Katherine Carlyle by Rupert Thomson Read Free Book Online

2, T 3, T 4 — then put me in an incubator. I had been there before, of course. This was theplace where I divided.
Cleaved
. But everything was different this time round. I was being prepared for implantation. I experienced a gradual loss of control, a delicious incontinence. I was unfurling, expanding. Taking shape. A sudden, hectic tumble into life. My cells were yellow — a healthy yellow — and the heat coursing through me triggered urgency and purpose. It wasn’t my decision to feel hopeful. Hope happened to me. And then the warm red darkness of my mother’s womb …
    Later that night, as I lie in bed with the lights off, I hear distant yelling.
    The scrawny man picking a fight.
    Police arresting immigrants.
    /
    When I enter the café on Giesebrechtstrasse the following morning, Klaus Frings is already there, sitting at the same table as before. I take the table next to him and order a double espresso. Klaus leafs through his paper, seemingly oblivious to everybody else. Though his overcoat and reading glasses look expensive, I don’t see him as a businessman. He could be an architect, I’m thinking, or the curator of a small museum. I’m so focused on him and speculating so intently that I’m surprised he doesn’t sense my presence, but his eyes don’t leave the page, not even when he reaches for his coffee.
    My espresso arrives. It’s time I made contact and I choose an obvious opening, the one least likely to arouse suspicion.
    “Could you pass the sugar?”
    He looks at me over the top of his glasses, his eyes wary, almost hostile, and I remember that this is a man who has recently been jilted. He might be feeling resentful towards women at the moment. He might have it in for all of us. Or perhaps it’s simply that he dislikes being interrupted.
    “The sugar?” I say again, more gently.
    “Of course.” He hands me the bowl.
    Thanking him, I select two brown sugar lumps, drop them into my coffee, and pass the bowl back to him. “I’m sorry,” I say. “My German’s hopeless.”
    “Not at all.” The angle of his head alters. “You were here yesterday.”
    I smile but say nothing.
    “What are you doing in Berlin?” He puts his paper down. “Are you a student?”
    “Not exactly.” I lower my eyes, looking at my coffee. I imagine the sugar lumps dissolving — a thin layer of crystals on the bottom, and the hot bitter darkness overhead. “No one knows I’m here. In Berlin, I mean.”
    “You’ve run away?”
    “I’m nineteen. Nearly twenty.”
    He looks past me, towards the door. “I didn’t mean —”
    “It doesn’t matter. I can’t really go into detail, though. Let’s just say that I’m experimenting with coincidence.”
    “Is that what this is — a coincidence?”
    I give him a quick look. Has the Englishwoman been on the phone to him?
We ran into this girl the other day
—
at the cinema
 … But no, why would she mention me? Above all, why would shemention me
to him
? I didn’t even hint that I might be interested in her friend, Klaus Frings — and besides, it’s clear from his expression that he’s teasing me.
    “So where do you live when you’re not” — and he pauses — “experimenting?”
    “Rome.”
    “Ah. That explains the tan.” He appears to think for a moment, leaning back in his chair, one hand massaging the back of his neck. “Are you staying in the neighborhood?”
    “No.” I mention the hotel where I have spent the last two nights. He hasn’t heard of it, which is hardly a surprise. I tell him where it is. His frown returns.
    “That’s not a good area. At night it can be —” He doesn’t want to say it. The word
dangerous
.
    “It’s not so bad.”
    “How long do you plan to stay there?”
    “I’m not sure.” Once again I look down into my coffee cup.
    His gaze lingers on me — I can feel it, like heat — then he glances at his watch. “I must go.” He stands up. “Will you be here tomorrow?”
    “Probably.”
    He extends a