I stare at the number.
00160468530238
Twice someone has tried to call me. All mobile numbers in Austria start with 06 and ordinary numbers start 01. This one’s too long, and it has two zeros at the beginning. Suddenly my stomach ties itself into a little knot. I run over to my computer and write the numbers in. 001 604 is the international code for Vancouver in Canada. Someone in the room starts shrieking uncontrollably with joy.
For the next three days I refuse to leave the apartment. I tell Berlitz I have flu and to Rebecca I claim exceptional circumstances and tell her she has to buy some Whiskas chunks in jelly for Optimus and milk, bread and Portuguese red wine for me.
‘You know it’s a mobile phone?’ Rebecca says gently. ‘That you can take it out with you?’
She sits beside me on the sofa. The mobile lies before us on the coffee table.
‘You don’t understand,’ I say.
I’ve hardly been able to tear my eyes from the phone the last few days and I carry it from room to room. Even when I’m on the toilet. If I were to have a shower there’d be a risk I wouldn’t hear it ring, so my hair is dirty and my pyjamas have begun to emit a ripe aroma. Over the last three days I’ve also discovered a whole new world of daytime TV. A world consisting of trashy German soaps with names like Tempest of Love, and folk-music shows in which the male presenters wear Lederhosen and hike across green meadows in the mountains. I also discover that the Norwegian Eurovision star Wenche Myhre is still alive, and appears to have a blossoming career in the German-speaking countries.
‘Have you tried ringing back?’ Rebecca asks.
‘More or less every ten minutes, but no one picks up,’ I say. ‘And now I just get a busy signal all the time.’
‘But what if it’s not him?’
‘I don’t know anyone else from Canada,’ I say. ‘I know it’s him. I just know it.’
‘What if Ben gave your number to someone he knows in Canada,’ Rebecca suggests. ‘And now that person is trying to get in touch with him.’
I fall silent.
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ I say. Then I shake my head. ‘No, I know it was Ben trying to get hold of me. I just know it.’
Then she says the unsayable:
‘But if Ben is, or was, homeless, how did he have the money to go back to Canada? And why hasn’t he tried to ring again?’
I don’t answer. We sit there in silence, still staring at the mobile phone.
After another two days, I’m forced to leave the apartment. Rebecca says she refuses to support my self-imposed Kasper Hauser-existence and the toilet paper’s run out. My fledgling friend Elfriede Jelinek would never have been such a traitor.
With a face like thunder I run down to Billa, buy food and toilet paper and rush home again, even though I’ve taken my mobile with me. When I’m on my way up the stairs it rings. It’s Rebecca.
‘Hi,’ I say.
‘Don’t sound so disappointed,’ she says. ‘I’ve found the address.’
‘Which address?’
‘The address for the telephone number. The address Ben rang from.’
‘What? Rebecca, thank you thank you thank you!!! But how did you manage it? I could only see that the number came from Vancouver, no more.’
‘I had to do a bit of searching,’ Rebecca says. ‘I couldn’t find out who lives there, but Ben definitely rang from 1348 Commercial Drive, Vancouver.’
1348 Commercial Drive. 1348 Commercial Drive. 1348 Commercial Drive, I repeat to myself.
‘You can even look at the address on Google Street View,’ Rebecca goes on. ‘It looks quite nice.’
Rebecca’s right. When I look up 1348 Commercial Drive I can see a wide street with green trees and several shops. On the right side there’s a place with a black canopy called Caffé Amici. 1348 Commercial Drive. A wave of joy and calm sweeps over me now I’ve finally found a lead that might take me to Ben. It’s as though my lungs have filled with air again.
‘Rebecca, I need a favour,’ I say. ‘Can you look after Optimus while I go over there?’
She is smart enough not to try to change my mind. Instead, she asks direct, practical questions.
‘Wouldn’t it be better and cheaper to wait and see if he calls again?’
‘I can’t wait any longer,’ I say. ‘This waiting is driving me mad.’
‘But what if he was ringing to break up with you?’
‘Then at least I’ll know,’ I say. ‘I’m going to Canada. I’ve actually always wanted to go there. Up to now I’ve never had a reason, and I haven’t had a proper holiday in ages, and I have the money to do it. And if I find Ben I can apologise for the horrible things I said and tell him I know he’d decided to start studying.’
I can hear how tackily desperate I sound, and the sensible side of me whispers: don’t go. But I choose not to listen. Having something concrete to do after waiting around for so long feels wonderfully liberating.
‘But isn’t it all a bit Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction to go halfway round the world on a hunch?’ Rebecca asks.
I don’t reply. Don’t go.
‘Imagine if you go and he’s there with his wife and three kids. A wife who’s called Shania or Melody or something like that.’
‘Well, for one thing, I know he won’t be,’ I say. ‘And for another, at least then I’ll have some answers. After I’ve killed Shania. Anything’s better than not knowing.’ I’m silent for a few seconds. ‘Something must have happened. I have to at least try to find out what it is.’
Six days later I’m sitting on a British Airways flight on my way to Vancouver.