I did everything wrong, everything, one mistake after the next. I realize that now. Now, while the intruder is rattling the handle of the bedroom door.
Dead end. No way out. Why didn’t I run outside instead of imprisoning myself? Because I felt safer in my own bedroom? What a fallacy. I’m sitting in a trap here; there’s no exit, just the window.
“Joanna.”
I close my eyes, press the pads of my thumbs against my eyelids. Go away, I think, just go away.
“Joanna, will you stop this nonsense! Open the door so we can talk. I’m not going to hurt you, damn it.”
Of course not. After all, we are engaged.
I feel a sudden urge to laugh, out of pure hysteria, and if I do I know I won’t be able to stop. I take a deep breath and bore my fingernails into the palms of my hands until the urge subsides.
What do I know about people with delusions? Nothing, really. That you should agree with them, not provoke them—I think I remember that much.
“Joanna, please, will you think about this for a second? If I really wanted to hurt you, do you think this pathetic little lock would stop me from getting into the bedroom? One kick and that’s that.”
I immediately back away from the door. He keeps talking, saying something about how it’s his door too and that’s why he doesn’t want to break it down, but I’m well aware that he’ll do it sooner or later if I don’t open it.
I frantically look around. For a weapon, something heavy. Next time I’ll hit the mark. Really take him out. Except there’s nothing in here that I can use. I would have to take a curtain rod apart, but there’s no way I have time for that.
“I have an idea, Jo. Are you listening? Ask me something. Something only I could know. Something I’d have to know if I really live here with you.”
I have to get to my cell phone. Or make it out onto the street, but neither of those will be possible unless I open this door. And that would mean taking all the risks that come with doing that.
I feel sick.
“Come on, ask me something, anything.” The man on the other side of the door sounds hopeful now.
Maybe he’s dazed. The paperweight had hit him, after all, and I’d thrown it as hard as I could. Surely I have a chance against him now.
OK. If I’m going to do this, it has to be quick. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. I turn the key and open the door, and at that moment I realize I’m still standing there in my bathrobe … such a stupid, stupid fool.
For a moment the man smiles at me, then his gaze goes past me into the bedroom behind. The smile vanishes all at once, and is replaced by … Bewilderment. Disbelief.
Who knows what he’s seeing, what his illness is leading him to believe. Maybe he’s on drugs.
The opportunity is too good to let slip away because of fear. I edge through the door, squeezing past him, I’m almost at the top of the stairs now, and then …
I make it exactly two steps, then he’s beside me again, grabbing my upper arm.
“Stay here.” His tone sounds more pleading than threatening, but his grip on my arm doesn’t slacken. “We’ll talk now, OK? Jo? Let’s talk, please.”
I try to wrench myself free once more. If I could just get to my phone and lock myself in the downstairs toilet …
Even though his shoulder is clearly bothering him, I have no chance against him. He pulls me back into the bedroom, closes the door, and leans up against it.
My fear comes flooding back. I could still try to open the window and shout. Hell, I should have done that right away. Instead of unlocking the door.
The stranger doesn’t take his eyes off me for even a second. He slowly shakes his head. Breathes in shakily. “You really don’t recognize me, do you?”
“No. I really don’t.”
He laughs for a moment, but it’s a laugh that sounds far from cheerful. “Then I guess you also don’t know what happened to my things.”
What? His things?
My perplexity must have been written all over my face, because the stranger points his finger toward the bed.
“My blanket. My pillow. They were here when I got up this morning. So was my wardrobe. And the shoes and jackets downstairs in the hall.” He comes a step toward me, but stops when I flinch.
“If I go into the bathroom, I bet I won’t find my toothbrush either, will I? Or my aftershave? My shower gel?”
He must have spun together an entire world in fine detail. A life that doesn’t exist.
What if I play along? Simply act like I’m remembering everything bit by bit? Would he believe me, or is it too late now?
I look him directly in the eyes, even though I find it difficult. There is something about him that makes me wish I had a knife. A knife I could stab him with. Again and again.
My God, what am I thinking?
I press my hands against my forehead, and the impulse to use violence to free myself from this situation abates. “You’re wrong. I’ve been living here alone ever since I rented this house. There is no second pillow and no second blanket and there’s most definitely no aftershave in the bathroom.”
“Damn it, Joanna.” He tries to force his mouth into something resembling a smile. “What am I going to do with you?”
The question makes me edge backward again. Nothing, there’s nothing he should do with me. He should just go.
“I thought your suggestion before was a good one.” My voice was trembling a little. “We’ll do it the way you said. I’ll ask you questions that you could only answer if you really live here. And if you know me as well as you claim to.”
He nods as his eyes flit around over the bed, the walls, the floor. Before eventually locking back onto me again.
“OK.” I scour through my memories, searching for something that even the most cunning of stalkers wouldn’t be able to find out. Details that don’t appear on Facebook or my website.
But the stress is taking its toll, and all I can think of are mundane details, nothing significant. Nothing that would convince me if he knew it.
So I start with something random instead. An old habit. “I’m sure you’ve found out what I do for work.”
“You’re a photographer.” He says it slowly, but without hesitation. “You’re doing an apprenticeship with Manuel Helfrich, because you admire his work so much; that’s one of the reasons why you came to Germany. Your pictures are wonderful, I love your portraits. You’ve photographed me so often…”
I try to interject, but he doesn’t let me. “You had a favorite photo of me,” he says. “You framed it, and until this morning it was hanging right there.” He points at the wall, at a spot over the dresser.
“First, that’s nonsense, and second, that wasn’t my question!” Even as the words are still coming out of my mouth, I realize how reckless I’m being. Just because he hasn’t done anything to hurt me so far doesn’t mean it will stay that way. Aggravating him is definitely a bad idea.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “But I’d like to ask my question now.”
He nods and prompts me to continue, with a despondent gesture.
“When I photograph people who are nervous and feel uncomfortable in front of the camera, I always play a song at the start of the session. A very particular song. Which one is it?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it again. “I don’t know. I went to see you in your studio a few times, but as soon as the clients arrived, you kicked me out right away. You said that third wheels are just as unwelcome at photo sessions as they are on dates.”
I feel my stomach cramping up. He doesn’t know the song, as expected—but the rest really does sound like something I would say. Word for word, even.
But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.
New question. Quickly.
“What’s my middle name?”
If he knows me, then he’d know it. I would have had him try to guess it, like I do with everyone I get to know, usually over the third and fourth glass of wine. He would have failed miserably, like all the others. But eventually I always give in and tell. Always.
The stranger glances to the side, as if he can’t believe what I’ve just asked him. For a moment I think he’s about to burst out laughing. When he starts to speak again, his voice is quiet. “You haven’t told me. Not yet. You wanted me to guess it myself, but so far I haven’t managed to.”
My mouth is dry. What I’d do for a sip of water right now. Once again, the man hasn’t answered my question, but once again, what he said lies close to the truth.
You wanted me to guess it myself.
He can’t have gotten this information online. Or by following me. He must have spoken to people who know me. Who told him what makes me tick, what I like, what I don’t like …
He’s still blocking the door. His gaze wanders over my face, like he’s looking for something he lost.
“One more question,” he says. “Something different, something that has more to do with you as a person, with your history, with this house, our life together.”
“I asked you two questions, and you couldn’t answer either of them.”
He closes his eyes, looking tormented. “Please,” he says. “Stop talking to me that way. You can’t imagine how—” He interrupts himself. “You don’t remember what my name is, do you?”
I cross my arms in front of my chest. “I never knew.”
A stunned shake of the head. “This is so … unbelievable.”
“I’m sorry. But I can do the guessing this time if you want.” Now the man looks vulnerable, and hope is slowly growing within me that perhaps I can get the situation under my control after all. At least enough so I can flee from this room.
My suggestion makes the stranger’s eyes light up. “Yes—that’s a great idea! Maybe your consciousness saved some information, then everything else will fall into place.” He takes a step toward me. “Just say the first name that comes into your mind,” he says in an imploring tone. “Without thinking about it.”
I do exactly as he asks, and the result is surprisingly clear in my mind. “Ben.”
Wrong. I can see it in his face. In any other situation, his disappointment would have awoken my sympathy. But now it’s giving me a further advantage I have to exploit.
“OK, so not Ben. I’ll ask you another question. One last one, OK?”
He nods in resignation, in a way that shows he’s lost hope.
“There on the wall, above the wardrobe—do you see it? That little round hole?”
No, he can’t, there’s no way he could from where he’s standing. I beckon him closer, even though I don’t feel comfortable about it. “There, do you see? What made that hole?”
I take a step back to make space for him. One step, then another, toward the door. By the time he sees there’s nothing there, I want to be out of the room already and put as much space between us as possible so he can’t grab me again.
“But there was never,” I hear him say as I fling the door open and run out onto the landing … toward the stairs, quickly, two steps at once, please don’t fall now.
“Joanna!”
He comes after me, of course, but I’m almost downstairs already, almost at the front door.…
Which is locked.
My keychain is hanging on the hook, where it belongs. I grab for it; it slips out of my fingers, falls to the floor with a clinking sound.
“Jo! Please, you can’t just run out like this!”
I’ve got the key in my hand again, and there’s still time. I manage to get it in the lock on the first try, turn it once, twice, press down the handle. The cool evening air rushes to meet me.
Then, a jolt. I’m torn backward with a force that pulls me down to the floor. The next moment, the door slams shut again with a loud thud.
I jump up, try to get past him, if he hasn’t locked it again I still have a chance, but he grabs my arms so tightly that I scream.
“Do you really want everyone to see you like this?” he yells. “Are you trying to get yourself committed?”
I struggle against him, with all my strength, but I have no chance. So I go slack and just let myself fall.
He wasn’t expecting that. I make him lose his balance, he almost falls onto me. At the last moment he turns to the side, without letting go of my wrists.
Only now do I realize I’m crying.
He sees it too. He lays his forehead against mine, his breathing fitful. “You need help, Jo.”
He’s damn right about that. And as soon as he lets me go …
“Look at me,” he demands. His voice sounds like he’s close to tears himself.
I do what he asks. Our faces are so close now, for a moment I’m afraid he’s going to kiss me.
“Let me go.”
He shakes his head. “Erik,” he blurts out. “My name is Erik.” He waits, as though he really thinks his name will mean something to me.
“Erik,” I repeat obediently, then feel his grip loosen a little, as though the name was some kind of password.
I wrench my hands away, pull myself up, try to push him away from me, but the very next moment the man’s weight pushes me back down to the floor again. His breath is hot in my face.
“Don’t do that, Jo. I just want to help you. And I will.”
His last word is underlined by a loud ringing. The doorbell. Someone’s at the door.