He noticed that his heart had started beating faster. The road seemed quiet. Across the way, an electrical substation was hemmed in on both sides by dense, rustling undergrowth. Behind it, he knew, lay a shallow moat that ran all the way around the affluent neighborhood. He crossed the driveway and walked up to the mailbox, a green plastic container on a pole. There was no name on it, just a number: 23. He opened the door and peered inside. Nothing. Then he looked at the house. The curtains were closed, but he could hear vague sounds—voices, a TV. Hesitantly, he walked up the path that led to the front door. It was straight and narrow, laid out in paving stones. There was no nameplate here either—nothing.

Who are these people?

Sunday

Sunday

1

1

In many respects, Sara took after Werner’s mother, Helen realized as she placed a cappuccino on the table in front of her mother-in-law.

Ria retrieved a silver dispenser from her handbag and dropped a tablet of sweetener onto the thick layer of foam. Her pearl bracelets clacked together softly.

Werner’s parents came to visit every Sunday around midday, for what had somehow become a set date since Sara was born. There was no way of avoiding it—though, fortunately, they had purchased a houseboat that spring and had taken to going on weekend trips. Helen had so far managed to fend off the occasional invitations to join them, as Werner’s brothers and their families had already done, but she had been less successful in dodging joint vacations in the Gers in France. The family had a tiny, ancient farmhouse down there, located in a remote spot with views of the snowcapped Pyrenees. When the kids were younger, they had spent countless vacations camping out both in and around this “witch’s house,” where leaky air mattresses, heavily chlorinated tap water, and a complete lack of privacy were the order of the day. It was also a place where Ria would exhibit an alarming character shift and “let her hair down” under the influence of the cheap wine she procured in jerricans from the local vintner. Another trait Sara had inherited from her grandma, thought Helen.

“You’ve got a stain here,” whispered Ria, as if imparting a weighty secret. She ran her finger along the neck of her own immaculate white blouse.

Helen pulled her top forward a little and examined the collar. A tiny mark. “I see it, thank you. I’ll wash it tonight.”

Ria explained to her in a lowered voice that she should soak the stain first. She did so very patiently. To Ria, Helen would forever be young and ignorant. It never occurred to the woman that her daughter-in-law had already managed to remove thousands of stains from all manner of blouses, pants, and shirts, all by herself.