6. Sing a lot.
7. Watch out for people who feel weak. They may want to feel strong one day and you might not survive that moment.
8. Don’t put any credence in worst-case scenarios like the one in the previous entry, even if Maria constantly predicts the end of the world is right around the corner. Be courageous and crazy and explore every wonderland you come across — just like Alice in the English fairytale, after whom your mother named Alissa.
9. Think about your older sister Sascha once in a while. But don’t visit her in prison — it’s not good for the psyche.
10. You are not poor little orphans, because your mother is immortal. Maria knows that, too.
And then I realize I don’t know anything about what Maria knows or doesn’t know.
I skip out of school two hours early one day because I just can’t take it anymore. I’ve felt for days as if I were wandering around in a thick, gray fog. I recognize the world around me, but it’s lost all color. I just don’t feel like looking any closer.
I don’t hear things around me — or to put it more accurately, I’m not listening, and the voices around me are blurred into a tangled rush of noise. The only thing I react to are children’s shrieks. I always turn to look to make sure it’s not Anton or Alissa. At home I spend most of my time lying in bed.
I’ve blown two exams — history and math. In both cases, the teachers came up to me after the class and said they wouldn’t count the exams toward my midterm grade. I didn’t understand what they were talking about at first because I hadn’t even opened the test booklet in either case.
I didn’t look at the teachers. I can’t stand those eyes. Another set of eyes examining me with worry and sympathy. Following me when I leave. I don’t want that.
I want to be invisible. But my mother wouldn’t have liked that. She always said you should be able to see, hear, and smell people.
I’m sure everyone would happily smell a little less of people than they have to smell of Vadim, I always answered. Is he allergic to water?
Once when I was a little kid I was bored in school and just got up and walked out of class, my mother told me.
I’m not bored now. But I leave two hours early because I’m afraid of just turning to stone in my chair. Unlike Anton, I don’t have an older sister to drag me back into the land of the living.
I am the older sister.
I ride the tram toward home in a fog. My sneakers dangle from my backpack, tied together by the laces. The rolled-up newspaper is stuck in the side pocket.
The heater is going underneath my seat. I can’t bring myself to switch seats.
But I’m roasting, so I manage to do something else: pull out the paper and open it. I always carry the entire paper around rather than just pulling out the local section. Just how I do it. The pages are frayed and falling apart.
I look at Vadim’s picture several times a day. It has an unbearable allure that I just can’t resist. And it’s the only thing that cuts through the fog. It reminds me of everything I have ahead of me, and it reminds me that dreaming about it isn’t enough.
Stupid, brainless, blind duck, I think. Haven’t you ever heard that every newspaper has a masthead? And do you not know what all’s on the masthead?
The address, among other things.
I get out of the tram at the next stop and hop on the other one — the one going in the opposite direction. I go as far as the main train station. I buy a ticket at one of the machines there and settle into a seat on the stinking commuter rail line to Frankfurt.
It’ll have to work without a map.
It works fine. At the main station in Frankfurt there’s a map on the wall. I find the right street. My name’s not Maria and I can read a map, no problem. It’s just three measly stops away on the subway.
I end up in front of a building that is not at all as imposing as I had imagined it would be.
It’s a gray box, taller than it is wide. Above the entrance is the name of the paper in blue lettering. I step through the glass door and come to a sort of counter. Behind it sits a pretty young woman who smiles at me. Next to her is another woman, a bit older; she’s on the phone but she smiles in my direction, too.
Something like shyness stirs inside me.
“Good afternoon,” says the woman not on the phone. “Can I help you?”
I clear my throat and forget for a second why I’m there. The woman smiles patiently. Her gaze keeps wandering to the rolled up copy of the paper I’m holding in my sweaty hand.
So this is what it looks like, I think. This is where it happens. I feel awestruck.
“Do you have a question?” The woman won’t let up. Her smile doesn’t fade one bit.
I force myself to come back and engage, rather than float away as I’ve been doing for the last few days.
“I’d like to speak to someone,” I say, and flinch because it sounds surprisingly loud.
“Someone in particular?”
“Yes. Susanne Mahler.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” I say, and gulp.
“One moment, please.” The woman drops her eyes and reaches for the phone. She presses it to her left ear — which has a little pearl earring in it — and looks at me again. She asks something, but I’m distracted again.
“What?” I ask like Anton. And then correct myself the way I correct him: “I’m sorry?”
“Your name, please.”
“Sascha. Sascha Naimann. Tell her that it’s. . Vadim E.’s stepdaughter.”
“Vadim E.? Sascha Naimann? OK.”
She dials a number and starts to talk. I watch her lips move and I rock my dangling sneakers back and forth like a pendulum.
The woman on the phone raises her voice and looks at me. “Vadim E., you said? Sascha Naimann?”
“Yes.”
She listens to the person on the other end for a moment and then hangs up.
I look around for security officers, expecting to be escorted out.
It’s probably stupid, but I feel as if I’m standing in a temple I’m planning to desecrate.
The woman speaks to me again, but I miss the first part.
“Ms. Mahler will be down to get you in a moment.”
“To get me?” I’m briefly startled. The receptionist can’t do anything about my associations.
“Yes. She said she was coming right down. Otherwise I would take you to the reception area — but there’s no need.”
“Reception area?” I ask like an idiot. But just then a door opens off to the side and I see them. There are two.
I know which one is Susanne Mahler right away since the other one is a man. I look at his face as he approaches. He’s a tall man — his face is well above mine. He’s not old, but his hair is completely gray. He’s in jeans and a white shirt and a dark blue sports coat.
I hate men, I think absentmindedly. Do I hate men?
He extends his hand. “Ms. Naimann?”
I nod and at some point it occurs to me that I might shake his hand. I wipe my moist right hand on my jeans and briefly grasp his hand. Whatever name he says as we shake hands I miss. Then I shake hands with Susanne Mahler. Her hand is cool and soft, as if she’s just put on hand lotion.
“This is Ms. Mahler,” the man says.
“I figured,” I say hoarsely.
Ms. Mahler is the same size as me. She’s in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. She has short black hair playfully curled, red lips, and slightly squinty eyes. She’s in a tight cream-colored top and dark pants. She has a very pretty face, but it looks less attractive the longer you look at it. Down to her waist she looks flawless; below that she’s a little broader than she should be.
I look her in the eyes and recognize fear. She squints even more and lifts her chin to try to hide it.