The Right Hand of Sleep (22 page)

Else waved this off. —Back to the topic. Any children?

Voxlauer shook his head.

—None?

—We did try, if it please the court.

—No children, said Else. —That’s very sad.

—We loved each other, Voxlauer said tentatively.

—That’s more important, of course. Any idiot can have children.

—That’s true.

—I did.

—Yes.

—You do like Resi, don’t you, Oskar.

He nodded.

—Do you like her?

—Very much. I like her very much.

—If you didn’t like her you’d be turned out with the bedsheets first thing in the morning. You know that, I hope. Turned straight out without the smallest mercy.

—I love Resi like a sister, said Voxlauer solemnly. He coughed.

—That’s fine. She looked at him a moment. —Do you need the bowl?

—No. Anything but that.

—Do you need it?

—Christ, no.

They lay quietly. Voxlauer felt himself drifting off again toward sleep.

—Do you think about her often? Else said.

He groaned quietly.

—Answer me!

—Not often.

—You said that you loved her.

—Yes. I think I did.

—You think?

—I loved her. I’d like to go to sleep.

—You loved her, or you think you did, said Else, grimacing. —But now you never think of her.

—That’s right. You’ve summed it up perfectly.

—Think about her now. Wake up, Oskar! What was she like?

Voxlauer rolled onto his back. —Have you no pity?

—Speak or I’ll get the bowl. Speak!

He was quiet a moment. —Strait-laced, he said finally. —Tall and thin. Pale. Serious. Bourgeois. Unhappy.

—Unhappy? said Else.

—Yes. Unhappy.

—Always?

—No. Not always. Sometimes she was so happy she couldn’t sleep.

—Why? said Else after a little pause. —Why couldn’t she sleep?

—I don’t know.

—You don’t know?

—She never said.

—“She never said”? What do you
mean
by that? She sat bolt upright in the dark. —What did you talk about then, all day long?

—You’re very interested in her state of mind all of a sudden, said Voxlauer, rubbing his eyes.

She muttered something under her breath. —I just hope you talked to her, that’s all.

He tried to turn toward her, then lay back gingerly on the pallet. —You didn’t know her, did you, Else.

—You’re right, of course. I’m sorry. She yawned.

—I did talk to her.

—Well, then.

—Let’s talk about you for a while, he said, tapping her on the leg.

—Please, Oskar. She yawned again. —There’s nothing to tell.

—I doubt that very much.

—I’ve never been to Russia. She brought a hand down over his face, closing his eyes. —I’ve never farmed state’s beets. I’ve never been a Bolshevik.

—The worse for you, said Voxlauer. —Bolshevism is society’s beet.

—Good night, Oskar, she said, drawing the blankets up over them.

—Is it time to sleep? said Voxlauer into the quiet.

Slow and tidelike through the month of June the butterflies came and blanketed the valley. The first to appear were translucent and white and sat harbored on the road like an armada of paper ships, folding and unfolding. —Postilions, said Else, stepping into them so they rose up on either side of her, shimmering and unreal, like crepe-paper snowflakes in a country theater. On into midsummer they settled in every patch of light, ranged in bands along the Pergauer road in beams of late sun or drifting in loose columns across the fields. Caught in the hand they left a roan dust behind, iridescent and fine as pollen.

Soon after came the rest, mourning cloaks and swallowtails and purple moors, chess pieces and white apollos, peacock’s-eyes and cyllabils and others whose names Voxlauer couldn’t remember ever having known. He would follow Else down along the water and tell her stories as she stalked them with her net and killing jar, struggling to keep up with her as she ran ahead through the heavy brush, following the tip of her net as it dipped and circled above the reeds. Often he would realize as a story was half finished that he’d lost track of her completely. Coming out onto the road a short while later, scratched and dusty and grinning, the end of the net tucked down into the ether, she’d beg his forgiveness and ask him to start over again at the beginning. More often than not, he’d abandon the story, sigh and lie down in the grass and think of something else to tell her.

One morning as they were sitting by the creek together and he sat playing a fly line into the current he found himself staring at the back of her head, dappled and striped by the overhanging reeds. —What is it? said Else after a minute or two had passed, turning round.

—Pauli says your cousin’s come back, he said, reeling the line in carefully.

—Yes.

He looked at her. —You knew?

—His mother sent word he’d asked where I was living. I’m not sure what she told him.

—Ah, said Voxlauer.

Else kicked at the water with the heel of her boot. —She didn’t say how long he was planning on staying. He might only have been passing. I’m not sure.

—He’s head of the new Reichs-Commission, Voxlauer said slowly. —From Gressach to the Steyrmark. I think it’s likely he’ll be staying for quite a while.

—I’ve asked her to tell him not to come, Oskar. I’ve told her not to say where I am. I can’t do more than that, can I?

—He’ll know where you are. He knows already.

—Why do you say that? she said, looking away.

Voxlauer closed his eyes. —Because he’s SS, Else. That’s why.

She said nothing.

—You didn’t tell me he was SS.

—You knew he was an illegal. She got up slowly from the bank. —Does it matter?

—It does matter. Yes. It matters.

—Well, Oskar: now you know. She stepped behind him and disappeared into the bushes, taking her net up as she passed. Voxlauer sat without moving for a long time, staring down at the water.

An hour later Else came back and set her net down by his shoulder. —Look here, Oskar. Reaching in with her tweezers she pulled out a dark blue set of wings veined and speckled with vermilion and purple. The under pair of wings glittered lazuli as she turned them. —There’s room in Resi’s box for one more, don’t you think?

Resi came through the door first, hanging back in its lit frame. The evening sun behind her glowed in her dark mass of hair and erased any trace of childishness from her features. —Why are you here? she said, looking at Voxlauer. —I didn’t ask you.

—No, you didn’t, said Voxlauer, rising from the table. —Would you like me to go?

—Theresa, Else said, coming up the steps behind her. —Oskar’s my good friend. He can come in very handy.

Resi looked at him again. He grinned stupidly at her, showing his missing teeth.

—How did
that
happen? said Resi, taking a half step backward.

—Robbers beat him, said Else, shooting a glance at Voxlauer.

—Friends of cousin Kurti’s, said Voxlauer, still leering.

Resi laughed loudly, a shrill, malicious-sounding, boyish laugh. —I bet he could knock out all your teeth if he wanted.

—Most likely he could, said Voxlauer. He sighed. —Sometimes they fall out by themselves.

—You can stay, said Resi abruptly, crossing the room. Voxlauer bowed to her and sat down.

After dinner they sat Resi at the table and blindfolded her with a dish towel and told her to count to twenty. The evening light shone on her through the open door and Voxlauer could see her smiling to herself as they brought the boxes up from the bedroom. With her eyes covered by the cloth she looked less like Else, thinner-faced and darker. Again Voxlauer had the impression she was older than she was. —Happy twenty-eighth! said Else, slipping off the blindfold.

—I’m not twenty-eight, said Resi, smiling up at them suspiciously.

—Sure you are.

—I’m seven.

—Ah. Well. We’d best take these presents to a more mature young lady, then, said Voxlauer, picking up a box. Resi let out a shriek and clutched at his leg.

—Fräulein! Please! said Voxlauer, staring down at her aggrievedly. —A bit more decorum. You’ll shatter my glass eye.

—Look to your presents now, Resi, Else said. —Ignore this man altogether.

—Tell him to give that back, said Resi, pointing at the box.

—
Voilà!
said Voxlauer, laying the box down on the table. —I was only keeping it safe for the mademoiselle.

—What is it? said Resi, looking past him at Else.

—Don’t play the diva, mouse. Open your blessed boxes.

—For mademoiselle’s convenience, said Voxlauer, extending a pair of scissors.

Resi took the scissors and snipped without ado through the twine. —Is this a ribbon? she asked, holding it up to her face.

—Close enough, Resi. Else leaned over the table and pulled the twine away from the box and held it open. Resi stood on her stool and pulled out a long black silk dress Voxlauer recognized after a moment as from the trousseau under the parlor window. She held the dress up to the light and studied it intently. —Are we going to a funeral? she asked, glancing uncertainly at Voxlauer.

—Funeral season begins next month, mademoiselle. A little patience.

—No one’s going to any funerals, said Else, narrowing her eyes at him. —Next box, please, Resi. I swear I’ve never seen such a girl for dawdling.

—Don’t rush me, Mama. Resi had taken up a smaller package now and was trying to slide the twine off all in one piece. Her small-boned face was set in an expression of fixed attention, her mouth twisting slightly as she worked. —Smells like a book, she announced, tearing the paper in a spiral. She looked at the cover a moment and grinned. —Bugs and flowers.

—So you won’t always be pestering me, said Else. —Last one, now. She motioned excitedly to Voxlauer.

Voxlauer brought the box up onto the table, tapping significantly against its sides with his fingers. —It’s wood, said Resi, eyes widening. —I’ll do it, she said, pushing Else away. —I’m doing it, Mama.

—Help me please, she said a moment later, her small voice wavering. Else took the box by its corners and pulled the paper downward. Bright wings phosphoresced in the light from the window, darkening and shifting color as the box revolved. —
Ach!
Thank you, Mama! Resi said, taking Else’s hand in that strange formal way of hers.

—You’ll have to name them all, of course, said Else. —From the book. And say thank you to Oskar. He made the box.

After dinner the two of them sat late into the evening labeling specimens from Else’s lexicon. Voxlauer said good night and walked slowly down the slope and up again through the little town. The air was still and warm and smelled of pine dust as always and the gables of the cliffs glowed a heavy violet behind it. The chittering of crickets accompanied him as far as the last fields, surging and ebbing and surging again, then faded gradually through the pines. Now and then a branch would snap close by the road and something would tumble away from him into the brush. For a long while he was unaware of his own breathing and when he did notice it again it seemed wonderfully untroubled to him. He walked purposefully and steadily and counted as many as seven steps between breaths. Everything on all sides was benevolent and mild. As the road straightened and leveled he closed his eyes and walked blindly forward, feeling his way upward through the dark.

The air above the ponds was filled with fluttering bodies, oblivious to his presence in their sightless dips and circlings, curving over the water in nervous, erratic arcs, tracing ancient, encrypted patterns across its surface. For a long time Voxlauer listened to their soft, parchment-like wingbeats, sitting on the bank and searching the surface of the pond for their reflections. At times they came close enough to him that he felt or imagined the pass of their fineboned leathery wings against his face and his hair. When it grew too dark even to guess at them anymore he stood up clumsily from the bank and crossed the pilings.

A figure came up the road the next morning as Voxlauer sat on the stoop leafing through the
Selections from Goethe
he’d taken from the old house. Long before he could make out the features below the wicker hat brim he recognized the loose storklike gait and the deliberate, august advancement of the cane. He called out a hello as Piedernig drew even with the pilings.

—I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure yet of a house call, Professor. Would you do us the honor?

Piedernig bowed deeply. —With your permission, young Herr. With your kind and generous permission.

—Headed to the heath? said Voxlauer, leading him up to the cottage steps.

—I’ll not deny it, said Piedernig. —What’s more, I was hoping you might yourself be able to spare an hour.

—I might just. Voxlauer set the book down on the woodpile and pushed the door to the cottage closed. —I’d invite you in, Professor, but it isn’t much to look at.

—I believe it implicitly, said Piedernig. He took Voxlauer’s arm again and they crossed back to the road. They walked in silence for a number of minutes, Voxlauer adjusting his steps to Piedernig’s more stately, level stride.

—I’d thought of stopping in at the farm for a few drams of Kirschbrannt on the way, if you’ve no objection, Piedernig said, smacking his lips.

—Ah. In that case, said Voxlauer, slowing.

—Eh? said Piedernig. The light of comprehension flickered across his face an instant or two later and he began to laugh. —No, no, Herr Voxlauer! he said, taking Voxlauer by the shoulders and coaxing him forward. —I’m no sadist. I’d forgotten your situation for a moment, that’s all it was.

—You’re still amicable with them, are you? Voxlauer said sullenly.

—With their schnapps, Oskar. With their schnapps I am amicable.

Voxlauer smiled. —I’m beginning to understand better about these walks of yours.

Piedernig raised a finger. —
Mens sana in corpore sano,
Herr Voxlauer, as you well know. In this case, he said, drawing his robes about him—something like last rites.

—How’s that? said Voxlauer. —Are you infirm?