Bunker (10 page)

The meadow turns, and I'm back standing on the stage again. But it's not a real stage, I'm tiny, terribly tiny. A hand is reaching for me. Reaching down into the set from above, as if it were a box. I run into a corner and try to hide, crouch down, make myself even smaller. No, I don't want this, no! Stop lifting me out of here. The hand closes around me as if I were a little bird. I want to stay here. Let go, no!

I see the wooden ceiling, the stupid wooden ceiling. I've woken up so often to see that filthy wooden ceiling. I try to push the quilt back. Stupid quilt. My hands are thickly bandaged and the throbbing in them is starting again. I can't think of anything else. The pain goes all along my arms. Bloody hell, I want it to stop! I want to get out of here.

That guy is sitting on the bed beside me. Grinning. My God, what a shock. I quickly look back at the quilt, don't want to talk to this grinning character. What does the oaf want? He's supposed to be helping me.

I feel awful. Suddenly there's a terrible pressure in my stomach. Everything coming together there. I have this big lump in my throat, I don't want to bring it up.

‘I feel sick!' And it all comes up and gushes out of me in a torrent. I throw up over everything, the bed, the guy, everything. Again and again, I retch, I feel as if my stomach's turning upside down. Everything hurts. I have a stitch in both sides. I feel as if my stomach itself were coming up, as if my guts were tearing loose, and I can't stop spewing it out until my body's entirely empty. I retch again and again, although there's nothing left to bring up.

Exhausted, I drop back on the pillow. I'm wet with cold sweat. My stomach won't stop contracting. It's several minutes before it slowly calms down.

Only the eyes in the faces of the operating team show, everything else is covered by their face masks and caps. The surgeon wears horn-rimmed glasses. Their thick lenses make his eyes look unnaturally large. Hands protected by sterile single-use gloves, the surgeon introduces his forefinger and middle finger into the wounds of the stomach cavity. Concentrating entirely on his sense of touch. He isn't even looking at the patient, he's looking straight ahead, impassively, at the operating theatre. ‘The lower stab wound didn't penetrate the peritoneum, you can stitch that afterwards, here. We only have to work on the upper wound.'

Without looking at his assistant, who is standing opposite him at the operating table, the surgeon makes these remarks
to him in an undertone. He asks for a scalpel. Extends the wound by about two centimetres up and two centimetres down. The young doctor opposite him watches every move closely, nodding vigorously.

The sharp scalpel moves lightly over the skin, but an incision immediately appears. Light red blood comes out in three or four places, sometimes in a thin jet. It is quickly staunched with compresses, and the sites of the bleeding are cauterized with an electric burner. Little clouds of smoke rise, and there's a smell of burning in the nostrils of the team standing around the patient. The bleeding stops.

‘There's food on the table. Your clothes are at the end of the bed. They're still wet, I washed them as best I could.'

He's bandaged my hands again, washed my clothes, prepared a meal and laid the table. What
does
he want me for? He's attacked me, beaten me up, brought me here and kept me prisoner in this place. Is he a normal criminal? It makes no sense. It wasn't coincidence. He's carrying out a plan. He must have planned to abduct me. Is he some kind of pervert? A pervert who kidnaps women, tortures them and keeps them prisoner? How did he get hold of that photo? He must have been in my apartment. But why? Obviously he's been spying on me. It all fits Hans. Hans
wanting to get his revenge. He was after me, not the money. The attack was just for show, the real idea, the point of the whole thing, was abducting me! The photo backs that up, why else the photo? The photo. That's the key to the whole thing. I must get it out of him. But how?

By talking to him, building up a link with him. The stronger the link between us, the harder it will be for him to kill me, just get me out of the way. Sort of like the Stockholm syndrome in reverse. There was an article about that in the newspaper. But does he simply want to do away with me? He's tended my hands, washed my things, cooked for me. Maybe he wants both revenge
and
the money?

For now I'm dependent on him. I can't even dress or feed myself, I can't go to the loo by myself. I hate this. I can't do anything on my own, anything at all, I even have to ask him to put my knickers on me. I'm absolutely dependent on this guy. Does he like that, does it turn him on? I could have got away more than once. Not now, though, I can't even get down that steep staircase without his help. I can't hold on to anything with my hands in this state. I've got myself into one hell of a mess. I ought to be terribly afraid. But I'm not. I'm perfectly calm, it's as if it is nothing to do with me. As if I am sitting inside a bubble or a glass ball. I can see and hear everything, but nothing gets through to me. I'm composed,
which is really odd. I ought to be screaming, raging, crying, defending myself. But I'm just calmly observing things. Sitting behind the glass wall inside me, separated from myself. Absolutely crazy. Well, it makes no difference if he's Hans or some other weirdo, I have to get him on my side. I don't stand a chance unless I get him on my side. My only chance. Oh God, help me!

The first thing I must do is get dressed, and then we'll see. I'll have to ask him to help. ‘Can you help me get dressed, please?'

He nods. This is terribly embarrassing for me. He helps me into my clothes. He doesn't seem to mind doing that – if anything the opposite.

‘Thank you.'

He goes over to the table and sits down. I stand where I am in the room, undecided.

‘Hungry? Come and have something to eat.'

With an inviting wave of his hand he beckons me over. I go towards him, sit down. He smiles at me. I try a smile myself, stretching the corners of my mouth rather awkwardly.

I have to be fed like a toddler. Forkful after forkful, now and then a sip of water to wash it down.

‘Have some more?'

‘No, I've had enough.'

‘Right, then I'll take the dishes down to the sink.'

He stands up and begins clearing the table. I don't want to be left alone again, I just don't want it. All at once I'm scared of that, scared of being alone, afraid of my dreams.

‘Can you stay here?'

He doesn't say anything, but he sits down again. So there we sit in silence. Each of us looking at the table top. After a while I hear myself speaking to him, very quietly. ‘I don't want to be alone.'

He doesn't say a word. Sits there in silence. I just go on talking, talking about anything. Talking so he'll stay and I won't be alone.

‘Is this house yours?'

‘Why do you want to know?'

‘Only wondering.'

A pause. Shit, that was the wrong question.

‘What's your name?'

‘You can call me whatever you like.'

‘But you must have a name! How about Hans? I'll call you Hans.'

‘It's as good as any other name.'

‘Do you like Hans? Is it all right if I call you that?'

‘Go ahead, if you want to.'

He sits there and doesn't say any more. Just stares at his
hands. I sit there and don't say any more either. Damn it, this isn't working, I can't think of anything to say to him, can't have a reasonable conversation with him. There's a wall between us. Joachim, dead Joachim? All I know is that if I'm left alone again I'll go crazy. I don't want to be alone, can't be alone. Everything revolves around that one idea: I don't want to be alone.

He stands up. Takes the tray. I stand up too, get in his way.

‘I know where the key is. I can help you get the money, Hans.'

He stops in surprise, looks at me. For the first time he looks me straight in the eye. It tumbles out of me. I just go on talking.

‘I can help you, and then you'll let me go, OK?'

He looks at me suspiciously, tries to get past me with the tray. I step the wrong way, collide with the tray. Everything falls to the floor with a clatter.

‘Sorry.'

He looks at me, pushes a strand of hair out of my face with his hand. Almost tenderly. Holds my head between his big hands. I close my eyes. He kisses me right on the mouth. Then he picks the broken china up from the floor, takes the tray and goes. I'm just left standing there in the middle of the room.

I wake up, and my hands are throbbing like crazy. Going wild. I'm beginning to go wild myself, I'm screaming. Turning this way and that in the bed.

‘Hans, help me. I can't stand this! Give me another injection! Help me! Oh, please help me!'

A loud crashing and rumbling. He runs up the stairs, gets the plastic bag and shakes out the contents on the bed beside me. What's he doing? Making a mixture of powder of some kind, water, lemon juice. Heats it all up in a spoon over his cigarette lighter. Draws it up into the syringe.

‘Here we go. This won't hurt.'

He knows how to give an injection, I have to admit that. He sits on the bed beside me. Takes me in his arms, holds me tight.

My toes and fingertips go hot, gradually my arms and feet warm up too. The heat races through my body, up to my breast, gathers in my head. I'm burning! I'm surprised, it doesn't hurt, I'm not in pain, on the contrary, it's a pleasant feeling. Like a wave building up in the water and then running in to shore faster and faster until it breaks. The warmth turns to a soft sensation, everything feels lighter, inside and outside.

I feel as if I could take off from the ground, rise and hover
in the air, overcome gravity. I've closed my eyes tightly, but everything is still bright, almost glaringly bright. All the same, it's nice. Everything is incredibly bright and colourful. Red light around the rim, then brighter and darker colours alternating, converging on the middle of the picture in a semi-circle. In the middle there's a deep blue.

The blue gets lighter, washes itself out, I see a stage.

A tree in the middle of the big stage, a willow tree made of papier mâché, with coloured leaves. Mist slowly rises. There are two people on the stage. One, the smaller one, is lying down. The other, an adult, is standing beside the first.

What is this, a play, an opera? The actor who is standing purses his lips, opens his mouth wide, shows his teeth. It's all done very slowly. I wait for a sound, but no sound comes out. I can see that the actor is singing. But there's not a note to be heard. No, that's not quite right, I do hear a sound. Very quiet at first, then rising, growing stronger and stronger, like whimpering from the orchestra pit. The sound swells, grows louder, dies away, only to rise again. I'm sitting in the front row of the stalls, right behind the orchestra pit. I lean forward, peer over the bar in front of the seats. All the chairs in the pit are empty. There's only one musician there in his tailcoat, sitting to one side of the conductor's rostrum. He's moving the bow of a violin over the blunt edge of
a huge handsaw. The saw is jammed between his knees, his free hand holds the top of it, he is pressing it down hard so that the blade curves slightly. His expression is grave, almost rapt.

I lean back again, looking expectantly at the stage. The smaller character, the one lying down, is clothed in a sheet, stomach sprayed with bright red paint. One ear is bright red as well. Now this other actor also begins to sing, but without a sound. I can tell from the movement of the lips, the singer's gestures show what an effort he is making. Lying there, he keeps pointing to his stomach with one hand, and with the other to the standing actor.

The standing actor raises both arms, fending everything off with exaggerated gestures and wide open eyes. Those faces remind me of the actors' pottery masks of classical antiquity that were once painted in bright colours. I saw some in the showcases of the Municipal Museum. The lighting changes; now the larger actor looks like an American Indian in warpaint. Marks like stripes run down both sides of his skull.

The curtain falls. In the pit, the musician puts down his bow and the saw, takes a red banana out of his jacket pocket, starts thoughtfully peeling it. And as he looks up at me he slowly eats the banana. He glances at the time, quickly puts
the banana peel down, picks up his instrument and the bow, and begins playing that dreadful, monotonous melody again.

The curtain rises. The same set as before, but this time the musical accompaniment breaks off in the middle of the scene. The musician has gone to sleep; only the falling curtain wakes him. He comes to with a start and jumps up. He inspects his musical instrument closely, then sits down again. The actors come on stage and bow deeply.

My loud clapping re-echoes, all by itself. I look around. I am the only spectator. I lean over the bar in front of me and look down into the orchestra pit. The musician bows very low to me. He is holding the violin bow in one hand and the saw in the other. He takes both saw and bow in his left hand and begins waving his other hand.