A Ducati Monster 900. The motorcycle Mark doted on, his second great love after Blum, a magnificent machine. He could enthuse for hours about the purring of the engine, an incomparable sound, music to his ears. Mark had loved to ride fast, even where it was forbidden, speeding along the highway and the country roads. Never mind how much Blum worried, he had to do it. He wanted to feel the slipstream of air as the road passed by. I can’t help it. I’ll be back, darling, don’t worry. It’s not that bad, you’re exaggerating, my flower. He found it hard to explain just what it was that fascinated him so much about his Monster 900, his baby. A beauty of a motorcycle. Two chatty men are now unloading it from the trailer.
• • •
It gleams in the sun, exactly as it was before. In fact it’s new, courtesy of the insurance company. Two weeks ago, Massimo asked her what she wanted to do: did she want the money or a replacement? Blum simply said yes, lost in thought, and asked Massimo to fix everything. Then, after a while, the phone call came saying it was about to be delivered. And here is his motorcycle now. As if it were his voice. It is standing outside the villa, she almost thinks that Mark will come through the door and out into the garden any minute now and mount it. Almost. Blum gives the men a tip and sits down on the bench. You can see everything from the bench, the children, the gate leading from the garden out into the street, the motorcycle. Blum just sits there, thinking about what happened last night. About Mark, and about Dunya, and what seems to have happened to her. What Dunya said, what she had experienced, what Mark believed. He saw it in her eyes. Even if the psychiatrist diagnosed her as delusional. But Mark saw it in her eyes.
• • •
It’s quiet on the bench. She wants to be taken in comforting arms, she would like to be back in his study, she would like to understand what happened. She wants to listen to it all again sober. It’s like a dream that she can only vaguely remember, a nightmare that she has rejected, pushing it out of her life. Blum doesn’t want to believe that the woman was telling the truth, she wants Mark to have been wrong, she wants confirmation that Dunya really was delusional. So it was nothing more than the fantasies of a drug addict. None of it is true. It mustn’t be true. Because her life can’t get worse than it already is. Because the sun is shining. Because the children are playing on the swing. Because this is the first time for weeks that Karl has come into the garden.
• • •
Karl has hardly said a word since Mark died. He withdrew to the second floor, sat in his armchair for days, shedding tears. Even the children couldn’t comfort him. He asked to be left in peace, said he wanted to be alone. It was only at Reza’s insistence that Karl opened his door and let them fill his fridge. Karl has lost his son. Karl tries to smile. Karl sits down beside her on the bench.
• • •
“How are you doing, Blum?”
“It still hurts all the time.”
“Yes.”
“It’s good to see you here with us.”
“They’ll live.”
“And the motorcycle?”
“It’s back—over there.”
“Why?”
“Mark loved it.”
“So he did.”
“I’m going to ride it.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re afraid of it.”
“Yes.”
“But you still want to ride it?”
“Fear is crippling.”
“I was always afraid for him.”
“He did as he wanted.”
“He was a good boy.”
“He was more than that, Karl.”
“We’ll get through this, Blum.”
“Yes, we will.”
• • •
They sit in silence. Karl takes Blum’s hand and holds it firmly. Nothing exists but their hands, the children, and the motorcycle. A summer’s day in the garden. They have said all they need to say, Karl and Blum. There is understanding and affection between them. Blum likes him; she has never regretted asking Karl to come and live with them. He is like a benevolent household spirit. A household spirit resuming his duties. Karl is back, he won’t creep away again; he says he has missed the children and wants to go on living, even if it hurts. Wants to go on living, like Blum, go on pushing the swing back and forth.
• • •
Blum doesn’t wear a helmet. She puts the key in the ignition and presses the button. The Monster purrs. She waves to the children and accelerates out through the gateway and into the road, without glancing at the way the Rover came from. She accelerates. Blum with the wind in her face, with flies in her face. She simply turns the handlebars and feels what happens. How fast she is going. Down the road of houses and onto the highway, eyes narrowed, seeing only a slice of the world flying past. She shifts gears, twists the throttle, increases her speed. Never mind what happens, never mind where she is going. There’s only Blum and the road.
• • •
She hasn’t ridden a motorcycle since she passed her test. A girl she knew at school died in a crash soon after taking the test herself. Dead, just like that, exactly how Mark died. That fear has accompanied her until now. Whenever Mark wanted her to ride with him she said no; she was afraid of dying. But now she is tearing down the highway without leathers, without a helmet, with nothing to protect her except her exuberance, her thoughtlessness, her closeness to death itself, her longing to be with him. She is riding at 190 kilometers per hour, with tiny creatures sticking to her skin, her face pricked by needles. Ride on faster, 220 kilometers per hour. Overtake, hear the sound of the engine, go on and on. Breathe. Die.