‘You’re some kind of detective. Aren’t you. I was wondering when you’d come.’
‘Mrs Hekmann,’ I said, ‘I don’t —’
‘Don’t lie to me.’ Ash dropped from her cigarette and shattered on the tablecloth. ‘It’s no use lying, not now. That phone-call you made, for instance. Who were you speaking to?’
She didn’t give me time to answer. ‘It was the police, wasn’t it. Your colleagues.’ Her voice was level, but only just. ‘That was clever of them, sending me a cripple. Oh, that was clever. They knew it would catch me unawares, arouse my sympathy. Send in the blind man. It always works.’ She crushed her cigarette out on a plate, and with it she seemed to be crushing any need for ambiguity or restraint. ‘You walk into my house, you accept my hospitality, and all the time —’ Her chair scraped backwards and she stood up. ‘You betrayed me, Mr Blom. You betrayed my trust.’
She walked away across the room. When she reached the window, she stopped. The handle creaked as she opened it. ‘It’s snowing,’ she said. ‘You probably hadn’t realised.’
I shook my head. Her cardigan had brown buttons on it. I counted them. One, two, three, four — and there was one missing, at the bottom. They were unusual buttons; they looked like hazelnuts.
‘I know your kind,’ she said.
‘My kind?’ My voice sounded weak.
She stood with her back to the window, the snow blowing past her, into the room. I watched it settle on the floor and melt. I was shivering.
‘Your kind,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen your kind on television.’
‘You — you really think I’m a policeman?’
‘I know you are.’
‘What is it I’m supposed to be investigating?’
‘My granddaughter. Nina Salenko.’
I stared at Edith Hekmann’s grey-green cardigan. There was a loose thread near one of the cuffs. If she didn’t mend it soon, the whole sleeve would probably unravel. I thought I should point it out to her. ‘You’ve got —’
‘You were seen,’ she said. ‘Mazey saw you. You were together.’
I could hear Munck’s voice. About the man in the station … tall, apparently … pale hair … staring … Then I remembered what Loots had told me on the night he came into my room. His description of the man he’d noticed in the hotel car-park. Mazey. Mazey Hekmann. I reached for my glass. It wasn’t there.
‘You’re looking for her,’ she said, ‘aren’t you.’
I shook my head again. ‘I’m not. Not any more.’
‘That’s just as well.’
Something rose in my throat and hardened, like a stone. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because she’s dead.’
I couldn’t swallow; I could barely speak. ‘How do you know?’
Edith Hekmann did not reply.
I stood up. A snowflake landed on the tablecloth, white on white. ‘I think I’ll go to my room now,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Aren’t we going to talk tonight?’
I moved towards the door.
‘Don’t you want to know what happened?’ Her voice had softened.
‘No,’ I said.
‘You don’t want to know the truth?’
‘You shouldn’t tell me anything,’ I murmured, ‘not if I’m a policeman.’
Snow slanted between us and suddenly it was like watching something on an old TV. Any minute now, I was going to lose her completely.
‘I trusted you,’ she said.
I reached the top of the stairs. Turning right, I walked to the far end of the landing and sat down on the small upholstered chair beside the phone. I thought of calling Munck again, but I couldn’t see what good it would do. And anyway, I wouldn’t have known what to tell him. I called Loots instead. My fingers kept missing the holes. Three times I dialled the wrong number. The fourth time his uncle answered. I asked him if I could speak to Albert. He put the receiver down. ‘Albert?’ he shouted. ‘Al-bert?’ In the background I could hear the sounds of an ordinary household: voices, music, cutlery.
When Loots came to the phone, he asked me how I was. It wasn’t a question I felt capable of answering.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘When are you coming?’
‘Tomorrow.’ His plan was to leave in the morning, he said. He’d be with me sometime in the early afternoon.
‘Can’t you come any sooner?’
He was silent for a moment. ‘Not really. Not unless I leave right now.’
It was my turn to be silent.
‘You want me to leave now?’ His voice lifted, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.
‘I wouldn’t ask,’ I said, ‘not unless it was important.’
‘What’s wrong? Are you in trouble?’
‘Yes, I think I am.’
‘I knew there was something about that place —’ He checked himself. ‘What kind of trouble?’
‘I can’t talk, Loots.’
‘You can’t tell me anything?’
‘Please,’ I said. ‘Just come.’
Back in my room I stood at the wash-basin, leaning on it, with my head lowered. I wondered if Edith Hekmann had listened to that call as well. The porcelain beneath my hands. The coolness of it. The smooth, rounded edges.
Don’t you want to know the truth?
All I could see now were the buttons on her cardigan. The four brown buttons. Like hazelnuts. And that sleeve of hers, unravelling, unravelling –
You don’t want to know?
Something was coming apart. I didn’t dare to lift my head. I couldn’t look into the mirror.
I was afraid of what I might see.
Of what I might not see.
During the night I left my room and tiptoed through the darkened house. Halfway down the stairs I heard somebody murmuring. It seemed to be coming from behind the wall. I thought it must be one of the residents — old people having trouble sleeping. The clock struck three as I stepped on to the porch. The snow had stopped. I’d walked out into an odd silence, a padded world.
I crossed the car-park and, passing through the clustered fir trees, started down the stone steps towards the pool. Then, suddenly, I lost my footing. I was rolling, over and over. I had to throw my hands up around my head, to protect it. When I landed at the bottom of the steps, my glasses and my cane were gone.
I lay on my back in the snow. I didn’t seem to be hurt. Just shaken. Had I woken anyone? I lay there, listening. All I could hear was the sound of sulphur water tumbling into the pool. I sat up. Rubbed my elbow, then my knee. I’d been lucky. One of these days I was going to break something.
Why had I fallen, though?
I hadn’t been careless or impatient — in fact, I was sure I could remember watching my feet sink, one after the other, into the pure, unblemished snow. There was no reason to have fallen, none at all.
I limped to the edge of the pool. I knelt, reached down with one hand. Above the waterline the walls were sharp to the touch, encrusted with mineral deposits; below it, they were smooth, almost velvety, the consistency of dust. A rope had been fastened along the side in even loops, for people to hold on to. Over the years it had petrified, and it was now as hard as china.
The sound of the water, that sulphur smell, the rope’s strange texture — all this I could claim to know.
I slowly raised my head.
But what about the things my undiminished senses couldn’t help me with? What about the trees on the far side of the valley? What about the stars?
The night before, in the middle of her story, Edith Hekmann had taken me to Mazey’s room. She was so insistent, pulling on my sleeve, that I couldn’t refuse. It was up the stairs and through the door I’d put my ear to once, the door marked PRIVATE. Then along a cramped passageway, no more than shoulder-wide. Mazey’s room was at the end, on the right. She let me go in first. After what I’d heard, I’d been expecting something bizarre, extravagant — if not demented. I was disappointed. It was a room like any other room. A window, a single bed, a chair. A basin in the corner. Taps. A perfectly ordinary room. And Edith Hekmann was just a mother, proudly showing off her child. I found myself thinking of Gabriela, the Gabriela who appeared in my dreams. Always being admired for something, being special, winning.