Cutting the Cord Page 9

  She catches a taxi to the hospital and phones Wilhelm.

  ‘What?’ he gasps.

  ‘You heard,’ she says.

  ‘What hospital are you in?’

  ‘The Universitätskrankenhaus.’

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  The X-rays show that the ankle is badly sprained. There is no fracture. She had been hoping for a break that would have kept her immobile for weeks.

  Wilhelm arrives in time to hear the doctor say that she needs to rest for a week and keep her weight off it. The doctor writes her a medical certificate and bandages the ankle.

  On the way home, Wilhelm speaks after five minutes of silence. ‘The other half of the supplies were to come after Wednesday, when you had eliminated the target.’ His face is a picture of concentration as he stares hard through the windscreen.

  ‘How did it happen?’ he presses.

  ‘I slipped on the stairs – just like I told you. There was milk. One of my neighbours must have spilt it.’

  ‘Milk!’ Wilhelm snorts.

  Her heart sinks. ‘I know, it’s stupid. I was overconfident.’

  Wilhelm glares at her. ‘Why was it in the stairway?’

  She shrugs. ‘My upstairs neighbour, Ms Spifanso, is a bit batty. She must have dropped it without noticing. How the hell do I know how the milk got there?’

  He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Well, what are we supposed to do now?’

  ‘I’ll call Father,’ she says. ‘Tell him it was my fault. He’ll understand; he’ll have to.’

  ‘Will he?’ Wilhelm replies in exasperation. ‘That damn oligarch will still exist now. That’s the worst of it. All because of spilt milk. You stink of it, by the way.’

  She lowers her head in shame for the trouble she is causing Wilhelm and sniffs the sour milk that is on her running shorts and T-shirt.

  ‘I’ll have to call your father,’ he says. ‘Policy. I’m sure he’ll ring you afterwards though.’ He stops at a supermarket on the way to her apartment. ‘What do you want to eat and drink for the next week?’ he asks.

  ‘Chocolate. Lots of chocolate and cakes. More milk.’

  Wilhelm glowers at her and slams the car door. He walks into the supermarket and, for the first time, she begins to feel delighted and thrilled with herself. That will teach Father. He can do whatever he wants with her, but he can’t force her to go and kill the Israeli now.

  Wilhelm returns with bags of fruit, vegetables, cheese, pasta, rice, meat, coffee, juice – and milk. She rummages through them and to her alarm there isn’t any junk food. Not one chocolate bar.

  ‘It looks like you forgot …’ Her voice falters at Wilhelm’s cross look. He starts the engine. The next week will seem long.

  At her apartment he helps her up the stairs and sees the milk carton. He kicks it with his boot.

  ‘Fucking milk,’ he says.

  9

  2 JUNE

  The Israeli foreign minister lays a wreath at the Grünewald Railway Station and there are photographs and articles all over the news websites:

  Israeli Foreign Minister Lays Wreath for Holocaust Victims.

  She is on edge the entire day waiting for Wilhelm or Father to call. Neither calls, although she has a scare in the afternoon when her mobile rings. Thankfully, it is only Lukas. She fights the Molotov cocktail of emotions that builds inside her at the sound of his voice – the arousal, the shame, the fear that their relationship is hopeless. He insists on coming over when he learns about her ankle, and she tells him her address. Within an hour the intercom buzzes and she staggers to the door to release the lock. He stands before her, chocolates, cashews and a dozen red roses in his hands. He is wearing sunglasses and an open-necked white shirt, raspy stubble along his jawline.

  He gazes down at her ankle. ‘Ouch.’ He swiftly puts the goodies down on the dining table amid the paints. Sweeps her up into his arms. ‘Sofa?’

  ‘Through there,’ she gestures with her chin.

  When she is sitting on the couch with him beside her, he lifts her sore foot up to rest it on the coffee table.

  ‘You look happier than I’ve ever seen you,’ he observes. ‘Are you a sadist?’

  She chuckles. ‘It’s the flowers,’ she lied. It’s the chocolates really. Or maybe him.

  ‘Yeah? I’ll have to remember that.’

  He looks over at her gym equipment and from one painting to another, his lips parted, his eyes examining the detail. Watching him, Amira is unable to speak. He rises and goes over to Grenade Girl. He leans over the painting. He doesn’t say anything for what seems a long time, and that bothers her. Finally, he blinks and looks at her straight in the face.

  ‘Hard stuff,’ he says.

  She slides down further on the couch. ‘You don’t like it.’

  ‘No, I love it. Do you have a buyer?’

  ‘I only completed it yesterday. Would you like a coffee?’ she asks. Now she is glad that Wilhelm bought her some groceries.

  ‘I’ll make it,’ he says.

  While he is waiting for the kettle to boil they discuss how she hurt herself.

  He looks at her sharply. ‘I don’t believe that you, of all people, slipped on milk. You’re so sure on your feet.’

  Amira tosses a cushion at him. ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘No. It’s ludicrous.’

  If he only knew the worst of it. But if Lukas is doubting her, what would Father think?

  Lukas brings their coffees into the living room and sits close beside her.

  ‘Did you see the Israeli foreign minister laying a wreath in Berlin?’ she asks with controlled calm.

  ‘No, but I’d heard on the news last night that he was in Germany. Why? Did something happen? A terrorist attack?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No. There just seems to be a lot of hype about it. He comes and lays a wreath for all the Jews the Nazis killed but meanwhile he seems content to wipe out Palestinians.’

  ‘The sign of a true politician,’ Lukas remarks.

  He bends over, his eyes on her ankle, and places a hand softly on it. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Not much.’

  He runs a finger up her calf. ‘Do you believe in a soul, or something like it?’

  She is surprised by his question, tugging at her T-shirt. ‘Yeah, I suppose I do. Why?’

  He tips his head. ‘Just wondered, that’s all.’ He stares into space for a moment. ‘What about achieving a certain state of happiness?’

  ‘I don’t know what I believe,’ she says.

  ‘A heaven?’

  She frowns. ‘Don’t you need to be at work?’

  ‘I’ve the day off. Not my shift.’

  ‘Then, play Yahtzee with me. It’s over there in the bookcase behind the treadmill. Beating you will take my mind off my ankle.’ From her preparation before coming to Germany, she knew the popularity of the game, but so far had mostly played by herself to make the game look used. It will be an interesting experience to play against someone.

  She learns that there is something about Lukas she doesn’t like: his evil sounding ‘hee, hee, hee’ when he is about to win. For dinner they order spicy pizza – his favourite food – and kiss, passing jalapenos between their lips to see who can handle the pain the longest (he can). He leaves at midnight, tucking her into bed and making sure she has a glass of water nearby.

  When he is gone there is a tortuous silence and she hugs herself. She is scared that she hasn’t heard from Father or Wilhelm. Horrible, endless speculations keep barging into her mind, causing a cold sweat: will the Movement now be in conflict with the Internationals? Will Father be so mad that he will kill her? Insist that she return to Australia? Put her in solitary? Will the supplies have to be returned?

  Then the intercom buzzes, enervating her all the more. She gropes for her gun, in a hidden recess in the mattress. She switches the light on, scrambles out of bed and limps towards the door. Perhaps Lukas just forgot something, or it is a
drunk out to have some fun. She’d had that happen before. She waits in case whoever it is will go away. But there is another persistent buzz.

  She presses the intercom.

  ‘Yes?’

  A muffled voice crackles through the speaker. ‘It’s your brother.’

  Kolya?

  ‘Please, I need to talk to you,’ he calls out. ‘I’ll leave otherwise.’

  What is he doing here? Is he here to kill her? Like Randy? But she can’t believe that about him. He sounds weary. He is her brother and she can’t leave him stranded. She holds the gun behind her back, unlocks the door and opens it, being careful to stay behind it, half expecting to be pierced by bullets. Instead, he is walking up the stairs and stands before her, his blue eyes anxious. He holds a brown paper bag.

  ‘The bag?’ she asks.

  ‘Coffee,’ he says, coolly. ‘Want me to open it?’

  She shakes her head, stands aside so that he can enter and closes the door behind him. She has to find a place to hide her gun.

  He is silent for a moment and then he looks amused. ‘What have you got behind your back?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she answers, startled.

  He puts the coffee on the dining table and before she knows it he has her arm and twists it to reveal the pistol.

  ‘That hurt,’ she croaks.

  He puts the gun on the dining table beside the coffee.

  ‘You heard about Randy, then? I wondered when you would.’

  In separate trips he carries the brown paper bag and Amira into the living room and turns the lamp on. They sit down on the sofa and he takes the coffees out, peeling the lids off. The air in the room suddenly seems very thin.

  ‘You didn’t tell me,’ she barks.

  He looks at her fiercely, his blue eyes arctic, then downcast, and his face is dragged down by sorrow. The truth glares at her. He did it. He really killed Randy. She sinks deeper into the chair.

  He rubs his forehead for several moments and when his voice comes out it is hoarse. ‘He was gone, Mira. He was involved with a drug cartel in Sydney. He was using all his training to ship heroin, to make money for himself …’

  ‘He was our brother!’

  ‘You think I don’t know what I did?’ He gives her such a scathing look that she recoils. ‘How can you defend him? He always hated us, anyway.’

  ‘Me, he hated. Me, Kolya. Never you. He admired you. You were his younger brother but you were the one he wanted to be.’

  ‘You think it was easy for me?’ He looks stricken.

  ‘But you still did it. Have you come for me now?’

  Kolya closes his eyes. ‘Oh, Mira.’

  ‘Do it,’ she says. ‘Hurry up and do it.’

  His eyes open. ‘I came to talk to you, that’s all,’ he says, deflating.

  He takes a plastic spoon out of the brown paper bag and swirls the coffee around in his paper cup. Anxiously, she wonders how he has survived the killing.

  ‘I wish I had some Vegemite,’ he says gloomily.

  Her eyes widen in surprise. ‘Vegemite?’

  ‘Some places in the US have it. But it’s not the same eating Vegemite toast alone.’ He is a dark shape against the yellow glow of the lamp.

  Amira bites her lip. ‘No, I guess it’s not.’

  He puts his coffee down and leans forwards with his head between his palms. ‘I can see why Father is worried about you. It was too late for me to do your target. I couldn’t get a plane early enough.’

  She doesn’t respond. She should have known that Father would try to send Kolya. He gazes at her ankle.

  Her eyes look down. ‘But Father sent you to check up on me anyway?’

  ‘What’s the matter, Mira?’ Kolya reaches for her hand.

  But she won’t let him have it. ‘Apart from Randy? Gee, let me think …’

  He rises and starts pacing the room. Up and down the living room. His eyes close for a second and when he lifts his lids again she can see tears leaking.

  ‘He had gone into the drug business. I told you. Father found out – as he finds out about everything. Randy promised to quit, but he didn’t.’

  She hands him a tissue.

  ‘I said: “Father, please don’t ask me to do this!” But he didn’t listen. He kept saying I was the right man for the job. I argued that we could use Randy’s funds towards the Cause, but Father said we didn’t need drug money. He said that Randy had the virus and we had to send him on.’

  She doesn’t know if Randy was really infected. But seeing Kolya’s sadness, his veins pulsing near his temple, makes her weak with regret.

  ‘You should have seen Randy’s face when he saw me. He knew straightaway why I was paying him a visit.’

  ‘But how did the body wash up? Didn’t you weigh it down properly?’ she finds herself asking. Cold technicalities are often her refuge.

  He sits down beside her. ‘Obviously not. Father’s pissed off, to say the least. The noose I tied around his foot must have come loose. I should have done another one with heavier rocks, but I couldn’t. I had to get it over with. My hands were shaking. They never shake.’ His brow furrows.

  ‘We have to get out,’ she says.

  He throws her a disdainful look. ‘No, we can’t. We need to pull together, even in hard times. That’s family, that’s the Movement. Nothing can break us.’

  ‘You sound just like Father,’ she says. She clasps her knees and looks down at the floor where a few chocolate crumbs have been scattered. ‘But what about Randy? We gave up on him. Is that family, Kolya?’

  He drinks his coffee, tosses the plastic spoon onto the table, not saying anything.

  She thinks of the cold water that must have lapped against Randy’s body, how the rope couldn’t keep him on the seabed. Waves slapping against skin, sand finding a way underneath his fingernails. The grey of his face.

  Then Kolya shakes his head. ‘Randy was infected; how many times do I have to tell you? He wasn’t coming back.’

  This is all too much. ‘Randy wanted out; no doubt that was all it was. Having Father press his twelve-year-old hand on a hot stove for eating the last piece of Mother’s apple pie probably had something to do with it. Add to that solitary confinement, and the beatings.’ Why is Kolya so blind?

  He pinches the bridge of his nose.

  Amira realises she has to try a different way to get through to him. ‘If we get out, maybe Laith, Oscar and Mother will follow,’ she says. ‘We can bring Amelia, too. I’m tired of being scared all the time. I want to wake up and have hope.’

  ‘We will have that when we achieve our objective!’ he cries.

  She scratches her arm, as if scratching a bite. ‘I can’t do it anymore.’

  Kolya’s expression is obdurate. ‘It’s our duty to act now.’

  She is silent.

  ‘Our bravery and courage will save the unfortunate,’ he pleads.

  She holds her head in her hands; she wants her walnutlike brain inside to stop.

  ‘You’re becoming destabilised!’ he insists. ‘Can’t you see? You’re at risk.’

  The conversation is pointless. She begins to wish that she had never raised the topic of becoming non-Members, but she has to try. She can’t leave Kolya behind. ‘I need time to think,’ she says.

  ‘Time for the dogs to come and eat you? You don’t need time. You know what you need to do; you just don’t want to do it.’ He rises again. ‘I am your brother. You have your true family. Why not let that be enough for you?’

  She can’t answer him. All she can do is sit there, her eyes wide, staring in front of her, not seeing anything.

  ‘You will bring us all down by acting like this. Is that what you want?’ He gazes at her.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Our parents brought us up the right way. Yes, we had a difficult childhood but we have to forget about our own emotions. They are not important. What is important is protecting the …’

  ‘Stop! Please stop!’

&n
bsp; Kolya relents, finishes both the coffees. ‘Let’s get you to bed; you look wrecked.’

  She sighs, grateful the discussion is over for now. ‘You can talk.’

  Kolya helps her into bed, and lies down beside her.

  ‘What’s it like where you’re living?’ she asks him. ‘So many times I’ve wondered.’

  He talks to her about New York, the traffic, the shopping, until she is drifting off to sleep. Images of Britta, the broken egg and Kolya killing Randy wake her every few minutes. Each time, Kolya brings her a glass of water, a tissue, or a face washer, until at last she falls into a dreamless sleep.

  When she wakes, hours later, she is alone in the apartment. Kolya is gone. All that is left is a brief note on her bedside table:

  Dear Sister,

  Please do not abandon us. It would break my heart and Mother’s and we would never recover. I believe in you.

  Love, K.

  10

  8–9 JUNE

  The Israeli foreign minister returns to Israel unscathed and, when she isn’t worrying about Kolya, Mother, Amelia and Father’s bad temper, Amira spends time with Lukas. He regularly shows up at her flat with food or a board game. One time the game is Monopoly. It was a prohibited activity. She looks down at the box.

  ‘You look shell-shocked,’ Lukas says.

  ‘I’ve never played before. It teaches greed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Forget it. Let’s play something else.’

  Her ankle is still feeling tender but healing quickly – too quickly.

  A week passes before she hears anything from the Movement about what is to be done about the incident with the Baker, and it comes in the form of an encrypted email from Wilhelm.

  Baker has been paid. He is happy enough with our price. Paper waiting.

  From this she understands that the Movement has paid for the supplies with money, unless an IOU of some form was given. But she is annoyed that she isn’t being given more time to rest and that there is already another briefing waiting for her at the post office.

  Outside, the sun is descending, with shards of orange and red amid a blue disintegrating into grey. There is no breeze. She stumbles along to her post-office box on Sudermanplatz, wishing that there was a twenty-four hour access box closer to her apartment. But anyway, it is safer to receive Movement mail further from where she lives. Inside the box is a yellow business-sized envelope, just as she expected.