Strangers Read online

  She shakes her head. “Just go, please. I promise I won’t call the police.”

  I resist the fierce impulse to grab her by the arms and shake her and scream at her, to get her to stop all this nonsense. To be Joanna again. But I need to stay calm, it’s important that at least I keep a clear head. I take a few deep breaths, looking right into her eyes all the while. “What is all this? Why are you talking to me like this?”

  “Because I’m scared,” she says hesitantly. “You know?”

  “Of me?”

  “Yes. You really scared me.”

  “Joanna…”

  Her expression changes in an odd way as I say her name. It’s as though she’s trying to read my face to find out what I’m thinking.

  “Go away. Now.” I can feel she’s trying to make her voice sound firm. But it doesn’t work. She raises her hand slightly, and it’s only now I see that she’s clutching something. I try to make out what it is. The paperweight from the hallway. This whole thing is getting crazier and crazier. “Joanna…” I look deep into her eyes, trying to convey that she has no reason to fear me. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but please, stop it.”

  “You stop it,” she responds, like a small brattish child. “Stop acting like we know each other and just go, please.”

  This can’t be happening. I’m starting to worry Joanna might have completely lost her mind.

  I take another careful step toward her, not knowing how I’m supposed to deal with this bizarre situation. I have to be careful not to lose control. “Will you give it a rest already; of course we know each other.”

  Joanna shakes her head. “You’re mistaken, really. How, in your opinion, are we meant to know each other?”

  I’ve had about enough of this, damn it. “Either you’re playing some twisted game with me, or I should get you straight to the hospital. We’re engaged, Jo. We live together.”

  Her features crumble. This isn’t a game. She really doesn’t recognize me.

  Suddenly, her hand shoots up without warning and something flies through the air at me. I turn sideways by reflex, but it’s too late. The glass cube strikes my shoulder, and a firework of pain explodes in my entire upper body. I hear myself groaning. I suddenly feel nauseous and, at the same time, like someone has kicked me in the back of the knees. My legs buckle; I crash down to the floor and groan again. Joanna flits past me, just a dark shadow, and, in the next instant, disappears from my field of vision.

  Carefully, I feel around my shoulder.

  I thought I knew Joanna well by now, but suddenly she seems like a stranger to me, so much so as if it were another woman in her body.

  The pain in my shoulder is slowly subsiding. I prop myself up and struggle onto my feet. The living room sways. I take two, three careful steps, until I’m able to lean against the back of an armchair. My eyes wander over to the open living room door. Did Joanna run outside? Maybe she’s going to call the police.

  She’s sick; I have no more doubts about that. Maybe she always has been. Maybe she knows it and just never told me. Maybe … yes, maybe I never knew who the real Joanna was until now. No, that’s not possible, it can’t be. I straighten up and take a scrutinizing look around. Nothing’s swaying. I’m standing firmly again.

  Should I call the police myself? No, nonsense, what could the police do here? There was no burglary. My fiancée has lost her mind, but that’s something a doctor would need to tend to. A psychiatrist, even. I could call an emergency doctor. They’d probably commit her to a mental institution right away if they see her like this. And once she’s in one of those places … what with her being a foreigner and only having a temporary residence permit … No, first I have to try to talk to her again. Who knows what happened; maybe she’s just completely disorientated. For whatever reason.

  I turn on the light in the hallway, and a violent pain surges through my shoulder. I take a deep breath and look around. The front door is shut. If Joanna had run outside, she would have either left it open or hastily slammed it shut, upset as she is. I would have heard that.

  So she’s probably still in the house. I walk over to the stairs, look up, then pause. Something’s not right here, I can feel it. I slowly turn around and let my eyes wander through the hall again. The front door, the dresser next to it, the slip of paper on the floor, the coat rack … the coat rack. The realization feels like a punch in the gut, knocking the wind out of me. My things. They’re missing. There are two empty hooks where my jackets would usually be hanging. Below them, on the shelf … her sneakers, three pairs of casual shoes in different colors, but that’s it. They’re all hers. What the hell is going on here?

  I pull myself together. I have to find out. I rush over to the front door, open it, and take a look outside. Everything’s quiet. I close it again and decide to lock up, just to be sure. Then I climb the stairs, taking firm steps. I want Joanna to hear me, I want her to know I’m coming. I want to find out once and for all what’s going on here.

  I look into the bathroom: nothing, it’s empty. With grim determination I approach the bedroom door, firmly grip the handle, and push it down. Locked.

  “Joanna.” My voice sounds forceful. Not angry, but enough so she’ll realize I’m serious. “Joanna, will you stop this nonsense! Open the door so we can talk. I’m not going to hurt you, damn it.”

  Silence. I wait. Ten seconds, fifteen … Nothing. “Joanna, please, will you think about this for a second? If I really wanted to hurt you, do you think this pathetic little lock would stop me from getting into the bedroom? One kick and that’s that. But I don’t want to break down the door, because it’s my door as well, you see? We live here together. And if that doesn’t seem right to you, then we’ll … Joanna. Are you listening?”

  I realize I’m speaking very quickly. That’s something I always do whenever I have a thought I urgently want to tell somebody about.

  “I have an idea, Jo. Are you listening? Ask me something. Something only I could know. Something I’d have to know if I really live here with you. OK? Then you’ll see. Come on, ask me something, anything.”

  Again, nothing but silence for a while, but then I hear something behind the door. At the door. A click. The handle is pushed down, the door slowly opens and swings inward. Thank goodness.

  Joanna is standing there in front of me, a little off to the side. She’s looking at me, frightened, still holding on to the handle. My eyes move past her and into the bedroom. A hand, as cold as ice, reaches for my heart. And, for the first time, the thought crosses my mind that maybe the person who’s lost their mind here isn’t Joanna, but me.

  My blanket, my pillow … My wardrobe … Everything’s gone.

  3

  I did everything wrong, everything, one mistake after the next. I realize that now. Now, while the intruder is rattling the handle of the bedroom door.

  Dead end. No way out. Why didn’t I run outside instead of imprisoning myself? Because I felt safer in my own bedroom? What a fallacy. I’m sitting in a trap here; there’s no exit, just the window.

  “Joanna.”

  I close my eyes, press the pads of my thumbs against my eyelids. Go away, I think, just go away.

  “Joanna, will you stop this nonsense! Open the door so we can talk. I’m not going to hurt you, damn it.”

  Of course not. After all, we are engaged.

  I feel a sudden urge to laugh, out of pure hysteria, and if I do I know I won’t be able to stop. I take a deep breath and bore my fingernails into the palms of my hands until the urge subsides.

  What do I know about people with delusions? Nothing, really. That you should agree with them, not provoke them—I think I remember that much.

  “Joanna, please, will you think about this for a second? If I really wanted to hurt you, do you think this pathetic little lock would stop me from getting into the bedroom? One kick and that’s that.”

  I immediately back away from the door. He keeps talking, saying something about how it’s his door
too and that’s why he doesn’t want to break it down, but I’m well aware that he’ll do it sooner or later if I don’t open it.

  I frantically look around. For a weapon, something heavy. Next time I’ll hit the mark. Really take him out. Except there’s nothing in here that I can use. I would have to take a curtain rod apart, but there’s no way I have time for that.

  “I have an idea, Jo. Are you listening? Ask me something. Something only I could know. Something I’d have to know if I really live here with you.”

  I have to get to my cell phone. Or make it out onto the street, but neither of those will be possible unless I open this door. And that would mean taking all the risks that come with doing that.

  I feel sick.

  “Come on, ask me something, anything.” The man on the other side of the door sounds hopeful now.

  Maybe he’s dazed. The paperweight had hit him, after all, and I’d thrown it as hard as I could. Surely I have a chance against him now.

  OK. If I’m going to do this, it has to be quick. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. I turn the key and open the door, and at that moment I realize I’m still standing there in my bathrobe … such a stupid, stupid fool.

  For a moment the man smiles at me, then his gaze goes past me into the bedroom behind. The smile vanishes all at once, and is replaced by … Bewilderment. Disbelief.

  Who knows what he’s seeing, what his illness is leading him to believe. Maybe he’s on drugs.

  The opportunity is too good to let slip away because of fear. I edge through the door, squeezing past him, I’m almost at the top of the stairs now, and then …

  I make it exactly two steps, then he’s beside me again, grabbing my upper arm.

  “Stay here.” His tone sounds more pleading than threatening, but his grip on my arm doesn’t slacken. “We’ll talk now, OK? Jo? Let’s talk, please.”

  I try to wrench myself free once more. If I could just get to my phone and lock myself in the downstairs toilet …

  Even though his shoulder is clearly bothering him, I have no chance against him. He pulls me back into the bedroom, closes the door, and leans up against it.

  My fear comes flooding back. I could still try to open the window and shout. Hell, I should have done that right away. Instead of unlocking the door.

  The stranger doesn’t take his eyes off me for even a second. He slowly shakes his head. Breathes in shakily. “You really don’t recognize me, do you?”

  “No. I really don’t.”

  He laughs for a moment, but it’s a laugh that sounds far from cheerful. “Then I guess you also don’t know what happened to my things.”

  What? His things?

  My perplexity must have been written all over my face, because the stranger points his finger toward the bed.

  “My blanket. My pillow. They were here when I got up this morning. So was my wardrobe. And the shoes and jackets downstairs in the hall.” He comes a step toward me, but stops when I flinch.

  “If I go into the bathroom, I bet I won’t find my toothbrush either, will I? Or my aftershave? My shower gel?”

  He must have spun together an entire world in fine detail. A life that doesn’t exist.

  What if I play along? Simply act like I’m remembering everything bit by bit? Would he believe me, or is it too late now?

  I look him directly in the eyes, even though I find it difficult. There is something about him that makes me wish I had a knife. A knife I could stab him with. Again and again.

  My God, what am I thinking?

  I press my hands against my forehead, and the impulse to use violence to free myself from this situation abates. “You’re wrong. I’ve been living here alone ever since I rented this house. There is no second pillow and no second blanket and there’s most definitely no aftershave in the bathroom.”

  “Damn it, Joanna.” He tries to force his mouth into something resembling a smile. “What am I going to do with you?”

  The question makes me edge backward again. Nothing, there’s nothing he should do with me. He should just go.

  “I thought your suggestion before was a good one.” My voice was trembling a little. “We’ll do it the way you said. I’ll ask you questions that you could only answer if you really live here. And if you know me as well as you claim to.”

  He nods as his eyes flit around over the bed, the walls, the floor. Before eventually locking back onto me again.

  “OK.” I scour through my memories, searching for something that even the most cunning of stalkers wouldn’t be able to find out. Details that don’t appear on Facebook or my website.

  But the stress is taking its toll, and all I can think of are mundane details, nothing significant. Nothing that would convince me if he knew it.

  So I start with something random instead. An old habit. “I’m sure you’ve found out what I do for work.”

  “You’re a photographer.” He says it slowly, but without hesitation. “You’re doing an apprenticeship with Manuel Helfrich, because you admire his work so much; that’s one of the reasons why you came to Germany. Your pictures are wonderful, I love your portraits. You’ve photographed me so often…”

  I try to interject, but he doesn’t let me. “You had a favorite photo of me,” he says. “You framed it, and until this morning it was hanging right there.” He points at the wall, at a spot over the dresser.

  “First, that’s nonsense, and second, that wasn’t my question!” Even as the words are still coming out of my mouth, I realize how reckless I’m being. Just because he hasn’t done anything to hurt me so far doesn’t mean it will stay that way. Aggravating him is definitely a bad idea.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. “But I’d like to ask my question now.”

  He nods and prompts me to continue, with a despondent gesture.

  “When I photograph people who are nervous and feel uncomfortable in front of the camera, I always play a song at the start of the session. A very particular song. Which one is it?”

  He opens his mouth. Closes it again. “I don’t know. I went to see you in your studio a few times, but as soon as the clients arrived, you kicked me out right away. You said that third wheels are just as unwelcome at photo sessions as they are on dates.”

  I feel my stomach cramping up. He doesn’t know the song, as expected—but the rest really does sound like something I would say. Word for word, even.

  But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

  New question. Quickly.

  “What’s my middle name?”

  If he knows me, then he’d know it. I would have had him try to guess it, like I do with everyone I get to know, usually over the third and fourth glass of wine. He would have failed miserably, like all the others. But eventually I always give in and tell. Always.

  The stranger glances to the side, as if he can’t believe what I’ve just asked him. For a moment I think he’s about to burst out laughing. When he starts to speak again, his voice is quiet. “You haven’t told me. Not yet. You wanted me to guess it myself, but so far I haven’t managed to.”

  My mouth is dry. What I’d do for a sip of water right now. Once again, the man hasn’t answered my question, but once again, what he said lies close to the truth.

  You wanted me to guess it myself.

  He can’t have gotten this information online. Or by following me. He must have spoken to people who know me. Who told him what makes me tick, what I like, what I don’t like …

  He’s still blocking the door. His gaze wanders over my face, like he’s looking for something he lost.

  “One more question,” he says. “Something different, something that has more to do with you as a person, with your history, with this house, our life together.”

  “I asked you two questions, and you couldn’t answer either of them.”

  He closes his eyes, looking tormented. “Please,” he says. “Stop talking to me that way. You can’t imagine how—” He interrupts himself. “You don’t remember what my name is, do you?”


  I cross my arms in front of my chest. “I never knew.”

  A stunned shake of the head. “This is so … unbelievable.”

  “I’m sorry. But I can do the guessing this time if you want.” Now the man looks vulnerable, and hope is slowly growing within me that perhaps I can get the situation under my control after all. At least enough so I can flee from this room.

  My suggestion makes the stranger’s eyes light up. “Yes—that’s a great idea! Maybe your consciousness saved some information, then everything else will fall into place.” He takes a step toward me. “Just say the first name that comes into your mind,” he says in an imploring tone. “Without thinking about it.”

  I do exactly as he asks, and the result is surprisingly clear in my mind. “Ben.”

  Wrong. I can see it in his face. In any other situation, his disappointment would have awoken my sympathy. But now it’s giving me a further advantage I have to exploit.

  “OK, so not Ben. I’ll ask you another question. One last one, OK?”

  He nods in resignation, in a way that shows he’s lost hope.

  “There on the wall, above the wardrobe—do you see it? That little round hole?”

  No, he can’t, there’s no way he could from where he’s standing. I beckon him closer, even though I don’t feel comfortable about it. “There, do you see? What made that hole?”

  I take a step back to make space for him. One step, then another, toward the door. By the time he sees there’s nothing there, I want to be out of the room already and put as much space between us as possible so he can’t grab me again.

  “But there was never,” I hear him say as I fling the door open and run out onto the landing … toward the stairs, quickly, two steps at once, please don’t fall now.

  “Joanna!”

  He comes after me, of course, but I’m almost downstairs already, almost at the front door.…

  Which is locked.

  My keychain is hanging on the hook, where it belongs. I grab for it; it slips out of my fingers, falls to the floor with a clinking sound.

  “Jo! Please, you can’t just run out like this!”