few of her classmates had fallen for various forms of new-age, turn-of-the-century mysticism and that kind of dodgy stuff, but not her. Not the clever, reliable Mikaela. So there really was something remarkable about it, that business with the cat and the roof tile. And her reaction to it.
What if new omens were to confront her today? How would she react now?
Don’t be silly, she thought. Yesterday was yesterday. I was tired. Tired out and overwrought. Who wouldn’t have been? The day had been full of tortures. Full to overflowing.
As she walked towards Goopsweg it struck her that she hadn’t rung home since leaving yesterday morning.
She hadn’t promised to do so, in fact, but she always used to get in touch even so. She noticed a phone box in the little lane just past the pizzeria, and remembered that she had a new telephone card in her handbag. She slowed down and began arguing with herself.
She really ought to. Why make her mum and Helmut worry unnecessarily?
But then again, there
She was eighteen now, after all.
Why not let them get used to taking the rough with the smooth? she thought. Why not delay the call for an hour or two? Or even all day?
She started whistling, and passed by the phone box.
The woman who opened the door looked very like a maths teacher she’d had for a term when she was in class eight or nine. The same long, horsey face. The same pale eyes. The same straggling, washed-out, colourless hair. For a moment Mikaela was so certain it was that very same teacher she had the name on the tip of her tongue.
Then she remembered that Miss Dortwinckel had committed suicide one Christmas holiday — by eating half a dozen broken crystal glasses, if rumour was to be believed — and she realized that it was a case of similar features, no more than that. A certain charisma.
Or lack of charisma, rather. Perhaps our Good Lord had only a limited number of features to choose from — especially when it came to middle-aged women past their sell-by date.
Where do I get all these thoughts from? she wondered. And how can they come so quickly?
‘Well?’
The voice was sharp and unfriendly. Not a bit like that of Miss Dortwinckel, which she could recall quite clearly.
‘Forgive me. My name’s Mikaela Lijphart. I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I would be very grateful if I could have a little chat with you.’
‘With me? Why?’
Now the smell of strong drink hit her. Mikaela automatically stepped half a pace backwards, and had to grab the handrail in order not to fall down the steps.
Eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning? she thought. Drunk already. Why. .?
Then it occurred to her that it could have to do with her father. With what her father had said. Could it be that. .?
She lost the thread. Or dropped it on purpose. The woman was staring at her.
‘Why do you want to talk to me?’ she asked again. ‘Why don’t you say anything? Are you mentally deficient, or are you one of those bloody hallelujah loonies trying to recruit new souls? I don’t have a soul.’
‘No. . Certainly not,’ Mikaela assured her. ‘Please forgive me, I’m just a bit confused — so much has happened in the last few days and I don’t really know what to do. It’s about something that happened when I was a little girl. . Only two years old. Something I’m trying to get straight, and I think you might be able to help me. I don’t live round here. May I come in for a while?’
‘I haven’t tidied up yet,’ said the woman.
‘It’ll only take a couple of minutes.’
‘The home help didn’t come on Friday when she should have done, and as I said, I haven’t tidied up yet.’
Mikaela tried to produce an indulgent smile.
‘I understand. It doesn’t matter — but we could go to some cafe or other if you’d prefer that. The main thing is that I can talk to you.’
The woman muttered something and hesitated. Stood in the doorway swaying back and forth as she sucked in her lips and held on to the radiator.
‘What about?’ she said. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘I’d prefer not to discuss it here on the doorstep. It’s about my father.’
‘About your father?’
‘Yes.’
‘And who’s your father?’
Mikaela thought for two seconds, then said his name. The woman breathed in audibly, and let go of the radiator.
‘Bloody hell!’ she said. ‘Yes, come on in.’
Mikaela had no doubt at all that the home help hadn’t turned up last Friday — nor any other Friday for the last six months. She had never seen a filthier or more squalid flat. Couldn’t even imagine a worse one. Her hostess ushered her into a cramped kitchen that smelled of tobacco smoke and old fish, and quite a lot more besides. She pushed a pile of newspapers and advertising leaflets on to the floor so that they could sit opposite one another at the table — separated by a small, sticky area just big enough for two glasses, an ashtray and a bottle.
Cherry brandy. She filled Mikaela’s glass without asking. Mikaela took a sip of the bright red, lukewarm liquid and almost choked over its strength and sweetness.
The woman emptied her glass in one swig, and slammed it down on the table. Fished out a cigarette and lit it.
Why can’t she at least air the place? Mikaela wondered. Why does she live cooped up in a rubbish dump in the middle of summer? Ugh.
But of course, she hadn’t come to discuss hygiene and home comforts.
‘So, Arnold Maager,’ said the woman. ‘That bloody arsehole.’
‘He is. . Arnold Maager is my father,’ said Mikaela.
‘So you claim. Tell me what you know.’
Mikaela could feel the tears welling up in her eyes, but she gritted her teeth and managed to hold them in check.
‘Is it okay if I open the window a little bit?’ she asked. ‘I’m allergic to tobacco smoke.’
‘No windows are ever opened in my home,’ said the woman. ‘You were the one who wanted to come in among all the shit.’
Mikaela swallowed.
‘Let’s hear it, then,’ said the woman, pouring herself some more cherry brandy. ‘You first. Let’s do things properly.’
Mikaela cleared her throat, and began talking. She didn’t really have much to say, but she had hardly started before the woman stood up and walked over to the sink, which was piled up with unwashed crockery, empty bottles and every kind of rubbish you could think of. She rummaged around in a box, with her back towards her guest, and when she turned round she was holding her right arm straight out, pointing at Mikaela with something.
It was a second before Mikaela realized that it was a pistol.
The cat, she thought. The roof tile.
10
