That hits me like a bullet. But who was it, if it wasn’t Lenzen?
No. No. No. I saw Lenzen.
“Linda?” says Lenzen, jolting me out of my thoughts. “Please put the gun down.”
I look at him. At last I begin to understand.
From 21 August 2002 until at least 28 August 2002, Victor Lenzen was in Afghanistan. He had no opportunity to kill my sister.
My head aches, I feel dizzy, and I think to myself that it’s been going on for such a long time now: the pain, the dizziness, the hallucinations, the song — that damn song — the shadow in the corner of my bedroom, the sleeplessness, the blackouts. I understand, and the realization is incredibly painful.
I am mad.
Or well on the way to becoming so. That is the truth. That is my life.
The effects of extended isolation include sleeping disorders, eating disorders, cognitive impairment and even hallucinations. I read a lot — I know that kind of thing.
The panic attacks, the trauma, my tendency to lose myself in stories, my guilty conscience at not having been able to save Anna, my years of loneliness. It all makes sense. But that doesn’t make things any better.
The man facing me is innocent. All the things he said that I interpreted as references to the murder were no more than comments on fictional characters and a work of literature.
What have you done, Linda?
My throat aches. It’s tears rising — I remember the feeling, even though I haven’t cried for a good ten years.
I give a dry sob. Everything is spinning. The ceiling is suddenly full of insects, like a creeping, teeming carpet. I’m losing control. For a moment I forget who I am, or what I’m called and what’s going on. I’m so confused. But there is a voice.
“Put the gun down, Linda.”
Lenzen. It’s only now that I become aware of the weight in my hand again, the gun.
Lenzen gets up, approaching me cautiously.
“Put the gun down.”
I hear him as if through cotton wool.
“Keep calm,” he says. “Keep calm.”
It is over. I have no more strength. My horror at what has happened — at what I have done — overwhelms me. The phone drops from my hand and clatters to the floor. I’m trembling all over. My muscles no longer function; I slide off the chair — I would fall, but Lenzen catches me, holds me, and we go down together and sit there on the floor, gasping, sweaty, frightened. Lenzen holds me and I let him; I am numb, I am stunned; I have no choice but to let it happen. I wait, sitting it out. I am a knot — a woman-shaped knot, hard and tight. But then something happens: the tectonic plates of my brain shift and, slowly, the knot loosens, and I begin to cry. I sob and tremble in Victor Lenzen’s arms, I dissolve in his arms, salt in the sea. My brain is racing, it can’t process physical proximity; it isn’t used to it, although it’s been hankering after it for a good ten years. Lenzen’s body is warm and firm, he is taller than me, my head fits into the hollow between his throat and his chest. I whimper. I don’t understand why he’s doing what he’s doing. I let him hold me, I feel connected, alive, and the feeling almost hurts. Then he eases himself away from me, and once more I feel the ground disappear from beneath my feet.
Lenzen gets to his feet, looks down at me. I’m drifting, trying to get ahold on the shore.
“But I saw you!” I say feebly.
He watches me with complete composure.
“I don’t doubt that you believe that,” he says.
We look each other in the eye and I see that he is sincere. I see his fear and his relief, and something else that I can’t put a name to — maybe pity.
We are silent again. I’m glad I don’t have to say anything. My brain has ceased its unrelenting deliberation and has fallen quiet from exhaustion. A good thing, too — I don’t want to have to think about criminal charges and scandal and prison or the psychiatric ward right now. I only want quiet, for as long as possible.
I look at the face of the man before me. I seldom have the opportunity to have a really good look at a face. So I look at Lenzen and watch as the monster turns into a perfectly normal man.
I sit there, sniffing, and listening to my tears falling on the parquet. Then Lenzen takes a step toward the table and makes a grab for the gun. I watch him, but it’s not until he’s holding the gun that I realize I’ve made a huge mistake.
“You still don’t believe me,” he says.
It’s not a question; it’s a statement of fact. He looks at me for a moment, then says, “You really do need professional help,” and turns and leaves.
Deep in shock, I stare after him. It’s a few moments before I am able to ease myself out of my stupor. I hear him open the front door, and the noise of the storm swells, as if someone had turned an invisible control knob. I hear his footsteps recede down the gravel path.
I get up onto legs that scarcely bear my weight and I go after him. When I see the front door wide open, my heart begins to race. What is he doing? I glance cautiously out of the door. I have no idea what the time is, how long we’ve been talking, how long we’ve been circling one another, but it’s been dark for ages.
I spot Lenzen in the moonlight, walking purposefully toward the lake, the gun in his hand. Between the lake and the edge of the woods he stops and seems to hesitate. Then he raises his arm and throws my pistol into the water. It seems to me that I hear the sound it makes as it hits the smooth surface, but that is impossible; I’m too far away. In the black and white of the moonlight I see Lenzen turn to face me. I can’t make out his features — he is only a silhouette — but I can feel his gaze. I wonder what I must look like for him from out there, a small blur in the doorway of my enormous, brightly lit house. We look at each other across the distance, and for a moment I think that Lenzen is going to turn and walk away. But he does the opposite: he begins heading toward me. He’s coming back of his own free will.
Stockholm syndrome is the name given to a psychological phenomenon in which hostages develop a positive emotional relationship to their aggressors. I know things like that; I’ve had a lot of time to read over the past decade.
I shudder — not only because of the cold that’s blowing in from outside, but because I realize that in this scenario I am the aggressor.
My God, Linda.
I have threatened an innocent man with a gun, hit him and detained him in my house. What’s more, I’ve recorded everything. I will never find my sister’s murderer. The best thing to do would be to put a bullet in my head. But Lenzen’s sunk my gun in the lake.
He’s standing right in front of me.
“Now do you believe that I’m not going to hurt you?” I nod feebly.
“Why don’t you call the police?” I ask.
“Because I want to talk to you first,” he says. “Where can we sit?”
I lead him into the kitchen. The coffee cups and newspapers that the photographer arranged on the table in another age, another lifetime, are still there. As if the birds hadn’t fallen from the sky after all.
“Why did you throw the gun in the lake?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Lenzen replies. “A displacement activity.” I nod. I know what he means.
“I…” I begin, and immediately falter. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how I can apologize.”
“You’re trembling,” says Lenzen. “Sit down.”
I do as he says and he sits down opposite me. Once again we are silent for a long time. The silence is no longer a trial of strength; I simply don’t know what to say. I count the wrinkles on Lenzen’s forehead. When I’ve almost reached twenty, he jolts me out of my thoughts.
“Linda? If I may call you Linda…”
“Anyone I’ve held at gunpoint has the right to call me by my first name,” I say.