the story is more than a web of lies. That Mark felt nothing for the woman, nothing at all, except pity.
seventeen
Dunya spent the whole day in bed. Karl kept looking in on her as she lay nestled in Nela’s pink sheets, safe and protected by the fragrance of the little girls. She slept for hours on end, and only when Karl insisted that she must eat something did she leave the children’s room. When Blum called to say that she wouldn’t be home that night, Dunya was already asleep. Karl says she was almost like a wounded animal taking refuge in a corner. Dunya was friendly, and kept thanking them for their hospitality, but she wanted to be alone. She said as little as she could to Karl and Reza; she always had a smile for the children, but there was nothing more that she could give them. Karl asked Uma and Nela to be considerate of Dunya, telling them that their mother’s friend was very tired, and it had been a long time since she had had a good sleep. He couldn’t think up a better explanation.
When Blum got home five hours ago, Dunya was still asleep. She lay in bed like a small child, curled up, legs bent. Blum stood beside the bed as she did when Nela was in it. She looked down at Dunya and felt the very last of her doubts disappear. There she lay, broken, helpless, like a torn scrap of paper. It was probably the first time in years that she had slept in a proper bed, a bed where she had nothing to fear, where no one would hurt her. Her face was peaceful; she was clinging firmly to the quilt. Blum closed the door and went upstairs to Karl. He was running through the apartment with the children on his shoulders.
Blum takes her time. She makes owls with the children, sews little fabric bags, stuffs them with paper and gets the children to stick on eyes, noses and beaks. Owls. The girls love owls. Goodness knows why, but they run happily round the house holding their little fabric owls.
We’re flying, Mama. We’re owls, Mama. Tu-whit, tu-whoo
. At this moment nothing in their faces shows that they miss their father. That they have realised he won’t be coming back. They are simply having fun with owls. Because they don’t want the forest where the owls are flying to burn down, because they’re not strong enough to run for their lives in the fire. So they don’t want to talk about it or be reminded of it. Because it hurts so much. The natural way is to ignore the truth as best they can. Not to keep reviving the sorrow, the tears, the longing for Papa. Playing with owls, with stuffed cats and dogs, immersing themselves in picture books and laughter. But sometimes
as best they can
isn’t good enough.
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
seventeen
Dunya spent the whole day in bed. Karl kept looking in on her as she lay nestled in Nela’s pink sheets, safe and protected by the fragrance of the little girls. She slept for hours on end, and only when Karl insisted that she must eat something did she leave the children’s room. When Blum called to say that she wouldn’t be home that night, Dunya was already asleep. Karl says she was almost like a wounded animal taking refuge in a corner. Dunya was friendly, and kept thanking them for their hospitality, but she wanted to be alone. She said as little as she could to Karl and Reza; she always had a smile for the children, but there was nothing more that she could give them. Karl asked Uma and Nela to be considerate of Dunya, telling them that their mother’s friend was very tired, and it had been a long time since she had had a good sleep. He couldn’t think up a better explanation.
When Blum got home five hours ago, Dunya was still asleep. She lay in bed like a small child, curled up, legs bent. Blum stood beside the bed as she did when Nela was in it. She looked down at Dunya and felt the very last of her doubts disappear. There she lay, broken, helpless, like a torn scrap of paper. It was probably the first time in years that she had slept in a proper bed, a bed where she had nothing to fear, where no one would hurt her. Her face was peaceful; she was clinging firmly to the quilt. Blum closed the door and went upstairs to Karl. He was running through the apartment with the children on his shoulders.
Blum takes her time. She makes owls with the children, sews little fabric bags, stuffs them with paper and gets the children to stick on eyes, noses and beaks. Owls. The girls love owls. Goodness knows why, but they run happily round the house holding their little fabric owls.
We’re flying, Mama. We’re owls, Mama. Tu-whit, tu-whoo
. At this moment nothing in their faces shows that they miss their father. That they have realised he won’t be coming back. They are simply having fun with owls. Because they don’t want the forest where the owls are flying to burn down, because they’re not strong enough to run for their lives in the fire. So they don’t want to talk about it or be reminded of it. Because it hurts so much. The natural way is to ignore the truth as best they can. Not to keep reviving the sorrow, the tears, the longing for Papa. Playing with owls, with stuffed cats and dogs, immersing themselves in picture books and laughter. But sometimes
as best they can
isn’t good enough.
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
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