“Can I do something for you?” I ask cautiously. Perfectly possible I’m just imagining him. I mustn’t give myself away.
He hems and haws, murmurs something, obviously doesn’t want to say anything specific.
I take a sheet of paper and pretend to read. My hands are shaking. The thing with Kluessen really got to me.
He asks something.
So — it’s not a fantasy. Ghosts never ask questions. But his black outfit unsettles me, it makes me think of exorcisms. Then he says something about a cube and at first I think he’s talking about some dice game, but then it becomes clear that he means his hobby, and in order to avoid having to listen to the whole nonsense, I ask if he’s already eaten, get up, and leave the office. Outside I stop by Elsa’s desk, bend over, smell her perfume, force myself not to lay hands on her, and ask what in the world my brother’s doing here.
That was her task, she says. To call my brother! And ask him to come at once. That’s what I told her.
“Oh,” I say. “Right. Got it. I know.” I have no idea what she’s talking about. Why should I have set this up?
I walk quickly to the elevator. The phone vibrates in my pocket. I extract it. So now what, do you want to come or not?
Now? I write back. I wait. My brother is nowhere to be seen. Why is everyone always so ponderous? Wretched, life-sapping inertia! And why isn’t she answering?
Here he comes. The elevator doors open, we step in, and once again I’m thinking of The Exorcist. You mustn’t underestimate priests. I ask about horoscopes. I’ve always wanted to know: it has to be possible to test them statistically. All you need is a hundred people who’ve died on the same day, either there will be significant similarities in their horoscopes or there won’t! Why doesn’t somebody do it?
He gapes at me like an idiot. Evidently I’ve offended him. Turning wine into blood is perfectly fine, but horoscopes are beneath his dignity. I pull out my phone. No answer. We’ve already reached the main floor.
We go through the lobby, the glass doors open. Dear God, it’s hot. My phone vibrates. Can you do it at five?
Why not now??? I text. A car horn blasts next to me, I realize I’m in the middle of the street — the restaurant is right over there, I go there every day. The décor is horrible, the waiters are arrogant, and I don’t like the food. But so what — I’m rarely hungry anyway, because of the medication I’m on.
The waiter pushes the table aside so that my fat brother can force his way onto the banquette. I order for the two of us, what I always order, spaghetti with shellfish. I don’t like mussels, but it’s an appropriate dish, not too much, not too heavy, not too few calories, not too cheap. My phone vibrates. Good, that’s fine. Now.
Martin asks me about the economy and my forecasts. I answer something or other. Why are we sitting here, what does he want? I can’t right now, I text. How does she think I live, does she believe I can just drop everything from one minute to the next, just because she feels lonely? Late afternoon, okay?
I wait. No answer. My brother asks things, I answer without even listening to myself. I look at the phone, put it aside, pick it up again, put it aside, pick it up. Why isn’t she answering?
“When you send someone a message,” I ask, “and he answers, and you answer back and ask for a quick answer and none comes, would you assume he didn’t get the message or that he’s simply not answering?”
“He or she?”
“What?”
He looks at me slyly. “You said ‘he’ and then you said ‘she.’ ”
Nuts. I know what I said. A laughably obvious trick. “And?”
“Nothing,” he says furtively.
What is he trying to get out of me, how has he managed to get me to talk about personal things? These priests are slick. “What do you want to know?”
“Nothing!”
His mouth is smeared with sauce. There are plates between us, his is almost empty, mine is untouched. When were they brought? “It doesn’t matter what kind of message,” I say. “It’s irrelevant.”
He murmurs something, trying to talk his way out of it.
Why isn’t she answering? “Perhaps it’s all part of what you do. Perhaps you have to be that inquisitive.”
My telephone vibrates. Okay, then later.
When? I write, and ask myself for the thousandth time how many servers this message will pass through and how many strangers can read it. Any one of them could blackmail me. Why does she force me into such careless behavior? “Do you still do exorcisms? Demonic possession. Do you still deal with that? Do you have people who do it?”
He gapes at me.
“What is the classic school of thought? Do you have to let a demon in when he comes? Does he need an invitation, or can he just take possession of someone?”
“Why do you want to know?”
Always a question to counter a question. Why can’t he just tell a person what they want to know? Because I’m afraid of ghosts, every day, all the time — is that what I should answer? “A book, just a book. I read this book. A strange book. Never mind.”
The phone vibrates. Already booked. Flight and hotel, leaving Saturday, back Sunday night, so looking forward.:-)
It takes me a moment to realize it’s from Laura. Since when does she book her own flights?
Wonderful! I write back. I will really need a good excuse.
I’ve barely hit the Send button when the phone vibrates again. How are you, call me if you have time! Martin.
Good. Stay calm. Always calm. I look up, there he is, sitting in front of me. Martin. My brother. I look at the phone, the message is still there. I look at his face. I look at the phone. Is it my imagination after all? Am I sitting here alone? His plate is empty, mine is full, which argues against that.
But why should it argue against it? I don’t know anymore, I’ve lost my train of thought. Anyone who can imagine a brother can also imagine an empty plate. Don’t panic. The main thing is to stay calm. Carefully, making sure not to hit any wrong button, I erase the message. Then I put away the phone and say, “This heat!” just in order to have something to say.
He asks about Laura and Marie, I answer him. I talk about my mother’s new TV broadcast, then ask after his mother. Obviously he spends all his time with her, poor bastard, it’s tragic. For all that, I like his mother, at least more than I do my own. Just as I’m about to ask him if it’s really necessary, all this visiting business, and if something shouldn’t be done about it, someone slaps me on the shoulder. Lothar Remling. The phone vibrates but I can’t look now. I jump up. Shoulder slapping. Punch in the upper arm. Football talk. Then he takes himself off. I can’t stand the guy, he almost wrecked the Ostermann deal for me a couple of years ago. Finally I can look. Three messages.
I can’t take it anymore.
Come later, come now, doesn’t matter.
Come now or don’t come at all.
I stand up, say something about an urgent appointment, and run.
The heat seems to have gotten even worse, it’s not far to go, she lives only ten blocks away. But I quickly register that today it would have been smarter to take the car.
I stop, pull out the phone. The free signaclass="underline" once, twice, three times, four. Has she stopped answering when I call? Are we that far along?
Sibylle picks up. “What is it, Eric?”
“I have to see you.”
“But I wrote you that you can come right now.”