his phone, always with her voice. Twenty conversations with a woman whose experiences are unimaginable. Conversations that Blum should never have heard, detailed accounts of a crime, recorded around the city: under the motorway, in his car, in underground car parks, in secret, hidden places. Dunya was afraid, terribly afraid, and Mark took her fear seriously.
Blum checks the dates; she wants to know if there is more, she wants to know it all now, at once. They met over a period of two weeks. Their last meeting was on the day before the accident. Sometimes Dunya broke off the conversation because her memories hurt her, because she was afraid it would all happen again. The horror: the five men down in the cellar, the groans, the pain, the screaming. As the story of the crime comes over the little loudspeaker Blum knows she is listening to something extraordinary. She sits in Mark’s study for hours on end, listening to those two voices. Again and again she wants to stop the recording and delete those files. She doesn’t want to hear his voice comforting Dunya; she doesn’t want to hear her weeping in his arms during their fourth conversation. She would rather not imagine it. Wordless minutes, the closeness that she can sense between them. His closeness to another woman. Blum sits alone at his desk. Never mind what Dunya went through, never mind if it was purely pity on his part, Blum doesn’t want to know. Dunya was in his arms, and Mark was drying her tears.
Dunya. Blum thinks of her as she finishes her wine, gulping the last of it down. Why did she suddenly have to intrude, why couldn’t Blum just be content with the wine and Mark’s desk, why did she have to be curious? Why couldn’t she just return the phone to its default settings and sell it on the internet? Without wondering what it could tell her? Why now? Why did she now have to think of something so awful it was beyond belief? Why is his voice so beautiful? Why can’t she stop listening?
All night long she listens to Dunya and Mark. Until the sun rises, the wheel of time turns again and wrenches her out of his life. Until, dazed, she opens his study door and lies down in her bed. She waits until the children come and get into bed with her, snuggling up against her. They crawl under the covers, as they do every morning, and she takes time to soothe them, as she does every morning, too. She loves Uma and Nela, but her heart is pounding in her chest.
nine
A Ducati Monster 900. The motorbike Mark doted on, his second great love after Blum, a magnificent machine. He could enthuse for hours about the purring of the engine, an incomparable sound, music to his ears. Mark had loved to ride fast, even where it was forbidden, speeding along the autobahn and the country roads. Never mind how much Blum worried, he had to do it. He wanted to feel the slipstream of air as the road passed by.
I can’t help it. I’ll be back, darling, don’t worry. It’s not that bad, you’re exaggerating, my flower.
He found it hard to explain just what it was that fascinated him so much about his Monster 900, his baby. A beauty of a motorbike. Two chatty men are now unloading it from the trailer.
It gleams in the sun, exactly as it was before. In fact it’s new, courtesy of the insurance company. Two weeks ago, Massimo asked her what she wanted to do: did she want the money or a replacement? Blum simply said yes, lost in thought, and asked Massimo to fix everything. Then, after a while, the phone call came saying it was about to be delivered. And here is his motorbike now. As if it were his voice. It is standing outside the villa; she almost thinks that Mark will come through the door and out into the garden any minute now and mount it. Almost. Blum gives the men a tip and sits down on the bench. You can see everything from the bench, the children, the gate leading from the garden out into the street, the motorbike. Blum just sits there, thinking about what happened last night.
Blum checks the dates; she wants to know if there is more, she wants to know it all now, at once. They met over a period of two weeks. Their last meeting was on the day before the accident. Sometimes Dunya broke off the conversation because her memories hurt her, because she was afraid it would all happen again. The horror: the five men down in the cellar, the groans, the pain, the screaming. As the story of the crime comes over the little loudspeaker Blum knows she is listening to something extraordinary. She sits in Mark’s study for hours on end, listening to those two voices. Again and again she wants to stop the recording and delete those files. She doesn’t want to hear his voice comforting Dunya; she doesn’t want to hear her weeping in his arms during their fourth conversation. She would rather not imagine it. Wordless minutes, the closeness that she can sense between them. His closeness to another woman. Blum sits alone at his desk. Never mind what Dunya went through, never mind if it was purely pity on his part, Blum doesn’t want to know. Dunya was in his arms, and Mark was drying her tears.
Dunya. Blum thinks of her as she finishes her wine, gulping the last of it down. Why did she suddenly have to intrude, why couldn’t Blum just be content with the wine and Mark’s desk, why did she have to be curious? Why couldn’t she just return the phone to its default settings and sell it on the internet? Without wondering what it could tell her? Why now? Why did she now have to think of something so awful it was beyond belief? Why is his voice so beautiful? Why can’t she stop listening?
All night long she listens to Dunya and Mark. Until the sun rises, the wheel of time turns again and wrenches her out of his life. Until, dazed, she opens his study door and lies down in her bed. She waits until the children come and get into bed with her, snuggling up against her. They crawl under the covers, as they do every morning, and she takes time to soothe them, as she does every morning, too. She loves Uma and Nela, but her heart is pounding in her chest.
nine
A Ducati Monster 900. The motorbike Mark doted on, his second great love after Blum, a magnificent machine. He could enthuse for hours about the purring of the engine, an incomparable sound, music to his ears. Mark had loved to ride fast, even where it was forbidden, speeding along the autobahn and the country roads. Never mind how much Blum worried, he had to do it. He wanted to feel the slipstream of air as the road passed by.
I can’t help it. I’ll be back, darling, don’t worry. It’s not that bad, you’re exaggerating, my flower.
He found it hard to explain just what it was that fascinated him so much about his Monster 900, his baby. A beauty of a motorbike. Two chatty men are now unloading it from the trailer.
It gleams in the sun, exactly as it was before. In fact it’s new, courtesy of the insurance company. Two weeks ago, Massimo asked her what she wanted to do: did she want the money or a replacement? Blum simply said yes, lost in thought, and asked Massimo to fix everything. Then, after a while, the phone call came saying it was about to be delivered. And here is his motorbike now. As if it were his voice. It is standing outside the villa; she almost thinks that Mark will come through the door and out into the garden any minute now and mount it. Almost. Blum gives the men a tip and sits down on the bench. You can see everything from the bench, the children, the gate leading from the garden out into the street, the motorbike. Blum just sits there, thinking about what happened last night.
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