The Right Hand of Sleep (24 page)

She came across him on the seventh morning. He’d been standing a long time in the middle of the road under Birker Heath, unsure of whether to go up or down. She looked drawn and pale and awkward as she approached him. He himself felt ragged and weather-beaten but drew himself up with a kind of pathetic pride and waited for her to speak.

—Hello, Oskar.

He nodded.

—You haven’t been about.

—At the villa, you mean.

—The villa. The cottage. Anyplace.

He nodded again, helpless in the face of accounting to her. —Well. I’ve been busy up here—

—You look tired, she said.

—I am. Yes.

—Good God, Oskar. Where in hell have you been hiding? I’ve been everywhere trying to find you. I even went to town.

—I don’t remember very well.

She stood without speaking for perhaps a minute. If she was angry or disgusted or relieved she showed not the slightest sign. She looked calm and tired, mortally tired, and resolved to something. —Were you heading up or down? she said.

—Up, said Voxlauer. He began to walk and she fell in beside him.

Farther up the slope where the grade made logging difficult the pines grew taller and more oddly shaped. Fingers of pink and yellow rock showed here and there through the thinning trees. The shoulder of the narrowing road, unused since the last logging forty years before, was washed sharply away at each inward curve and covered in many places by mud and debris. At the most recent washes where the mud was still soft, Voxlauer’s and Piedernig’s prints were still clearly visible, baked into sharp reddish-brown relief by the sun of the past week.

—Why did you say that, the other day? said Else.

Voxlauer rubbed his eyes. —The other day? What was it?

—About Walter. That he wasn’t a liar.

—I don’t know. I don’t remember. He shook his head as though trying to clear it. —Never mind about that.

—Were you making a comparison?

—What?

—Were you comparing him to me? She was looking at him now, almost smiling.

Voxlauer stopped, blinking, staring at her. He shook his head. —I don’t think you’re a liar, Else.

—Oskar, she said, putting her hands on his shoulders. They stood in the road for another vague, pale stretch of time, leaning stiffly against each other. Voxlauer suddenly felt very weak. She had held him in front of her this way once before, he remembered: when she had told him she wouldn’t confuse him. He drew her closer. He was standing over her now, bending slightly to accommodate her arms. —I haven’t lied to you, Oskar, she said. —I told you about him, about what he did. I told you all of that.

—Yes, said Voxlauer slowly, not caring anymore. —You told me.

—I never hid any of that from you.

Voxlauer didn’t answer.

—He’s my family. All that’s left. We grew up together.

—Yes. You’ve told me that.

—Resi needs him.

—He abandoned you both, said Voxlauer.

Else nodded. —Yes. You’re right. She paused. —But I can forgive him that.

—And the other things he’s done, Else? said Voxlauer, not knowing himself what he was saying. —Can you forgive him those?

She frowned at this. It was difficult to talk, he knew, when they were both so tired. But still he found himself feeling nauseous at this new refusal of hers. —I don’t know of anything else, she said slowly.

—I don’t either. He took a breath. —But I can imagine very well.

She turned and took a half step down the hill. Her face when she looked at him again was pulled together queerly. —I came and found you, Oskar. I looked for you all week and came up today and found you and asked you how you were and where you’d been hiding and if you were tired or sick, just as if you were a baby. Doesn’t that matter at all? Does it matter more to you what my cousin does? I don’t know what my cousin does. She brought herself up short and ran the sleeve of her shirt across her face. —He’s a policeman now. That’s what he calls it. I haven’t asked him yet what I should forgive him for.

—Where did you go with him?

—Walking.

—Where?

—To the spruce plantations, she said, straightening herself.

—It’s not my business, said Voxlauer. —I’m sorry.

—That’s all right.

Voxlauer let out a breath. —I told you he’d be coming.

—Yes, Oskar, she said. —And I told you he was someone who’d never have a place in the present for me. Only in the past. She came to him now, reaching up and laying a hand over his eyes. —In the past only, Oskar. But the past is important to me just now. And to Resi.

—I remember your saying that, said Voxlauer. —I remember thinking it was a strange thing to say about a cousin.

—Yes, she said, her hand still covering his eyes. —It’s strange. The hand smelled lightly of cooking oil and dirty water. He opened his eyes under it and looked out through the bright red gaps between her fingers at the light on the road.

They began walking again and came out onto the heath not far from where he and Piedernig had stood the week before. Else had brought a little food with her, some goat cheese and a roll wrapped together in linen, and she crouched down now and spread the limp white cloth over the grass. —I’d thought this might turn into an expedition, looking for you, she said, directing him to sit down beside the cloth.

—Is it you, Mother? said Voxlauer, smiling weakly up at her. He was trembling from hunger and from nervousness and leaned back and drew his legs up to his chest. After a time the sun came out again from behind the clouds and he began to feel better. Else had laid out the food and arranged it and was at that moment unstopping a bottle of sweet-smelling cider. —Will you be partaking of spring’s bounty this afternoon?

He lay himself down with his head on her lap and his feet pushing into the warm sun-bright grass. —I think I’ll just lie here at present.

—When did you eat last?

—I don’t know.

She cursed half under her breath. —You’re always doing yourself harm, Oskar. How do you explain that to yourself, a full-grown man?

—I’m easily swayed by public opinion, Fräulein.

—You’re lucky I’m not.

—I know that. Voxlauer touched a hand to the small of her back. —I know that very well.

—You’re shivering.

He looked up at her. Her hair fell down across his face, folding over him like a Chinese screen. —I’m afraid.

—So am I, Oskar. But not of Kurt.

—No?

She shook her head. —Something’s happened to him. He’s lost his confidence.

—Strange time for that.

—You don’t understand. She cradled his head now in one of her hands, running the other absently through his hair. —He drinks now.

—Didn’t he before?

—No. Never. He’s hated drunks since I can remember.

The wind rustled through the grass. He drifted very close to sleep but her hair brushing across his face now and then kept him awake. —What are you afraid of, then? he said, opening his eyes.

—Everybody else.

—Ah! That I can understand.

—Can you? She tilted her head to look across the plain. Voxlauer watched her eyes travel carefully over the landscape point by point before eventually falling closed. —Why did you leave town? he said suddenly.

She drew her mouth sleepily into a smile. —I’ve just told you.

Later, as they were walking down from the heath, Else began talking again about her cousin. —Kurt hates them just as much as we do, she said. —Rindt keeps blathering away about Ryslavy, how something needs to be done. She cocked her head at him. —Kurti told him to see his own knickers were washed before sniffing down any of his neighbors’.

—They certainly could do with a rinse, said Voxlauer.

—And to wash his drawers next
.
Rindt was slack-jawed.

—I can picture that.

—Yes, Oskar. She tugged happily at his chin.

Over the tops of the pines the sky shone dull and white and the shadows on the road dimmed and disappeared altogether. Voxlauer walked with his eyes half closed, letting his light-headedness and hunger carry him down the road.

—He hates Ryslavy, though, said Else after a time.

—Is that any great surprise?

—I suppose not, she said. —He’s always had that hatred. Of the Ryslavys especially, because of being beholden.

Voxlauer frowned a little. —What did he say, exactly?

She paused. —They’re looking for a target.

—Who?

—Town. The Polizeihaus. Maybe both.

—What does that mean, a target?

—I don’t know, Oskar. That was the word he used. He didn’t explain. I let him talk. That was what he wanted.

—Yes? said Voxlauer. Time passed. They were on the valley road now, just above the plantations. —The thing to do now is to keep faceless, said Voxlauer suddenly, making a face at her.

—You won’t be able to. He’s already been to see your uncle. Your mother too.

—My mother? said Voxlauer.

She nodded. —Last week.

—What does he want with her?

—He’s been living in Berlin these last five years. Going to the opera.

Voxlauer stared at her.

—Even
we
knew who your mother was, Oskar. And your father. You must know that. There’s been nobody else famous ever to come out of Niessen. Or to end up in it, either, that I can think of.

—To end up in it, said Voxlauer. —Christ in heaven. He laughed.

—What’s so funny about that?

—My father. Do you know what happened to my father?

She hesitated. —I think so, yes. He died.

—He shot himself. With a rifle. Here. Voxlauer pointed to his mouth.

Else stopped. —You never told me that.

—I thought you knew. Everybody does in town.

—In town, said Else, saying the words differently from the way he’d said them, calmly, almost affectionately.

Voxlauer began walking again. —My mother’s ill. I don’t want your cousin visiting her. Will you tell him?

—He wants to meet you.

He looked at her a moment. —Does he know what we do at night?

—More or less, she said, giving him a smile.

—Well. In that case, I suppose.

As they walked through the spruce groves and crossed over the creek Voxlauer glanced unconsciously from time to time over his shoulder. —What are you looking for? said Else.

He shrugged. —I don’t know. Game of some kind, I suppose. I keep game, you know, Fräulein. Game is my bread and butter.

—You haven’t found any, then, for about a week, by the looks of you. She reached a hand up under his shirt. —You’re barely bones, she murmured into his ear.

Voxlauer sighed contentedly. —I’ll get fat yet, he said. —I’m not in any hurry about it.

—Just make sure you don’t disappear altogether, and your bread and butter with you.

—Remember your Hansel and Gretel, Fräulein. If you’re bony they cook the other bugger.

—I remember it very well. I’ve been saving all my chicken bones.

—They’ll parboil Rindt, first of all, Voxlauer shouted. —Keep an army in blubber.

Else frowned. —They’re not cannibals, Oskar. Are they?

Voxlauer danced skeleton-like down the road.

A bright trill of brass greeted Voxlauer as he climbed the stairs of the old house. Maman was standing at the kitchen table cutting dough, humming along with each flourish like a newlywed bride.

Voxlauer stood in the hallway, watching her through the open door. —You look better than I feel, Maman, he said.

She looked up at him and nodded. —It’s not all bad, Oskarchen.

—So you’ve always told me.

—Well. She seemed confused. —If I did, I was right, then.

He glanced toward the parlor. —I thought you’d had your fill of Brahms, he said, smiling.

—Yes, she said brightly. —This isn’t Brahms.

He stared at her in blank surprise, saying nothing. She continued to fuss about the table, taking no further notice of him. When all of the dough had been cut into palm-sized squares she kneaded them back into a ball and began again from the beginning. He made no move from the doorway but stood motionless in its frame as if he were bolted to it, staring at her.

—Can I help at all, Maman? he said after a long while, stepping through the doorway. Looking around the kitchen he now saw piles of unwashed plates and cups and cooking pots covering the counters. The cabinet and the credenza were also open and filled to their furthest recesses with opened tins and boxes, silverware and newsprint and refuse of all shapes and descriptions. Staring from one corner of the room to another in his confusion, he thought at first the Holzer boys must have done it, come down in the night while she was sleeping, and he was filled with a sudden panic that they had done something to her. Then he looked over again at the table and saw that her hands were caked with dirt. She was looking at him now, confidently, the dough still massed together between her fingertips. —It’s not all bad, Oskar, she repeated.

Voxlauer came over to the table and took hold of one of her hands to wipe it clean. It was damp and cool and lay limply in his grip, patient and unprotesting, as if nothing more was to be expected of it. —Come out with me to the verandah, Maman, he said, leading her into the stairwell.

They sat next to each other on the sagging cane couch, looking up at the sky. How many times we’ve sat this way together, Voxlauer thought. Maman gazed into the distance serenely, nodding her approval of all that she beheld. A warm breeze rustled the dahlias in the window boxes.

—I met a young man this week, she said. —About your age.

—My age?

She nodded.

—What did you talk about?

—He was here to visit.

—I see.

—A bit younger than you perhaps, Oskar, she said, appraising him.

—What did he want? He squeezed her hand gently. —Maman?

—Yes?

—Tell me what he wanted.

She leaned back on the couch, resting her head on the wall behind her. The nodding had given way now to a steady shudder. She seemed oblivious to it, however, gazing into the woods. Her face was tranquil. —Cold now toward night, she said after a while. —I’m not properly dressed.

Voxlauer stood up and went to the linen trunk and dug out an old gray blanket. —This young man, Maman, he said, coming back to the bench. —What did he want to talk about?