“Please speak German to me.”
“Ach so. Ja.”
“Good. At five o’clock in the afternoon you go into the kitchen. You hurt yourself. You hit your head against the edge of the door, fall against it with your shoulder. You injure yourself in such a way that other people can see it. To the extent that you bleed. As if you had a fight with someone. When you hear Erik come home, pick up the longest and sharpest kitchen knife that you own. Can you see it in your mind?”
I’ve put both hands over my mouth, and yes, I can see the knife before me, clear as day, and I can also see it plunging into Erik’s upper arm; Bartsch’s scent is suddenly there again, and I feel the urge to throw up.
“Yes, I can,” whispers the Joanna who I once was.
“He runs toward you, and you stab the knife first into his stomach and then into his chest. Deeply. You’re calm and sure about what you’re doing, as though you’ve done it many times before.
“You wait five minutes, then you get out your phone and call the police. You say: I’ve killed my fiancé, but it was in self-defense.”
A short pause. “Self-defense,” I repeat.
“Correct. When you get back to the hotel now, say you let one of the locals show you where the frigate birds nest. Then continue with your vacation like before.”
A soft click. Probably the light I was told to concentrate on. Then noises, footsteps, a door opening.
“I think that went really well,” says Bernhard.
“Yes,” responds Bartsch. “She didn’t struggle, she went off right away. It’s because of the scopolamine as well; it’s the perfect booster.”
“OK, then I’ll turn off the recording now,” Bernhard announces, and seconds later the recording ends.
I want to move, to turn around to Erik, but I can’t. I can only sit there and stare at the screen of the laptop.
“They hypnotized you,” says Erik quietly. “And drugged you. My God.”
Yes. I grasp my head, bury it in my hands. I wonder if I’ll ever get the memories saved in the recesses of my mind back.
“Should I play it again for you?”
I shake my head slowly, so Erik closes the player. The third photo appears beneath it once more—me in the water, the boy next to me, the bow of the boat coming in from the right, and a pale-skinned hand stretching out toward me.
The boy. Ben. Yes, he has to be Ben.
“They killed him,” I murmur.
“What? Who?” Now I don’t need to turn my head around; Erik has taken my chin gently in his hand and is looking into my eyes.
“My island guide. The one in the photo. Didn’t you hear that Bartsch got interrupted? That two men in the background were arguing?” I repeat the words, this time in English, in the way they’ve been imprinted in my subconscious. Ineradicable. “Forget about him. Do you understand? Forget that you ever met him, forget that he exists. And get rid of his stuff, everything. Quickly.”
“But it was quiet. And unclear,” Erik interjects.
I manage a smile. “Yes. But it was in English. My native language. They got rid of the little tour guide so as not to take any risks—and that’s why Bartsch’s plan didn’t work. Two orders that got mixed up in my head. That’s why I forgot you instead of killing you.” I close my eyes. The world sways a little, like we were on water. “And yet the plan was a really good one. I would have hurt myself and then stabbed you. One of those cases of domestic violence and self-defense. It wouldn’t have thrown any bad light on Gabor and his company.”
Bartsch appears in my mind’s eye, buried beneath the heavy metal shelving unit and its contents. Bleeding. Dying. It’s a shame that I won’t live to see you kill him after all.
“I’m going to go get treatment,” I declare. “I mean, now that we know what happened, it should be easier. Don’t you think?” I search for Erik’s gaze; his smile is encouraging, and he nods, but of course he can’t know if that’s really the case. No more than I can.
“I’ll copy these files before we give the USB stick to the police,” he says, pulling the icons into a new folder. “In any case, we now know that you got rid of my stuff, don’t we?” He gives me a lopsided grin. “I don’t suppose you have any idea where? Dump site? Storage? Some charity?”
I shrug. “No idea, I’m sorry.”
His grin grows wider. “Well, in any case you must have had to work really hard. More credit to you.”
I give Erik a playful punch on the shoulder. “Well, you know me. When I do something, I do it properly.”
He pulls the stick out of the USB slot, snaps the lid back onto it, and puts it on the coffee table. Then he turns to me and takes me into his arms. “That’s true. You always have.”
His kiss is familiar, as is his scent. I bury my head against his shoulder. I feel like I could cry, because I’ve been robbed of almost a year with this man, all the stories, the shared memories, the first times.
He seems to sense that my mood is shifting again. He pushes me a little way from him, and looks at me in mock accusation. “There’s something else I have to know.”
“Yes?”
“And I’m expecting you to tell me the truth.”
The sight of his intensely wrinkled brow makes it hard for me to stay serious. “Let’s see.”
“Do you still remember that guessing game we played when you thought I was a burglar?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I want to know at least one of the answers now. Tell me your middle name.”
I shake my head decisively. “No chance.”
“Now listen to me. We’re engaged. I have a right to know such important things.”
I kiss him on the tip of the nose. “You have a right to guess. So get started.”
He smiles deviously. “A name that suits you?”
“In a certain way, yes.”
“Hildegard,” he says, not missing a beat.
“Another wise-ass guess like that and I’m getting the knife again.”
“Oh. OK. No, wait. Probably some insane English fantasy name. Tiffany Amnesia or something like that. Am I right?”
Now I really can’t help but laugh. “Not at all bad. Both of them. But still wrong. Just think about how my father made the majority of his money.”
Erik takes my hand. “Diamonds.”
“Exactly. But it’s not Diamond, because I’m also—what?”
Erik frowns again. “Difficult? Exhausting? A danger to the public?”
“Unique, silly.” He pulls me close to him, strokes my back. I can’t see his face, but I feel him nodding. And I know that he’s going to guess right.
“Solitaire.”
Epilogue
The conversation in the room falls silent as he gets up. All of them have gathered here today; he wouldn’t have expected any less. Only two of the eldest are absent—Zedwitz, who is pushing ninety, and Habeck, who is older still, and from whom dementia has robbed nearly everything, even his love for the fatherland.