Alex nodded. “You look funny,” he then said.
The soft afternoon light filled the car, and when he pressed me down onto the backseat, for one short moment I could see the pale sun behind a thin layer of clouds. Then Alex’s face appeared above me. All this happened slowly; he didn’t rush, didn’t show any haste. He sat on top of me, unbuttoned his jacket and threw it onto the front seat. Then he loosened his tie and pulled it over his head. He unbuttoned his shirt and let it drop onto the seat next to my face. Finally Alex raised himself as much as he could and opened his pants.
“You know,” he said, “my brother had all these funny drawings on his skin.”
I nodded. I hadn’t seen them myself, but my friends had told me about Olaf’s tattoos.
“Some of the boys in that institution had them too.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t think I could carry around the same symbol or picture for the rest of my life. Or a name.” He seemed to think about this diligently, as though he wanted to make sure he got the words right. “‘Anke,’ for example. I mean, if you don’t like that girl anymore, it’s still there, and you’re constantly reminded of her.”
My voice was very low and hoarse. It seemed important to answer him. “Maybe a shape, a simple one. Maybe a triangle, a circle, or a square.”
Alex laughed—he seemed to be genuinely amused. “A square. Simple,” he repeated and grinned.
“Yeah, a black square. Doesn’t have to mean anything. Just a square.”
“‘Hey, what’s that mean?’ ‘Why, I love squares,’” he said, and we both laughed. My voice shrilled in my ears.
“Yeah, a square,” I said.
Alex was quiet for a while, sat in his underwear next to me in the backseat. “I’d like to see somebody tattoo his body onto his body.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. His hands had forgotten about me. Say something, Anke, I told myself, keep it up. Just say something, just talk and occupy him. Occupy him.
“The shape of his body tattooed onto his skin, just a bit smaller, so it fits. His fingers drawn onto his fingers, his arms onto his arms. Well, the face would be difficult.”
I tried to smile. “The eyes, yeah. The nose—you could do that.”
“And one thing would be missing. You know, he’d have the whole body tattooed on his body, but one hand would be missing, or a calf. And everybody would look at the missing limb, because it’s just missing.”
“That would be strange,” I said. “Would you tattoo the skeleton onto the skin as well?”
“Maybe,” he said absentmindedly, but I could hear that he hadn’t given it a thought. “There would be two people, only one would be incomplete.” With those words he moved a little away from me, lifted up the hem of my dress and pulled down my panties. The radio was still playing, the singer had a famously clear voice, and she sang about islands in the sea and deadly typhoons. Alex climbed out of the car and turned his back on me. He dropped his pants to the ground. His back had two or three red spots but was otherwise completely white. He focused entirely on untying his shoe laces and seemed to forget about me. I listened to the music, made plans to jump out of the car and escape Alex, whose pants still hung around his ankles. I had time. I was fast. I would succeed. But Alex’s presence, his massive white back, rendered all plans incomprehensible, and when he stepped out of his shoes, I hadn’t even tried to run. I was just lying in the backseat, waiting until he was ready for me.
Alex turned, climbed into the car, lay down heavily on my chest and forced himself into me. He didn’t face me but seemed to look out the rear window. He didn’t try to kiss me.
When he was done, he kept lying on top of me. Behind me I could see a narrow strip of sky; in front of me loomed Alex’s head with its greased hair. The singer received much applause for her ballad about a lonely sailor, and then launched into a song about the Klabautermann. The audience joined in for the chorus.
I had imagined that Alex would get up immediately and start to dress. I had thought that he would hit me, that I might avoid being hit if I lay completely still. I had thought that as soon as he was done he would get behind the wheel once more. But he only sat up, dangled his legs, put his head out the door, and stared into the sky. The audience grew louder and louder and clapped in rhythm with the song about the Klabautermann, and in that moment, when I realized that I had no idea what Alex wanted from me and what he had planned, I knew I would lose my sanity. I had been paralyzed with fear, but I had been proud of myself that I hadn’t screamed and kicked, that I hadn’t given him a reason to beat me. Now, however, he sat at my feet, one hand on my leg, and leaned back in the seat. I’m not sure if he fell asleep, I think he wasn’t asleep, but he sat next to me and put his hand between my legs and I could feel how warm his hand was. Alex breathed steadily, sat next to me in the backseat, and closed his eyes.
In that moment I left my body, and I’m not sure I ever returned. The program ended and a new one began; this one an opera, and all the members of the audience coughed and then fell quiet, and then the instruments started up. Alex and I lay on the backseat, and it started to rain. I could hear the drops fall onto the roof. And I didn’t fear anything as much as I feared the music, the bright brass section, the violins, the singers’ laughing voices.
I wished to get up and switch off the radio, but I didn’t want to alarm Alex. I could smell him now, his sweat had mixed with his aftershave. It was a terrible stench. Alex’s cheeks were soft, and he had a snub nose with large pores, and fleshy lips. His ears were small and fat.
Finally he sighed, got to his feet, and hummed along with the music. He looked over his shoulder at me, and only then did I realize how rigidly I lay in the backseat. I was a wooden puppet he had thrown in back.
Slowly, Alex pulled up his pants. He was looking for his shirt; his hair stood straight up on top, like the comb of a rooster. And as if he had noticed himself, he smoothed it with both hands. Then he nodded his head, perhaps looking to find the appropriate words, but instead he began to whistle—with too much air to produce a clear tone.
He buttoned his shirt, fastened his tie, and went to the hood of the car. I was still in the backseat, and I was overcome with panic as if I only now fully realized what had happened. But I still could not stir—the slightest movement would break me in half.
“Is my tie straight?” Alex asked. His head appeared again in the door.
I shook my head. Carefully, inch by inch, I pulled down my dress. He did not seem to notice.
“Could you…?” he asked.
I sat up, and it started dripping out of me. I stifled a scream. Carefully, I climbed out of the car and pulled at Alex’s tie.
“Thank you.” He turned around, moved his shoulders in circles, turned and twisted his neck like a boxer testing if everything felt right. Then he lit a cigarette. There was no traffic on the road to the Big House, not even a bicycle or a horse-drawn cart. It was still raining, but it did not seem to bother Alex. “As a boy I wanted to open your blouse,” he said, shaking his head. “Are you ready?” He was in no hurry.
And I realized that haste was not necessary. Not for Alex, not even for me. There was nothing I could escape from. I could still hear the music coming from inside the car, a passionate aria, a female and a male voice wrapping themselves around each other, and although I could think of nothing but this music, I knew that Alex was not afraid, and that I would never tell Rutger anything about this trip or the next. If I ever opened my mouth, Alex would be dismissed from the estate, perhaps even arrested. And Rutger? What would he do after he was finished with his driver? What words would he use to get rid of me?