at the lights of her Rotterdam laburnum lamp until her eyelids drooped.
In his daily attempts to establish contact, Gerd made as little headway as did all her other friends, who slowly began to worry about Judith – slowly, and far too late. She was going through a process of inner emigration, forever on the alert for Hannes’ next attack, and with the indomitable will to ignore them to the bitter end.
Once a day he would speak to her voicemail, mainly in the afternoons and never at night, thank God! Within a few seconds she’d erase the message. If nothing changed in his low-dosage ritual – a daily message, the contents of which she remained unaware, on the pathetic S.I.M. card of a soulless mobile phone – she would soon be living life normally again, she persuaded herself. Then she’d be able to go running back to her friends and family as if reborn and say: “I’m back. It was nothing more than a minor crisis. No surprise really, the heat, the stress, you know how it is.” And they’d reply: “It’s wonderful to have you back, Judith. Now, why don’t you spoil yourself and take a nice holiday. You’ve got nothing more to fear. We’re all here!”
She hadn’t got to that stage yet, she was still feeling her way down the dark, narrow tunnel, but the first cracks of light were appearing, and in a brief wave of euphoria she booked her first attempt at re-acclimatisation to the outside world, a one-week trip to Amsterdam at the end of August. There she could stay with friends who knew nothing about Hannes. And the most they would find out was that he was a lunatic who was obsessed with her, who left insignificant messages on her voicemail every day.
*
Two days later she was overly reckless; while sifting through the post at work she opened a letter whose sender was not revealed on the envelope. As she realised, with shock, that the letter was from him, she made her second big mistake: she read the message line by line to the very end.
At first the text read like a protocol and sounded deceptively factual:
Twelfth of August, 7.00:
her radio alarm turns on. On his clock it’s only six minutes to seven. Her clock is fast, his shows the right time. She takes a shower. The cool water runs down her delicate, soft body. Wonderful. Her mind is fixed on him. He thinks of her all the time.
7.43:
She leaves the house. Linden-green, close-fitting summer frock. Golden-yellow, tousled hair. She looks as if she’s twenty. The most beautiful woman in the world. But her face is far too serious and sad. (You’re a subjective pessimist, my telephoto lens!) She misses him. She feels his absence.
7.57:
She opens up the lighting shop, and slips the emerald-green bag from her slender shoulder. She is muddle-headed, hectic, nervous. She’s distracted. She’s thinking of him. He thinks of her all the time.
12.14:
She leaves the shop. She looks left, she looks right. She’s looking for him. He’s so close. She could reach out and touch him. He loves her more than anything in the world. As she does him, definitely. Definitely, definitely, definitely.
12.20:
She goes into the bank. To withdraw some money? He’d give her his. He doesn’t need money, only her love.
12.27:
She leaves the bank. He blows her kisses. She can sense how close he is, she can feel his breath, she’s looking for him. She’s flummoxed.
12.35:
She disappears back into the shop. He gives her a wave. She can’t see him, but she knows he’s with her. He protects her. He keeps her safe from everything that’s bad.
17.10:
She leaves the shop. It was worth the wait. It’s always worth the wait. Patience and loyalty are the essence of existence, the fertilisers of love. Interesting, this time she chooses another route. Hütteldorfer Strasse. She turns towards him. He can feel her draught. She’s thinking of him. He thinks of her all the time.
17.23:
She goes into, oh, oh, oh, she goes into a travel agent’s. This blows him away. Is she going
In his daily attempts to establish contact, Gerd made as little headway as did all her other friends, who slowly began to worry about Judith – slowly, and far too late. She was going through a process of inner emigration, forever on the alert for Hannes’ next attack, and with the indomitable will to ignore them to the bitter end.
Once a day he would speak to her voicemail, mainly in the afternoons and never at night, thank God! Within a few seconds she’d erase the message. If nothing changed in his low-dosage ritual – a daily message, the contents of which she remained unaware, on the pathetic S.I.M. card of a soulless mobile phone – she would soon be living life normally again, she persuaded herself. Then she’d be able to go running back to her friends and family as if reborn and say: “I’m back. It was nothing more than a minor crisis. No surprise really, the heat, the stress, you know how it is.” And they’d reply: “It’s wonderful to have you back, Judith. Now, why don’t you spoil yourself and take a nice holiday. You’ve got nothing more to fear. We’re all here!”
She hadn’t got to that stage yet, she was still feeling her way down the dark, narrow tunnel, but the first cracks of light were appearing, and in a brief wave of euphoria she booked her first attempt at re-acclimatisation to the outside world, a one-week trip to Amsterdam at the end of August. There she could stay with friends who knew nothing about Hannes. And the most they would find out was that he was a lunatic who was obsessed with her, who left insignificant messages on her voicemail every day.
*
Two days later she was overly reckless; while sifting through the post at work she opened a letter whose sender was not revealed on the envelope. As she realised, with shock, that the letter was from him, she made her second big mistake: she read the message line by line to the very end.
At first the text read like a protocol and sounded deceptively factual:
Twelfth of August, 7.00:
her radio alarm turns on. On his clock it’s only six minutes to seven. Her clock is fast, his shows the right time. She takes a shower. The cool water runs down her delicate, soft body. Wonderful. Her mind is fixed on him. He thinks of her all the time.
7.43:
She leaves the house. Linden-green, close-fitting summer frock. Golden-yellow, tousled hair. She looks as if she’s twenty. The most beautiful woman in the world. But her face is far too serious and sad. (You’re a subjective pessimist, my telephoto lens!) She misses him. She feels his absence.
7.57:
She opens up the lighting shop, and slips the emerald-green bag from her slender shoulder. She is muddle-headed, hectic, nervous. She’s distracted. She’s thinking of him. He thinks of her all the time.
12.14:
She leaves the shop. She looks left, she looks right. She’s looking for him. He’s so close. She could reach out and touch him. He loves her more than anything in the world. As she does him, definitely. Definitely, definitely, definitely.
12.20:
She goes into the bank. To withdraw some money? He’d give her his. He doesn’t need money, only her love.
12.27:
She leaves the bank. He blows her kisses. She can sense how close he is, she can feel his breath, she’s looking for him. She’s flummoxed.
12.35:
She disappears back into the shop. He gives her a wave. She can’t see him, but she knows he’s with her. He protects her. He keeps her safe from everything that’s bad.
17.10:
She leaves the shop. It was worth the wait. It’s always worth the wait. Patience and loyalty are the essence of existence, the fertilisers of love. Interesting, this time she chooses another route. Hütteldorfer Strasse. She turns towards him. He can feel her draught. She’s thinking of him. He thinks of her all the time.
17.23:
She goes into, oh, oh, oh, she goes into a travel agent’s. This blows him away. Is she going
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