“So your mother named you after a movie star?”
I cleared my throat. “Actually, it was my father who came up with the name.”
I instantly regretted mentioning him. Don’t ask. Please don’t ask. But Alex didn’t ask any questions about Papa. Not then. Instead, he leaned nonchalantly against a shelf of perfume bottles and took a sip from the glass he was holding.
“Well, it suits you, at any rate. Garbo was a real beauty.”
He was staring at me with such intensity in his blue eyes that I had to look away. I straightened the black T-shirt with the shop logo I was wearing, keenly aware of his gaze following the movement of my hands on the fabric.
“And she was not only beautiful, she was also a mystery. I have a feeling that you are too.”
Something warm rubs against my leg and I look down, giving Tirith a distracted look. Only later did I tell Alex about Papa. And even then I didn’t reveal the whole truth. A mystery. I have a feeling that you are too. Yes, well. Maybe.
I lean down to stroke the cat under the chin. With my other hand, I hold the phone to my ear. Tirith blissfully closes his eyes and leans his head against me, butting at my fingers. I check my own voice mail, but there’s nothing from Alex. Again I punch in his number. This time I do leave a message. How would it look otherwise? That’s what pops into my mind. The next second, I frown. How would it look otherwise? What a strange thought.
Restless, I wander into the kitchen. I find a rag and make a halfhearted attempt to wipe the mud off the floor. In the living room, I pick up all the pieces of the broken figurine. Wondering what to do next, I make another round of the cabin, entering one room after the other. In the entryway, I pause. I stand there for a long time, listening for any sounds outside, for footsteps coming up the steps and loud voices approaching. I’m waiting for someone to grab the door handle and call my name. Call out: We’re here! But nothing happens. My mind feels both jumbled and completely empty. Missing. Gone. It’s impossible.
I turn to look in the mirror that hangs on the wall across from the coat hooks and hat shelf. I study the dark-haired figure with carefully applied makeup. I take her in. Take in the whole picture. Except for the purplish shadow on her neck. My eyes move quickly past that. Then I look into my own eyes, trying to penetrate the barrier that separates me from the rest of the world. The barrier that has always been my protection. My weapon. What would other people do in my situation? What would an ordinary, sensible, normal person do now?
I know the answer even before those words take shape in my consciousness. Call for help. That’s what an ordinary, sensible, normal person would do under these circumstances. How could I have let all these hours go by—and by now many hours must have passed—without sounding the alarm about Alex and Smilla’s disappearance? Why don’t I instantly pick up the phone and contact the police? My cheeks are burning as I tear myself away from the eyes, now looking even sterner, staring at me from the mirror. Calling the police would mean acknowledging the likelihood that something terrible has happened. The worst of all possible scenarios. And I refuse to think along those lines. Alex and Smilla are unharmed and safe. That’s what I want to believe, what I need to believe. But then why aren’t they here? Here with you? A shiver races down my spine, making the tiny hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end. I need to go back to the island. I have to.
When I try to put on my shoes, I sway and almost fall over.
Only now do I realize how worn out I am. Totally exhausted. Before I leave I should probably sit down for a while. I can’t eat anything, but I should at least drink something.
I stumble into the kitchen and run my hands over the cupboards above the sink but don’t open any of them. Instead, I open the lower cupboard and survey the bottles stowed inside. What I really need is a drink. I slam the cupboard door and sink into a kitchen chair. I can’t have a drink. Not now. Definitely not now.
The outline of a face hovers in front of me. I can make out a man’s sharp features. Hair falling in a wave over his forehead, full lips curving in a strongly defined arch. Papa? Papa. It’s too much. The last shreds of self-confidence and determination seep out of me. I bury my face in my hands and slump forward.
Damn you, Alex!
6
I wake up when something soft and furry presses against my face. I instinctively try to fend off consciousness as well as whatever is trying to force itself on me. When I automatically throw out my arm—I won’t let you, I don’t want to—I bump into a slender, warm body, prompting an offended yowl. In an instant, I’m wide awake. I raise my head. My neck is so stiff that I moan out loud; one side of my face has gone numb. I rub my cheek and stare down at the tablecloth. Did I fall asleep here?
Tirith has moved away and is now standing a safe distance away, giving me an accusatory look.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” I say, wheezing slightly as I rub my tight neck. “I didn’t know it was you. I thought…”
Then I remember. I haul myself to my feet and rush for the bedrooms. In Smilla’s room, everything is a mess from yesterday’s search. But I hardly notice. The only thing I see is the bed. Empty. No golden curls spread out on the pillow, no little girl’s body outlined under the covers. I fall to my knees, bury my face in the duvet, and breathe in her scent. It can’t be true. Maybe I’m still asleep? Oh, dear God, please tell me I’m dreaming. Make all of this a bad dream.
I can feel myself hovering on the verge of tears. A whimper rises to my throat and out of my mouth. But then something squeezes in between me and all these emotions. An ugly voice in my head. Hypocrite, it whispers. I stagger to my feet, my eyes dry. Dutifully, I peek inside the bigger bedroom—and conclude that no one has slept there either. My head feels heavy, as if I’d had that drink yesterday after all. I feel like I must’ve emptied, one by one, all those fucking bottles that Alex brought, even though I know this never happened. How can you be so sure? whispers the little voice inside my head. How can you be sure of anything?
Tirith is waiting in the kitchen. He eagerly swings his tail from side to side when I get out the bag of cat food and pour some in his dish. Of course that’s why he woke me up. He’s hungry. I had planned to take only a short nap, yet here it is already morning. Filled with loathing, I stick two pieces of French bread in the toaster. Out of habit I also fill a bowl with yogurt. I try to avoid thinking how absurd it is to be bothering with ordinary routines right now. I need food, after all, so I force myself to eat.
The toast crunches between my teeth, and my throat hurts when I swallow. Cautiously, I touch my neck. Then I run my eyes over the kitchen table, to the place where Smilla was sitting only twenty-four hours ago.
They came into the kitchen together. Alex with his arms stretched overhead, one hand supporting Smilla under her chest, the other holding on to her leg. She was swooping like an airplane over his head, howling with laughter when he spun around and made her do breakneck dives through the air. At one point, her head came dangerously close to an open cupboard door, and it looked like Alex might lose his balance. But I held back my objections, not wanting to fuss, not wanting to interfere.
Finally, Alex brought Smilla in for a landing on the chair across from me and began fixing her breakfast. She tucked her feet up under her nightgown and watched him with admiration in her eyes. Maybe it was Smilla’s pure and genuine happiness that settled the matter. Maybe it was then that I solidified the decision I’d made during the night.