I’d be easygoing, fearless, and nonchalant.
Okay, I’m like that now, too. But then I’d be confident, too.
To my right, at the farthest end of the wall, is a photo I haven’t seen before. I can’t quite make it out. I squint. Ingrid and Hans don’t notice — they’ve probably forgotten I’m here.
I push my chair back and stand up. I walk over to the picture and about halfway there I recognize it and stop abruptly.
It’s a photo I took. With Harry’s new digital camera. At our place, on the balcony. It’s the only picture on the wall with a few people in it besides Harry — all of three people, all together with Harry. My mother, around whose shoulder he has one of his arms. Alissa, who is balanced on his right knee and my mother’s left. And Anton, who is sitting next to Harry, squeezed up against him on the narrow bench.
It’s pretty stupid to stand in the middle of a room and stare at a wall. I must have been standing here like this for quite a while. Ingrid and Harry have come to and turn their heads toward me.
“What happened, my child,” asks Ingrid, unsettled. “What is it? What are you looking at? Why are you crying?”
There is no sense in telling her I’m not crying.
Ingrid squints, too, and peers in the direction I’m staring. Then she realizes what I’m looking at.
“You’re sad because you’re not there? Not in the picture? Is that it?”
Ingrid gets up and hurries over to me, but then stops and stands just behind me, unsure of herself.
I shake my head and head back to the table. Ingrid follows me.
“We didn’t find any shots of you on his camera,” says Hans. They’re the first words I’ve heard out of his mouth today. “There were only a couple of pictures on it — it was brand new.”
I know. I showed Harry how it worked.
“Give us a picture of you, my child. We meant to ask you for one anyway.”
I shake my head again.
“Why not? Do you have any nice big ones? I’ll buy a pretty frame for it.”
I jump up, excuse myself, and run to the bathroom. I know where everything is in this house. From the bathroom window I can look out at the lush garden, rustling in the breeze. All the way at the back is an apple tree. The apples on it always ripen early and seem to glow milky white from the inside. I can hear Ingrid and Hans’s flustered voices from the living room. I bite my lip for a few minutes, then flush the toilet and give my hands a good wash.
“I’ll wrap up some cake for you to take home, okay?” says Ingrid.
I don’t tell her that Maria bakes a cake every other day and that I can’t stand cake.
I clear my throat and say, “That would be nice.”
“But you’ll stay for a bit longer, won’t you, my child? I know it must be boring for you here. We don’t want to keep you.”
“Unfortunately I’ve got to get going.”
“You could do your homework here sometime.”
I look at Ingrid, stunned. Her suggestion doesn’t make any sense to me.
“We’ve got lots of books, and Hans could help you,” she says. “He knows a lot.”
Hans isn’t listening. If he were, he would have contradicted her.
I stifle a grin and thank them for having me.
When Ingrid goes into the kitchen to get some tin foil, I decide to try a little shock therapy.
“Hans,” I say quietly, “you know what, Hans? I’m going to kill him.”
Hans looks at me.
“I’m going to kill Vadim.”
“Vadim?” he says, struggling to repeat after me.
“Yes, Vadim. The murderer. I’m going to murder the murderer.”
He looks at me.
“Just like in the Old Testament. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Justice.”
“Vadim who?” Hans asks, his voice a bit hoarse.
“There’s no way you could have forgotten Vadim, Hans. I’m going to avenge them. My mother and Harry.”
Hans looks at me. I can’t read his facial expression at all. He’s just completely blank. He doesn’t say a word.
I want to smack myself. What got into you, you stupid cow, I think.
If my words even registered with Hans, he still won’t believe them. I wonder what he will think when he hears I’ve actually pulled it off? Will he come back to life, if just for a second? Will he feel a sense of satisfaction? Something even approaching happiness? Will his eyes light up? Will Ingrid’s?
She comes back in and slides a silvery package into my hand.
“Don’t crush it — that’s the cake,” she says earnestly.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll call you again soon.”
I start to turn the door handle and feel Ingrid’s hand on mine. Her touch is cold and fleeting. I open my fist and find a 50 euro bill that wasn’t there before.
“Please take it, child. We have no use for our money anyway. Buy something for the little ones. You have such a good heart.”
I stick the bill into my jeans pocket. Ingrid looks almost happy. I bet she’s wondering now whether I would have accepted more. I was expecting her to do this since I didn’t turn down the money last time. Right before that last time, Ingrid told me how sad it was not to have anyone to give gifts to.
“If you ever need anything. . ” Ingrid says.
“I’ll holler,” I say as I hop out onto the walkway before Ingrid can think to hug me goodbye.
In the tram I press my forehead to the window. I shouldn’t fool myself — there’s no way Ingrid and Hans are going to be excited about my plan. They’re not like Anton.
They’re going to be appalled. Horrified. They are nice and naïve. They can never understand why unemployment is so high or why some people take drugs and others leave their newborn babies in dumpsters. They’ll be just as mystified at the fact that the girl they used to slip money and cake to could kill another human being. Or rather, an inhuman being.
They’d probably be hurt if I stepped on a dog’s paw in their presence. They consider the fact that their son will never return some kind of inexplicable, nightmarish misunderstanding. That’s why ever since it happened they’ve been operating in a dreamlike haze. At first they seemed to be counting on waking up one day and finding everything back the way it had always been. Then at some point they resigned themselves to the fact that there was no way out of this nightmare.
But since they don’t read the papers anymore and don’t talk to anybody, maybe they wouldn’t even find out I’d killed him. If they’re even still alive then.
Don’t know whether you can even say they are alive now.
Anyway, I’m not ready to do it yet. Logistically speaking.
I have a bunch of books on criminology at home. But so far they haven’t inspired the perfect plan yet. Sometimes I imagine breaking a bottle over Vadim’s head. But I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t kill him — it would just get his blood all over me. And that’s not enough. Not for me. No way.
Then I think of a heavy object — an iron or a dumbbell. In old mysteries they always talk about candlesticks, and we have one of those at home that would do the trick. From the flea market.
That could work. Here’s the scenario: Vadim comes to visit, to see Alissa and Anton. As usual — like he always used to before — he brings chocolate. “I’ll make us some tea,” I say helpfully, “and you can tell us about prison.” Vadim sits down at the table with his back to me, waiting for his tea. That was something he always used to do, too. He always sat and waited for things — a plate of pickled herring, a pen, a clean shirt.
I hate men. All of them except Anton.
Then the moment would come. Finally. Yes.
The spot where Vadim had just a moment before had a head would be reduced to nothing more than a bloody mush. A bit of a shame that it would drip on our table and floor. Maybe I’ll put down a tarp. I’m not sure whether I’ll say anything as I do it: “This is for my mother and Harry,” for instance. Or, “Drop dead.” But hang on, this isn’t a soap opera I’m planning here. I just want to get it done. No need to sing a song or recite a poem.