The weird reverie broke abruptly when Anna and her tall, thin, and equally shy-faced husband faced us and walked arm in arm down the center aisle. The dizziness was stronger this time, making me grip the wooden back of the pew in front of me until I regained my balance.
When I get home, maybe it’s time for a CAT scan, I thought unhappily as I followed the others out.
But first, Gran’s quest.
We rode the short way back to the Waleskas’ inn in flower-decorated wagons. People along the steep-roofed houses cheered or waved handkerchiefs, and a few girls and women threw bright blossoms down on us—mostly violet iris and rose-colored amaranth, but other flora as well, in every color except yellow.
Almost all the guests wore festive costume. Everywhere were flashes of glorious color; crimson, emerald, turquoise blue vests, all embroidered with contrasting colors. Dyed petticoats of contrasting shades peeped from under lace-hemmed skirts, trousers sported dashing weavings of color down the outside seam before disappearing into boots polished for the occasion.
Little kids ran shrieking around and around the perimeter of the patio at the inn as the guests crowded in, laughing and talking. The color, joy, the mixture of familiar and of strange customs was interesting, but the intensity of their happiness made me feel isolated and lonely.
I thought of Alec, and then tried not to think of Alec, which made me think about not thinking about him.
So I got up from the bench where I’d been sitting by myself. I forced a smile as the crowds parted instantly to make way for me, and helped myself to more of the spiced wine punch. Then I sat back down on my bench, my polite smile making my jaw ache.
I concentrated on picking out words and phrases in the flow of chatter around me, trying to gauge the minute I could sneak upstairs without being noticed. Madam was too distracted to pay any attention to me, but Theresa did, and the middle sister Tania, so when I saw them eyeing me anxiously, I gave them a wave and smile, and watched relief ease their faces as they turned to the rest of their unending hostess chores.
Supper was served before the long, golden sunbeams vanished behind the tall mountain above us. There was a variety of highly seasoned dishes, mostly pork- or mutton-based, with saffron-yellow rice, and then trays of Viennese-style pastry made with liberal quantities of cream or layered with the delicate sweet-sour flavor of
topfen
custard, and bread filled with nut- and rum-flavored layers of jam, dusted with cinnamon or powdered sugar.
The light began to fade, leaving a clear night. My mood lifted as musicians emerged from the welter of celebrants and began to play. Most of the food was gone; at Madam Waleska’s gesture a number of the women descended on the long tables and cleared them off, following which the men carried the tables back inside the inn’s dining room.
In the cleared space, the dancing began.
First Anna and her Josip, followed by close family members on both sides. That was the signal for general dancing. The guys went first, stamping and leaping and shouting. Then the women got out there with their own dances, full of swinging skirts, twirling and clapping and flirting poses.
There were also dances for couples, but the teens and young adults my age seemed to go for the sex-separate dances as often as the mixed, judging from the way they watched each other. Seeing those guys leap and twirl and rap their heels down in counterpoint to the galloping beat made me feel less isolated. I love to watch dancers as much as I love to dance.
Wine and laughter and good food and the slow intimacy of twilight’s deepening to darkness charged the atmosphere with expectation. Grins flashed, glances met across the crowded courtyard as the accordions, mandolins, pipes, and banduras bound everyone together with the complicated melodies of Dobreni music.
Then torches were lit and brought out. As the perimeter of the courtyard leaped back in yellow flickering light I noticed two men standing beyond the open gate beyond the pointy end of the terrace, where the two streets branched off at either side of the inn. These were shadowy figures, in workaday clothes and boots, and the angle of both faces zapped my nerves: they were watching me.
I’m merely a tourist, I thought, and blinked hard to clear the punch-fuzziness from my eyes. I peered over dancers’ shoulders, trying to find otherwhere-focus in those shadowy sockets, but the smoke and haze around me were too strong.
Anna appeared before me, breathing hard in her pearl-glistening white dress. “Come! Dance with us,” she invited, shyness banished by triumph and joy and wine.
She took my hand and drew me into the crowd of women milling in the center of the courtyard. Everything else disappeared from my mind as the music started up, gay and tinkling with a clash and tap of tambourines.
I turned to Anna, who put her hands on her hips. Resting my own fists on my hips, I mirrored everything she did.
We danced face-to-face, laughing as I mastered some steps and missed others. We were the center of a circle; the music lifted us, twirled us in a flourish of belling skirts . . . and inspired to recklessness by wine, and torchlight, and the others’ happiness surrounding my own ambivalence, impulse sparked me to improvise. Music skirled, torchlight flickered and streamed; light as autumn leaves chased by wind, I began to chassée.
Anna gave a crow of pleasure. Her friends clapped in time to the music. So I whipped into the steps of a tarantella, finishing with a twirling set of fouettés as they clapped in time. Then the music ended and a roar of approval sent a flock of pigeons clattering skyward from the eaves. I whirled in a double pirouette and came to rest in a dancer’s bow before Anna.
At once I was surrounded by smiling and admiring women. Anna laughed and exclaimed in excited Dobreni, clapping her hands. I straightened up, grinning—until I caught sight of those two men beyond her shoulder.
They’d come a few steps nearer, standing right at the gate. A third had joined them.
I was in the peculiar position of being the only one who noticed them; the group of women dancers all faced the bride and me, and the wedding guests near the gate were either talking to one another or watching the women.
The way the third man stood signaled threat. He wore a khaki military jacket hanging loose over a white shirt, dark pants and boots, and a cigarette dangled from his mouth. He returned my gaze with an insolent scrutiny for a few seconds.
I turned to Anna to ask who that was—but as I raised my hand, pointing, he threw down his cigarette, leaving it smoldering in the street as he walked beyond the gate, the other two following. Anna and a few turned to look in the direction I pointed, but the men were already out of view.
So Anna and her friends begged me to dance again, but I was afraid that while one might be a compliment to the bride, two would be overdoing it. When the music started again and I recognized the piece as one of the earthy stamping dances I’d watched a while ago, I took Anna’s hands and began it. As soon as she and the others had formed their circle I faded with practiced skill back into the group.
Half an hour later I slipped upstairs and got into bed.
And couldn’t sleep.
Those men. Were they watching the dancing, or were they spying on
me?
Not for any good reason, whatever they were doing, I thought as I recalled that one with the insolent leer.
“Sometimes,” I groaned, throwing back the covers and getting up without turning on my light again, “having an active imagination is a royal pain in the butt.”
Royal.
I had been watched, and followed, in Vienna because of my resemblance to Ruli. I’d assumed that all Alec’s people were out of the country searching, and that Ruli’s people didn’t have to search. Yeah, and what if I was wrong?
I peered through a crack in the curtains. No one in the shadows surrounding the courtyard wall, as far as I could see. Directly below me the party was going strong, but I did not see the work clothes or the khaki of the three watchers among them.
I frowned, looking around my dark room. The wardrobe! I hated the thought of someone getting at my passport and wallet again. The clothes I didn’t care about, but the papers . . .
I opened the wardrobe, felt inside my travel bag, and pulled out the roll of my jeans and blouse, with the ID and wallet with my euros wrapped inside like a hot dog in its bun. Two choices here: either I ask Madam Waleska to keep the stuff, which would raise all kinds of speculation, or I hide it.
The wardrobe was topped by a narrow ridge of carved wooden decoration. I yanked a chair over then climbed up and felt above the carving. Behind the far side, between the back of the wardrobe and the wall, there was a few inches of space. The rolled cloth fit back there snugly and was completely invisible. Even a hand patting the top of the wardrobe would miss it. The rest of the few Ruli clothes I’d kept remained right in view inside the wardrobe.
After that I was able to sleep.
Next morning I did my warm-ups, dressed, and went downstairs, passing Theresa and Tania, who were cleaning dispiritedly in between serving the mostly subdued guests. Even Madam had less than her usual bustle, but she greeted me with customary warmth. Her husband looked pale as he polished and stacked glasses. It was nearly noon, and the relatives were beginning a slow exodus.
I found a corner table to sit at, where the Waleskas’ relations scrupulously left me in splendid isolation. I studied my Dobreni dictionary as I ate cold leftovers for breakfast, then left.
It being Sunday there was no chance of finding anything official open. That had to remain for Monday. This day’s exploration would be the palace tour. When the big cathedral bells rang a quarter to two I crossed the main square and joined the group of people lined up at the fence.
As I had suspected, the tour was to be conducted in Dobreni. The people in line, all middle-aged, were citizens from the mountain reaches, except for two Romanians. They glanced my way with covert interest as they exchanged comments, but no one addressed me directly.
The blue-uniformed guard chatted idly with the first man in line. As he lifted his arm to glance at his watch another guard came running out from the building visible inside the palace compound.
This man slowed about thirty feet from the gate, walked with military correctness to the guard near us, then bent toward him to mumble a message.
My idle interest sharpened into apprehension as they both looked my way and gave me a fast scan. One of the guards met my gaze and smiled timidly. The other looked . . . shocked.
The second guard said to the line of waiting tourists, “Come with me please?”
I didn’t like that staring business, but I hadn’t done anything wrong, and it wasn’t as if any of them could possibly know me or what I was there for. So I shuffled along at the back of the group as the guard began his spiel.
The palace was built along customary palatial lines, the likes of which are to be seen all over Europe. This one had more of an air of Fischer von Erlach than anything I’d seen in France. It was shaped like an E, or perhaps more like an O and E put together; the semicircular main structure was built around a central garden, with three parallel wings extending into it, the outer two abutting the wide natural park that stretched up the slope of the mountain. The palace was about the same size as Schönbrunn.
At first I followed only bits of the history the guard reeled out. There were occasional references to Sweden, Russia, Poland, and the Holy Roman and Ottoman empires. There was something about Sobieski Square—the main square was built in honor of John Sobieski?—and a lot about the Russians and the Stadthalter.
The old and unwanted giddiness stole over me, at first without my being aware. I was too busy trying to fit my grandmother in this palace as I concentrated on picking familiar words out of the flow.
We toured through large, airy rooms with paneled walls, vaulted ceilings, and mosaic-tiled or marble or parquet floors. The most beautiful room was a rococo ballroom; its decorations had been stripped away by the various invaders, but the spectacular crystal chandeliers had survived (hidden by household staff), and the walls had been replastered with graceful molding.
I followed enough of the explanation to understand that the most valuable treasures had been removed by the palace staff right before the Germans swarmed over the border and were hidden in the mazes of caves and mines high in the mountains. But they couldn’t save everything.
The various occupiers had lived
en prince.
When they left, they dismantled, rolled up, and shipped back home every panel, lamp, carpet, and fixture that they could pry loose.
We walked upstairs to the residential wing. In spite of the flickering at the edge of my vision and the mild throbbing in my head, I thought, wow, my dictionary work is paying off. I was beginning to pick up context; the more the guard talked, the easier it was to understand him.
We walked through the long line of splendidly furnished sitting rooms, libraries, and chambers with tall canopied beds as he talked about past kings, customs, and events.
I was totally unready for what happened next.
We left the museumlike grand residence and began shuffling down a long gallery of royal portraits, restored fifteen years ago from their hiding places in the ancient, abandoned mines in Mount Tanazca. The crowd gazed up at the gold-framed faces as the tour guide reeled out names and dates.
I followed along at the tail end, and that’s when I walked smack into the woo-woo zone: I found myself face to painted face with the actor I’d seen twirling her parasol at the Hofburg and then again on the Glorietta.
No, really.
It was
exactly
the same woman. Right down to the sky blue sacque dress, the diamond drops in her ears, and the fine golden embroidery along the lace edging of her gown’s square neck.