“Not at all. Writing for me is like having a shower or cleaning my teeth. In fact, you could almost say it’s part of my daily hygiene. If I don’t write, I feel as if all my pores are blocked.”
Blood gave Anna the creeps.
“When do you write?”
When I grazed my knee as a child, I would ignore it, and when I cut my finger, I would pop it in my mouth and marvel at the taste of iron, and that I knew what iron tasted like. When Anna grazed her knee as a child, or cut her finger, she would scream and cry and I would say, “Don’t be such a girl!”
“I prefer to start early in the morning, when my thoughts are still fresh and I’m not yet saturated with phone calls and news and everything that I see and read and hear in the course of the day.”
“Tell me about your working methods.”
My sister Anna was stabbed seven times.
“I’m disciplined. I sit down at my desk, spread out my notes, open my laptop and write.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“Sometimes it is.”
“And when isn’t it?”
The human body contains four and a half to six liters of blood.
I shrug my shoulders.
“Do you write every day?”
The body of a woman my sister’s size contains roughly five liters of blood. After thirty percent blood loss, the body enters a state of shock. This serves to slow down the rate at which the blood is pumped out of the wound and to reduce the energy and oxygen requirement of the body.
“Nearly every day, yes. Of course, when I’ve finished a book, there’s a phase when I’m looking for new ideas and researching — when I’m still preparing for the next project.”
“On what basis do you decide what your next project will be?”
The last thing Anna saw was her murderer.
“Gut instinct.”
“Your publisher gives you a free hand?”
Before I got my driving license, I did a first-aid course.
“He does now, yes.”
“How much of yourself do you put in your characters?”
Most of the time, however, I spent flirting with the instructor.
“That’s never really a conscious decision. I don’t sit down and decide: this character should have thirty percent of my feelings and that one should have the same childhood memories. But, of course, there’s a bit of Linda in all my characters.”
“How long did you take to write your last novel?”
The paramedics and the police all told me that Anna was already dead when I entered the flat.
“Six months.”
“That’s not long.”
“No, it’s not.”
But I’m not so sure.
“What made you write this book?”
Perhaps the last thing Anna saw was her useless sister.
I don’t reply. I reach for a new bottle of water and open it. My hands tremble. I take a sip. Lenzen’s eyes track my every move.
“What illness do you have again?” he asks casually, pouring himself a glass too.
Clever wolf. He says it as if it were common knowledge. But we both know that I have never talked publicly about my illness.
“I’d prefer not to talk about it,” I say.
“When did you last leave the house?” Lenzen continues.
“About eleven years ago.” Lenzen nods.
“What happened eleven years ago?” I have no answer.
“I’d prefer not to speak about it,” I say.
Lenzen accepts that, only raising his eyebrows slightly.
“How do you cope with being housebound?” he asks.
I sigh. “What can I say to that?” I reply. “I don’t know how to describe it to somebody who has never experienced it. The world is suddenly very small. And, at some point, you have the feeling that your own head is the world and that beyond your head there is nothing. Everything you see through the windows, everything you hear — pelting rain, deer at the edge of the woods, electric storms over the lake — it all seems so far away.”
“Is that painful?”
“At first it was very painful, yes,” I say. “But it’s amazing how quickly something that begins as unbearable becomes normal. We can resign ourselves to anything, I suppose. Maybe not get to like anything, but resign ourselves. Pain, despair, servitude…”
I make an effort to provide detailed answers, to keep the conversation flowing. A standard interview. Let him stay on his guard. So what if he’s left guessing, kept on tenterhooks?
“What do you miss most?”
I consider for a moment. There are so many things that don’t exist in my world: other people’s brightly lit living rooms for peeking into during the evenings, tourists asking the way, clothes wet from the rain, stolen bikes.
Dropped ice-cream cones melting on hot asphalt, maypoles.
Disputes over parking spaces, meadows of flowers, children’s chalk drawings on the pavement, church bells.
“Everything,” I say at length. “Not necessarily the big things — safaris in Kenya or parachuting over New Zealand or lavish weddings, although of course all that would be nice too. More the little, everyday things.”
“Such as?”
“Walking along a street, seeing someone you like the look of, smiling at him and watching him smile back. The moment when you find out that a new, promising-looking restaurant has opened on the premises that have been empty for so long.”
Lenzen smiles.
“The way little children sometimes stare at you.” He nods.
“Or the smell in a florist’s…Things like that. Having the same human experiences as everyone else and feeling…how can I put it?…connected to everyone else as a result, in life and death and work and pleasure and youth and old age and laughter and anger and everything.”
I pause and realize that, although this isn’t really about the interview, I’m making an effort to answer the questions honestly. I don’t know why. It feels good to talk. Maybe because I so seldom have anyone I can talk to, or anyone asking me questions.
Bloody hell, Linda.
“And I miss nature,” I say. “A lot.”
I suppress a sigh because I can feel desire rising in my throat like heartburn.
Maybe all this would be easier if Lenzen were repulsive.
Lenzen is silent, as if to let my words resonate. He seems to be reflecting on them for a moment longer.
But he is not repulsive.
“Are you lonely?” he asks.
“I wouldn’t really describe myself as lonely. I have a great many friends and acquaintances, and even if they can’t visit me all the time, there are plenty of ways and means to keep in touch nowadays without constant personal contact.”
It is hard to be immune to Lenzen’s presence. He is an excellent listener. He looks at me and, without meaning to, I wonder what he sees. His gaze rests on my eyes, strays to my lips, my neck. My heart beats faster with fear and I-don’t-know-what.
But when he asks, “Who are the most important people in your life?” alarm bells are set off in my head.
I’m damned if I’m going to reveal my vulnerabilities to a murderer. I could lie, but decide it would be better to play the cagey celebrity.
“Listen,” I say, “this is starting to get a bit too personal. I’d prefer to concentrate on questions about my book, as we agreed beforehand.”
Everything is churning away inside me. Somehow I have to get Lenzen to answer my questions.
“Sorry,” says Lenzen, “I didn’t want to intrude.”
“Good,” I reply.
“Are you in a relationship?” Lenzen asks, and I can’t help frowning.
He immediately backs off and follows up with another question.