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I put it in my right coat pocket and leave the room.
'You going?‘
Yes, time for a decision again. We will see.
The lift takes me to the lobby. An Art Nouveau affair, cosy tan and dark brown colours, crowned by a glass dome ceiling in shades of yellow, orange and red.
Since I arrived on Christmas Eve last week I’ve spent most of my time either here, in an armchair looking out of the window across Maximilianstrasse. Or at the dark wood-panelled bar to the right. Or on long aimless walks across the grey frost-bitten city; all the while staying stone-cold sober, noting the people around me, taking in the atmosphere of the holiday season.
Reliving my own personal nightmares. The bottomless empty void when arriving at Riem; nobody to meet me behind the Passport Control. Disconcertment growing in me with all the things time has changed in this town, younger faces, modern facades, garish advertisements. Yet time has nothing done about the past. Finally, worst of all, in my room, feeling the stinging pain of ancient bruises, nursed with iodide. Phantom pain from wounds long since closed. Still bleeding under scar tissue and layers of time.
The hall porter has a taxi ready for me. I climb into the back and name my destination.
‘Why did you come?’
Why? Many reasons. I cannot make up my mind. Perhaps most of all because I can’t stand the thought of Christmas on Jersey. It has become so awfully tourist infested, the ‘Fete de Noue’ so forcefully jolly, so contrived that the mere thought makes my stomach churn.
Here it seems time stands still at least from Christmas Eve to Boxing Day. The whole country quietens, public life becoming a tiny dribble of cars and pedestrians on mostly empty streets. Landscapes turning to abstract paintings. Only after Christmas life creeps back into the streets and plazas, folks busily preparing their New Years celebrations and fireworks.
It’s really the same everywhere. I can’t escape it. So I may as well live through it here. As good a place as anywhere else.
‘There was a time…’
Yes, there was a time when I tried to avert the inevitable. Forced myself into work to forget. Around the time the Germans changed their taxis from black to ivory. But it was no good. I knew it then as I know it now. Everything turned from bad to worse and afterwards there wasn’t much left to pick up. Had to come really. Should have known better. Leaving was the only option then.
‘And driving at breakneck speed from St. Helier to Plémont Point is a more sensible pastime?’
I haven’t done that for some time now. It was an outlet for the pressure I felt then. Losing my work then was like losing the last thing that kept me going. But I’ve found other vices since. There were also times when I hated Molony for giving me back my memory. Often. Hated him like my worst enemy. But perhaps it would have come back either way, so there is no use in bemoaning what can’t be helped.
The taxi drives through deserted streets, littered with the debris of countless firecrackers, the stench of yesterday’s black powder mixing with the frosty haze that promises the new year’s first snow. We reach the entrance to Nymphenburg Palace Gardens at Schloßmauerstrasse. I pay the driver and slowly make my way along the channel eastwards through the vast park to the Palace.
It’s cold. So cold that my scalp cringes and I feel the frost in my nose. My bones, my joints revolt against this abuse, want to force me back to the warmth of my hotel room. I don’t care. A gust of Siberian frost blows tears from the corners of my eyes. I wipe them dry but the wind keeps blowing right into my face. Soon.
By the time I reach the Palace my face feels frozen. I walk through the big gates, turning left to Maria-Ward-Strasse.
When it happened, I was so shattered that I didn’t register anything. There was nothing else but shock. I didn’t even feel the horror of what happened until much later. They had to deal with the situation, divert the police’ attention, keep it as much under cover as possible.
A tragic accident. Husband disconsolate, civil servant in a sensitive department of the British Government. Everything to be handled with the utmost discretion. A coroner’s verdict from the British embassy in Bonn. No need for further investigation. An immediate funeral by the next day. The Consul General managed to arrange a funeral at the Nymphenburg Cemetery, a small private institution not accessible to the public. The place is cared for by the Mary Ward’ Sisters of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
I don’t know if I would have had the strength if the grave had been in England. The urge to be there, the need, would have drowned everything else. Perhaps the distance was what kept me going all this time. Now I’m coming.
Sister Barbara waits for me at the entrance opposite the Mary-Ward Convent. With a smile she opens the wrought-iron gate. I walk through and face the small cemetery that contains less than 400 graves.
I turn to the left and follow the path.
Beside a small well there’s the stone.
Theresa Bond
Beloved Wife
I stand by the stone, the air freezing my lungs, a weight across my chest making every breath an effort.
‘Did you make up you mind?’
This is a horrible day. A mess really. Better get it over fast.
‘You’ve seen worse.’
I take it out. Then I make up my mind. With my left hand I cycle the slide, catching the round in my palm. I drop it into the well to the left where it sinks to its other 22 companions. A calendar of my personal will to carry on.
I have to smile. Aloud I say: ‘Yes. I’ve seen worse. Far worse. A Happy New Year to you, my darling!’
‘A Happy New Year to you too!’