Poachers Road (25 page)

He took her hands again. Her frown eased and he looked down at their hands.

A tiny tremor brought his gaze to her face. He saw she was near tears.

“It’ll blow over,” he said. “Really. Try not to worry. It’ll blow over.”

“It’s just that things,” she began but paused and drew in a fluttery breath before wiping her nose again. “We needed to talk anyway. I thought, when we were together, we’d be able to.”

The foreboding flooded into his mind. He felt himself searching her face for clues.

“Talk,” he said, quietly. “I never liked ‘talk.’That kind, anyway.”

She had a stricken look now.

“Don’t try to joke now, Felix. Please.”

“What else can I do? Weren’t we going away for a few days?”

“Look, we’ve been avoiding talking about it.”

“It? What’s ‘it’?”

“I don’t want us to talk like this. It’s been a long day.You probably slept lousy too.”

“Maybe I’m beginning to get it,” he said. “Is it about this cop life? The crappy stuff?”

She hesitated before answering.

“We talked about that already.You forgot.”

The coffee was an acid snake still worming its way through his gut.

Then she sighed. He expected her to cry again, but she didn’t.

“Felix. I don’t want you to be like the others. But that’s impossible, I see now. I’ve been thinking about it, trying not to think about it, running away from it, but it comes back. Now, with this horrible thing you’re involved in, I am thinking this is the start of it, and it’ll get worse.”

“Did I make the worst mistake ever bringing you up there with those other cops? Is that what did it?”

“No, no. Peter’s nice Andreas, the one from Klagenfurt?”

“Andreas the cabbage?”

“They are nice guys,” she said. “And no, nobody put the moves on me. It’s just that, well, you are in the circle or you are not.”

“What circle?”

“I’m not saying this right.”

“You mean cops? There’s a wall there?”

She returned his look but made no reply.

“For Christ’s sake, Giuliana. Stuff like this never happens. Ask Gebi. It’s traffic, it’s domestics, or burglaries, and beer fights.”

She said nothing. He felt like something had been decided already.

“I need time to think,” she said.

A closing line, Felix realized. Still, he wanted to rescue something from the day.

“Jesus!” was all he managed, and he had not even intended to say it aloud.

“Please, don’t get angry Felix. It’s me, my problem. Can we just leave here the banhof, I mean?”

He moved in a daze around the table and out the doors in front of the station. He didn’t remember how noisy it had been here when he’d arrived.

“I started,” he snapped at her when she put her hand on the straps of her carry-all. “I’ll finish carrying it. Okay?”

When she put her arm in his, it felt like never before. He counted each step they walked to where he had parked.

TWENTY-SIX

B
UT IT GOT A LITTLE BETTER, MUCH SOONER THAN
F
ELIX HAD
expected. They hugged in the car, and he even searched under her blouse. For a while he thought he could go all the way, right there in the street outside Giuliana’s mother’s building.

She murmured something to him even as he kissed her, and she pushed him away gently and when he opened his eyes he saw how flushed she had become, and the film over her eyes, that lost look.

It had him aching worse.

“Phone me,” she said. “When you get there.”

“How about every hour.”

“I’m worried about you, Felix. I am.”

“I have a mom already. What I want, what I need is”

She put a finger to his lips.

“Don’t let them, whoever they are, don’t do any more for those people.”

For a few moments he didn’t know what she meant.

He pretended to bite her finger. Her face soon turned sombre again.

“Felix, it’s not just about this thing. It’s been there awhile. And tell me I am not abandoning you.”

“Big word, ‘abandon.’ How long have you been thinking about this ‘talk’?”

“I feel terrible about this, you going up there by yourself.”

“Don’t. I spent summers there. They are easy. It’ll be a mini-holiday.” JOHN BRADY POACHER'S ROAD

“Severe, isn’t that what you said? But they’re older, he is, your Opa Kimmel.”

She put her hand out for the door latch.

“Be careful,” she said. “Driving, I mean.”

Felix drove on autopilot, his head swimming, and his thoughts beginning to clot and darken again. The words that Giuliana seemed to have left behind her in the car circled endlessly even as the spring air cannoned around from the open windows. It wasn’t helping, all this cool air. He couldn’t trap any of those words or phrases long enough to make any sense of what she had told him.

All he remembered was her eyes glistening, and the faraway look, too often near to tears. There had to be someone else. But why would she wait until their time together to tell him? Nonsense.

As if he weren’t in over his head already, with what had started with a drive in the hills with Gebhart only two days ago, when he had sat in the Himmelfarb kitchen eating home-made strudel. Two days? ‘A good day’s work’ Gebhart had called it, getting Hansi Himmelfarb out of the house at last? Off the deep end, for sure, he decided.

He yelled out the window, a long, ragged screech.When he saw there were no cars behind him still, he did it again, until his throat hurt. It sort of worked, but only in that he had a burning throat that took his attention.Within a short time, he was ready to head up into the hills from the roundabout in Weiz, beginning to wonder how the hell he had gotten all this way and not paid attention to the driving.

He earned two annoyed toots from drivers when he changed his mind at the roundabout and went the full way around, then back toward the supermarket. Oma Nagl was a sucker for blumen, any kind, but freesias most of all. Something would come of the end of this scheisslich day, with a cake, a dozen bottles of Puntigamer, and two city newspapers. Opa Nagl could laugh over them with gusto and regular quiet expressions of joyful malice that were entertaining to watch.

He found everything in the supermarket, including freesias that would have been better bought two days ago. The key in the trunk was tricky, and he stared at the reflections on the glass while he wiggled it. It wasn’t working. He stopped and left the key hanging, his eyes still on the evening sky reflected on the glass. He wasn’t overly surprised to feel an anger surging in him now.

So Giuliana had noticed changes in him. Sure, it was possible.

Everybody did the denial thing, and he’d be the first to admit it. But somehow decided it was better to wait until their holiday to have a “talk”? Well for the love of Jesus, as Gebhart might say in pious, controlled exasperation. So she had noticed something, changes he had not. Well why hadn’t she said something earlier? With the running jokes about the insensitive males, and womanly intuition, or inspiration or whatever they wanted to call it? She had given up, was why, she held out no hope. Was that fair?

He tried again and the key turned. He loaded in the beer and the cake and the newspapers and slammed the hatch shut.What had he done so wrong anyway? Before he knew it, Felix had reclined his seat and was reaching over the back seat to get at the beer. He gave the parked cars a quick once-over, opened one with the penknife he kept in the glove compartment, and took a long, long draught of warm beer. It was just fine. He held it down on the floor as a shopper pushed a trolley close by.

On his second, shorter drink from the bottle, he saw it was snobbery, Giuliana’s thing that had come out of nowhere tonight.

Or a day late, he had learned. She didn’t want her boyfriend being a cop; she wanted the fun-loving-student-headed-for-respectability back, the one she had started with two years ago. And maybe she was right. She had graduated and was teaching already. He had worn out some shoes and lost brain cells drifting around Europe and working for the year. Pretty simple decision for her then, no?

With the bottle emptying on his fifth or sixth sip, it was all coming together. It was like one of the accordions that always showed up at a Maifest outside the church walls in St. Kristoff, when the beer started to flow finally, but the wrong notes, or no notes at all, were coming out of it. He shook the bottle to be sure it was really empty. So fast? He slid it under the seat, and wondered if this was how going mad actually started.Yes, maybe this was what if felt like to go over the edge. He stared at the top of the steering wheel, a gassy burp escaping between his lips and the giddiness starting in his head. He’d make it, he knew, up to St. Kristoff and his grandparents’ place. The guilt at drinking one bottle of beer here in a car park wouldn’t cripple him.

Parts of the steering wheel were worn smooth. He ran his hand along from axle to axle. Giuliana was right.

He ran his fingers around the whole wheel now, and felt the parts that had received little wear. His father had driven this car as little as possible: it dies on the hills, he had said? Yes. And, you’d nearly have to get out and push it up to the village, was another.

He had shut things out. So? Couldn’t she understand that he’d had to shut things out? Hadn’t he even told her once, a year afterwards, that he couldn’t stop thinking what his father’s last moments had been like, maybe that second or two it was still in the air, spiralling down to the rocks? Maybe it had all just brought out something maternal in her, or a pity, and he had been too dumb to spot it growing, until now, even she knew it wasn’t enough to get over what he had become.

The scent of the freesias was winning out over his beery breath.

He remembered what the woman wrapping them had said. Any other day it might have been funny.

“Your liebchen will love these,” she had told him in accented German she had not grown up with. “After freesias comes diamonds, the engagement. Ever heard that?”

TWENTY-SEVEN

B
ERNDT, THE
N
AGLS’ ANCIENT
W
EIMARANER, WAS NEITHER SO
blind nor deaf that he did not know Felix. Little enough of the dog could wag now. He did not try to get into the car when Felix opened the door, but was content to stand there and receive attentions. The lumps on the joints of his hind legs looked bigger than Felix remembered. Berndt didn’t push for more pats when Felix stopped.

There was a smell of fresh paint coming from the house. The windows were still open. Felix gathered the straps of his sports bag tighter, anxious to avoid crushing the flowers he was trying to hold aside from the straps, or the stuff from the supermarket. The dog moved on slowly and crookedly to the door without him, and then turned with a look of short-sighted curiosity and an awkward shrug of sorts.

Felix took in the deep overhanging eaves and the window boxes, and the stacked wood that ran in a line back up the vegetable garden toward the orchard. Behind the washing stirring slowly on the clothesline were the hills that lay between here and the highlands of the Teichalm.

Oma Nagl’s mania for washing clothes remained as strong as ever. She particularly liked to whack carpets and rugs, and heartily too, and had initiated Felix into the rug-whacker world when he was very small. It had always been so. Other memories eddied back to him now as he closed in on the doorway: Oma Nagl with her own sisters and neighbours in the yard on benches, like some African tribe, peeling and slicing turnips. It didn’t matter if it were gooseberries, apples, potatoes, turnips: she needed to be busy, to be in rhythm. She could as easily have lived the same ways of centuries ago.

In the yard was their old Opel, a vehicle that was rarely seen without a trailer or a roof-rack loaded with something. The need to replace parts only seemed to intensify Opa Nagl’s stubborn attachment to it, and the brand generally. Some years ago, Opa Nagl had made a run at Vienna with it, but had given up when the traffic began to surround him more and more approaching the city.

“That car has been to Vienna,” he would say. “Almost. But it knew when to stop. Better than any of those electronic things they put all over the cars now.”

A cat new to Felix was prowling in the yard, but the stationary fat one, Mitzi, was in her usual spot. She had always looked malignant, perhaps because she so seldom moved but merely glared with that negligent but somehow lethal detachment Felix had always read into her expression.

He saw tools on the ground near the tractor. Opa Nagl stepped out of the shed with a hesitant step, examining something, and looked over at the dog’s slowing antics.

“A senile dog,” he called out. “He won’t even bark. Servus Felix and how are you?”

Felix smiled and laid down his bags. His grandfather’s knuckles seemed to be even more misshapen by the arthritis.

“You look worn out,” said Felix’s opa. “Mein Gött, what the hell kind of shitty life are you leading now?”

It had always been so with Opa Nagl’s language, and Felix’s mother had long tired of trying to explain it. Farm talk, she used to call it, when Felix and Lisi were small. As they grew, she said it was perhaps psychological, or maybe a need to embarrass others.