You Should Have Left Page 3

  I’ve always thought that when people say something makes their hair stand on end, it’s just a figure of speech. But that’s exactly how it felt. The picture isn’t there, even though my memory tells me clearly that it should be there. And not only is there no picture next to the washing machine, there’s also no nail in the wall, not even a hole from a nail. And there’s no other picture hanging there either, or anywhere else in the room or in the hall outside it or, now that I think about it, anywhere at all in the house. Everywhere white walls, not a photo, not a painting.

  —

  Martin: Don’t give me any ideas, but kidding aside—

  Ella: Did you really just say kidding aside?

  M: I wouldn’t even be allowed to audit you, but—

  E: Don’t frighten me like that!

  M: —why would that be so bad for you?

  E: Why would a tax audit be bad for me?

  M: After all, it’s only an audit. Like a traffic check. If you have nothing to hide—

  E: What are you implying?

  M: Nothing, I’m just surprised.

  E: You’re surprised?

  M: Yes, I’m surprised.

  —

  No stars, no lights in the valley either. There’s only a train flashing by. Susanna has already gone to bed.

  At dinner she asked me twice: What’s the matter? What was I supposed to say? I said: Nothing, why? And because she looked at me so critically, I added: But what’s the matter with you? To which she replied: Nothing, but you’re acting strange! And because I can’t stand that tone, I said: No, you’re acting strange!

  Meanwhile Esther was telling us about a friend from preschool who is named either Lisi or Ilse or Else and either took a toy away from her or gave her one, at which point the teachers did either nothing at all or just the right thing, or something wrong; little kids are not good storytellers. But Susanna and I exclaimed That’s great! and Incredible! and How about that! and the relief when she stopped talking brought us closer together.

  Then I carried Esther upstairs, and I briefly had trouble with the bathtub: When I reached for the faucet, it was—how can I describe it? It was farther back than it should have been. I extended my arm, and yet my hand, which should have touched the faucet, since it was only a foot away from my face, was still in front of the faucet; I couldn’t reach it. Esther giggled. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, opened my eyes again, and now it worked: I ran water into the oval designer bathtub and listened to its full-toned flow while Esther explained something to me about either Fozzie Bear from The Muppet Show or SpongeBob. Really? I exclaimed, and Oh wow! and Oh yeah! Then I put her in the water and washed her and lifted her out again and dried her off, drying the inside of her ear with a corner of the towel, not because it was necessary but because she liked it, and, while she talked and talked, put on her colorful pajamas, which are her favorite ones because there are dinosaurs on them, and carried her down the corridor into her room with its green and violet circles on the wall and an obviously brand-new teddy bear on the shelf, which either another renter forgot or the attentive Steller placed here. Until now Esther had found all this wonderful, but tonight she didn’t like it anymore.

  Why not? I asked. What’s bothering you?

  I don’t want to be alone here.

  But we’re next door. We can hear you. We even have this here. I pointed to the camera of the baby monitor. You’re not alone here.

  Alone in the room.

  What’s so bad about that?

  When you’re alone in a room…She reflected. Then everything is different.

  In what way?

  When you talk, just you hear it.

  And?

  That’s weird!

  Something about that made sense to me. I gently covered her up and dimmed the light to a faint glow with the help of the glass touch-control switch.

  If you had another kid, said Esther.

  Yeah?

  You would love the other kid just as much.

  But I don’t have another kid.

  You would say that to the other kid.

  I reached for a picture book, the millipede Hugo’s exciting journey God knows where. I read for a while, but she still seemed absent.

  What’s the matter?

  Bad dreams, she said.

  You won’t have bad dreams.

  Yes, I will.

  But as I read on, she relaxed and smiled as if to herself. After a few minutes she was asleep. I carefully gave her a kiss on the forehead.

  Susanna was talking on the phone when I entered the living room. She hung up and said anxiously that she needed a better agent.

  Yes, I said, that’s true. I knew that she would never get a new agent, but she would also never stop complaining about her agent. It’s the sad truth, and only because I’m certain that she’ll never read this here can I say it: Once you’re over forty, the roles become sparse. Some actresses can keep going. But most can’t.

  Luckily she dropped the subject, and we talked about things that people who are raising a child together always have to discuss: the new preschool teacher, whom neither of us likes, and Susanna’s father, who wants us to visit him, and my father, who would like to be left in peace, although he would gradually need help, and her friend Sigrid, who was getting divorced, which we considered a mistake. Then we were silent, and I grasped her hand, but she said: Not tonight, I’m tired. And I said: Yeah, the mountain air does that, I’m tired too.

  —

  Ella in the car. After the fight she turns off the speakerphone. Then she brakes, pulls over, and turns around. Get away get away get away before get away it’s get away too get away late get away

  Jana in her new apartment on the couch, Ella storms in. Jana looks up from her laptop.

  E: You can’t imagine what just—

  J: (wearily) Go on, tell me.

  E: First he asks me where I am, and I answer

  December 5

  Susanna and Esther are still asleep. I’m alone in the living room. The sun is about to rise. Where are these dreams coming from?

  Give it a try. One thing at a time.

  My hands are trembling.

  Again the empty room, the lightbulb on the ceiling, no window. Or actually a small window with bars. Wrong, no window. But in the corner the chair with the broken-off leg. And the woman with the narrow eyes. No, it wasn’t her, or to be precise: It was her only briefly, then it was Susanna. I ran out the door, down the corridor, and couldn’t find the light switch and thought quite clearly that you don’t need light in a dream anyway. I just wanted to get out. To get away. I wanted to get away so desperately that I said to myself: Get away, get away, get away. And the woman with the narrow eyes, because it was her again now, was next to me, and I thought: Just don’t look at her.

  Then I flung open the front door and was outside in the cold. I felt the grass under my bare feet, and the wind hurt my face so badly that I woke up from it.

  Susanna was sleeping next to me, the screen of the baby monitor showed our daughter. She was sitting up and looking into the camera, her eyes gleaming white.

  But at the same time I still felt the grass on my feet and the wind in my face, and while I was lying in bed, I was at the same time outside, freezing and groping for the door handle, and this wasn’t still part of the dream, it was really happening. I found the handle, but the door had clicked shut, I was locked out.

  I could hardly breathe. I felt that I could freeze to death. I had to do something fast to get into the warm house, and there was a simple solution: I got up out of the bed. I avoided looking at the screen again, and ran out of the room, down the corridor, past the door to Esther’s room. I searched for the light switch, now I needed it, because I was awake, after all, and could hurt myself, because the railing of the staircase was too low, but I didn’t find it, so I could only feel my way slowly, and as a result I doubled over outside from the cold; I clapped my hands and jumped up and down, but the wind bit into my skin,
everything went black, and yet when I had finally reached the door, it became clear to me that I was not permitted to open it. It simply was not permitted to happen that I should look myself in the face, from inside and outside, on both sides of the door, it was not permitted to happen. I backed away, and apparently I had done the right thing, because I felt everything shifting into place; I was lying in bed again, Susanna was murmuring in her sleep, the monitor showed my daughter soundly sleeping.

  So why am I so uneasy? Why are my hands trembling so badly that my writing is scrawly, why this pounding of my heart, and why am I still so cold?

  In movies a character sometimes realizes that he was only dreaming the bad things, I’ve used the trick before myself, in Lola and Uncle, but the truth is: When you’re awake, you know that you’re awake. Am I dreaming? is not a question anyone asks seriously. I know I wasn’t dreaming.

  But I must have been dreaming.

  —

  Three acts. In the first Jana moves out of Ella’s apartment and has to get by on her own while Ella lives with a man for the first time in her life.

  In the second Ella has to learn

  —

  The sun is going down. The short winter days in the mountains. We just got back after spending the whole day outdoors.

  Even beforehand it was clear to me that a hike wouldn’t be a good idea. On the rather long list of things that you shouldn’t do with a four-year-old, hiking is very high. But Susanna was bent on doing it.

  Are you really sure?

  Well, if it were up to you, we’d never leave the house at all!

  So after breakfast we put on our down jackets and stuck the little one in the carrier backpack, which Susanna had bought specifically for such outings, and trudged off.

  We walked silently and despondently. Glutinous fog refused to clear, the grass seemed colorless, and the oppressive silence was unbroken, except for Esther’s chatter. Two hours passed like this. Maybe it was three. Maybe just one. When I listened briefly to Esther, she was talking to herself about a fox and a rabbit and a Mr. Molts or Milts or Malts.

  I asked Susanna if she’d ever spoken with the owner of the house.

  By e-mail, she said, looking up from her phone. Just a few lines. He was very polite. Why? Is something wrong? The house is lovely!

  No, I said, nothing’s wrong.

  For a while we walked in silence. Even Esther had stopped talking.

  Now that you mention it, Susanna said, I do find myself thinking of that movie sometimes. That good movie based on the not-so-good book.

  Which movie?

  The one with all the Steadicam shots.

  Oh yeah, I said, Steadicam. It annoyed me that I didn’t know what a Steadicam was. I was a writer, not a cameraman, and I had nothing to do with technology. But it was still embarrassing. So which movie?

  Doesn’t matter, she said. Not important.

  Well, but just tell me which one!

  It’s really not important.

  Why are you bringing it up if it’s really not important?

  Oh, are we allowed to say only important things now? Otherwise we have to be silent? Like in a monastery?

  Now we were both irritated and didn’t even know why.

  Anyway, something actually is wrong, she said. With the house.

  I stopped.

  Hard to explain, she said. The atmosphere. Something’s not right. I don’t sleep well. And have bad dreams, in a really unusual way. The kind of dreams you have when you have a fever. Like, last night we were both in this small room, and you—

  Esther pinched my ear, and I was so startled that I cried out. Immediately she burst into tears, and Susanna began to reproach me: How could I be so unthinking, what was the matter with me?

  What happened? I asked. In your dream, tell me please!

  No, she said. Nothing’s more boring than talking about dreams, and anyway, I hardly remember.

  What did you dream about? I shouted.

  I can’t stand it when you’re so obsessive.

  We walked on. I was no longer in the mood to talk, and Susanna texted sullenly. Esther had fallen asleep. My shoulders hurt from her weight. It began to drizzle.

  Do we want to leave? I asked.

  Now it was Susanna who stopped. We looked at each other. The rain ran down our shoulders. She stepped toward me, then she threw her arms around my neck.

  Today, I said.

  Yes, she said. Not one more night here.

  Not one more night, I said.

  I thought, because your work is going so well. Because you’re finally making progress with the screenplay, because you’re constantly writing in your notebook!

  And I thought that you guys are so happy here.

  We’re not.

  On the way back the rain stopped, the fog cleared, and the mountains rose majestically against the horizon. It almost made you want to stay.

  —

  Now she’s upstairs packing. And I’m writing for the last time at this table, in front of this window, in front of my reflection, which I hardly dare to look at out of worry that it could disappear again.

  What has actually happened? Figments of the imagination, bad dreams, a few peculiar reflections. But it’s decided: We’re leaving.

  Esther is sitting on the floor next to me, putting Legos together, and saying again and again: Look, Daddy, look, and I say: Oh yeah, that’s great, without any idea what she’s referring to. Unfortunately, we paid in advance, and there are no defects on account of which we could demand a refund. On the contrary, the house is in the best condition.

  Still, I’m going to call this Steller now. I’d just like to know who the woman in

  Now I’ve

  I have to copy them down.

  But quickly before

  —

  Her phone, it was lying next to me on the table, and I wanted, because she had Steller’s, at least I think that she said she had his number in her, so just as I

  Just as I took it, a message. Flashing on the screen. I couldn’t help

  I want to touch you again.

  And I’m thinking what people always think, there must be a completely harmless, maybe it’s a joke or out of context or sent to the wrong number, a misdirected message, and I take the phone and hear Susanna walking around on the floor above me, and Esther is tugging on my pants leg, and I shout: Not now! and see that the message is from someone named David, no last name, it just says David, and I don’t know any David and so I open the messaging app and check whether

  I’m

  going to copy them down. The messages from her

  and from him. I don’t want her to know

  How much longer are you away? It feels like forever before I have you in my

  I want to be inside you and

  And you? Are you thinking about me and about how we

  I can’t

  I can’t copy them down.

  I

  I miss you so much.

  I miss you it’s driving me crazy I want to feel how

  I can’t right now. You know, the kid

  I want you like

  No, I can’t

  It’s enough. There’s no harmless

  I’m shaking like

  I can’t copy them down.

  But I shouldn’t let anything show, want to find out

  —

  I don’t know what time it is. I have to pull myself together, have to pull myself together. Writing helps. I have to pull myself together, because Susanna is gone. Esther is asleep upstairs. What am I going to do tomorrow, when she wakes up, what am I going to do, what am I going to tell her?

  I couldn’t do it. I wanted to keep it to myself and observe her and find out how deep her deception goes. I wanted to watch her lying to me and at the same time think and try to understand. I wanted to compose myself. At first it was going well too.

  For about three minutes.

  She came downstairs, peeled an apple for Esther, and said: Please carry the
bags out, then we can get going. I’ll collect these toys here.

  I’ll get right on it, I said.

  And she: What’s the matter?

  I said: Nothing, why?

  To which she said she could see that something was the matter.

  And I: Nonsense!

  And she: Go on, tell me!

  That’s when I started to shout. At least I thought I was shouting, but I gradually began to suspect that my voice was just a croak. Immediately after I had begun, she took her telephone from the table with a swift movement. You might as well leave it there, I shouted or croaked, while Esther stared up at me, I’ve already copied down the messages, here in my notebook. Who is this David? And although I gathered all my strength to push away the thought, it occurred to me that all this made me feel like I’d stumbled into one of my movies. But that didn’t make it any better. In a movie it’s funny when a life falls apart, because the people say clever things while it’s happening, but in reality it’s only dismal and repugnant. Do you want to deny it? I shouted, and only when she looked at me seriously and calmly and said that she didn’t want to deny it at all did I realize how much I had hoped she would.

  Pull yourself together, she said. Think of your daughter. Then she picked up Esther from the floor and said: Time for bed!

  The little one began to whine: It was still light out, not even late, she didn’t want to, but Susanna gave her a kiss and carried her out of the room.

  I sat motionless. I couldn’t think, I had no strength. I heard Susanna walking back and forth upstairs, heard her speaking with Esther calmly and maternally.

  I opened the notebook. I read the messages, the fragments of messages, the awful sentences that I had copied down, while I fidgeted with something that had been lying on the table. It was the triangle ruler from the village store. From upstairs I heard Susanna singing a lullaby. Because the inactivity was unbearable, I turned the page and drew a straight line. I rotated the ruler and carefully drew another, at a right angle. I positioned the ruler so that it bisected the right angle and drew a third straight line.

  The result looked peculiar.

  I checked the measurements. The angle below the bisector came to forty, the one above it to forty-two degrees. How was that possible? I measured the right angle again: ninety, of course. I measured the two angles that made it up: The lower one came to forty, the upper to forty-two, so several degrees should have been missing, but they weren’t missing, the right angle was a right angle. I measured again: ninety degrees.