‘I want to see if I’ve really lost my mind. And for that I need your help.’
29
No Admittance.
The same doormat, the same old block of flats pervaded by the same stale smells of food, the same sisal runner on the scuffed wooden stairs and the overflowing metal letterboxes in the entrance hall.
All that had changed in the last few hours was Marc’s general condition. His physical and mental states seemed to be becoming more and more similar – heading for rock bottom. He wondered, as he accompanied his father-in-law up the stairs to his flat, whether his physical discomfort was just a painful concomitant of his hallucinations, or whether the exact opposite applied and his hallucinations were being caused by the steadily worsening pains in his head and limbs.
‘Do you have to live in this area?’ asked Constantin, who appeared to be taking the stairs with ease. The surgeon worked out for an hour and a half every other day in the basement of his art nouveau villa, the only part of the house devoid of air-conditioning. He took the view that a work-out wasn’t a work-out unless you wound up sweating like a pig.
‘I can well understand why you didn’t want to go on living in your old home, not after…’ he said thoughtfully.
After…
Marc turned to his father-in-law, who was distastefully eyeing a baby buggy parked outside someone’s door.
‘But here?’ Constantin shook his head. Even his housekeeper lived in a more exclusive residential area.
Marc clasped his side to combat the stitch that had suddenly hampered his breathing. ‘There are worse places,’ he panted, and trudged on up the stairs.
For instance, the Berlin district in which he himself had been raised. Where their neighbour on the balcony below fired his Kalashnikov in the air whenever Galatasaray scored a goal back home in his native Turkey. Marc had seriously considered moving back there after Sandra’s death – back to his roots. Then it struck him that his roots had been severed long ago, the first of them by the death of his father, whose sudden demise had aroused wild speculation in the neighbourhood. ‘Frank Lucas drank himself to death – must have been in debt, and no wonder, with those good-for-nothing sons of his. His old woman probably lifts her elbow as well.’
At first his mother had tried to enlighten their neighbours on the true circumstances of her husband’s death and tell them about his congenital liver trouble, which had been diagnosed far too late because the doctors had concentrated on his mental state. In a healthy person the amount of alcohol Frank had been drinking towards the end would not have been lethal, but he’d never been healthy. As for Marc’s mother, she never regained her own health. Only a few months after her husband’s death she died of heart failure – in every sense of the term.
‘Why are you here?’ Marc asked wearily as he continued to drag himself up the stairs.
Behind him, Constantin sighed. ‘I thought we’d been through all that. You called me, I went to the police station, and -
‘No, I don’t mean that. You’re still speaking to me. I wonder why.’
‘Oh, so that’s it.’ His father-in-law was far too intelligent a man for Marc to have to say more.
Constantin had become the most important person in Marc’s life after his father died, a mentor who had urged him to make the most of his abilities instead of wasting them. It had never been a question of money. All Constantin had done was motivate Marc by introducing him to people who had made something of their lives. But it hadn’t been like that at first.
‘You think I should be angry with you?’ Constantin asked, catching him up. ‘You think I should wash my hands of you?’
‘You tried to once.’
Constantin grimaced, and Marc promptly apologized for hitting him below the belt. Six months after their first meeting at the villa, Constantin had taken him aside and shepherded him into the drawing room, leaving Sandra and her mother in the kitchen. Marc thought at first that the ice had finally broken, because Constantin’s manner towards him was friendly for the first time. He even chuckled as he handed Marc an envelope containing the equivalent of €20,000 in crisp new 100-mark notes. Sandra had told Constantin about his father’s financial problems. Frank Lucas’s law firm was already in the red at that stage, so the family’s debts would have been cleared at a stroke.
‘Break it off with my daughter and the money’s yours.’
Marc hadn’t turned a hair. He thanked Constantin politely for his generous offer. Then he went over to the fireplace and, without a moment’s hesitation, tossed the envelope into the flames.
‘I thought you’d finally forgiven me for that.’
‘I have,’ said Marc. He nodded, leaning against the banisters.
Back then, Marc had gathered from the hint of a smile on Constantin’s lips that he’d been put to the test. He had passed it with flying colours, even though Constantin hadn’t reckoned with his future son-in-law’s impulsive reaction. From that moment on, the Senner family had been poorer by €20,000 but richer by one new member of the family.
‘You were afraid I was only interested in your money.’
‘Worse than that. I thought you’d break Sandra’s heart.’
‘Well, now I’ve even managed to kill her.’
By now, they had reached the third floor and were only a few metres away from what Marc had until recently thought of as his own flat.
‘Tell me, are you still taking your pills?’ Constantin asked in a worried voice. He had just noticed Marc nervously feeling the back of his neck.
‘The immuno-suppressives?’ Marc shook his head. Constantin looked more worried still.
‘But you were given enough to last until your checkup next week.’
‘I know, but they’re in there.’
Marc indicated the door of the flat. The overhead light in which the moth had been fluttering around had given up the ghost completely.
‘Fine, so let’s go in and get them. Then I’ll take you to the clinic for observation.’
‘I’m only too happy to go, but…’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Take a look at that.’ Marc pointed to the door. ‘I knew it! I’m not completely deranged.’
Although the light from the stairwell was dim, he’d seen it at a glance.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The name on the card. It’s still wrong.’
Constantin went right up to the door. He took his reading glasses from his coat pocket and held them up to his eyes without putting them on.
‘Semmler,’ he read slowly.
What?!
‘No, no…’
Marc peered at the card too.
Shit, what is it this time?
Constantin struck a match, but Marc already knew his father-in-law was right.
Semmler. Not Senner.
‘But this is… this is…’ He blinked nervously. Then he laughed despite himself. The situation was just too absurd. He had definitely seen the name ‘Senner’, Sandra’s maiden name, beside the doorbell. Who on earth would have taken the trouble to substitute a second, even less appropriate surname?
‘Was that the name of the previous tenant?’ Constantin hazarded.
‘No, and my eyes didn’t deceive me the first time.’ Marc extinguished the match, he spat out the words so fiercely. ‘There’s something fishy going on, and I’ll prove it to you.’
He produced the serrated security key from the pocket of his jeans. His hand was trembling so much he had to pause for a moment before he could insert it in the lock.
‘Shall I?’ Constantin asked solicitously.
‘No, no problem.’ Marc’s tone was almost curt. And then, to his utter consternation, not the slightest problem presented itself. The key slid into the lock with a faint click, and he turned it with his thumb and forefinger as easily as if the mechanism had just been oiled.
30
Once, when Marc was twelve years old, he had staggered his mother by announcing that tidying his room would be contrary to the laws of nature. A Michael Crichton thriller had just, for the first time, confronted him with the phenomenon of entropy, a thermodynamicist’s term from which it can be deduced, inter alia, that everything in nature tends towards a state of the utmost disorder. Just as a car tyre loses its pressure and tread, or a T-shirt fades in the wash and becomes frayed, or roof tiles sometimes need replacing, so human beings eventually disintegrate into their component parts and lose the energy that binds their extremely complex anatomy together. They become old and ill and die. So why waste a brief human lifetime tidying things when all your efforts are bound to be nullified by a force of nature?