LITMIR.BIZ

       44

       saturday, december 12: evening

      It is evening by the time Erik finally manages to get Simone discharged from the hospital. When they return home, the apartment is a complete mess. Bedclothes lie in the hallway, the lights are on, the bathroom tap is running, shoes are heaped on the hall rug, and the telephone has been thrown on the parquet floor, its batteries beside it.

      Erik and Simone look around with the horrible feeling that something in their home is lost to them forever. These objects have become alien, meaningless.

      Simone picks up an overturned chair, sits down, and begins to pull off her boots. Erik turns off the bathroom tap, goes into Benjamin’s room, and looks at the red-painted surface of the desk. Textbooks lie next to the computer, covered in grey paper to protect them. On the bulletin board is a photograph of Erik from his time in Uganda, smiling and sunburned, his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. Erik brushes his hand over Benjamin’s jeans, hanging on the back of a chair with his black sweater.

      In the living room he finds Simone standing with the telephone in her hand. She pushes the batteries back in and begins to dial a number.

      “Who are you calling?”

      “Dad,” she replies.

      “Can you please leave it for now?”

      She allows him to take the telephone from her. “What is it you want to say?” she asks wearily.

      “I can’t cope with seeing Kennet, not now.” He places the telephone on the table, and runs his hands over his face before he begins again. “Can’t you respect the fact that I don’t want to leave everything I have in your father’s hands?”

      “Can’t you respect the fact that—”

      “Stop it.”

      She glares angrily at him.

      “Sixan, I’m finding it difficult to think clearly right now. Please let’s not play the game where we match each other, grievance for grievance. I don’t have the energy. I only want to say that I can’t cope with having your father around.”

      “Are you finished?” she says, holding out her hand for the phone.

      “This is about our child,” he says.

      She nods.

      “Can’t it be that way? Can’t it be about him?” he goes on. “I want you and me to look for Benjamin—along with the police—the way it should be.”

      “I need my father,” she says.

      “I need you.”

      “I don’t really believe that,” she replies.

      “Why not?”

      “Because you just want to tell me what to do,” she says.

      Erik stops pacing the room and carefully composes his features into a reasonable expression. “Sixan, your father’s retired. There’s nothing he can do.”

      “He has contacts,” she says.

      “He thinks he has contacts, he thinks he’s still a detective, but he’s only an ordinary pensioner.”

      “You don’t know anything about it.”

      “Benjamin isn’t some kind of hobby for old men with too much time on their hands.”

      “That’s it. I’m not interested in what you have to say.” She looks at the phone.

      “I can’t stay here if he’s coming. You just want him to tell you I’ve done the wrong thing again, like he did when we found out about Benjamin’s illness; it’s all Erik’s fault, always Erik. I know that lets you off the hook—it’s always been very comfortable whenever you’ve needed someone to blame in a crisis—but for me it’s—”

      “Bullshit.”

      “If he comes here, I’m leaving.”

      “That’s your choice,” she says quietly.

      His shoulders droop. She is half turned away from him as she punches in the number.

      “Don’t do this,” Erik begs. It’s impossible for him to be here when Kennet arrives. He looks around. There’s nothing he wants to take with him. He hears the phone ringing at the other end of the line and sees the shadow of Simone’s eyelashes trembling on her cheeks.

      “Fuck you,” he says, and goes out into the hallway.

      He hears Simone talking to her father. With her voice full of tears she begs him to come as quickly as he can. Erik takes his jacket from the hanger, leaves the apartment, closes the door, and locks it behind him. Halfway down the stairs, he stops. Maybe he ought to go back and say something. It isn’t fair. This is his home, his son, his life.

      “Fuck it,” he says quietly, and continues down to the door and out into the dark street.