Britta thinks, we’re all dirty, we’ve lost the war on grime. In the harsh morning light, she can see how unshaven Babak is. Julietta brought him razor blades and shaving cream from a gas station, but there’s no mirror in the house. We aren’t human anymore—any animal is cleaner. Hygienically, we’ve hit bottom.
“You tore my sleeve off.” Babak sounds shocked.
“You’re too late,” Britta murmurs, examining the piece of fabric in her hand from all sides.
“Let’s be serious, Britta.” He tries to take hold of her, but she bats his hand away. “You have to get yourself under control. If you keep on like this, you’re going to drive us all to ruin.”
“Me? You two?” She laughs. It does her good to laugh like that; it’s the best joke she’s heard in a long time. “I make the rules. I bear the responsibility. I’m holding the whole thing together.”
“Britta.”
Babak tries once again to touch her. Britta backs away and collides with the wall.
“Something’s not right with you,” Babak says. “You’re slipping away from us. You’re slipping away from yourself.”
“Stop it!” She points an index finger. “Please don’t talk to me like that! You can’t even tell what time it is. No! I’m talking now.” She really has to say something. The thoughts she’s formulated over the course of many sleepless nights must finally come out in words. Her insights have been numerous; even just today she lay on her cushions and perceived various connections, while the objects in the room stared at her instead of vice versa. Among her realizations were things that had to do with Babak, now she must verbalize them, even though she’s having difficulty concentrating for some reason. “You want me to feel bad. I was feeling bad already, before we came here. And now, all of a sudden, no matter what I do or say, you think everything’s shit.”
“Britta—”
“Shut your trap!” She doesn’t care how loud she’s getting, she has a right to be loud, this is her house, there’s a preliminary contract and a notary appointment, terms that make her start to laugh again. As if such things had any meaning whatsoever. “Ever since we got here, you’ve shown your true face. You’ve never been my friend. You just needed somebody. A sister, a mother, a babysitter. Now you have Julietta, and so you treat me like dirt.” There it is again: dirt. Surprised, Britta pauses for a moment. Everything has to do with everything else. Babak’s leaning on the wall, right at the foot of the stairs. His head’s resting on his chest; he knows she’s right, this is the reaction of a person who’s hearing some truth.
“When this is all over, I’m throwing you out. Your time with The Bridge is up. I don’t want anything more to do with someone who can’t manage to get home by five o’clock.”
Babak lifts his head. He’s crying. “I’ve—” he begins, but Britta doesn’t let him go on.
“Maybe you aren’t really going to Lassie. Maybe you’re meeting your lovers and going out partying. While I sit around here racking my brains, you’re hanging out at the I-Vent and laughing your head off at me.”
“Today it took longer, because—”
“It’s always been like this, I always did everything myself, you never had to make any decisions or bear any responsibility, you let me pull you along like…” Her strength fails her, she can’t go on, she braces herself again, she has to bring this to an end. “Like a cart through dirt.”
“The trail leads to Berlin,” says Babak. “Chaussee Street. It’s probably Guido Hatz.”