The Apparition

Wiebke woke up more tired than she’d gone to bed, though she’d slept late, and her husband had already left. Her head ached, and her heart was racing beyond the usual palpitations she’d started to have in her forties. She took a deep breath and thought about calling in her niece right away, but didn’t want to seem hysterical. She needed time to arrange her thoughts. Ralf would only have sneered if she’d told him, twisting his mustache to hide a laugh, but Sandra was a sensitive girl, suggestible even. She’d listen.

In the kitchen, Marja was finishing up with the floor. “Morning!”

“Morning, Marja.” Wiebke tiptoed to the table to avoid leaving footprints Marja would have to mop up. She was very meticulous, only a little older than Sandra, but quite a different kind of person. There was something serious about Marja. Wiebke had long suspected that she might be religious. At her interview, she’d said all she wanted was hours that wouldn’t interfere with getting her children to school, and stable work to supplement her husband’s irregular income. Wiebke had wondered then whether her husband drank or had some other vice, but that was Ralf’s influence. He held that men always had some vice or other. Asked about his own, he’d said “buying art,” which seemed rather harmless since they could afford as much as the walls of their villa in Dahlem could hold. 

Marja had never confided in Wiebke about her husband’s vices, but they got along well all the same. Marja had another customer down the street, but still took the time to have a cup of coffee when Wiebke’s social calendar permitted, to share her views on current events or anecdotes about her children. Ralf was very anti, of course, and Wiebke had taken to saying Marja was her vice. He said it was positively feudal to have a maid in the twenty-first century, that some anonymous cleaning service would do just as well without snooping around. Wiebke thought Ralf wouldn’t have minded if Marja had been prettier, but she never said so. He would’ve thought Marja’s heavyset figure and bulldog jowls were why Wiebke had hired her, and Wiebke hated for him to make fun.

“Shall I make coffee?” Marja asked. “It must be hard to sleep at a time like this.”

“That would be wonderful. I bought those spiced cookies you like.” Of course, Wiebke didn’t believe in having cookies for breakfast, but today was no ordinary day. The reason Marja had come on a Saturday instead of during the week was that half the art world from Berlin and beyond would be flitting through their home to admire Ralf’s collection – or hers, if you went by who’d picked up the check. But Marja must’ve known that the event alone wasn’t enough to make her nervous. Wiebke longed to talk things over with her, but what was the use? She’d tell Sandra later on, and that would be that. If she thought too much about it, she’d begin to doubt herself.

 

She and Marja were finishing their coffee after polishing off quite a few spekulatius cookies – nerves were catching, Wiebke thought – when Sandra came floating down the stairs, a vision in her flowered sundress, the tulle skirt brushing against the banister, golden hair framing her face like a halo. Ridiculous outfit for this time of year, but a real vision. Wiebke would’ve laughed if her heart hadn’t been so heavy. Anyway, she could forgive Sandra the impracticality of a sundress in January. The girl was only twenty-three and practically an orphan, since Wiebke’s sister Margot had died over a decade ago, and Sandra’s father was perpetually away on business. Wiebke had married so late that her niece was the closest thing she had to children. When Sandra’s ex-boyfriend had thrown her out, Ralf had said she could only stay for a few days; she was an adult and had to get back on her feet. But that was before he’d seen her all grown up. Besides, she was supposed to be an artist, so they had that to talk about.

Marja put their dishes in the dishwasher and excused herself. As Sandra poured herself a cup of coffee, they could hear the drone of a vacuum in another part of the house. 

“Did you sleep well?” Wiebke asked. The question felt strange because Sandra was more part of the household than a guest by now. A few days had quickly become a few months and more. She showed no signs of looking for an apartment or a new job, and Wiebke hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings by asking. 

“Yeah, but I couldn’t find my favorite pajamas. Marja must’ve thrown them away.”

“Oh, I doubt it. She probably put them in the wash.” It had taken her a while to understand why she disliked hearing Sandra criticize Marja. Wiebke had worked hard almost all her life, but when she was fifty, her doctor had told her a few more eighty-hour weeks in investment banking would put her in an early grave. She’d realized for the first time that she had enough money, far more than enough, and quit abruptly to take a part-time job in an art museum. It bothered her that Sandra didn’t feel the need to contribute. Wiebke would’ve felt differently if Sandra had shown her any art she was working on, but the conversation always got very theoretical when she asked, and then she felt like the silly old aunt who’d fallen out of touch. Still, why did Sandra criticize Marja so much, if she didn’t feel bad about not working? Unless she was jealous. Wiebke could understand that. Either way, she’d often toyed with the idea of renting gallery space for Sandra, who might just need a little push.

“Are you excited about tonight?” Sandra asked. She looked excited herself, flushed, mouth open as if she were out of breath.

“A little, but you know we do it every year. I do wish we had something of yours to show.”

“We’ve been through this. I don’t make things you can just hang up.”

“I know, but it would be a good opportunity. A lot of important people will be there.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll still meet everyone.” Sandra smiled and closed her eyes halfway, as if basking in her own beauty. She was right, of course. She’d catch more eyes than anything on the walls. “Isn’t there any breakfast?”

“Your uncle didn’t get any rolls today. He must be out running errands. Why don’t you go eat at the bakery so we don’t have to tidy up again?”

“Oh, all right.” Sandra began excavating and putting on all the layers she’d tossed in the front hall, where Marja had folded them. “Do you need anything from the shops before they close?”

That had taken Sandra some getting used to, that shops this far on the outskirts of Berlin closed at noon on Saturdays like in a village. Nice of her to ask, anyway. Was she feeling considerate or guilty? “No, thank you. Tell your uncle to come back soon if you see him.”

“Okay, but I doubt I will.”

“There’s just so much to do before the guests arrive.”

 

But once Sandra was out of sight, Wiebke had no idea what to do with herself. She called Ralf, but he didn’t pick up, which was like him lately. She decided to go for a walk in the opposite direction of the bakery to avoid running into Sandra before they could really talk. 

When all this was over, she thought, taking the sun-dappled path through the snowy woods, she’d get herself a little dog. Or a big one, perhaps, for when she had to go out alone after dark. Ralf didn’t like animals, but he wouldn’t have much say in the matter. She steadied her breathing and thought of whether there was anything she needed to do before her talk with Sandra, but it was all taken care of. Marja would finish cleaning, the caterers would bring the tables, drinks and hors d’oeuvre, and the musicians would come last, so they wouldn’t be in the way.

She continued on further than she’d planned, thinking about what Ralf and Sandra were doing in the meantime. She ought to have left a note. Marja hadn’t seen her leave. She watched each breath appear and hang in the chill air, and felt a keen awareness of herself, alone in the woods, walking as if she could go on forever. She felt good, better than she would’ve expected with all she had on her mind. For someone over sixty, she had surprisingly few health problems, just a few aches in her joints that seemed to settle into place as she walked. 

Instead of thinking about whether Sandra would believe her, Wiebke pictured the apparition again, the bright light that filled the room and the voice: clear and strong, yet not loud, with so much to tell her. And to show her, visions like scenes from a film, yet so much more real. For the hundredth or even thousandth time, Wiebke asked herself if she might be losing her mind. She almost wished she were.

 

She took an overgrown path that led out of the woods and found herself in a neighborhood she’d never seen before. The apartment buildings across a longish pond from her, ugly in themselves, were painted peach, yellow, terra cotta, and their reflection colored the sheath of ice on the water like a winter sunset. The hemisphere of a lost soccer ball protruded from the surface, either floating or frozen in place. She watched a swan walk over it, black webbed foot curving to fit the shape. She could see how the ball must’ve rolled out a little too far from some chubby toddler’s clumsy kick, onto the ice and beyond the reach of parental arms, where it broke through and came to a rest. Attempts to recover it with a stick had failed, leaving the ball set in the ice like a round-cut gem. The parents had forbidden the child to go after it, light as she might be, and they were right, of course. The ball might be a great loss for her, but going out on the ice meant risking her very self. And yet it seemed to Wiebke that she felt the child’s desperate longing, that she would’ve gone out after the toy if she’d been allowed. If she had allowed herself. She felt the denied urge cramp her stomach and clutch her throat closed. She dreaded telling Sandra about the dream. If only it had all been a dream. If she could make herself believe that, would the thin ice bear up under her weight?

One set of disappointed seagulls cleared out and another swooped in, hoping for bread or whatever they usually got. A fat grey-and-black hooded crow called throatily, cawed and cawed among the disinterested mallards and swans like some madman parting a crowd with loud gibberish, everyone hearing, no one listening. In her thoughts, she named all the birds to commit them to memory, to make this moment real. 

 

In the kitchen, Sandra was dawdling over another milky coffee as if waiting for her. Or someone else. But all that mattered was that they were alone. Wiebke’s hands trembled as she poured herself an unwanted cup of coffee, an excuse not to look at Sandra as she said, “I had a strange dream last night. That is, I have to call it a dream, or you’ll think I’m crazy. But I could swear I was wide awake when I saw it.”

“Saw what?” That polite smile, those dull eyes. Humoring her.

“It was a kind of… apparition. No, I don’t necessarily mean a ghost,” she said, as if Sandra had interjected more than a raised eyebrow. “It could just as easily have been anything… how shall I say? Otherworldly.” She turned to Sandra. “There was so much light coming from it you could hardly make out the shape, but it seemed female to me. There was something soothing about it, like warmth. When it appeared, there was a soft sound like distant singing, and the strangest part is, I wasn’t afraid at all.”

She was aware of a certain theatricality in remaining standing, clutching her cup with tremulous hands, but at least Sandra was invested now, waiting for the punchline. Maybe she was wondering whether this would be grounds to have her committed. Wouldn’t it, with a little help from Ralf? One of the more humane ways to get rid of her. Wiebke took a deep breath, sat down next to Sandra and put her hands on hers. She was surprised how cold her niece’s skin was, sure she could feel some inner chill coming through it like ice water through a glass. She was wearing nothing but that impractical sundress again. “To be honest, I had the sense of Margot. That it was either her, or someone she’d sent.”

Sandra sighed. “I dream about my mom sometimes, too.”

“Yes, yes, we all do.” No time for detours now. “But this was different. She said she was worried.” She didn’t want to upset Sandra. Or rather, she didn’t want to seem like she did. “She said you’re in grave danger. Morally.”

“Morally?” Sandra’s attempt to laugh at the high-flown word fell flat. She’d taken to imitating Ralf’s cynicism, but couldn’t pull it off.

“And that I am in real, physical danger. She said it in a beautiful, clear voice, like an angel: Know that Sandra is in danger of committing a great sin, and that your very life is threatened.”

Sandra put down her cup without remembering to drink. “I mean, we don’t really know if... Maybe it was an evil spirit, trying to turn us against each other.”

Very good: no more talk of dreaming or imagining. This was so much easier than she’d expected. “There’s more. I can hardly bring myself to say it, but here it is: She said you and Ralf have been betraying me for months.” She struggled to keep her voice neutral, not make an accusation Sandra could respond to. But the best she could do was keep talking before Sandra had the chance. “She said the only reason he doesn’t divorce me is because you two would be penniless. But that you had a plan.” Sandra had broken a visible, glistening sweat and opened her mouth as if she were choking, but wasn’t making any noise. 

“She showed me your plan for this very night. Once the caterers arrive – they’re to serve as witnesses – Ralf will come disguised as an art thief. He’ll pretend to force his way past you and knock you to the ground, where you’ll call for help.” Now she had her speech under control again, ready to insert a leading question. “For some reason, she said you were sure I’d come running. Why would that be?”

Sandra seemed caught somewhere between crying and vomiting in her mouth. She had to repeat herself a few times before Wiebke understood.

“Yes, that’s right: You knew I’d come because I love you. Anyway. Ralf will have a gun, fire a few shots but only hit me and not the art, of course, then run out in the confusion. He’ll change in the car and pick up the bouquet he’ll have left there so he can pretend he just got home. He’ll see me lying there, drop the vase with a terrible cry of anguish and run to my side. You’ll have gotten the best look at the burglar and give the police a misleading description. The two of you will inherit everything.” She paused for breath and effect.

“But that’s… it can’t…” Sandra gulped and tried to keep herself together, but she was well on her way to a puddle on the floor. Wiebke was surprised at the strong satisfaction she felt, how in control she was. Of herself and Sandra. Her apparition hadn’t failed her. “It’s awful, I… I mean, we…” The first real sob broke through and Sandra could no longer speak. Wiebke did her best to conceal the bittersweet pleasure of vindication.

Sandra might’ve kept wailing and sniveling a little longer, but Wiebke interrupted, her own voice as resonant as the apparition’s, but without that dulcet hum. “The apparition,” she said, standing up again, “knew I’d never believe that the two people I love most on earth could do a thing like that. So she gave me a sign. I saw before my very eyes, without physically having left my bed, of course, how you two decided to hide the gun in your mother’s sewing kit because no one ever looks in there.” 

She took Sandra by the arm. Her niece was still moving her mouth, but no words were coming out. Her skin had gone so pale that the half-circles under her eyes, no longer hidden by a youthful flush, looked painted on. She was trembling and docile on the way to her room, but on the threshold, she spanned her arms across the doorway and said, “Wait.” 

“What is it, child?” Wiebke fought to hold back the smile trying to spread across her face. Other than losing Margot, there had never been a pain like this. Nor had there ever been such triumph. “Why don’t we look together? If we find nothing but the last bit of embroidery your dear mother was working on when she was sick and I promised I’d always look after you, we can agree it was a bad dream. Unless…?”

“What?” Sandra’s eyes were a dying animal’s, the rabbit Wiebke had once seen in the jaws of a fox. “Don’t you trust me? Your own niece?”

“My own niece.” Wiebke’s voice was cold with both of their knowing. She ducked under one of Sandra’s arms, and Sandra didn’t stop her. Wiebke closed her eyes and let white light fill the space between them, heard wordless voices singing in her ears, drowning out Sandra’s howl as she crumpled to the floor. She walked straight to Sandra’s bed and took the satin box out from underneath, careful not to damage the sprinkling of artificial pearls on the lid. Who would’ve thought that Margot’s daughter…? But Sandra’s moans interrupted her thoughts. She was on her knees, clutching her stomach as if she’d been shot. Now there was an interesting idea. Still, Wiebke had made a promise to Margot. She could only imagine the kind of apparitions she’d be visited by if she killed her daughter. 

Shaking off Sandra’s weak grasp, she opened the box, and the ringing in her ears went still. She gathered that last half-embroidered pillowcase, four petals of a sunflower, in her hands like a mound of earth. Sandra had switched to an alternating chorus of “help me” and “tell me what to do,” which was certainly more productive than anything she’d come up with before. Like a magician showing what has vanished, Wiebke took the cloth in one hand and shook it. Out fell – nothing.

“Your mother has saved both of us.” Wiebke helped Sandra to her feet. 

“I can’t live with myself.” After all her sobbing and gurgling, Sandra’s voice was steady now. “It’s true. I would’ve murdered my own aunt who took me in when… But it was all Ralf! I said we could never do that to you.” Was she talking about the affair or the murder? “He said there was no other way.”

But there was always another way, and Wiebke didn’t need any visions to tell her that. “Tell me, when was he planning to pick up the gun? Surely he needs it for the break-in?”

“Not right away, you see…” Sandra plumped down on her bed and stroked the sewing box as if consoling it. She turned the pillowcase over in her hands before folding it and putting it back. “If he was stopped on his way in, he was going to pretend it was a prank, so it was important not to have a gun on him.” Now she was the prattling child Wiebke remembered, showing off how clever she was. “I was going to have it in my purse, and he’d take it out as we struggled. No one would know he hadn’t had it all along.”

“And then, when I risked my life to save you…” It was necessary, and not just a pleasure, to torture her. Hadn’t she asked for help? Other than distant dead Margot, who didn’t seem like she planned on appearing, who else was going to free Sandra of her terrible guilt?

“Forgive me… No, I know you can’t. But please don’t forgive Ralf, either, because he was more at fault, even though I am, terribly.” The string of snot hanging from one of Sandra’s nostrils was long and getting longer. “What will we do? Should we call the police? Did my moth… Where’s the gun?”

“I couldn’t be sure you’d confess, so I checked beforehand. That’s what your… the apparition told me to do.”

“Did she say what else to do?”

“Other than not allowing myself to be shot dead?”

Another quaking snuffle and the string splattered onto the crinkled lap of Sandra’s sundress. At least it wouldn’t stain. Not like blood. 

“Well, there is such a thing as justice.” Justice was as big and strange a word as ‘morally,’ but Sandra didn’t snort this time. “I could never bring myself to do to Ralf what he planned to do to me. And yet… I can’t believe he wanted to make my niece, Margot’s daughter, a murderer.” She let that sink in.

“Aunt Wiebke?” Sandra’s cold hand reached for hers and clutched it like she had during her nightmares after Margot’s death. “Will I… I mean, do you believe in hell?”

“Try not to think about it, child. We have guests coming.”

 

Sandra had surprisingly few objections, perhaps because she was so sure the apparition had been her mother. More than that, though, her resistance had already been worn down. By agreeing to murder a loved one, she’d crossed a line of no return. Now, in her overwhelming horror at what she’d almost done, she seemed convinced that only something overwhelming and horrible could redeem her.

Wiebke tried to follow the advice she’d given Sandra and go about business as usual. Just because her heart was racing and she hadn’t breathed in hours didn’t mean she wasn’t going to check the catalogue of artwork or finish getting the house ready, not to mention herself. The fact that Sandra didn’t have anything to do, except maybe change into a clean dress, probably made it harder for her. Nothing to distract her. Not that Wiebke wasn’t aware, shuffling through her selection of dresses, entering and reentering the rooms to make sure the most important pieces appeared most prominently, that she wasn’t quite out of danger. That, by giving the gun back to Sandra, she had restored the possibility of her own death.

She had, of course, taken certain precautions, not least giving Marja a sealed letter “To Be Opened in the Event of My Death,” but she didn’t expect to need them. Her plan might go awry, but then someone would call the police, or nothing would happen, and she’d divorce Ralf. She no longer expected to die, even if Ralf did get wind of things. The apparition had broken Sandra’s spirit. He didn’t stand a chance.

Ordinarily, Wiebke would’ve wondered where he was. Showing the collection was his big thing. He wouldn’t usually have left the house at all. Although they’d sold a few pieces over the years, it wasn’t a commercial event. Rather, it was a chance for Ralf to be someone in the art world. Ralf, who’d studied art history but not made it into curating, Ralf, who’d painted but never developed an identifiable style. Ralf with his drooping mustache and bad shoes, who’d asked Wiebke where he could find the Expressionists and kept her talking until the museum closed.

They’d often talked about turning their house into a museum someday, though it was never clear whether they planned to be alive to see it. Ralf was a few years younger, but then women tended to outlive men. She wondered, pinning back her hair, what Ralf and Sandra would’ve done with the art. It didn’t seem to have figured in their plans. Maybe they wouldn’t have done anything differently, just been rid of her. She felt the nearness of tears and opened her eyes wide to push them back, shook her head to disperse the emotion. She was tired. Last night had been exhausting. Knowing was exhausting. She needed to concentrate on her makeup now, put up a valiant if losing fight against the signs of weariness and age.

It had been so romantic at first. At least, even now, she had the comfort of knowing he’d been attracted to her. When he’d chatted up a museum security guard all those years ago, he couldn’t have known she had millions in the bank. She hadn’t told him at first, not because she’d questioned his motives, but because working in finance had seemed so gauche, so much less cultured than his interests, even if he was only working for a local paper. He’d loved her quite some time for who she was; she could tell herself that now. The subject of money had only come up because he’d gotten a job offer in Berlin and she, thinking of poor motherless Sandra, had suggested they buy a house there. Still, that didn’t mean he’d stopped loving her right away. Why should he have, when they’d been happier than ever, spending money she hadn’t known what to do with as if they’d won the lottery? Sandra had been an ungainly teenager with a unibrow, and if there’d been other women, Wiebke hadn’t known. 

She heard a gentle knock on the front door, but it was only Marja coming back and not wanting to startle her. Sensing, maybe, that she’d be jumpy today. On her way downstairs, Wiebke stopped at a Magritte study the guests rarely gave a second glance before it was pointed out to them. It wasn’t from one of his iconic works, but she always thought it had a wonderful mystery to it, even if her opinions on art never counted for much. All you saw was a door with a not quite human-shaped hole in it, and through the hole impenetrable darkness. Endless possibilities. But today it filled her with dread. She knew what was behind the door; she knew things she wasn’t supposed to. That no one should have to know. “The Unexpected Answer,” it was called, and she had hers now, but it was the question she hadn’t seen coming.

She gasped when Marja touched her shoulder.

“Sorry. I brought Ralf’s dry cleaning.”

“I better give him a call.” And she really had better, or it might look strange. Strange the way it would’ve looked when he didn’t turn up until after the caterers, until just after she’d been shot. But he would only have said what he said now on the phone: that he’d been held up, that the lines were long and traffic was bad. She knew he’d been spending the day chatting with strangers about the show and his wonderful wife, trying to leave a lasting impression. She’d heard for herself how he and Sandra were disappointed by the weather forecast, having hoped to blame heavy snow for his delay.

“Love you.”

She heard him like a TV set someone had left on in the background. “I…” She hung up and went back up to her room. Gut-wrenching as it was, pain inflicted by a partner was a known quantity, something people expected to experience, though to a lesser degree. It was going to be strange not to love her niece, whom she’d introduced as “like a daughter to me” so often it might’ve been Sandra’s last name, anymore.

Marja knocked and came in with a sandwich and a glass of juice. “You always forget to eat. You’re so pale.”

 

Wiebke spent the last half hour before the caterers arrived drifting through the rooms like a ghost, unable to settle or touch anything.

Sandra came down at the last minute, another kind of vision this time, though no less striking. She was wearing a black velvet dress with a line of pearl buttons up the high collar, and Wiebke wondered who she reminded her of until she realized the dress had been Margot’s. Aside from her blood-red lipstick, Sandra’s face was so pale it seemed to glow. 

“You look lovely, child,” Wiebke forced herself to say, and Sandra rushed at her with doglike eagerness, wrapping her arms around her but tilting her head so her makeup wouldn’t come off on Wiebke’s own black dress. Wiebke wondered how long Ralf and Sandra would’ve worn mourning for her. Long enough not to attract attention, she supposed. She took Sandra by the shoulders to put her at arm’s length. “Have you got a purse to go with that dress?”

 

Wiebke had planned to stay upstairs until it was all over, but she found herself rooted to the staircase, unable to look away from the door. It had gotten dark out, and she pictured Ralf crashing through the front door without opening it, leaving a hole like the one in the drawing behind her. A darkness no earthly light could penetrate. She was so busy thinking about what was going to happen that the door opening and Sandra’s piercing scream really did startle her. Ralf was wearing a black ski mask and turtleneck like some child’s drawing of a burglar. Once Sandra had gotten her theatrical shriek over with, he began to search her purse for the gun, not realizing as she cried, “Help, help!” that it was already in her hand, below the black silk bag he was frantically tearing through.

“They’ll be here any second! Where the hell is it?”

“Here.” Wiebke was proud of Sandra, proud of how steady her voice and hands were as she dropped her purse and fired into his thigh, a carefully chosen close-range wound he was likely to survive with excruciating pain. She was proud as Sandra wrenched his fingers from the wound to press them onto the grip, then tossed the gun out of reach and fell whimpering to the floor as the first caterers rushed in to save her. Wiebke, collecting herself, ran screaming down the stairs to join them. She was proud of Sandra, but that was not the same as loving her, and never would be.

Luckily, everyone – Sandra, Marja, the caterers and even Ralf, unintelligibly – was talking at once, so there was no need for her to say anything. The police, an ambulance, even the fire department was on its way. 

“The police will want the mask off,” Sandra said over the noise.

The waiter next to her hurried to oblige, revealing a sweat-drenched mustache and a face so distorted by pain and fury Wiebke might not have recognized it if she hadn’t known. 

Once again, it was necessary to collect herself and remember to react as Sandra cried out, “Good Lord, it’s Uncle Ralf,” something she’d never called him before. 

“Ralf?” gasped Wiebke, sinking into Marja’s arms.

“She’s fainted!” Marja called to the others. “Help me get her to the sofa.”

Everything was easier once they thought she was unconscious. She didn’t have to act confused or hurt or shocked; all she had to do was lie still as Marja fanned her with one of the glossy art periodicals from the coffee table and ordered Sandra to fetch a cold compress. 

Sandra wouldn’t mention their conversation to the police. She’d say Ralf had often talked about killing Wiebke, seemingly in jest. That she’d laughed with him until she became uncomfortable and asked him to stop. That she’d expected the musicians and seen a burglar instead. He hadn’t expected anyone to be standing in the doorway, so she’d managed to grab the gun and fire as she screamed for help. She’d say she felt terrible, that she should’ve known Ralf was serious, should’ve told Wiebke; that she was so ashamed of their affair. That Wiebke was a like a mother to her. 

Whether the police believed her, whether Ralf went along with this version, wasn’t Wiebke’s problem. She’d long since made her own plans. The city would get the art even before she died. The divorce would be handled by proxy. A cousin of Marja’s had found her a lovely prewar apartment in Warsaw, near enough for Wiebke to see anyone she wanted to, far enough for Sandra to understand why she didn’t visit. It was a one-bedroom apartment, perfect for a solitary older woman. Too small for houseguests.

 

It was another long night for Wiebke. First, she had to flutter her eyes open and come back to life when the EMTs arrived, then she had to get treated for shock and pretend to seriously consider accompanying Ralf to the hospital. Before Marja helped her up to her room, Wiebke asked Sandra to stay downstairs, in part so she could turn away the guests as they arrived, in part because she couldn’t stand to be near her.

Marja closed the door and turned on the TV before handing Wiebke a packing envelope. “I took it out this morning in case the police search her room.”

Wiebke shook the envelope to empty it contents into her hand. Some apparitions came from beyond the grave, and others came to mind in the middle of a desperate night as you lay awake wondering how to talk about the unspeakable. Sometimes proof was a black-market gun wrapped in a dead woman’s embroidery, and sometimes it was this: a wireless microphone so small it barely covered her palm. She put it back in the envelope. “Thanks, please take it with you.” She waited for Marja to say something, maybe that she regretted telling Wiebke about her suspicions, but Marja only nodded, and after all she was right: Justice had been done. Once Marja left and Wiebke turned off the TV, she could just make out Sandra’s voice, soft and resonant like distant singing, as she turned away another latecomer with high-flown words she might’ve laughed at earlier that day: “There’s been a tragedy in the family.”

No, Wiebke thought, but it was a close call.