Forever Yours by Daniel Glattauer, Jamie Bulloch Page B

our roses? Have they dried yet? I’m sure you’ve solved the puzzle by now. It was a simple one. I’m giving you what belongs to them. It’s better for me that you’ve got them. Now I’m going to withdraw from your life. You have my word! Yes, you are released, Darling! Yours, Hannes”
    Bianca shook the box. “Little stones, or something like that,” she said. On the lid it said: “Question: What do these and these and these roses have in common? Answer: No…” Bianca opened the box. “Thorns!” she cried out. “Thorns,” Judith mouthed.
    “Is that bad, Judith?” Bianca asked. Judith began to sob bitterly. “Thorns.” In her mind she could see the deep scratches on his forearms. “I don’t mind staying the night here with you, if you’d like,” her apprentice said.

PHASE SEVEN
1
    Three weeks had passed. Five hundred hours. Eighteen walks to the shop. Eighteen walks back home. At least a couple of dozen routines of unlocking the front door, opening the door to her flat, bolting the door, searching the terrace, looking under the bed – not forgetting the wardrobe.
    Three weeks. Thousands of double victories for Judith. A thousand instances of leaping over two sets of hurdles: her own personal ones and his invisible ones. At least two thousand instances of pulling down the blinds, getting undressed, going into the shower, coming out of the shower, looking under the bed again, lifting the duvet, checking the pillow. Lie down. Close eyes. Open eyes. The coffee machine! Leap up. Dart into the kitchen. The coffee machine. Was it in the same place? Wasn’t it a little further to the left?
    Three weeks. Twenty-eight hours of overtime for her minder, Bianca. An aborted trip to Amsterdam. A non-attendance at a christening. (Veronika, her niece, four kilos twenty, healthy. Hedi well, Ali happy. At least Ali was happy.) A visit to the police station: “Has he caused you bodily harm? No? Has he threatened you? No? Is he pursuing you? Yes? Stalking, excellent. We have strict laws against that. What information can you provide us with? What have you got on him? Thorns. I see. A letter, excellent. Where is it? You threw it away? That’s not so good. That’s bad. Please keep the next letter and bring it with you.”
    Three weeks. No calls. No texts. No e-mails. No letters. No messages. No roses. No thorns. Bianca: “He’s given up. Bet you.” Judith: “But he’s got to be somewhere.” Bianca: “Well of course he’s somewhere. But the main thing is that he’s not here, is he?”
2
    Around three p.m. on the first Friday in September, as the summer was bidding a muggy farewell, a pale, light-shunning, vaguely familiar-looking woman offered Judith her hand. “Wolff, Gudrun Wolff,” she said. “I’m awfully sorry to disturb you, but I’m hoping you might be able to help us. Frau Ferstl and I are worried, you see, and we thought…” “Do I know you?” Judith was about to say. But her fear, which soon proved to be well founded, was so great that her voice failed her. It was the woman who had waved to her in the Phoenix Bar that evening. She was one of his two colleagues.
    “We’re worried about Herr Bergtaler. He hasn’t been to the office in weeks. And he hasn’t called either. And today…” Judith: “I’m sorry, I can’t help you in any way, please understand.”
    She attempted to guide Hannes’ colleague to the door. But the woman had already taken a piece of paper from her angular, severe-looking, cream-coloured handbag. “And today we got this letter,” she said. She waved it around as if trying to banish evil spirits from the place.
    “
I’m sorry to have to leave you
, he says.
Soon I will exist only on paper…
” Gudrun Wolff paused to catch her breath. Her voice sounded theatrical and reproachful: “
Soon I will exist only on paper. And in the heart of my beloved, the love of my life
, he says. And that’s it. So you can understand why Frau Ferstl and I are worried. And we