Page 13 of Views
Frank Palmer leads them into the kitchen. Everything is spotless there. Lena’s father is probably trying to keep himself busy somehow. He asks them to take a seat and they sit down at the kitchen table with the yellow oilcloth.
“Before we begin...” says Yasira. “I hope you’ve already been told that we can provide you with a psychologist to help you and your son...”
Frank Palmer shakes his head briefly but violently. “No.” Then he repeats what he has already told the local police. However, this questioning took place before the video. The situation is much worse now. Palmer is repeatedly on the verge of tears. In the middle of the conversation, a kitchen timer rings. Palmer gets up and puts on a kitchen glove.
“I... uh... I made a lasagna,” he says. “It’s Lena’s favorite, you know?” He smiles sadly. “Since she was three years old, she liked nothing better than my lasagna. But back then she always called it salagna.” He swallows. As if to explain, he adds: “I thought she’d be hungry when she comes back.”
Yasira nods. “Certainly.”
Frank Palmer bends down. He takes a lasagna dish out of the oven and places it on the ceramic hob. There is already a casserole dish with lasagna. No one has eaten from it.
“I made lasagne yesterday,” says Frank Palmer, as if he’s only just noticed the second casserole dish. “But I thought it tasted better fresh.”
Yasira nods again.
Michael hums in agreement.
“Would you like a piece?”
Yasira declines with thanks. She’s not hungry. Besides, there’s probably meat in it and this is not the time or place for a conversation about why she doesn’t want to eat it anymore.(You know, my daughter, my living daughter, my non-raped daughter who sits at home and probably watches Netflix, made me become a vegetarian. You know, because of the climate.)No.
Michael, on the other hand, gratefully accepts the offer. Her colleague can happily eat anytime, anywhere.
Frank Palmer hands him a plate of lasagna and cutlery.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” he asks Yasira again. “It’s just ground beef.”
She needs a moment to understand that Lena’s father obviously thinks she might have problems with pork for religious reasons. How complicated can a lasagna be?
Yasira shakes her head. “No, thank you. I’m really not hungry.”
Palmer himself also passes.
“Have you ever seen any of the men on the video?” Yasira continues the questioning.
Palmer shakes his head.
“Can you imagine that your daughter could have known one of them?” asks Michael.
“No,” says Lena’s father. But then he sobs. “But I have to admit that I can’t say for sure. We’ve somehow become estranged over the last year.”
Yasira hands him a handkerchief.
“Since Tanja, my wife... Lena’s mother... Since Tanja died,” Frank Palmer continues, “everything has been so difficult. Of course it hit the children hard. I took care of Emil a lot. And often just didn’t have the strength anymore. Now I blame myself terribly for that. I think I neglected my daughter. That I didn’t look after her enough.”
“Perhaps it will help you,” says Yasira gently, “that almost all parents of teenagers know this gnawing feeling.”
“Do you have children?” asks Frank Palmer.
Michael shakes his head. Yasira nods. “One daughter. She’s Lena’s age.”
“Then perhaps you can understand...”
Palmer stops. Yasira understands. All too well.
“I can hardly imagine anything worse,” she says.
Frank Palmer pauses. “I can imagine something worse.”
