Where Love Begins (12 page)

Twenty-two

On Sunday morning the bells of the village church peal outside the window of the room in which Stella and Ava are sleeping. Ava is sleeping so deeply it's as if she were recovering from something. For a long time Stella lies on her side looking at her. Ava's dreamy face has an expression from which she has difficulty disengaging. Then she gets up. There's a fire glowing in the stove in the kitchen; on the table stands a silver pot of coffee; Paloma is in church. Stella goes out into the garden; it finally rained during the night, and the grass is still wet and cold. She stands behind the crooked garden fence looking down the country road. The road comes from the village, runs past the house, up the hill, and into the unknown on the other side of the hill. The windmills on the horizon begin haltingly to turn. The pine trees in the garden creak the same way as those back home. Smoke from the kitchen fire rises from the chimney, hovers above the roof, and then dissipates under the sky.

*

The previous evening Mister Pfister swept all his papers into a large pile behind his house, all the paper, the newspapers, pads, notebooks, reams of wrapping paper, direct mail, cardboard, absolutely all the photos, as well as the heavy red envelopes, even those. Someone called the police. The police came by and politely but firmly kept Mister Pfister from lighting the pile. During the night the words, the headlines, pictures, chains of thoughts and questions, the insoluble puzzles, all this got thoroughly soaked by the rain and finally and conclusively dissolved.

Mister Pfister was taken to police headquarters around ten o'clock that night. He was able to credibly assure the police at headquarters that he was simply at the end of his tether, nothing more. He was simply at the end of his tether; something like that can happen; it was all just too much for him; he needed to get some rest; it will pass. Everything's all right. No need to worry. He can promise them that; he'll come to grips with it.

He was also informed that Stella had registered a complaint.

Who?

Stella. A nurse by profession, thirty-seven years of age, married, the mother of a child.

Oh, yes.

He will receive a summons next week and was informed that from now on he would be committing an offence with each attempt to make contact with Stella. With each attempt. With every message, every request for forgiveness. With no matter what. Mister Pfister took note of it. Also signed a statement saying that he had taken note of it, had written his name in his feminine handwriting. He was sent home from police headquarters in the early morning hours. His path led past Stella's house; there was no way around that; of course he rang the bell at her door, all the windows remained dark, the situation is the same as it was.

Now he is home and demolishing his house from the inside, from the inside to the outside at a deliberate pace. He destroys the furniture, taking it apart, hacking it up, throwing it all out, chair and table through the window over the sink and out into the garden, followed by cups, bottles and glasses, rubbish, blankets, shoes. Until nothing is left. Mister Pfister then wraps himself up in the last remaining blanket and lies down on the floor. The wind blows into the house through the smashed windows.

*

Ava sleeps till almost midday; then she calls Stella. Stella sits down on the edge of the bed. Ava says, Good morning. Stella feels that Ava is suddenly old enough to know that it can be nice to say good morning. Maybe she doesn't know it yet, but she has an inkling already. Good Morning. She helps Ava get dressed and goes into the kitchen with her; Ava wants to take her hedgehog along; reaching for Stella's hand she behaves as formally as at the beginning of a children's birthday party.

Paloma is back from church and has set the table with her best dishes; the teacups are dark blue with stars glittering at the bottom. There is marble cake with raspberries she picked herself, apricots and chocolate cream to go with it. Ava sitting on three pillows says, I'm as hungry as a wolf. Do you know how hungry a wolf gets?

Paloma who seems softer and more tired here in her own house than in her life in town, pours Ava some hot cocoa and pushes the sugar bowl close to her cup. She says, If you want to, we could go to the lake. We could go swimming and see what the beaver is doing. Paloma is usually alone in this house, going to the lake alone, watching the beaver alone, drinking her tea alone, but surely not from the dark-blue cups. Or maybe she does?

I heard a raven, Ava says; she tilts her head, opens her eyes wide, and raises her index finger; did you hear it too.

That's my house raven, Paloma says. If you're lucky, he'll do a trick for you; he's a performer; he can turn around himself twice in flight.

Stella feels so numb that she's almost happy. As if this kitchen were an island; who would have expected that. She is grateful to Paloma for the fact that she apparently doesn't intend to say anything about the present situation, nothing about the real reason for Stella and Ava's visit. But on the other hand, Stella wishes Paloma
would
say something about it, ask about it, that there were some possibility of it, like a way out.

We have a stalker, Ava says. She turns away from Stella as if she'd read her mind, as if it was finally time. She spits out an apricot pip and puts her hands over the ears of the hedgehog in her lap.

We have a stalker; what does he actually look like?

Unremarkable, Stella says. He looks unremarkable, quite normal, like you and me. If we see him on the street, I'll point him out to you. But actually you don't have to know what he looks like; we won't be meeting him any more. And you mustn't be afraid.

She meets Paloma's gaze, the alert, intent look in her eyes.

*

Early Sunday afternoon, Mister Pfister, who had slept in his clothes, puts his shoes back on. He kicks some object out of the way, reaches for the last bottle of beer, and goes out, leaving the door and the gate wide open behind him.

He walks past the bicycle mechanic's house without looking at it. The bicycle mechanic is not there either, having driven, as he does every Sunday, to the countryside. Mister Pfister walks along the street; the hunchbacked, keen-eyed child crosses his path as always, crossing from right to left, not looking at him and disappearing into the now luxuriant garden. Mister Pfister can hear people talking to one another. The clatter of coffee cups from the shady terraces, a murmur. He can hear dogs barking far off; he hears the wind in the field.

An overcast afternoon sun above Stella's house. No car in the driveway, the front door closed, the dormer window open, but the orange flag has been run up.

No one in sight.

No one is in sight. Is Stella home?

In the course of yesterday evening, the hours at the police station, the amazing conversations, the clean-up, the rearranging, the morning on the floor wrapped in the old blanket, Mister Pfister had lost touch a little. The general picture. He's slightly off-kilter, but that can be remedied; it can be re-established. He stops in front of the gate and looks it over. He looks at it very closely. And this time he doesn't ring, he simply omits the ringing and instead just kicks the garden gate open; he just kicks it open for the second time, the same way as on the day with the photo of the bed, a picture from another time, and he… and here he just can't think any further; here his thoughts break off. The gate swings open; Mister Pfister steps into the garden. Opalescent, drastic colours and over the colours, the fantastic humming of insects. Stella's house begins to sway. Something pushes the glass panes outward from inside. Pebbles and old screws jump up off the stairs in front of the door to the house; that child's penchant for junk; the spade leaning against the brick wall slips sidewards; the red brick wall glows from the heat. Mister Pfister has now reached the front door. He could ring here; after all he's never rung the bell here. He could give her one very last chance to open the door like a damned totally normal human being and say, Hello. Nice that you passed by, come in, sit down, what can I offer you. Does she deserve a very last chance.

Stella. Thirty-seven years old, a nurse by profession, married, mother of a child.

She doesn't.

Mister Pfister takes a running jump, taking the stairs in one leap and throwing himself against the door so hard that the walls tremble. He keeps kicking at the door at the level of the lock, against the dry, white-painted wood, against the leaded glass panes, which surprisingly don't yield. Then he takes a break. Stands still, out of breath, waiting. The door opens.

*

Jason stands in the doorway. He is holding the stick Stevie gave Ava, the stick with which Ava practises kata for Stevie, bunkai, shotokan, H-shaped base lines, star-shaped base lines; the stick is heavy and solid. Ava practised in front of the house last week, strolled back into the house, dropped the stick on the floor, and went to the kitchen to have a glass of ice-cold lemonade. Stella picked up the stick and propped it against the wall next to the coat rack. Jason took the stick, and with this stick in his hand finally opened the door.

He strikes out immediately. Raises the stick, hauls back, and strikes out. He strikes Mister Pfister from the top of the front steps back out to the driveway; at first it's easy to beat him back to the driveway because Mister Pfister is quite surprised, but then he suddenly starts yelling and fends off Jason's blows, yelling.

Jason hits his knees, his back, his spine, his shoulders. But only after Mister Pfister manages to break the bottle, which he simply hasn't wanted to let go of, on the top step, and then tries to ram the broken-off neck of the bottle into Jason's belly, does Jason bash him on the head.

He whacks the stick against his skull and Mister Pfister goes down, lets go of the bottle neck, kicks at Jason, already holding up his hands, but then keeps kicking at Jason, slobbering and screaming. Pretty soon the bright pebbles in front of the stair landing are full of blood. Mister Pfister skidded through the broken glass and apparently also has a hole in his head. He wets his pants. The smell of linden, clover, of urine, sweat and shit. It seems that Jason for one moment – it's a golden moment – just can't stop himself any more from bashing Mister Pfister's skull. Solemnly smashing this skull, he keeps hitting it. Again. Over and over again.

Then it passes.

Jason grabs Mister Pfister by his dirty, warm, bloody, wet sweater and drags him down the driveway, away from the front door towards the gate; he drags him out onto the pavement and leaves him lying there. He goes back into the house, throws the bottle neck, the glass shards into the rubbish bin, puts the stick back in the hall, and locks the front door, which shows the clear traces of Mister Pfister's shoe soles, behind him. He walks out of the garden into the street. Mister Pfister is sitting up, leaning against the fence; he is crying, his face is smeared with blood; with his right arm he holds his left arm away from his body; his hands are bloody and he's spitting blood as Jason passes him.

Then he collapses. Something trails over the asphalt, Mister Pfister's sobbing sounds childish, then stops.

*

Jason walks down Forest Lane.

The street has a Sunday feel. Everything remains behind.

*

Stella, Paloma and Ava are on their way to the lake when Stella's mobile phone rings. The path is swampy and muddy; the beaver has dammed the lake and cut down the willows; sedge grows high between the tree stumps. The path is enchanted; ducks start up out of the reeds; Ava, picking cowslips and arum, walks far ahead.

It's already getting dark a little earlier, Paloma says. I'm afraid of the early dark; the summer is much too short.

Yes, Stella says, this summer has been short.

The phone rings dully in the basket with the bathing suits, towels, suntan lotion, and Stella takes it out carefully, reading the name of the policeman with the melancholy eyes on the display. She turns away from Paloma; Paloma keeps walking.

Hello, Stella says.

The policeman says, I'm standing in your house. It's a nice house. Where are you; are you all right? Are you all right?

I'm all right, Stella says. She looks around her at the reeds, the dark lakeside landscape, the intense green tones. Ava and Paloma at the end of the path, waving. Stella waves back. She says, Why are you standing in my house.

She can picture the policeman in her kitchen. The table, Ava's crayons, the little board with apple peels, cores, the lake pebble from Jason; are the beds made upstairs; is the bathroom neat; what could betray her; she pictures the policeman standing in her kitchen like a statue: a freeze frame. As if her entire life had been headed towards this one image.

He says, There was an argument here. An escalation. Someone called the police, and there was so much blood in your front yard that we thought something had happened to you. Do you understand me. Can you hear me?

Was the house broken into, Stella says. I understand you very well; I can hear you. Why are you standing in my house?

Your house was locked, and we broke in because we thought you were inside. We thought you were … injured, the policeman says; he says it very guardedly.

I am uninjured, Stella says. I'm not injured. I'm in the country, far away; I'm fine.

Well then, the policeman says. Mister Pfister is in the hospital. He's not doing well at all. Did he smash his skull himself? Do you know anything about it? We're having a new lock put in here. We'll get back to you. Please stay where you are, if you can afford it. Will you do that?

Yes, Stella says, I'll try. Several different images collide and separate again in her mind, making no sense. Where is Jason. Mister Pfister's smashed skull looking like a bony bowl full of sooty leaves. Stella says, Is the house empty. I mean – was there no one in the house, was the house empty.

Yes, the policeman says, the house was empty. Well, let's say – it was as empty as a lived-in house can be.