Woman of the Dead by Bernhard Aichner Page A

About Mark, and about Dunya, and what seems to have happened to her. What Dunya said, what she had experienced, what Mark believed. He saw it in her eyes. Even if the psychiatrist diagnosed her as delusional. But Mark saw it in her eyes.
    It’s quiet on the bench. She wants to be taken in comforting arms, she would like to be back in his study, she would like to understand what happened. She wants to listen to it all again sober. It’s like a dream that she can only vaguely remember, a nightmare that she has rejected, pushing it out of her life. Blum doesn’t want to believe that the woman was telling the truth, she wants Mark to have been wrong, she wants confirmation that Dunya really was delusional. So it was nothing more than the fantasies of a drug addict. None of it is true. It mustn’t be true. Because her life can’t get worse than it already is. Because the sun is shining. Because the children are playing on the swing. Because this is the first time for weeks that Karl has come into the garden.
    Karl has hardly said a word since Mark died. He withdrew to the second floor, sat in his armchair for days, shedding tears. Even the children couldn’t comfort him. He asked to be left in peace, said he wanted to be alone. It was only at Reza’s insistence that Karl opened his door and let them fill his fridge. Karl has lost his son. Karl tries to smile. Karl sits down beside her on the bench.
    ‘How are you doing, Blum?’
    ‘It still hurts all the time.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘It’s good to see you here with us.’
    ‘How about the children?’
    ‘They’ll live.’
    ‘And the motorbike?’
    ‘It’s back – over there.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Mark loved it.’
    ‘So he did.’
    ‘I’m going to ride it.’
    ‘Are you?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘But you’re afraid of it.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘But you still want to ride it?’
    ‘Fear is crippling.’
    ‘I was always afraid for him.’
    ‘He did as he wanted.’
    ‘He was a good boy.’
    ‘More than that, Karl.’
    ‘We’ll get through this, Blum.’
    ‘Yes.’
    They sit in silence. Karl takes Blum’s hand and holds it firmly. Nothing exists but their hands, the children and the motorbike. A summer’s day in the garden. They have said all they need to say, Karl and Blum. There is understanding and affection between them. Blum likes him; she has never regretted asking Karl to come and live with them. He is like a benevolent household spirit. A household spirit resuming his duties. Karl is back, he won’t creep away again; he says he has missed the children and wants to go on living, even if it hurts. Wants to go on living, like Blum, go on pushing the swing back and forth.
    Blum doesn’t wear a helmet. She puts the key in the ignition and presses the button. The Monster purrs. She waves to the children and accelerates out through the gateway and into the road, without glancing in the direction the Rover came from. She accelerates. Blum with the wind in her face, with flies in her face. She simply turns the handlebars and feels what happens. How fast she is going. Down the road of houses and on to the autobahn, eyes narrowed, seeing only a slice of the world flying past. She shifts gear, she steps on the gas. Never mind what happens, never mind where she is going. There’s only Blum and the road.
    She hasn’t ridden a motorbike since she passed her test. A girl she knew at school died in a crash soon after taking the test herself. Dead, just like that, exactly how Mark died. That fear has accompanied her until now. Whenever Mark wanted her to ride with him she said no; she was afraid of dying. But now she is tearing down the autobahn without leathers, without a helmet, with nothing to protect her except her exuberance, her thoughtlessness, her closeness to death itself, her longing to be with him. She is riding at one hundred and ninety kilometres per hour, with tiny creatures sticking to her skin, her face pricked by needles. Ride on faster, two hundred and twenty