Sandra said nothing. Then she said, ‘Take care of yourself, won’t you?’
‘You know me,’ said Norah.
‘I know you all too well.’
Alone in her flat later that evening, Norah stood at the window, watching couples and small groups of people cross the square on their way to a restaurant or cinema or theatre. After talking to Sandra, she’d sent SOS messages to Max and Paul and Tanja, but got no reply. Her eye fell on the orchid she’d brought with her from Berlin—the only other living thing in the flat. She took up her phone again, then put it down in disappointment. No messages. She went into the kitchen, opened the fridge and stared helplessly at the food she’d bought that afternoon.
The trans woman’s face popped into her mind; their eyes had met for a moment and Norah hadn’t forgotten the look in them. Then her thoughts moved to the bank clerk—his grin, his conspiratorial wink, his nasal voice. Just as she was closing the fridge door, the news came on in the living room. She went and plumped herself down in front of the TV and let the announcements rain down on her; it was like being pelted by the stones of an angry mob. War, greed, drownings, rape.
Norah’s mind began its usual downwards spiral. She thought of all the dictators and arms dealers in the world, of a boy in her primary school whose father had hit him so hard in the face that he’d gone blind in one eye, of a girl she’d been friends with in her teens who’d woken up on a motorway car park one Sunday morning, bleeding and half naked, after someone had spiked her drink. She thought of the concept artist who mutilated unstable young women with a scalpel and called it art. She thought of the head of a weapons company she’d once seen playing the philanthropist at a charitable gala while, in other parts of the world, her weapons destroyed lives. She thought of the bankers in their glass towers, of hunger and thirst, bombs and fire and—
Norah jumped. Someone had rung her doorbell.
‘Hi Norah,’ the young blonde woman said cheerfully, when Norah opened the door.
‘Hi.’
It was the upstairs neighbour, Theresa. Norah forced a smile. ‘Is anything wrong?’ she asked, after a silence, and immediately realised how rude she sounded.
‘No. I just wanted to say hello.’
It took Norah a moment to understand that she was expecting to be asked into the flat.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m being really unneighbourly. Would you like to come in?’
Theresa smiled and followed Norah into the living room.
‘Can I get you something to drink?’
‘That would be lovely.’
‘I’m afraid I only have tap water. Or white wine.’
‘Tap water’s great.’
Norah went into the kitchen, filled two glasses and returned to the living room.
‘How are you liking Vienna?’ Theresa asked, taking a sip of water. ‘Yeah, it’s nice,’ said Norah.
‘Where did you live before?’
‘Berlin. But—were you wanting anything?’
Theresa cleared her throat, evidently thrown by Norah’s determination to sabotage her attempt at conversation.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I just wanted to ask if you felt like coming up to dinner later. I’ve invited a few friends over and I thought since you’ve just moved here, it might be nice to…’
Her words tapered off.
‘That’s really sweet of you,’ said Norah, ‘but I’ve already got plans for this evening.’
‘Shame,’ said Theresa. ‘They’re a nice bunch of people. But if you like, we could do something together tomorrow.’
‘I’ve got plans for tomorrow too.’
Theresa raised her eyebrows.
‘Okay. Maybe next week?’
Norah stared at the floor.
‘To be honest, I really don’t have much time at the moment. I’ve got a lot of work and…’
An awkward silence set in.
‘Sorry,’ said Theresa. ‘I didn’t want to force myself on you.’
‘You haven’t.’
‘When I moved here, I found it really hard to get to know people, so I thought…’
‘That’s really nice of you, Theresa,’ said Norah, cutting her short. ‘It’s just…’
She faltered.
‘You don’t like me,’ said Theresa.
‘We’ve only just met. What reason could I have not to like you?’ Norah knew she sounded stilted.
‘So what’s wrong?’
Norah searched for the words. Opened her mouth. Closed it again. Started over.
‘You remind me of someone,’ she said eventually. ‘And the memory’s painful.’
8
This time it wasn’t a dream that woke her, but music and laughter from the flat above.
Norah sat up with a groan and groped for the lamp on the bedside table. Then she remembered that she’d left both lamp and bedside table in Berlin. She got up and switched on the ceiling light. A glance at her watch told her that it was soon after midnight. Was it too late to ring Max and Paul? Max had always been a bit of a night owl, often working long after everyone else had gone to bed—but, no. She couldn’t cling to them just because they were the only friends she had in the city. She was too old to carry on like that. You’ve only just got here, she told herself. You’ll soon know more people. In different circumstances she’d already have made friends with the woman upstairs. But the memories that Theresa had stirred in her were too fraught, it was all too—
No, she didn’t want to think about it. She looked for her phone, but couldn’t find it and switched on her laptop. Two new emails were waiting in her inbox: a reminder of her dentist’s appointment the next day from a practice she’d found online, and a note from a friend in Berlin who’d had a baby a few months back and been too busy to see much of Norah since. It was a short email; Francesca came straight to the point.
Norah, my dear,
Sorry not to have been in touch for so long. Hope things are okay with you. I saw Alex yesterday afternoon when I was out pushing the buggy. He was with a woman, but it wasn’t you, and I suddenly realised how long it is since we last spoke. I didn’t even know you’d split up. Do hope you’re well.
Lots of love, Francesca
Norah read the email twice, then shut her laptop. Alex hadn’t lost much time, had he? Cue toothache. The pain was real enough now; she had to get out.
The streets were empty, which probably had more to do with the cold and rain than the time of day. Dark, shimmering asphalt, shuttered shop fronts. A little way past the Paulanerkirche, Norah stopped and took a photo for Instagram, but discarded it as too gloomy. She passed an elderly couple—the man long and thin like an exclamation mark, the woman plump in a fur coat and hat—then a young girl in a far-too-thin leather jacket walking a far-too-large dog. Norah crossed the road, wandering aimlessly. If she got lost or walked too far, she could always hail a taxi. She fell to thinking; she always found it easiest to put her thoughts in order when she was walking. Anita’s words in the office kitchen came back to her. Had she really mentioned an Arthur Grimm, like the woman with the begging bowl?
The face Norah had seen on the internet popped into her head—the piercing eyes, the narrow lips, the square chin. What was it that made that handsome face look so menacing? Why the ominous feeling in the pit of her stomach?