Read Online Broken Glass Park by Alina Bronsky - Free Book Online

come to register a complaint. I get it. I show up out of the blue, looking all aggressive.
    And she is absolutely right.
    Ms. Mahler and the man take me into an elevator. I remain silent, even though it’s probably impolite. Ms. Mahler tries to smile at me. I try to concentrate and don’t look at her. Better to look at the man, who is studying the numbers on the elevator buttons.
    It seems as if he already knows what kind of mood I’m in, I think. If this silence keeps up, I’m not going to be able to concentrate. I’ve got to say something to him and Ms. Mahler. If I can’t manage this, how will I ever kill Vadim?
    They lead me into a square room with a big window. In the middle of the room is a round table. On it are a carafe, three cups, bottles of mineral water, and glasses. And a plate of cookies.
    The man grabs the back of a chair and pulls it back from the table.
    He doesn’t sit down. Instead, he motions for me to sit down and then walks around the table to sit opposite me.
    Ms. Mahler pulls her own chair out. Her face betrays such panic that I already feel sorry for her. I think that I might want to reformulate my speech.
    “Please, Ms. Naimann,” the man says once we’re all seated. “What’s on your mind?”
    I’ve never been addressed as Ms. Naimann in my entire life. Until today. And now several times. Every time I hear it I’m tempted to turn around to check whether there’s someone else—Ms. Naimann—standing behind me.
    They look at me attentively. Ms. Mahler fidgets a little in her chair.
    I pull my newspaper out of my backpack and open it. Vadim’s face lies in front of me and I put my fist on it.
    “This is why I’m here,” I say. “I read this.”
    “You are here about Ms. Mahler’s article,” the man perceptively summarizes.
    I nod.
    “What do you think of it?” he asks.
    “It’s shit,” I say.
    Ms. Mahler tries to smile but can’t. I turn to her.
    “Please excuse me,” I say. “I don’t mean to attack you personally, but it’s hard not to when we’re talking about something you wrote. I’m sure you’re a good journalist. It’s just that this article is . . . it’s just not possible. You can’t talk about him like he’s a human being. You can’t just write it that way. He shot my mother and another good human being. Just like that. That was his way of dealing with the fact that these people just wanted to lead a life without him being involved. If you did research—if you read the transcripts of the trial—you would know exactly what happened. He is the meanest, dirtiest, most disgusting scum that you will probably ever encounter. And you write that his letter is emotionally powerful. Or his sketches. Did you ever stop to think what reading that would do to me?”
    Ms. Mahler opens her lipstick-painted mouth and says something about a hundred thousand readers. She stops mid-sentence. I’m looking at her and can’t see what caused her to clam up. It’s possible a glance from the man that silenced her. The connection between those two pairs of eyes looks as tense as a piano wire. Or razor wire.
    I’m glad I’m not directly between the two of them.
    “I’m not sure how I should say this,” I say. “I probably can’t articulate all of this very well. But if Adolf Hitler were still alive, would you go visit him and praise his sketches?”
    I know I’ve failed miserably and drop my head.
    “I . . . ,” Ms. Mahler begins to say and then stops again.
    «Ms. Naimann,» the man says quietly. I look up, surprised, and look him directly in the eyes. They are gray like the fog I’m hopelessly stumbling around in. «Ms. Naimann, I think I will be equally unable to articulate what is moving me at the moment. It’s said that words are nothing but smoke and mirrors. It’s a banal cliché, but unfortunately it’s also true for the most part. I just want you to know that I thoroughly understand your feelings.»
    “If there’s one thing I will never believe,”