sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . ”
“No.” Belitz shook his head. “You’re quite right. Some people might wonder what such a young woman is doing with an old man like me.”
He smiled slightly and then fell silent. Felix studied the photo. The woman was in her early to midforties, with an open, intelligent face, light skin, short red hair, and radiant blue eyes. The man sitting opposite him at the table was at least twenty years older than she was, gray haired, tall, gaunt but elegant.
Felix frowned. “She looks familiar to me somehow.”
“Hanna Umlauf,” the visitor said, raising his head. “The photographer. The photo artist.”
“Oh yes. That’s right. I saw some photos of hers recently in the paper. She takes really striking pictures.”
A smiled flashed across Belitz’s face, along with a slight blush of pride, a tremor of happiness that momentarily lightened his fear. Felix was touched. Like a father, he thought, who was proud of his daughter. Or in this case, his wife, who was young enough to be his daughter.
Felix cleared his throat. “Could it be, perhaps, that she . . . How can I put it? You said yourself that your wife travels a lot. That means meeting a lot of people, including other men. Maybe—”
“No!” Belitz’s voice was resolute and sharp, and for a brief moment Felix found him unlikeable. “No, I’d know. And if that were the case, there’d be no need for her to disappear . She could simply go .”
“All right,” said Hansen. “When was the last time you spoke to her?”
9
She looked at the chrysanthemums—orange, yellow, red—and touched the petals. There were still a few hours to go—a few hours’ grace. Still a few hours until life would begin to leak from her with every drop of blood that flowed from her veins, staining the floor of her kitchen.
She knew nothing. Had no idea. How could she? She looked at the chrysanthemums—orange, red, a couple of yellow ones. She loved chrysanthemums, loved their warm, vibrant colors. Those in her garden were particularly beautiful, lit up by the mild freshness of the day, lit up by Moritz’s warmth, his bright child’s voice when he said “Mama.”
“Will you be here when I come home tomorrow, Mama?”
“Of course, darling. I always am.”
Then his smile, his hug, his rough child’s lips on hers. He was out through the door.
Gertrud smiled, and her eyes moved again to the chrysanthemums and the basket beneath the damson tree laden with juicy blue-purple fruit. Suddenly, she felt a tightening in her throat. She looked up, paused, listened . . . it was as if she sensed . . . as if she saw. Fleeting images, like lightning flashes: an onion falling from the table, deep red jelly, a biting pain, tears, release, death.
She shook her head rapidly. No, she thought. It’s summer, still summer.
But the images persisted in her head, crept into her heart. She thought of Christian, of her work, of the children. She stayed for a long while on the terrace, fending off the images, defending herself. But the clock was ticking. It had all begun and would all come to an end. Self-defense would be pointless.
There were only a few hours. She looked out over her garden. She loved chrysanthemums and asters, and in spring, the tulips and the lilacs. She was less fond of roses. Roses distorted reality, roses pretended and put on a show, and when the leaves fell, they fell immediately, decisive and certain.
She looked out over her garden and resigned herself to the coolness of the change, accepted it like a quiet, constant blow to the breast. She looked into the transparent sun, thought of rain, of drizzle in a park. She listened to the music drifting out of the open living room door—Norah Jones, Sinéad O’Connor, Tracy Chapman. She saw the car turn into the drive.
Later, she would rinse the blade and lay it down next to the sink. Later still, it would fall with a quiet clink beside her on the floor. She was already barred
“No.” Belitz shook his head. “You’re quite right. Some people might wonder what such a young woman is doing with an old man like me.”
He smiled slightly and then fell silent. Felix studied the photo. The woman was in her early to midforties, with an open, intelligent face, light skin, short red hair, and radiant blue eyes. The man sitting opposite him at the table was at least twenty years older than she was, gray haired, tall, gaunt but elegant.
Felix frowned. “She looks familiar to me somehow.”
“Hanna Umlauf,” the visitor said, raising his head. “The photographer. The photo artist.”
“Oh yes. That’s right. I saw some photos of hers recently in the paper. She takes really striking pictures.”
A smiled flashed across Belitz’s face, along with a slight blush of pride, a tremor of happiness that momentarily lightened his fear. Felix was touched. Like a father, he thought, who was proud of his daughter. Or in this case, his wife, who was young enough to be his daughter.
Felix cleared his throat. “Could it be, perhaps, that she . . . How can I put it? You said yourself that your wife travels a lot. That means meeting a lot of people, including other men. Maybe—”
“No!” Belitz’s voice was resolute and sharp, and for a brief moment Felix found him unlikeable. “No, I’d know. And if that were the case, there’d be no need for her to disappear . She could simply go .”
“All right,” said Hansen. “When was the last time you spoke to her?”
9
She looked at the chrysanthemums—orange, yellow, red—and touched the petals. There were still a few hours to go—a few hours’ grace. Still a few hours until life would begin to leak from her with every drop of blood that flowed from her veins, staining the floor of her kitchen.
She knew nothing. Had no idea. How could she? She looked at the chrysanthemums—orange, red, a couple of yellow ones. She loved chrysanthemums, loved their warm, vibrant colors. Those in her garden were particularly beautiful, lit up by the mild freshness of the day, lit up by Moritz’s warmth, his bright child’s voice when he said “Mama.”
“Will you be here when I come home tomorrow, Mama?”
“Of course, darling. I always am.”
Then his smile, his hug, his rough child’s lips on hers. He was out through the door.
Gertrud smiled, and her eyes moved again to the chrysanthemums and the basket beneath the damson tree laden with juicy blue-purple fruit. Suddenly, she felt a tightening in her throat. She looked up, paused, listened . . . it was as if she sensed . . . as if she saw. Fleeting images, like lightning flashes: an onion falling from the table, deep red jelly, a biting pain, tears, release, death.
She shook her head rapidly. No, she thought. It’s summer, still summer.
But the images persisted in her head, crept into her heart. She thought of Christian, of her work, of the children. She stayed for a long while on the terrace, fending off the images, defending herself. But the clock was ticking. It had all begun and would all come to an end. Self-defense would be pointless.
There were only a few hours. She looked out over her garden. She loved chrysanthemums and asters, and in spring, the tulips and the lilacs. She was less fond of roses. Roses distorted reality, roses pretended and put on a show, and when the leaves fell, they fell immediately, decisive and certain.
She looked out over her garden and resigned herself to the coolness of the change, accepted it like a quiet, constant blow to the breast. She looked into the transparent sun, thought of rain, of drizzle in a park. She listened to the music drifting out of the open living room door—Norah Jones, Sinéad O’Connor, Tracy Chapman. She saw the car turn into the drive.
Later, she would rinse the blade and lay it down next to the sink. Later still, it would fall with a quiet clink beside her on the floor. She was already barred
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