‘But someone thinks that it’s him?’
‘Someone, yes. Some people.’
Henning points again to the cat bowls and asks if Rike can pick them up. ‘We’ll have rats.’
‘She won’t listen to me.’
‘You think I’ll have more luck?’
‘You could ask for anything right now.’
‘I’d better ask then. It won’t last long.’
She thinks Henning disapproves of her teaching. The idea, one he approved, was that Rike would spend time with Isa while Henning was away. If she’s teaching, she isn’t providing company.
* * *
Rike walks to the school offices on the Limassol waterfront. She delivers her passport and waits while it is copied. The language teachers are all women. Rosaria, the woman who hired her, is friendly and formal in equal measure, certainly less blank than the first time they met and the times they have spoken on the phone. As she waits the door buzzer sounds intermittently. There is an expectant atmosphere, a little nervousness among the students as they gather in the common room. It wouldn’t be so bad teaching here. English, German, Italian. In the afternoons, between classes, she could swim.
Rosaria points out the library. It’s nothing more than a stacked shelf in each room of DVDs, CDs, course books, and other books — novels and poetry — which seem so random they were possibly left by students. Greek in one room. Spanish in another. Italian in another. English in two rooms. Rike is welcome to borrow the books as she pleases, and she should tell her student about the facility. Rosaria presses a brochure into Rike’s hand.
‘Make sure he knows about these. There are trips, half-day trips to the museum, to Curium, to other archaeological sites, and a meal. Then full-day trips to Paphos, which take in a stop at Aphrodite’s Beach. He’s welcome to come.’ She points out that these are extras, run in association with the school. Rike would also be welcome on these trips and her ticket would come at a reduced price.
As the bell sounds Rosaria turns to the door. She hesitates. ‘He really hasn’t told you about himself?’
It seems to Rike that this question is reflexive. Rosaria asks Rike to walk with her. ‘Has he said anything?’
‘Only that he isn’t working.’
‘He was on a day course with us, but he only stayed for the morning. When we were in touch with him he explained that he would be more comfortable taking the lessons at home. I met with him to discuss what he might need, and that’s when he asked for you.’
‘Did he say what the problem was?’
‘Oh yes. He was assaulted.’ Rosaria looks meaningfully at Rike — who isn’t sure about what she’s implying.
‘Assaulted?’ This word sounds different when applied to a man.
‘Hospitalized.’ Rosaria nods and adds in a low voice. ‘What I’m telling you is confidential.’
In the office Rosaria looks in the small filing cabinet and takes a moment to locate the file.
She passes a handwritten note to Rike. It simply states that he regrets that he’s unable to attend meetings or events with groups of people because of a continuing health issue, and would the school extend his apologies to the teacher.
Rosaria compresses her lips, an air about her: there is more information she cannot possibly share.
‘How do you know what happened?’
‘I spoke with him for a long time. He had a family,’ she says. ‘He was attacked at work. The injuries were serious. I’m telling you so you won’t be surprised. It’s probably best to let him raise the subject.’
Rike can’t imagine a situation in which Tomas would offer such information. She just can’t see it.
5.2
Immediately before the session Rike takes her lunch at the café opposite Tomas’s apartment.
The café is smaller and busier than she imagined, and a queue gathers at the back where a man serves from a counter of cooked meats and vegetables. The café is little more than a corridor with two high tables, six stools, and a banquette which reaches across the width of the café. Stacked beside a door stand crates of soft drinks. No more than six or eight people could eat at one time. Most, she’s happy to see, take their food out in paper-wrapped packages. Rike chooses white fish and capers and sits facing the wall and a poster of the Last Supper with local politicians and film stars replacing the disciples. Beside her two men share a plate of bread and olives.
One man stoops over the bowl and complains as he eats. His companion tears bread and shakes his head in agreement as if they are considering something of great weight, something hard to comprehend. The first man continues and gestures with the bread. For one moment Rike catches the man’s eye, but his thoughts are elsewhere and he looks through her.
Tomas is remote, she has to admit, and when he smiles it’s generally in response, as if he’s copying something he’s unable to freely volunteer. He had a family. Had. It isn’t hard to understand everything about Tomas Berens in the light of a catastrophic incident: he doesn’t socialize, and he’s distant, uninvolved. The man is remote, unmoored. The apartment shows almost no evidence of habitation yet he lives there and rarely leaves it. The kitchen, what she has seen of it, is almost bare — he can’t eat there, he almost certainly doesn’t cook. Tomas Berens has a story. She stops herself from imagining fires, car accidents, devastating incidents, domestic in nature. She can’t picture him being assaulted, or see how this has led to the loss of his family. A family means more than a wife. One child or two. Easy to imagine, Tomas with wife and child, a house somewhere, a home, a life with work, associations, club memberships, schools, habits she can only imagine. She furnishes him with such a life, which makes his current situation an intolerable void.
* * *
Up on the fourth floor Rike is hopeful that they can take the lesson outside. She doesn’t want Tomas Berens to become a collection of facts: a man managing the consequences of a serious assault, a man who has lost his family, a man adrift. As she comes up the final flight she struggles to set these thoughts aside.
Two folding chairs face each other. Beside Tomas’s chair are set out his notebook, a dictionary, and a small tin of biscuits. The balcony doors are open, and the sun reflects off the opposite building to throw a general light into the room.
Tomas holds a ticket. ‘It’s a ticket for the Cultural Centre.’
The museum is close. She knows it, of course?
He turns the ticket over and reads both sides.
‘It’s still valid.’ He offers it to her. ‘It’s a pass so it’s valid for two days.’
Rike asks what is currently showing. ‘Paintings of churches and beaches?’
‘Some. They aren’t so bad. But it’s worth going. There’s another show upstairs.’ The artists are French, he thinks, with a German name. He isn’t clear on the details. In any case it’s a group, he can’t remember the name, and you can participate in the piece, if you like, you can take part in it. He turns the ticket over again. No, the name isn’t on it.
She doesn’t go to galleries much — a small confession — in fact she isn’t much interested in art.
‘I liked it,’ he smiles. ‘Probably for the wrong reasons.’
Rike asks for an example.
Tomas insists. ‘Take the ticket. They have a booth, and you can record what you want, and they add it to the piece. I know it sounds strange. Go and see it. Tell me what you think.’
Tomas sets the ticket on her knee.
‘Practise asking me questions.’