SCENES

The room faces the street. Her cases are already set down.

On the bed there is a nightdress. It is her size. On the dresser there is a faded photograph of a pregnant woman.

Elena opens the case. She goes through it once and then again, slower, and then stops.

Saul's card is in her jacket pocket. Downstairs there is a woman behind a counter who would find her a telephone.

She tips her head back against the rest, looks up at the cabin ceiling.

ELENA: For three years I spoke to a man every Tuesday who does sprinkler systems for hospitals. Peter. We never once talked about anything except sprinkler systems. And when the project finished, he sent me a postcard.

She faces forward again.

ELENA: That's what my life looks like. In case you need it for a film.

PASSENGER: A film about sprinkler systems?

She laughs — short, and real.

ELENA: Nobody would watch that.

Then, after a moment, more serious, but not heavy:

ELENA: Although. It is interesting, when you think about it. You build an entire building for a case that hopefully never happens. All those pipes above the ceilings, for decades, full of water, and nobody ever sees them.

She sniffs, wipes her face once — the dry air.

ELENA: Peter took it seriously. He actually said: Frau Pham, we're building for the one day.

PASSENGER: So — are you travelling for work as well?

ELENA: No.

She lets it stand for a moment.

ELENA: I took holiday. Two weeks.

She looks at the empty cup, turns it a little.

ELENA: Two weeks and a bit on top.

PASSENGER: Are you flying on anywhere else in Asia? I mean — do you have family out there? Because —

She looks at him. Friendly, but something has gone out of it.

ELENA: Because of how I look.

She says it without any edge. Like a sentence she has said often enough to have worn smooth.

ELENA: My father's from Vietnam. He lives in Kassel. I don't have family out there we'd fly to. I've never been to Vietnam.

She pushes the cup a little away from herself.

ELENA: And no, I don't speak Vietnamese. That's usually the next one.

PASSENGER: I'm sorry — I didn't mean to put you on the spot. So. Just Thailand, then.

She waves it off, half.

ELENA: It's fine. It wasn't a bad question.

She sits up a little, sorts out the blanket.

ELENA: Yes. Just Bangkok. I'm staying there.

Pause.

ELENA: Everyone tells me I should go to the islands, you have to see it, and so on. But I don't fancy a beach.

She looks around the room while the lady washes her feet.

On the far side there is a door. Taped to it, a sheet of paper: THIS ROOM DOES NOT EXIST

Under the door, red light comes on for a second and goes off.

The woman picks up both heavy cases as though they weigh nothing and starts up the stairs.

Elena follows her.

Something follows them both. It moves lower than a person moves and stays behind them the whole way. The corridor is dark. The only light comes from an open door at the end of it. The two women are silhouettes.

Elena feels it and turns around.

The woman kneels down in front of her and reaches for the soaked shoe.

Elena says no, please, that isn't necessary, she can do that herself. The shoe comes off. The woman smiles up at her and keeps murmuring.

Elena says, more weakly, that really, it doesn't have to… Then she stops talking, and lets the second shoe be taken.