The Missing. Part 4

"When did you say you saw them? Do you remember? Smilla and Alex, I mean. And where exactly did you see them?"

The man frowns. His eyes have gone hazy.

"I think it was near the dance floor, on Midsummer Eve. But that's a few years back now. I seem to remember that you were newlyweds. Those were the days. That's when there was still an active a.s.sociation here in Marhem that organized events."

I stare at him and try again.

"I mean recently. You said you saw them the other day. Where was that?"

The man slowly shakes his head.

"I'm sorry," he says uncertainly. "I don't really remember."

I find myself wondering why he would lie. But then I realize that maybe he's actually telling the truth. He's an old man, and maybe his memory isn't what it used to be. Just because my own relations.h.i.+p to the truth is slippery, it doesn't mean that other people casually toss lies around. The black dog pulls free of his master and comes toward me. He quickly sniffs at me, but when I make an attempt to scratch behind his ears, he retreats. The dog is no longer wagging his tail.

"Well, I'd better be going . . . ," I say, already turning away.

"He looked angry," the man says suddenly. "Alexander, I mean. Or maybe scared. Terrified. Hard to tell which it was."

A gust of wind sweeps past the tree trunks, carrying with it the smell of danger. Angry. Or terrified. Hard to tell which it was.

"I'm sorry, but I have to . . ."

I turn around and run. Race away without saying good-bye. Behind me, I can just barely hear the man shout that I should be on my guard, that those kids aren't to be trusted.

The gravel sprays up from the tires when I speed off in the same direction I came from. I hardly notice where I'm driving, aware only that the car is veering from one side to the other. Angry. Or terrified. Hard to tell which it was. My stomach is churning and clenching, something is moving restlessly inside. My heart is banging against my ribs. Little Smilla.

I don't dare risk it. There's only one thing to do. I know where I have to go.

16.

For a long time, I thought of Papa as missing. In the apartment block where we lived, it wasn't uncommon for fathers to leave their families. They would simply pack up their stuff and walk out the door, never to return. That's not what happened with my father. But what difference did it make? He was missing all the same.

Afterward. Seconds afterward. I remember how we stared at each other, my mother and I. How, for a brief moment that seemed like eternity, we shared a wordless connection. We knew. We were the only two people in the world who knew what had just happened. But then she turned her back to me, breaking eye contact. I don't really know what happened after that. Except that we moved apart, that she shut me out. I was a child, but I wasn't stupid. I understood that I was to blame. That it was all my fault. But her rejection still hurt.

Sirens wailing on the street below, blue lights flas.h.i.+ng across the front of the building. The front door standing open to the stairwell, men and women in dark uniforms, their faces tense, going in and out of the apartment. Throughout all of it, the door to Mama and Papa's bedroom remained closed. Desperate sobbing-at times, a hysterical scream-issued from inside. I sat on the floor in my room. Clutching Mulle, waiting in silence. I didn't know what else to do. I just knew that if I didn't stay there until the door in front of me opened, until Mama came in and put her arms around me, then I might as well disappear from the earth. Me too.

Two men in dark uniforms tried to talk to me. The police, they said. We're with the police. At first, they stood there, then they crouched down. They asked me questions, but I pretended not to hear. When they kept on talking, saying my name and repeating the questions, I began humming to myself. If I pretended that everything was the same as usual, maybe it would all go back to normal. Maybe I could make the bad thing that happened disappear. All I had to do was not think about it. Finally, the older policeman took me by the arm and spoke firmly. I hit him in the face. Then he yelled and took Mulle away from me. He said I was too old for such nonsense. His partner turned pale and looked grim. He pulled the other policeman out of the room and whispered something about just a kid, and in shock.

Then he came back, the younger one. He sat down next to me and talked to me nicely for a long time, explaining that everything was going to be fine, that the police only wanted the best for me, they wanted to help me. That's why they were here. I realized that he wanted me to trust him, and I tried, at least a little. But that didn't make any difference. It was too late for trust. They had taken Mulle away from me, and I would never forgive them for that.

17.

The nearest town is only about a fifteen-minute drive from Marhem. There's not much to it. A pedestrian street with a grocery store, a few small shops, a library, and a police station. I almost expect the station to be closed, but when I reach for the handle of the door, it opens. Afterward, I think to myself it would have been better if the door had been locked, if I'd been forced to wait. Maybe then I could have calmed down and reconsidered. Maybe I would have come to my senses and avoided the chaos that followed.

I speak to a woman standing behind a high counter. Her dark hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail. She gets out a notepad with a form to fill in. Without thinking, I rattle off my name and phone number. That's when everything goes haywire. I try to tell her what happened, but I make a mess of it. I can hear how scattered I sound. For a moment, the policewoman's pen hovers over the paper in front of her. Then she slowly puts it down.

"Malice?" she says. "I haven't heard of any lake with that name."

"That's what it's called," I reply. "By the locals."

"So what's its real name?"

I can't answer that, so I simply throw up my hands and look away for a moment. The woman stares at me. Then she asks me for the names of the people I "think are missing." She also wants to know my relations.h.i.+p to them. I babble and explain, the whole time listening to my own words, hearing how the truth and the lies get tangled up.

"So what do you think is the reason for this . . . disappearance? What would be the most plausible explanation? In your opinion, that is."

It could be the words she uses, but it could also be the way she's looking at me that does it. All of a sudden, my whole body goes cold. A heavy, metallic taste rises in my mouth. It was a mistake to come here. I take a step back. Then another. And another. The female police officer is watching me. But she doesn't say anything else. Not even when I brusquely turn on my heel, dash for the door, and practically explode out of the station. She lets me go.

On my way back to Marhem, I have a strong feeling that I'm being followed. A green car is driving too close, and I peer nervously in the rearview mirror, trying to make out what the driver looks like. But he or she has pulled down the visor, and the only thing visible is a solitary dark figure. I tap lightly on the brake, challenging the car behind to keep back. In response, the car veers into the pa.s.sing lane. As it pulls even with me, I turn my head, but the sun glints on the pa.s.senger-side window of the other car, and I can't see who's sitting inside. I can't even tell if it's a man or a woman.

Now I feel my car shuddering underneath me, and the steering wheel seems to leap out of my hands. What is happening? I'm completely bewildered. I'm on the verge of tears. Then I realize that it's not the car or the steering wheel that's moving. It's my body shaking uncontrollably.

I slow down, pull over, and stop. I don't care that it's probably illegal to park here. With my pulse racing in my throat, I stare at the green car as it disappears around the curve. I hear a muted ringing coming from my purse. My phone!

I can tell at once. I can feel it in my whole body. This is an important phone call, one that I shouldn't miss.

I throw myself onto my purse, which I'd tossed on the seat beside me, clawing and rummaging like a woman possessed. The contents spill out onto the pa.s.senger seat. A compact, lipstick, and a pair of dangly earrings. My hands are still shaking, but I manage to find my phone and pick it up. Wild eyed, I stare at the display. Unknown number. With trembling fingers, I press the "Answer" b.u.t.ton and hold the phone to my ear.

"Yes?"

My voice is barely above a whisper. When the person on the other end starts talking, it takes me a moment to figure out who it is. Because it's not Alex. It's not Smilla. It's not even my mother. It's the police officer.

"Greta," she says authoritatively, "I'm the officer you spoke to at the police station. I have . . . Well, you might say that I've looked into the matter. And I found something strange. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

She falls silent. Neither of us speaks. I reach out my right hand and fumble around the pa.s.senger seat until I find something to hold on to. I clutch it tightly. Steeling myself.

"I should have checked on the information you gave me while you were here, but . . . Well, you left rather quickly. But now I've done a search in the records, and what I found-or rather, what I didn't find-surprises me. Let's just say that. And I need your help to resolve the matter."

Through a haze of pain, I hear her again asking me about Alex and Smilla. Were those their names? The people who disappeared? Did we have the same last name, or . . . ?

The police officer doesn't sound unkind, but I can hear in her voice that I don't need to reply. She already knows.

"Is this information correct?"

Now she's rattling off my full name and social security number. All the information I gave her at the station, along with my cell phone number. Almost as if . . . I swallow hard. As if, deep in my heart, I wanted to be found out. From somewhere far away, I'm aware of a stinging, burning sensation. It's part of me, and yet not. Outside the window, another car rushes past, the horn blaring with annoyance, but I hardly notice.

"Greta?" she says. "Are you still there? Is all of this information correct?"

The pain increases, becoming more blatant. Something is stabbing my body, ripping through my skin.

"Yes," I tell her. "I'm still here. And it's correct."

The pain sends a shudder through my body, and everything swims before my eyes. I force myself to look down at my clenched fist. Blood is seeping through my fingers and over my knuckles. I open my fist and stare at the earring lying in my palm. At the sharp end of the hook, which is right now embedded deep in my hand.

From a distance, I hear the policewoman saying my name again. I murmur something unintelligible. She takes a deep breath. Both of us are preparing for what will come next. For the words that have to be said.

"According to our records, Greta, you are not married. Nor do you have a child. There is no husband or daughter in your life. And never has been."

18.

I might as well tell it like it is. I'm not like other people, not normal or reliable in the way most people are. But at least I have enough self-awareness to realize this. Every once in a while, at various periods in my life, I have sought psychological help. The pattern is always the same. I wait until the last minute, until I'm just about to fall apart and my life is on the verge of shattering. That's when I get help. Each time, a different psychologist. I never go back to the same one as before.

Once a week, sometimes more often, I sit down in a worn-out armchair, in which a faceless horde of unfortunate souls has sat before me, and in which others will sit after I'm gone. The rooms are not the same, but they always look similar. A mildly sympathetic face in the chair across from me, a box of tissues on a table between us. And then we converse. Well, maybe that's not really the right word for it. I'm the one who's expected to say things, of course. To explain and elucidate. Turn myself inside out.

With each new psychologist, I hope that this time things will be different. I hope the person seated across from me will be bolder than the previous ones. Won't just settle for asking questions about what really happened to Papa and then wait for me to reply. But instead will be brave enough to look me in the eye and say it out loud. Say that they understand, and then speak the truth. So I won't have to do it myself. Someone else has to release me. I can't do it on my own. But that's never how it turns out.

This usually goes on for a few weeks, sometimes even a couple of months. By then, we will have reached the painful part-or rather, we'll be going in circles without making any progress.

The psychologist leans forward, patiently asks me the question: So then what happened? It escapes me, I insist, and the mildly sympathetic face grows tense. The psychologist retreats, tries another angle, asks other questions: What do you think about . . . ? What makes you . . . ? Nothing but questions, never any conclusions. So I pay the bill, say that I'm feeling much better now, and walk out of their office and never go back. They offer no objections. They let me go.

Only one of them has ever tried to keep me there. Literally.

That was years ago, before I met Alex. The psychologist was a blond woman, not much older than me. I'd often thought there was something fragile about her, but when I stood up to announce that after this session I was done, that I wasn't planning to see her anymore, she grabbed my wrist and held on. Gently, and yet with surprising firmness.

"If you leave now, it means you haven't learned a thing about yourself, and you won't be any better prepared to confront either the past or the future. Next time you encounter an overwhelming or surprising situation, the pattern will repeat itself."

She stayed seated in her armchair, and when I looked down, I noticed she was wearing a short-sleeved dress. It was the middle of the summer, and the room was hot. Yet there was something about that dress that caught my attention. I frowned.

"Cardigans and jackets," I said to her. "I've never seen you wear anything with short sleeves before."

She shook her head to show that she wasn't about to be distracted.

"Things are going to get worse for you," she went on. "And you risk being knocked off balance. In the worst-case scenario, that sort of state of mind could have very unfortunate consequences. For you, or for those close to you."

I could have yanked my hand away and stormed out of the room. But I didn't.

"What do you mean?"

"Early in life, you learned to adopt certain strategies in crisis situations. You are repeating those same strategies as an adult, even though they're not effective."

"What is it with you psychologists? Why can't you say things so other people can understand?"

She looked at me impa.s.sively.

"Okay. I'll say this as clearly as I can, Greta. What I worry you might 'think up' are the same things you did as a child. When you were in shock, when you encountered . . . adversity."

Heat bubbled up under my skin, filling my eyes.

"Telling lies?"

"Yes. Or worse."

I stare at the blood seeping out between my fingers and down my wrist. My whole hand is throbbing with pain. My palm is sticky on the steering wheel. I can no longer understand my own motives. I can't remember my reasoning from when I dashed into the police station, and I can't form a single sensible thought right now.

It feels like the last shreds of reason are spilling out of me along with the blood from the wound in my hand. Am I about to lose control? Is this how those last seconds feel, right before the big breakdown? The blond psychologist, whose office I was finally able to leave-what would she say if she could see me now? Didn't I warn you?

The road to Marhem, back to the cabin. I don't know how I manage it, but somehow I drive the whole way without landing in the ditch or cras.h.i.+ng into an oncoming car. I press the gas pedal and the brake, signal, and turn, exactly as if I was an ordinary driver, as if nothing has happened.

When I finally pull in and park in the same spot as before, on the gravel road outside the cabin, there's blood everywhere. Blood smeared on the steering wheel and part of the dashboard, blood on my s.h.i.+rt, and bright patches on my capris. But at least the wound has stopped bleeding. There is no husband or daughter in your life. And never has been. I shake my head at myself. I should have known better than to go to the police. Should have realized I had to handle this on my own.

I turn the key in the ignition to switch off the engine. I turn toward the pa.s.senger-side window and stare out at the road. The other night, there was another car here, right next to mine. It wasn't properly parked, and the engine was running the whole time. That m.u.f.fled rumbling was like a ba.s.s tone under the agitated voice I heard through the partially open window. Agitated? More like hysterical. Voice? More like a howl, a scream of pain and anger. An icy s.h.i.+ver ripples through my body. Should I be worried? Whoever screamed must have noticed the license plate on my car. And maybe, in spite of their frantic state, they memorized it, that particular combination of letters and digits that would make it possible to identify me.

I reach for my purse on the seat next to me, then gather up and stuff inside everything that had fallen out. The palm of my hand tugs and twinges, and I grimace, picking up the earrings with care. The one who stayed and the one who left. Afterward, I didn't ask Alex about that nighttime visit. I thought I could put two and two together, that I understood enough. Now I feel a nagging doubt in my mind. What is it I think I understand? At the moment, I seem unable to follow even the simplest train of thought.

Then I'm once again standing in the entryway, on the green and slightly gritty hall rug. I stand there, without taking off my shoes, just listening. At first, there's only silence. Then I hear a sound from the living room. Hesitant, padding steps. I listen and wait. I know who is approaching. When Tirith comes into view, something inside me relaxes and eases. I sink down on my knees and greedily stretch out my hands toward him. The cat's fur feels soft under my fingertips, and I realize how much I've hungered for that-for touch, for contact-these last twenty-four hours. My whole life.

I stroke Tirith's back and scratch behind his ears as he purrs happily. He licks my fingers and sniffs at the wound on my hand. He seems surprisingly interested. Again and again, he presses his nose gently on the clotted blood. Then he seems to make a decision and starts cleaning the wound very thoroughly, running his rough tongue over the puncture. At first I let him do it, thinking now we're connected for life, this cat and I. The past is behind us, and we know nothing about the future, but at this moment, we are joined, merging together. His saliva and my blood.

Then he turns his narrowed yellow eyes toward me, and I impulsively draw my hand away. Slowly I get to my feet. Tirith. An odd name for a pet. Alex was the one who thought of it. I remember when he explained that Minas Tirith means Tower of the Guard. I keep my eyes fixed on the black-and-white cat as I fumble for the door handle behind me. We are staring at each other, Tirith and I. One of us inquisitive, the other tense.

"All right," I say at last, my voice sounding so hoa.r.s.e that I have to clear my throat before going on. "Time for you to go out for a while. Go on now!"

The cat looks away, swiftly forgetting how abruptly I stopped petting him, and saunters out. I close the door behind him and lock it. When I turn around, I catch sight of one of the hooks positioned low on the wall. The fear that stabs at my chest is so strong that I gasp for breath.

Hanging from the hook is a jean jacket belonging to a four-year-old girl. I collapse onto the floor. Thoughts of the unimaginable descend upon me once again. That can't be true.

I rub my eyes and only when I see the black streaks of damp mascara on my skin do I realize that I'm crying. Smilla. I'm sorry.

But there is no forgiveness to be had. The feeling that I'm a hypocrite, a cheater, again overwhelms me. What good is all this searching for her? The fault is still mine, pressing heavily on my chest along with the thought of everything I could have done differently. What I should have done. What I shouldn't have done. If only . . . Then she might still be here.

Finally, I have to pinch myself hard, on my cheeks and my arms, to stop all this. Why do my thoughts keep going down these paths? As if everything is over, as if it's too late. As if Smilla is . . . Suddenly, the fear and guilt are swept away. In their place, a huge wave of fury washes over me. I hurl my purse at the wardrobe door.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" I wail. "What have you done with her?"

But I'm the only one who hears my words. And it's not clear who they're directed at. Or at least that's not something I'm prepared to say aloud. I haven't yet ventured that far into the shadows.