Page 82 of Anatomy of a Killer
‘Once again, Dad. This isn’t about me.’
‘But of course it is, Ann! It’s only ever been about you, my Beetle.’
I breathe as if I’m ragged. How often have I wondered whether he was just looking for a sort of substitute in those girls because he really wanted to kill me?
He still has no trouble reading me. ‘It never even crossed my mind to hurt you. I didn’t even manage it with Eva. And do you know why?’
I shake my head.
‘Because I knew how much she meant to you. You, Ann, were my life. My greatest gift and my greatest insight. Only through you was I able to feel. Because, you know. . .’ He looks at his hands. They’ve become old, just like him. His pale skin is dotted with brown spots; blue veins protrude conspicuously. ‘I’m ill.’
‘They’ve told me.’
He looks up. ‘I don’t mean the cancer. All my life I’ve suffered from a completely different condition. It’s not a recognised illness– at least not for people who merely invent terms for the condition, but never have to live with it– alexithymia. I suffer from alexithymia.’
‘Ale. . . what?’
‘Alexithymia.’
I shake my head in bewilderment.
‘Alexithymia means you feel little or nothing at all. You don’t have any idea what it’s like to be frustrated. All your life you wonder: is grief painful? What does rage feel like? Or love? I don’t know, Ann. I’ve never really been overcome by an emotion. My heart has never raced, nor has my throat ever felt constricted. What is envy? What is hatred? For other people, emotions are like bulldozers; for me, they’re more like. . .’ He looks up as if the correct description were stuck to the ceiling. ‘A breath of wind,’ he says finally, looking me in the eye again. ‘A breeze that gently wafts past almost without my noticing.’
‘You. . . ?’ I pause while my thoughts begin racing, uncontrolled, back in time. Memories like spotlights. Eva getting an earful and being grounded because of a bad grade, whereas my father just shrugged. All the shit I got up to aged fourteen. Joints, beer, skipping school and slitting mats in the gym. Locking Eva in the girls’ loo. It’s true: he never shouted at me. Never sent me to my room. When I scratched Nico’s moped and Dad covered for me. When I had the accident in 2015 through my own fault: too much beer. He didn’t just pay the fine, he also got Ludwig to see to it that I didn’t lose my licence. No dressing-down, no shouting. Just these words: ‘Don’t do it again, my Beetle. I still need you.’ My dad, the eternal stoic, fazed by nothing. And his arrest– of course. All those things I attributed his clueless behaviour to: shock, tiredness, pride, defiance. Can it really have just beennothing? Nothing at all, merely emptiness?
‘But. . . what about Mum? You loved her, didn’t you? Or me. . . What about me? You did everything for me. You always looked after me.’
‘That’s my problem, Ann. I know I love you. And that you belong to me. But. . .’
‘You don’t feel it? How can that be true, Dad?’ I shake my head for this very reason: it can’t be true. ‘I distinctly remember how worried you were about me when I closed up after Mum died. . .’ When I didn’t feel anything, my head adds. Just like you.
He nods. ‘Alexithymia can be hereditary, but it can also be brought on by serious trauma. Which means I could see you had two risk factors.’
‘That’s why you dragged me off to the child psychologist,’ I conclude. ‘And that’s why I always had to explain my feelings in great detail and even write them down. You didn’t want me to become like you, did you?’
‘No, I didn’t. It may sound paradoxical, but people like me– and by the way, there are far more of us than you could possibly imagine– are not completely cold. They’re often very aware of being different from other people. And they suffer from this. They suffer when they come across someone who is wildly happy, and all they can do is imitate this person, simulate a laugh like an actor. They practise interpersonal rituals until they’re as comfortable with them as a tailored suit. But they never feel complete.’ He cocks his head. His eyes are clear and cutting sharply right into my thoughts. ‘How is someone to understand the world if they cannot feel it?’
‘“The Allegory of the Cave,”’ I say, it having just come into my head. ‘I remember exactly what you told me:Our senses– sight, hearing, smell, taste and touch– can deceive us. With those alone, we’ll never fully understand the world. We have to think. And feel. But that was precisely what—’
‘I wasn’t capable of, ever.’ His laugh ends in a coughing fit. The sounds pain me. ‘My immune system isn’t the best these days,’ he explains with a shrug. ‘Well, now you know. Professor Walter Lesniak, the great, internationally renowned philosopher and anthropologist. He wants to answer all the questions about life and the world, but he’ll never succeed because he’s lacking the vital piece.’
I breathe to calm my heart down and counter the misplaced empathy. ‘You say that lots of people suffer from this thing. How many?’
‘According to studies, around fourteen per cent.’
‘What, and all of these go off and start killing people?’
‘No, but not all of them have seen the light either.’
‘The light?’
‘It’s hard to go back into the cave, my Beetle, when you’ve been outside and seen the light.’
‘What bloody light?’
‘In my case, you were the light, Ann.’
‘Me?’
