Woman of the Dead (11 page)

Uma was standing in the road four days ago, shouting,
Papa. You must come home. Please, Papa, come home.
She had gone downstairs on her own, out of the drive, to the place where he died. Her shouting was loud enough to be heard on the top floors of the house. Blum ran down, picked Uma up, held her close. But she couldn’t say anything to soothe Uma’s pain, they were both helpless. The empty road hurt. There was nothing to be seen now, no blood, no sign of Mark, only Uma’s trembling at a reality that scared her.

The owls fly round the living room while Blum looks for Edwin Schönborn on the internet, while she clicks his homepage and rings his number. The owls land in the bathroom while she phones him and agrees on a date. It’s very spontaneous. She decides to play a game. She baits her trap with flattery, saying she doesn’t want any other photographer, only him, she wants some nude photos, she’s heard he’s the best in the country, so it has to be him. Blum doesn’t want to wait a day longer, she wants to know, at once. She’d like to discuss the photo-shoot with him, she says, she has some ideas and, as chance would have it, she happens to be in the city, money is no object. Blum secures an appointment. She should come to his studio in a hour’s time, he says, he looks forward to meeting her. She hadn’t thought their meeting could be arranged as quickly as that. Blum ends the call and asks Karl to look after the children again. Then she showers, changes and drives into town.

Her heart is thudding. There’s no time to be lost. It’s afternoon on Herzog-Friedrich-Strasse, in the Old Town of Innsbruck. A choice piece of real estate; his rent must cost a fortune. Blum stands at his door and rings the bell. Slowly, she walks upstairs. Blum is breathing deeply, in then out. She must keep her nerve, stay calm. She will meet him without preconceptions, she will just talk to him about photographs, about nudes, about his work. And she will record the conversation, she will take his voice home and play it to Dunya. Blum presses Record, then the studio door opens. Edwin Schönborn smiles and offers her his hand.

It’s a beautiful place, old and high with vaulted ceilings and white leather sofas. The studio is entirely white. Blum sits down and Edwin Schönborn beams at her. White, regular teeth, expensively dressed, a well-groomed man, handsome, maybe in his mid-thirties. He offers her coffee. The studio is perfection, one huge room with desks, sofas, make-up tables, and plenty of room to take photographs. Schönborn is the ideal host. A charming man who does nothing to scare Blum off or make her turn against him. Schönborn could be entirely innocent. Why would he, of all people, be the man – the monster – Blum is looking for? He brings the coffee and sits down. They begin talking and everything seems normal. Blum tells lies, Blum improvises, Blum is expecting to go back downstairs empty-handed. Only when the conversation is in full swing does she get the feeling that Schönborn is in fact the man she’s looking for. Without knowing it, from one minute to the next he is showing his true colours. He is coming into focus.

‘It’s great that you found me.’

‘Yes, indeed. I think I’ll be in safe hands here.’

‘The prerequisite for good nude photos is trust. I’m glad you chose me.’

‘Your work is very beautiful.’

‘You’re too kind.’

‘So sensitive. It’s as though you put your whole heart into your photographs.’

‘I give them everything I’ve got. Every picture ought to be a work of art; it’s meant to reflect your soul, show your desire.’

‘Desire?’

‘What you probably like so much about my photographs is the invisible part.’

‘The invisible part?’

‘What can’t be seen but nonetheless can be imagined: lust, desire. Showing too much ruins a picture. Destroys its eroticism.’

‘I quite agree.’

‘You’re a clever woman. And a beautiful woman as well.’

‘Thank you.’

‘So these photographs are for your husband?’

‘Yes. They’re a surprise.’

‘Underwear?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you want to wear lingerie in the pictures?’

‘No, I’d like to be entirely naked.’

‘A good idea.’

‘And I want to be masturbating.’

‘Wow.’

‘I’d like you to photograph me while I climax.’

‘That’s what you really want? A picture taken while you masturbate?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Okay. You’re on.’

‘But I just want you to photograph my face.’

‘What?’

‘You said a picture comes to life when it keeps secrets. When it doesn’t show too much. So no breasts, no fingers, no cunt. Just my face.’

‘That’s very unusual.’

‘As I said, money is no object.’

‘Very unusual indeed.’

‘If you have a problem with that, let’s just forget the whole thing. Maybe it’s a bad idea.’

‘No, it isn’t, quite the opposite. It’s great.’

‘You think it’s a good idea?’

‘A brilliant idea. I must admit I’ve already had a similar idea myself.’

‘Then it’s a deal?’

‘We’re on.’

‘In the forest?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I’d like to do it in the forest. There’s a wonderful spot between Igls and Patsch. I want you to shoot me naked on the mossy ground.’

‘You want to masturbate out in the forest? Walkers could come past. Are you sure that’s what you want?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it turns me on.’

‘Wow.’

‘I come more easily in public places. I get wild when I know someone might come along. And watch me.’

‘You filthy bitch.’

‘What?’

‘I’m delighted.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘You called me a filthy bitch.’

‘I’m sorry. Forgive me. That was very unprofessional.’

‘You needn’t let that bother you.’

‘That’s good. That’s very good.’

‘Yes, isn’t it just? I’m looking forward to this.’

‘Once again, to avoid any misunderstanding. I’m to photograph your face while you’re having an orgasm.’

‘That’s right. Shall we say tomorrow at four in the afternoon? I’ll pick you up in my car. We can meet outside the theatre. Don’t be late.’

Blum gets to her feet and leaves. Before he can say anything else she’s out in the stairwell. She must stop this, run away, what she said was madness. It simply came over her, she wanted to raise the stakes, see how he would react. She hadn’t expected to hit the bull’s eye. Edwin Schönborn. Blum is sure he’s the man, and Dunya will recognise his voice, his greedy eyes, every word he said. That perverse bastard. He’d already had a similar idea himself, had he? Down the steps fast, don’t look back, don’t react to what he’s calling. Just an offhand
See you tomorrow
, then out into the street. What would have happened if she had stayed? He’d wanted her to stay, he’d touched her arm. She must go to Dunya, fast, she wants to see her face change when she hears his voice. Blum is sure she will see fear in it, fear and horror.

She drove through the city in the hearse, an ancient Cadillac Superior from 1972. Her father got it from the United States; he wanted to offer his customers something special. Their last drive should be an unusual one. After Hagen’s death, Blum had wondered for a long time whether to part with the car, but she had decided against it. It was the jewel in the crown of the undertakers’ business and she had grown fond of it. So she wasn’t constantly reminded of Hagen, she had the black car resprayed. It was now a snow-white hearse. Blum almost screamed at the painter in the garage for asking her, at least ten times, whether she was really sure about the colour. A white Cadillac. Stately and elegant. An old lady in a white dress treating her passengers with care. White, not black. Life, not death. Blum wanted to be different, to stand out from her competitors. A white hearse was pure provocation.

In the first two years, before they had the children, Blum and Mark had gone on holiday in that car. They had slept in it on the beach in Sardinia. Blum had made pretty curtains for it herself. They were happy in the white hearse, they had made love and listened to the sea. They had left the boot open and smoked. She was smoking now. A cigarette in her hand and music on the radio because the dead can’t smell a thing. Because Mark is close to her again, because she can sense him, because she wants him to be with her when she meets the man. Blum draws on her cigarette and closes her eyes. At the red lights she sees Mark, smiling, taking the cigarette out of her hand and throwing it on to the beach. Kissing her. How warm it is against his skin. Blum hears hooting and doesn’t want to open her eyes. She doesn’t want to, but she must. The lights are green again; she is meeting Schönborn in five minutes’ time.

Dunya remained silent. She said nothing, only nodded. Blum didn’t have to ask more questions or play the conversation to the end. Dunya flinched when his voice came over the little loudspeaker. Edwin Schönborn frightened her and Dunya looked small, everything about her shrunken.
Yes, that’s the man who raped me repeatedly. No, there isn’t any doubt about it. I’m certain. Yes, it’s him, I could pick out his voice in a crowd. His voice and the click of his camera.
Dunya didn’t say this, she just lowered her eyes. She was afraid of being punished, of feeling a fist in her face.
Yes, he hit me. Again and again. Everywhere, anywhere it would hurt. His fists, his shoes, his head against mine.
In the girls’ room she lay wordless and trembling and Blum hugged her. He had been so easy to find. Blum had been right on target, she had deceived him and challenged him. She had started something and now she was going to finish it.

Blum throws her cigarette out of the window. In three minutes’ time she’ll be with him, on her own and without a plan. She has no alternative. When she was sitting opposite him in his studio, the idea spontaneously came into her mind to pick him up, take him somewhere, in capacitate him and bring him back home somehow. It was a crazy idea, she didn’t have the faintest idea what she was letting herself in for. But Blum resolves to question him, get all he knows out of him, the names of the others, a confession, evidence, a tape recording. He knows who the others are. He knows whether Mark was murdered, and if so who did it. She keeps seeing Schönborn in her mind’s eye, keeps hearing him say
filthy bitch
. Blum made him show his true self, unmasked him, saw him switch from amiable host to disgusting, slobbering pig. A cruel man, with nothing but contempt for the rest of mankind. In two minutes she’ll be with him, he’ll be waiting for her outside the State Theatre. She knows he’ll be there, he’s not going to miss a chance like this.

All afternoon and evening she wondered how to go about it, how to make him tell her what he knows. How can she knock him out before he overpowers her? She must be fast, do it while he still trusts her and is thinking only with his cock. She must get him into the preparation room, where no one will disturb them. Reza is away and won’t be back until tomorrow. Karl and the children don’t go into that room, so they will be entirely alone. She will talk to him when he comes back to his senses.

She has looked for a place in this small city where she can knock him unconscious without being seen. At the railway station, in the industrial area, in an underground car park. She couldn’t make up her mind; she could be seen in any of those places. She could bring a stone down on his head in the forest where he’s supposed to be photographing her, striking him from behind as he bends to pick something up. In her imagination she hits him so hard that blood spurts from his head, runs down his forehead in torrents. She desperately tries to get him on to the stretcher from the hearse and heave him into the vehicle. He is bloodied and groaning, she can’t manage to lever him up, a jogger comes along the path. No, that wasn’t an option. Schönborn was too heavy, he must weigh a hundred kilos, she’d have to knock him out in the car. But she couldn’t attack him, because then he’d defend himself, pull her out of the car and beat her or worse. Knocking him out with a narcotic is the only possible way. She has Googled it. As other people do – rapists and murderers.

She looked for something that would work fast. Something he would swallow without noticing. Soporifics, something she could get in the next twenty hours, something legal. She has never taken drugs, and doesn’t know anyone who does. Many date-rape drugs could be ordered online, but there wasn’t time for that; delivery could take up to five days. Blum cursed. She didn’t want to postpone the confrontation, she didn’t want to give Schönborn time to think; she wanted him thinking only of her cunt. She didn’t want him asking questions, getting suspicious. It seemed like a wild goose chase, but she searched for a solution all evening like a woman possessed. Then she opened a webpage that told her the solution was in her garage.

An alloy cleaner. A strong solvent. Butyrolactone, a base for pharmaceuticals and drugs, among them GHB, a date-rape drug. And GBL, a cleaning substance anyone could buy. Sixty euros for a litre. Blum knows that it is in the garage, and has been for years. Hagen bought the solvent over ten years ago, when teenagers had been spraying graffiti on the garden wall. It is right at the back with the winter tyres. An industrial cleaner that kept Hagen from having a heart attack and was misused as a party drug, as liquid ecstasy. A high for fourteen cents, the cheapest on the market, and legal too. Blum finishes reading the article and runs down to the garage. The inconspicuous canister stands there with other cleaning products. The problem is solved.

Blum is in the car. A clear spirit in a transparent bottle is on her lap. She has disguised the horrible taste with sugar and Red Bull, she has adulterated it until you can hardly smell the solvent. She was generous with the GBL, however, doubling the dose recommended on the internet; she doesn’t want to run any risks. Just one gulp will do it. When he gets into the car she will put the bottle to her lips and pretend to drink. Then she’ll say he should have some too. To put them in the mood. She’ll hold out the bottle and ask him to drink. She can see Schönborn standing outside the theatre, with a black camera case on the ground beside him. In twenty seconds’ time the door will open. She will do all she can. For Dunya. In ten seconds’ time. For Mark.