She gestures to the man that he is to carry some of the boxes into the bedroom, some into the living room and a few into the kitchen. She has ordered twenty-five of these "cardboard book boxes," as they are called in the shipping company's catalogue. She has carried on as before; she has gotten used to things. She has even grown accustomed to the child that sits at her bedside day after day. She has carried on as before.
The boxes are folded flat and held together in groups of five with a sturdy black synthetic strap; they look easy to handle.
The man shows her how to assemble the boxes and she gives him a tip. He then turns to leave, but she takes hold of his sleeve and motions that he is to follow her into the kitchen. Once there, she holds a piece of paper in front of his face and he reads it, and nods, then mutters something to himself. Not to be unfriendly, more out of helplessness.
"Yes. Yes," he says. "What exactly do you want to know?"
The woman points to the date and the time of day.
"Yes," the man says. "We'll be there. Don't you worry about a thing. Everything will run according to schedule."
Satisfied, she gives him a nod. The man nods back and clears his throat. They look at each other. He isn't much taller than she is. He's a small, robust man with dark thinning hair. He's not old, maybe in his mid-to-late thirties. He lets his eyes wander around the room.
"It's the house, isn't it?" he speaks softly, scrutinizing the kitchen.
The woman looks at him confused; a crease appears on her forehead.
"Didn't you move in here recently? Maybe two years or so ago?" he offers as explanation, then clears his throat.
The woman relaxes and nods at him.
"Why, I mean…?" His voice grows tense. "Why do you want to move out?"
The woman makes a sweeping motion with one hand.
"A long story," he says, tilting his head to one side and releasing a questioning "hmmm" through closed lips.
The woman nods at him again.
"Can I ask you something?" he says, a hint of embarrassment in his eyes.
She looks at him intently. She looks at his face, into his eyes. She wonders if she really should let him ask another question, she is not sure it is a good idea. She looks down at her hand, her right hand, and watches it signal for him to continue.
"It's the house, isn't it? You're moving out because of the house. Because it's the house of Heinrich. You know about that, right? I'm sure they told you what happened here. They must have told you when you bought the place!" His voice has gotten louder, he's getting excited. A hint of curiosity flickers in his eyes.
The woman is amused. She nods.
"Of course they told you. I should have guessed that."
The woman gestures again with one hand that the man is to follow her, and then leads him over to a small door, behind which are some stairs leading up into the attic.
"You didn't believe them, did you?"
The woman has started to climb the stairs. Her grasp tightens around the handrail. The stairs are very steep.
"Or maybe you've discovered that it's all true and that's why you've decided to move," the man says, sounding almost relieved as he starts to piece the story together.
The woman climbs through the trap-door and into the attic; she listens to make sure he is coming up after her. The air is close in the dusty attic, the light dim. She coughs quietly, and once her eyes have adjusted to the dark, she walks deeper into the room, cautious as she steps over the creaking, groaning planks. It is a noise both intensified and absorbed by her steps. The man's steps echo behind her. She leads him to the furthest corner of the room, to where a wooden locker sits and then gestures for him to open it. He hesitates at first, but then, carefully and attentively, he pulls the small door open. The door's hinges squeak, and as it opens the inside of the locker reveals a small mound wrapped in packing paper. He picks it up and holds it before him. She waits. He looks over at her; he is pale and his eyes begin to wander around the dingy attic. His fingers leave moist prints on the brown package. Slowly he regains his bearings and begins pulling at the paper, unwrapping what is inside. It's a book. The writing is old and the picture on its cover is faded: white, a fog bank in the forest with two terrified eyes peering out, and beneath that, in the shadows, a figure on the ground, half-covered in leaves. Up close in the foreground, very close, is a raging sea. He can't make out the rest of the picture, it has lost color on account of all the moist and febrile fingers, the sticky pressure of the many hands that have held it. The ink of the title has grown gray with age, but it is still legible: How Old Heinrich Stole the Maiden of the Waves. A Tale from the Hohwachter Bay.
"Exactly," he says with satisfaction, his voice is stable and calm again. "That's what I meant. People say that her ghost still haunts this place. She's still out there, on the sea, in the bay somewhere near here. I wouldn't have moved in here. No way! He killed her in this very house. She was his handmaid, or bride. No one really knows, anymore. But she became a burden on him at some point, at any rate, and that's when he killed her. But her spirit …"
Suddenly his head shoots up, and he looks intently at the woman. "Have you read the book?" he asks.
She nods.
"That's why, right? That's why you want to leave this place."
The woman shakes her head, but the man doesn't notice. He is consumed with flipping through the pages of the book without reading them. She gingerly takes the book from his hands, bends down and retrieves the packing paper from the floor. She wraps the tale back up again, places it inside the locker and closes the door.
The man is paralyzed. The woman indicates toward the stairs in the floor. They go back down again and they have some strong coffee and grog together. They are silent. Then it is time for the man to go. He looks at her and unexpectedly he begins to apologize profusely. She strokes his head as if he were a small child and accompanies him to the front door. From her skirt pocket she takes out the same piece of paper she showed him before.
"Yes, yes. We'll be there. No worries."
He climbs into the driving cab, waves at her and then pulls away.
The woman remains standing in the open door and watches as the truck turns left and disappears behind the withered rosehip bushes. She glances at the sea to her right and feels her pulse begin to race; she feels her heart begin to pound. She closes the door and leans against it. The boxes. They have arrived. Now she will start counting the days.
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