Victor Lenzen has amazing eyes—so clear and cold. They stand in contrast to the wrinkles in his weather-beaten face. Victor Lenzen resembles a beautiful ageing wolf. He looks at me and I still haven’t got used to his look. In my absence, he has taken off his jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. He has also rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt a little.
My gaze comes to rest on his lower arm, on the texture of his skin. I can see the individual cells that make it up. I imagine running a finger along a protruding vein, feeling the warmth emanating from him, and I am choked by an emotion that I could really do without right now. I have been alone for a very long time. A handshake or a fleeting hug are all the physical contact I’ve tolerated over the past years. Why do I have to think these thoughts now?
‘Can we?’ Lenzen asks.
Here we go. I must concentrate. I’ve survived the photo shoot and now we’re off—the interview can begin.
‘I’m ready,’ I say.
I sit up straight, aware of my rigid body.
Lenzen gives a quick nod. He has his papers in front of him but doesn’t refer to them.
‘Frau Conrads, once again thank you very much for inviting us to your beautiful house.’
‘Not at all.’
‘First question then—how are you?’
‘I’m sorry?’ I say, surprised at the question, and realise from the soft click on my left that the photographer has recorded the moment. I am still struggling with dizziness and surges of nausea, but I don’t let it show.
‘I mean, you live a very secluded life—that’s common knowledge. So it’s only natural that your many readers should wonder how you are.’
‘I’m well,’ I say.
Lenzen’s nod is barely perceptible. He looks me in the face, not taking his eyes off me. Is he trying to read me?
‘You’ve had great success with your novels. Why have you switched genre and written a thriller?’
Back to the opening question, which I didn’t get round to answering earlier because Charlotte interrupted us. Good. I am prepared for this question—which cannot be said of Lenzen’s bizarre preamble. I give him the spiel I’ve rehearsed.
‘As you mentioned before, my life is far from normal. I don’t leave the house, don’t go to work, don’t go to the baker’s or the supermarket. I don’t travel, I don’t meet friends in cafés or clubs. I live a life that is very secluded, which means it is not always easy to avoid boredom. Writing is my way of allowing myself to escape a bit, and I wanted to try out something different. Of course I understand if some of the people who liked my previous books are surprised by the new direction, but I needed a kind of literary change of scene.’
While I’m talking, Lenzen takes a sip of water—very good. The more traces he leaves behind, the better.
‘And why, of all the genres available to an author, did you choose the thriller?’ Lenzen persists.
‘Maybe because it offers the greatest possible contrast to my previous work.’
Sounds plausible enough. It is important to get the interview off to a normal start. Let Lenzen wonder what I’m hatching—I don’t care. I’ll strike when he’s least expecting it.
He has a quick look through his notes now, and my gaze falls on the ashtray on the table
‘You don’t happen to have a cigarette for me, do you?’ I ask.
Lenzen looks at me in surprise. ‘Yes, I do,’ he says.
My heart gives a leap when Lenzen digs a blue packet of Gauloises out of his pocket and holds it out to me. I take one.
‘Do you have a light?’ Lenzen asks.
I shake my head. Hope I’m not going to have a coughing fit; I haven’t smoked for ages. Hope to goodness it’s not all for nothing, and that Lenzen’s going to take one too. He feels in the breast pocket of his jacket for his lighter and finds it. He gives me a light across the table. I get up and lean towards him. His face comes closer; my pulse quickens, and I can see that he has freckles—how amazing, he has a few freckles in among his wrinkles. Our eyes meet, I lower my gaze, my cigarette catches. A click tells me that the photographer has pressed the shutter release button.
I suppress a cough, my lungs are on fire.
Lenzen turns the cigarette packet over in his hands—once, twice—then puts it away.
‘I smoke too much,’ he says and returns to his notes.
What a shame!
Bravely, I smoke the cigarette in long, slow drags. It tastes revolting. I am dizzy. My body isn’t used to the nicotine; it rebels against it. I feel weak.
‘Where were we?’ Lenzen asks. ‘Ah yes, the switch in genre. Do you read thrillers yourself?’
‘I read everything,’ I reply.
I had hoped that, as time went on, I would get used to his wolfish eyes, but it’s not happening. For some minutes, I’ve been trying not to run my hand through my hair, because I know it’s a gesture of insecurity, but now I can’t hold it back any longer. Once again, the photographer releases the shutter.
‘What thrillers have impressed you recently?’ Lenzen asks.
I list a handful of authors I rate highly—a few Americans, some Scandinavians, the odd German.
‘You live an extremely secluded life. Where do you find your inspiration?’
‘There are good stories on every street corner,’ I say, stubbing out the cigarette.
‘Only you never go out on the street,’ Lenzen replies smugly.
I choose to ignore him.
‘I am very interested in what goes on in the world,’ I say. ‘I read the papers, watch the news, spend a lot of time on the internet, gathering information. The world is full of stories; you have to keep your eyes open. And, of course, I’m extremely grateful to modern means of communication and to the media for making it possible for me to bring the world into my house.’
‘How do you research? Also on the internet?’
I am about to reply when I hear it. My breathing and heartbeat suddenly quicken.
It’s not possible. You’re imagining things.
My jaws tightens.
‘I do most of my research by…’ I say, trying to concentrate. ‘For this book, I read, I read…’
I’m not imagining things; it really is there. I hear music. Everything’s spinning.
‘I read a lot about the psyche of… I…’
Love, love, love. The music swells. I blink, my breathing is galloping, I’m close to hyperventilating. Lenzen is right in front of me, his cold, pale eyes turned on me, cruel and patient.
I gasp, disguise it as a cough, break off. For a moment, everything goes black. Keep breathing! Nice and calm! I grope for an anchor, find my water glass, feel it in my hand, smooth and cool. Up, help me up, I have to surface! Here, this smooth, cool feeling in my hand, this is reality—not the music. But it’s still playing; I hear it quite clearly, that awful tune.
All you need is love, la-da-da-da-da…
My throat is so dry. I pick up the glass, try to guide it to my lips, spill a little. I’m trembling. I struggle to drink, and then remember that I’m not supposed to drink out of the glass, and put it back down.
‘Sorry,’ I manage to croak.
Lenzen says something. I hear him as if from under water. The photographer comes into view, a blur. I try to put him in focus. I get hold of the edge of the pool and although the music is still playing—la-da-da-da-da—I surface. I look at the photographer. I look at Lenzen. They don’t react. I can still hear the music, but they can’t. I don’t dare ask them. I mustn’t seem mad.
‘I’m sorry, what was the question again?’ I say, and clear my throat.
‘How did you go about the research for your latest book?’ Lenzen asks.
I get a grip on myself and reel off the answer I’ve prepared. The photographer circles us and snaps, and I’m back on track, talking on autopilot. Inside, though, I’m in shock. My nerves are playing a trick on me; I’m hearing things, terrible things, and just when I need to be mentally tough.
Bloody hell, Linda, bloody hell.
Lenzen asks another trivial question and I reply. The music goes quiet. The world is turning again. The photographer is staring at his camera. Lenzen looks at him expectantly.
‘Are you done?’ he asks.
‘Yep,’ the photographer replies, without looking at Lenzen. ‘Thank you, Frau Conrads,’ he says. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you.’
‘Nice to meet you too,’ I reply and get up, weak-kneed as a newborn calf. ‘I’ll see you to the door.’
It does me good to walk a few metres and get my circulation going again. I had almost fainted. It was a near thing. It mustn’t happen again—not as long as that man’s in my house.
The photographer packs up and shoulders the bag with his equipment. He gives Lenzen a nod, then follows me to the front door. The dizziness is only gradually subsiding; it’s still coming at me in brief bursts.
‘See you,’ the photographer says, taking his parka down from the coat hook. He gives me a warm handshake and looks me in the eye for a moment. ‘Take care of yourself,’ he says, then he’s gone.
