TMB VII: Mystery Man Breeds Fear

Not much was known about Mr. X, although, initially, we had put quite a fraction of our resources to the task of checking out his background. We did so every time with a prospective client. Primarily, this was to avoid any possible conflicts of interest between our regulars and the new customers. Moreover, although they were minimal, we took pride in our business ethics. We did not deal with maniacs or fanatics, nor with terrorists, religiously motivated or overly destructive clients. Only reasonably rational customers got on our roster. In the case of Mr. X, it turned out he wasn't any of the above, but not much else transpired. He seemed as sleek and bland as your regular bookkeeper, yet it was clear to us that he couldn't be - after all, he had enlisted our services.

He was a walking enigma, sitting in a coal bunker and strongly interested in the machinations of the weapons industry. Whatever one made of that.

Of course, there were rumors circulating from time to time, in those well-informed circles where we, too, moved about. There weren't too many of these, and most of them turned out to be highly exaggerated, rather the result of an imagination run wild than based on any real facts. However, some of the buzz couldn't be smoothed out that easily. By the majority, that was related to pretty sophisticated methods Mr. X was said to have used occasionally to put certain people "to rest" who'd thwarted him. It didn't help that, naturally, no evidence for nor against these propositions could be come by, not even by us.
Mr. X was a dark horse. You couldn't be sure of him.
But he payed on time.

"So what are you going to do about it?"

The question lingered in the air like an unwanted guest. I'd gladly seen it off again. But I had to put up with it, whether I wanted to or not.

Mr. X seemed to play around with a pencil or something, settled back in his chair. He was on the safe side. It was me who had to come up with something, and quickly.

"I'll see to it. I personally guarantee the information you want."

As if I hadn't any other problems. But I couldn't think of anything else to say. And after all, that was part of my job description. Yet I hated that I had to make that offer. Surely would get me into a lot of trouble. But making no extensive offer to Mr. X would get me into trouble right now. I was still better off that way.

He seemed to consider my offering for a moment of two. The hushed tapping had stopped.

"I rely on you", he finally said.

With that, it was settled.

Four simple words, spoken in a low voice, and yet involving a burden as heavy as lead. I knew Mr. X wouldn't just cancel his business with our firm, but hold me personally accountable if I failed to accomplish my pledge. That kind of a guy he was. At least that much seemed sure.

He stood up and walked off to the far end of the room. I could hear his steps. No goodbye or anything. Not that I'd have insisted on it. He could afford to be rude. It was as simple as that.

A door closed, and silence ensued. There was nothing left for me to do here.

Thinking of it, it was surreal indeed. I sat on an uncomfortable chair in the middle of an abandoned parking lot, illuminated like a Christmas tree or a heavy criminal in the interrogation room, my girlfriend had vanished on the day of our wedding just yesterday and disposed of any evidence we'd ever lived together, and I'd made a stupid promise to retrieve some information that seemed to be almost impossible to come by, because otherwise we'd already had it. On top of that, I would be held accountable by a guy who was a living rumor and frankly unpredictable.

Just great.

I stood up and left this place, as quickly as possible.

For reasons of secrecy, I did not enter the next bar, and not the one after that. But the third bar was it, as soon as I had put some distance between me and "Hill Street".

I retreated to a corner table and ordered a double espresso and schnapps. I needed them badly.

I peered around. This was your ordinary bar, nothing special or fancy, just a counter, a couple of tables and chairs, dimly lit, not really tidy and not really dirty either. A place where a man could settle between one impossible job and the next.

My order arrived with a middle-aged woman as unremarkable as the bar itself. I finished off my drinks in record time. After that, I felt slightly better, although the espresso turned out to be anything but that. But the knot that had started to build in my stomach began to dissolve, and I composed myself again.

I'd yet have to drop by the office later, but right now I'd go nowhere soon. Bearing the espresso in mind, I ordered beer. Then I got out the list I'd spent the morning drawing up.

I still had work to do.

TMB VI: Tough Guy In A Basement

The room I entered was big and rectangular, without much in it as far as I could see, which wasn't very far anyway.
It reminded me of an abandoned underground parking lot every time. Most of it lay in deep shadows. A lone, large desktop prominently resided in the middle of it, just barely visible in the dark.

A few meters in front of that desk, a single chair stood in a circle of white light, cast by a bright spotlight far overhead. That was where I was supposed to sit down for our talk. Mr. X probably was already seated behind his desk. Regularities like these were such a comfort sometimes.

Seated, I stared into the gloom. The chair was just uncomfortable enough to make you uneasy. Besides being one of our best customers, Mr. X also was kind of a wily guy. I more felt than actually could see his silhouette behind the heavy table top.

"I need more information", he intoned out of sudden, startling me. He loved surprises, as long as they were his. His voice was deep and sonorous. If he had been upset yesterday, now there wasn't any apparent sign of it. Yet I cold sense a certain sharpness underneath everything else. That was enough to be concerned. You didn't want a guy like Mr. X to be dissatisfied with you, you really didn't. Well, at least I didn't.

After that remark of his, he remained silent and waited for my opening bid.

"What is it you lack?" I ventured.

"I'm paying your organization generous fees. Yet I feel that the scope of information you're delivering me is incommensurately limited - much too limited, that is."
He paused a second, over there in the dark, and let his words sink in.
"I think the scope of your delivery is indeed defined in our mutual agreement, isn't it? Especially in regard of Case C."

I knew it. He was up to "Case C".

Those stupid code words weren't my thing, but in this line of business, I had to run with the pack. When you were dealing with the sort of products we were dealing with, a certain amount of precautions were out of the question. However, those stupid codes were really getting on my nerves lately.

I hastily searched my mind for the actual state of Case C, and behold, Mr. X had a point. Case C was proving problematic.

"Case C is proving problematic", I told him. No use to try to put wool over his eyes. He had been in his part of the business for so long, I couldn’t hope to lead him astray even for the shortest time. Besides, I really valued my health. This was another thing about this business. One continuously ran a given health risk, and it paid off not to raise that risk if one could help it.

The silence behind the desk was unsettling. I counted on being allowed extra time, to check things out. Yet it got on my nerves anyway.

"So what are you going to do about it?" he finally asked.

That was a good question.

TMB V: Going Down

I arrived ten minutes early at Mr. _______________'s office, so I decided to take a short rest on a bench in the small park on the other side of the street and get some fresh air. "Hill Street" was our code name for this park, due to its lone little hill on its far side. A Justice's statue was perched on a pedestal in the middle of it, of all things. But the local pigeons seemed to love it. What Justice thought of them, I didn't know.

We never spelled out Mr. _______________'s name. Judy, back in the office, was the only living person I knew who could somehow pronounce that accumulation of blanks anyway. But most times, and for convenience's sake, we just called him Mr. X, in order to have a name. Indeed, our clients ranged from A to X, with an occasional vacant letter in between, but Mr. X was meant to be "Mr. X", for he was the most secretive member of the already very secretive clientele of our fairly secretive service. If anyone was worthy to bear that most classical of code names, it was him.

For a few minutes, I banished all thoughts from my overcrowded brain and luxuriated in the pleasant sensation of an empty mind. I took off my jacket and rolled up my sleeves. The warmth of the sun felt good on my skin. Too many things had happened in the last 24 hours, and I was still worried. But I needed to keep a level head. Mr. X was a tough guy.

A minute before the appointed time, I casually strolled over to the building. I donned my jacket again and checked my tie in my reflection on the wide glass doors before entering the lobby. The upper stories were occupied by a variety of company offices. Big copper and bronze name plates on a column in the middle of the entrance hall proclaimed their presence. Mr. X didn't have a plate. On the one hand, it would have been a bit silly to have a name plate having "Mr. X" etched on it in big capital letters, and on the other hand he didn't occupy a regular office at this place. He preferred more inconspicuous accommodations.

So I skipped the elevator and headed for the stairs. The office building was well cared for, neat and tidy and not a speckle of dust anywhere. Even down in the basement it was so clean, you could have eaten from the floor or performed surgery in the boiler room, or operated an office in the coal bunker, which was an interesting and not-so-farfetched idea indeed.

I entered the abandoned coal bunker. Even here, not a bit of coal dust, not even in the corners. I headed for a heavy, reinforced steel door, placed unobtrusively in a far corner. After I had gathered myself for a moment, I pushed one of the rivets. It slid slightly inwards, just like a button, although, in appearance, it differed not the least from all the other, very real rivets this door boasted with. I didn’t know what would have happened if I had entered the door without pushing the rivet before, thus signalling my arrival, but it had been made quite clear to me that this rivet needed to be pushed. It was meant to be pushed. That was its sole purpose in its rivet-life. Furthermore, I had been assured that I really didn't want to find out anyway. So I believed them. After all, if anyone knew this door, it was them.

Behind the door stretched a brightly lit, narrow and fairly short corridor, with another steel door on the other end and a large mirror on the left hand side, reaching from one end of the corridor to the other. I never found out if someone actually was on the other side, but I thought so. I faced the mirror as usual and put a wide grin on my face, then grinned at myself grinning back at me. I did that every time. I couldn't help it. The big mirror was just too alluring. Whoever there was on the other side of it, I hoped they enjoyed the show.

Some time ticked by and I was checked out or so I assumed. I suspected them to x-ray me, but I didn't really know. Someday I'd have to have a radiation check after one of these visits.

Eventually, the door on the far end of the corridor opened up the tiniest crack, and I proceeded.

TMB IV: Pulling together

I put the drawer on the floor and browsed again through the vestiges. My first impression had been right. No trace left of her in the pictures.

I took the whole mess and carried it to the sofa, then skimmed through it some more, my mind actually blank like the grey sea on a rainy day. Couldn’t think of anything else, nor cared to. Finally I switched off the lights and sat at the kitchen table, the only illumination coming from the lantern on the street. It glowed cold and ghost-like, just like I felt inside.

I got up once more and got half a bottle of Scotch out of the cupboard, placed it on the table and sat down again. Some minutes ticked by stealthily. I noticed I hadn't gotten a glass or anything to pour it into, but didn't feel like getting up right again. So I just sat there and stared at the bottle for the longest time. The faintest trace of light got caught in its honey-coloured body, and it slightly glowed in the gloom. My life as I had known it slid out of my hands. Every time before I could come to terms with one of the changes, another one had already taken place on top of that. I needed a break to catch up. I really did.

I reached out and touched the bottle. The cool of the glass felt comforting against my fingertips. I stared at it some more.

Then I got up and went to bed, tiptoeing through the mess in the rooms, mercifully hidden in darkness. I didn't even brush my teeth. In bed, I closed and reopened my eyes repeatedly. The dark behind my eyelids and the dark in the room differed not one degree from one another. I held up my hand. Nothing to be seen. Just like that thick film of lightlessness I felt encompassing me.

I continued to blink irregularly until I fell asleep.

Half past six, I opened my eyes again. The first messengers of dawn peered in through the window. I felt completely awake and utterly disoriented at the same time. As if you had all the pieces of an extensive puzzle in your head, but none of them seem to fit any other, and in the end you come to doubt they even belong together, but yet you are stuck with them.

I got a first push towards orientation when I looked over at the other side of the bed and noticed that no one had slept there. Second one was that I still had my shoes on. Dammit, I really had to get a hold on myself again.

I got up and had to face the chaos of yesterday's searching, but I'd take care of that later. I undressed and took a hot shower. After that I switched over to an ice-cold turrent and endured the onslaught for half a minute or so. When I regained proper consciousness, the unfitting puzzle pieces in my head had headed out, probably bound for some more pleasurable place, and I could go about my business. I dressed in jeans, t-shirt and a black pullover. In the kitchen I cooked up a pot of really black coffee, as black as a moonless, overcast night spent 100 feet underground in a coal-pit, and as strong as Muhammad Ali. After two cups of it I felt like I could tackle the cleaning business now.

A frenzy of concentrated putting away put away with everything. Last I fitted the drawer back in the desk and glanced at the watch. By now it was seven-fifteen.

Applying the same focused concentration, I made some eggs and toast. I didn't think of anything, but put all my efforts to the task at hand. Methodically, I ate my breakfast, buttering my toast, using the cutlery in the proper way, scooping up the yolk with some crust. Then I cleaned up the table and washed up in the sink. By now the sun had risen and whitewashed the kitchen walls with golden light.

I went to the bathroom and took a long, leisurely piss, then washed my hands and splashed some water on my face. I stared at myself in the mirror, looking right through it and not seeing anything. The face in the mirror stared likewise back through me.

Then I got on the phone and called my office that I would be in later today and if anything was up I needed to know.

"We tried to call you yesterday", the sec on duty told me. "Have you checked your mailbox?"

I told her that I hadn't done so.

"No", I said. "Anything you can't tell me right now? Saving time?"

She coughed, indignantly, but answered anyway.

"You have an appointment with Mr. _______________ at three-thirty today. He called yesterday and insisted on it."
I heard her catching her breath and think for a second or two. Then she continued, in a slightly lower voice:
"He appeared to be a little upset over something."
Now her voice dropped to a whisper altogether:
"But he didn't tell me."

Now what should I make out of this?

"That's alright", I assured her. After all, he was one of our best customers. "I'll be right there and meet the man. At his office, as usual?"

"Yes." Her voice was back to normal. She had straight organizing-business to do again. Something she knew about. You could tell she was by far more happier now. Someone elso would take care of the emotional stuff. I doubted I was a good fit either.
"Over at Hill Street", she said. Again a pause. "Well, I hope we'll see you later."

Was there a hint of sarcasm in her voice now? Ye Gods, things weren't getting any easier. But I didn't really care anyway.

"Oh, Judy!" I called out before she could hang up, "one more thing: Could you figure out which country's code...", quickly browsing through my mobile until I found the appropriate number, "...'0041' could be?"

Now she'd seemed to snort! Was this task beneath her or what? But she just reread the code to me and gave me an affirmation.

I hung up and took a breath. Then I got some paper and pencil and sat down again at the kitchen table.

Pouring me another cup of that coffee I pondered again over yesterday's events. Something seriously needed some sorting out.
It was about time.

TMB III: Without a Trace

Nothing unusual at first. Not that I had expected anything. The apartment was cool and quiet. The silence hovering in the rooms was almost palpable. The foreboding of her absence hung in the air like a faint shadow. I took off my jacket, unbuttoned the upper buttons of my shirt, and drank a glass of water at the kitchen sink. I switched on the lights in the bed- and the living room and rechecked her wardrobe. Same as before: not a trace of her garments. Her blouses, her jackets, her skirts and dresses, her trousers, her underwear, all gone - as if they never even had existed in this particular space and time. I sighed at the sight and returned to the living room, where I seated myself strategically on the sofa. We'd chosen that one together, just like most of the other furniture in our apartment. Originally it had been my apartment to begin with, but she'd done a great job refurbishing it once she had moved in with me. She'd had a great taste. Damn it. Right now it felt as if she had died. Perhaps had. Who knew? This brought my thoughts right back to the mystery at hand. What was going on?

Our life together had not been bad, or so I had assumed and still did. When we hadn't been working, we'd spent most of our time together, although, admittedly, we worked most of the time. There had been diversions in our personal interests, but we'd covered enough common ground to build upon. Well, we had started building long ago. Only that now it rather appeared like so many castles in the air to me…

To tell the truth, she'd filled the more energetic part of our relationship. She'd come into my life that summer three years ago, she'd pressed to move in with me, she'd done most of the rearrangements in our home, and she'd insisted on marrying. Now she was the one who had opted to go. Energetic right until the end. And good for a surprise, as always.

I myself seemed rather like the phlegmatic type to me. Oh, I sure was a nice guy, neat and tidy, and ready to rise to most occasions. But phlegmatic I was on the emotional side. As long as she'd been around, that hadn't been much of a problem, as she had tended to pull me out of my habitual submersion and up into her own occasional frenzy. But the moment she was gone I'd slumped right back into my natural affinity to indecision concerning my emotional matters. It had taken me most of the night to figure out I was angry. And up until now to notice that I was also sad. And even more so the longer I pondered about it.

She'd repeatedly called me an emotional steamroller - slow to get moving and catch speed, but steadily rolling along once I got going.

I immersed myself in misery for a period of time, on the edge of crying, but not having any tears to shed. Then I pulled the brakes. That was one of the advantages being a steamroller entailed.

That very moment, a door shut with an audible click. I stared into space absentmindedly until I realized what I'd just heard and made the necessary connections to establish the knowledge that the sound had indeed come from the front door.

I jumped up and raced over and out onto the stairs. No one there. I hurried down and burst onto the dimly lit street - no one there either.

While I pondered the question whether I had really heard anything and whether anyone had had been here at all, it occurred to me to catch the door to our apartment building just in time before it fell shut. In my mad dash down the stairs, I hadn't thought of taking any keys with me. Fortunately, our apartment door upstairs was stuck on the uneven floor as usually. Quite a feat to close it so quietly. Light poured out through the crack in the door and sprawled across the floor like a discarded blanket.

I shut the door with a reasonable amount of force and returned to the kitchen. I drank another two glasses of water and pulled a beer from the fridge. Leaning against a shelf, I took a few gulps and used the bottle to chill my forehead.

Someone had been here. He (or she?) must have hidden in our guests' washroom. So I must have surprised him. Thinking of it, given that at first glance nothing seemed to be stolen (no open drawers, no disorder to speak of), and that the lock on the door was completely intact (I went over and checked just to be sure), it seemed to me it had in fact been her who'd raided our apartment - or at least someone who hadn't been interested in any valuables and had had her keys.

That thought startled me so much, I nearly ran out on the streets again, spilling some of my beer midway through the room. Looking down on my beer-soaked trousers, I told myself to calm down. Whoever had been here was long gone by now. I took a look out of the kitchen window, just to be sure. As before, no one was to be seen.

Why had she come back? What had she done? And why hiding herself the moment I came through the door?

It must have been a close thing. Looked like she'd been about to leave when I scrambled up the stairs. After all, I hadn't been particularly quiet. She'd heard me and must have decided to take no chances. She'd cleared the scene, hiding in the washroom. Then making it to the door the moment I was distracted.

Provided it had been her. But who else could it have been?

I emptied the beer and started to turn our apartment upside down.

I started right in the kitchen. I opened every shelf and drawer, rummaged through the pots and provisions, ransacked the cutlery. Nothing unusual to speak of. Nothing lacking.

I continued in the living room, took the books out of their shelves and flipped through the pages, opened every cupboard and mentally reconstructed the original state of things. Nothing unusual here either.

On the way to the bedroom I paid a short visit to the bathroom, throwing a cursory glance at the assembled bottles and tubes. Her perfumes, shampoos and even toothbrush were gone, but you could restock on these everywhere you wanted. You needn't sneak in in the middle of the night to get them.

Even more puzzled I entered the bedroom. Her wardrobe had been empty before, no need to look there. I took a half-hearted look into my own wardrobe, but could see at first glance that nothing was in the wrong place or missing. What would she have done with, say, one of my ties, anyway?

So, the last place to sort through was our desk in the corner. We'd both used it for home office now and then, and had stored some of our collective stuff in it, as well as our personal documents.

My stuff resided in the top drawer. Business as usual in there. Her things used to be in the middle drawer. It now was as empty as a church on weekdays. Her papers, her passport, her documents, her banking stuff: all gone. A lone remaining paper clip lay in the far corner, like in a still life.

I opened the bottom drawer. There we'd stored our photographs, capturing everything from friends' wedding feasts to our holidays, and also what we'd saved of our love letters we'd written now and then to each other.

Taken aback I looked on the shambles before me. An Armageddon of mutilated memories stretched out before my eyes. I took a closer look on some of the scraps: She'd cut herself out clearly of every single photograph we'd been on together. The pictures of her herself were missing completely. Every photo left in the drawer showed me and only me. No need to tell that our love letters had vanished as well.

She'd erased every trace that she'd ever shared a life with me. And thoroughly so.
God dammit, what was going on?

Britney shocks?!

Respect to Brit:
After all, it's a decent hairdo she's got now.
Everyone, spread the word!

(To take a look at my own hairdo, click here.)

TMB II: The Foreign Encounter

Taking off the worn, clumpy receiver and fishing for some cents in my pocket, I tried to think of where I'd put her parents' phone number. Funny thing I had it at all, given what a secret we'd both made of our upbringings and our past in general. I remembered that it had been me who, one day, had insisted on at least exchanging our parents’ numbers, just in case we ever needed them.

"What if you get run over by a truck?" I asked her.

She didn't really seem convinced, but in the end gave in to my constant nagging. Then I had forgotten about the whole thing myself, up until now. And now it seemed that number came in handy after all.

Frankly, I didn't have any real idea where to start. I even wasn't so sure if it was a good idea to look for her at all. Her actions of today spoke a pretty clear language in themselves. And once she had set her mind on something, she usually stuck with it. She was that kind of a girl. Rather stubborn, or so people would have called it. In fact, stubborn as concrete.

But if I really wanted to find her out, I had to start somewhere. And right now, her parents seemed to me to be a sensible first try. After all, she had to be somewhere, didn't she?

But where had I done that number? After five minutes of serious head scratching it came to me that I'd simply stored it in my mobile, like everything else I have to remember for one reason or another. Anyway, the most rational place to put a phone-number. And there it was.

So I fed the phone and started to dial, then hesitated and took a closer look on their area code – in fact, it seemed to be a foreign number.

I temporarily hung up again. Why hadn't I ever noticed that before? It didn't make sense at all. I couldn't imagine her being a foreigner. Never had given me any hint of anything like that. Neither had she had an accent, nor practiced any weird alien customs or cooked exceedingly spicy dishes. But, on the other hand, here I was, abandoned by her on the day of our wedding, stuck in a bar in the middle of the night, and having to admit that all I ever thought I knew about my girlfriend had all of a sudden become more than unsure, so probably I had to face the improbable and try to make some sense out of it after all.

And to make at least some sense out of it, I wanted for sure! You don't live together for years on end, finally settle to marriage (it had even been her idea!), and then stand by while your supposed spouse vanishes into thin air at a whim. Well, normally you don't just vanish in the first place.

Out of a sudden, I found myself determined to find out what was going on here. In fact, I was angry, I realized, damned angry. I clenched a fist and slowly took a deep breath. Ah, I indeed was a bit slow at times to come to terms, but in the end I always made up my mind. Rock-solid I was, in every way.

I grabbed the receiver again and started to dial up her parents once and for all, then noticed something in the back of my mind trying to catch my attention. Something important, and I ran the risk of missing it. I decided to take a closer look on what I'd just thought:

Here I was. (Nope.)

Abandoned on the day of our wedding. (Not yet there.)

Stuck in a bar. (Closer…)

Middle of the night. (Bingo!)

An inaudible bell started to ring in my head. It was in the middle of the night. Took a look on my watch: 11:53 pm. I couldn't possibly phone her parents right now. Even if I'd reached them, I'd been more likely to get called names than to find out anything about her. Even more so since we'd never been introduced to each other, her parents and I. Probably they didn't even know her daughter had been about to get married at all. (My parents didn't, as a matter of fact.)

Now that was a fine mess. I leaned against the ad-plastered, grimy wall and twisted my mind for other leads to pursue and other directions to take, but I couldn't come up with any. After ten minutes of brooding like this, I washed my hands and face at the sink in the privy, and reluctantly returned to my seat at the bar.

What was left to do tonight? I couldn't think of anything better than to return home, get some sleep after all and see what the next day would bring. It couldn't possibly get any worse than it already was, I told myself.

And return home I did, after I'd ordered one last whisky 'for the road'. The fine malt and the cool, crisp night air brought back some of my energy, and so I was in a fairly good mood when I finally arrived at our flat's door.

That was, of course, before I noticed what had been going on inside while I'd been away.

The Marriage Blues

We’d lived together for three years. Then she‘d begun to have that idea of hers about marrying. Over time, I gradually had lost my power to resist and, on a sunny January 25^th afternoon, had finally given in.

Neither of us wanted a big party. Just a few friends of ours, a church and a nice banquet in the evening. I had my reasons to exclude my parents, and hers I’d never met.

Next thing I knew, she'd left me standing right in front of the altar. Or, more precisely: she excused herself half an hour before the marriage on behalf of last-minute-fixing one thing or another about her white, glossy dress, and never returned.

The crowd grew more and more uneasy, the next couple already had turned up and taken to make photographs in the front yard, and the priest asked me about her. I didn’t know what to tell him.

I wished our friends home, cancelled the catering, apologized to the priest and went home to our apartment. She wasn’t there either. Neither were her things. She must had packed them up in advance.

I had repeatedly called home the last hour. Had had the feeling I might catch her there. Five calls, the answering machine signalled in blinking red digits. Five calls, and she hadn’t bothered to answer even a single one of them. Provided she had been here even so long.

That night I didn’t stay at home. I didn’t know yet what to feel about it, and I felt it wouldn’t help to stay in the place where we’d spent most of our time together. So I circled through the bars downtown, downing a few whiskies and waiting for a conclusion to finally arrive on the blank slate of my mind, for a feeling, an opinion or anything.

Several friends tried to call me on the mobile, probably in order to inquire about that rather bizarre marriage-ceremony of ours they had come to witness, but I didn’t answer any of their calls. I wouldn’t have known what to tell them anyway. Thinking of it, my then-still-girlfriend and me had delivered quite a show. Splitting up right in the church, in front of the altar, like in a cheap Hollywood movie, then vanishing from the screen and answering none of their calls whatsoever. As far as they knew, we could have both been dead by now, or left the country in a hurry in order to come over the events, off to Timbuktu or Bangladesh or the Sudan. Not that I really cared about ever visiting one of those countries, but well, you never knew what people were up to next. That’s the thing about them.

Over the first sips of a new Heineken, it suddenly appeared to me that I hadn’t the slightest idea about the whereabouts of my runaway-bride either. Hadn’t even thought of it. That’s what shock and surprise do for you. I’d been acting on autopilot for the last few hours, doing the necessary provided it catched my eye, and trying to make some sense out of the events. That being said, I had in fact done what I often did in situations like that, being unsure of my own appraisal of things: I went to a bar and drank something, waiting for a conclusion to arrive. As yet, I still wasn’t sure if I could cross over to the banks of comprehension successfully in the end. At the moment, I felt more like being stuck on the shallows of achingly unfiltered reality.

Anyway, I had to admit that I had no idea about her. That applied equally well to the situation at large, as well as to her disposition.

I’d thought I’d known her pretty well by now, having understood how her mind worked most of the time, and checked out the sandbanks beneath the smooth surface of her consciousness. How wrong I’d been. It now dawned on me that I hadn’t had the slightest idea of her, contrary to my popular beliefs. If things like that happened to you, even your sturdiest convictions and safest views started to crumble.

So I downed my Heineken and took my mobile out of the inner pocket of my jacket. Right there I realized that I was still wearing my wedding suit, complete with the bow tie around my neck. I took it off and crammed it in one of my other pockets. Then I took a closer look on my mobile’s screen: twelve calls during absence, but none of these from her. Several friends, several calls each; and one call from my office, but I didn’t feel like answering that right now either.

I was about to dial a number, but on second thoughts got up and headed for the public phone at the rear of the bar, right next to the privy. I wanted to make a few calls myself, but didn’t want everybody to know at first glance it was me who was calling. Also, the whole situation had taken on a surreal touch anyway, and so I felt I could do something surreal myself, like using one of those old, dial-equipped phones like they did in those equally old, black-and-white hard-boiled movies they made in the Forties. I felt like a beaten, battered private eye myself, clad in my suit, nursing some whisky in a bar, reflecting on the disappearance of another person.

Not that it even really mattered anymore. Had been a clear-cut case the moment I realized her things were gone as well.

But I just wanted to know, for the sake of it.