‘Tomorrow, Martin, don’t forget.’ As usual, Karla had the last word. I hung the telephone back on its hook and flexed my fingers, cramped from gripping the heavy black plastic. Several small silver coins shot into the return tray, but I was too exasperated to bother fishing them out. I stepped out of the phone box onto the street, where a chilly autumn wind was waiting. I just could not escape this woman. I was here in Zagreb to film a travel documentary, and Karla was ten thousand kilometres away in our apartment in Santiago. But even though I was very glad to get away from Karla for a while, and had decided to use this time apart to decide what to do about our terrible relationship, I still felt compelled to telephone her regularly. And each time, I felt just as entangled and trapped as I did at home.…
