The Right Hand of Sleep (38 page)

—Morning, Voxlauer! Kurt said cheerily, pulling up before him on the far side of the pond. —You were quite a sight there, bobbing up and down. I’d nearly made up my mind to jump in and rescue you.

—I hope you weren’t in too much of a conflict about it.

—Ha, Voxlauer! Touché. Kurt pulled off his gloves one finger at a time. —Are you busy?

—I did have some rather pressing business, said Voxlauer, looking toward his clothes in the grass.

—I’ll wait in the bunker, then, out of reverence for your modesty.

Kurt gunned his engine and rolled up the bank, bringing the cycle carefully over the pilings to the cottage steps. Voxlauer walked in through the shallows to his clothes. When he came to the cottage he found Kurt sitting at the three-legged table, looking around him doubtfully. —None too cozy, Herr Gamekeeper, he said, clicking his tongue against his teeth.

—I don’t spend so much time here.

—I’m sure of that. Kurt laughed. —I don’t blame you, either. This place has never been anything but a filthy hole. He spat into a corner. —Well. What was good enough for the old bastard, I suppose.

—I’ve taken your uncle for a model in all things, Obersturmführer.

—Bashing the stuffing out of me was a step in the right direction then. Kurt stood up suddenly. —Where do you keep the whiskey?

—That what the old man drank?

—When he had it. He wasn’t choosy. Kurt looked around the room again, crossing after a time to the little alcove. —Here’s where he breathed his last, the sorry bugger.

—I’d heard it was in a snowbank.

Kurt shook his head. —You don’t know the Jews yet, do you, Oskar, though you spend so much time around them. You accept their stories with touching goodwill and faith. Maybe that’s why they find you such a useful mule. He sighed. —Come for a walk.

—Where?

—To the reliquary.

—Are we going on a pilgrimage?

—Don’t be a jackass, Voxlauer. I haven’t the patience for it anymore. Just come along. He glanced a final time around the room. —God, I loathe this place.

Voxlauer followed him out the door. —Are we walking? he said, seeing Kurt step past the motorcycle.

—That’s right, cousin-in-law! I thought we might enact the stations of the cross.

—You go first.

Kurt let out a metallic laugh. —Surely you’re not superstitious. God has long since been declared dead in Russia.

—It’s not that, said Voxlauer. —I’d just rather not carry your burden for you, Obersturmführer.

Kurt laughed again. —You’re being reactionary, Voxlauer. I have no Christ complexes. On the other hand, I’m nobody’s mule, either. His voice dropped to a whisper. —Between us, Oskar, I’m a realist.

—Is that so? said Voxlauer, stopping short.

—It is, Kurt said proudly. —Are you surprised?

—Amazed at the coincidence, that’s all. It just so happens I’m a realist, too.

Kurt looked up the road a moment. —You’re a slippery fish, Voxlauer, he said admiringly. —I’ll say that for you.

—I get it from the trout, Obersturmführer, Voxlauer said.

The slatted steps of the reliquary were bowed and needle-covered and as he followed Kurt inside Voxlauer felt again for a moment the presence of the premonition that was building under his feet. The little paper Virgin flickered in its candlelit alcove, dug back deep from the invading daylight, sequestered behind a screen of yellowed lace. In front of the alcove stood eight rows of backless wooden pews, cracked and ricketed from long neglect, and in the third of these rows Kurt sat down gingerly, stretching his legs sideways into the aisle. The wood groaned under his weight and a little eddy of yellow dust rose into the air behind him. —Come on, Voxlauer! he called. —There’s plenty of room up front here, near the Blessed Mother.

Voxlauer came hesitantly down the aisle, stooping to avoid the lowest-hanging shingles. —I wouldn’t say plenty, he said, squeezing into a pew.

—Yes. I do remember it as roomier, from the old days.

—Well. You were probably alone those times, said Voxlauer, composing himself painfully on the bench.

Kurt laughed and leaned across the aisle, his face pulled into a leer. —I wasn’t alone those times either, cousin-in-law.

—What do you want? Tell me what you want, Kurt. Don’t bat me back and forth like a half-dead bird.

—Fair enough, Voxlauer. First of all I want you to know something, Kurt said mildly, leaning back to gaze up at the rafters. —I want you to know this: I’ve forgiven you completely.

Voxlauer let out a little laugh. —I thought you forgave me last week.

—I’m not talking about that silliness. Kurt waved his hand impatiently, as though brushing away a fly. —For other things.

—What have I done?

—Oskar! Kurt said, wringing his hands theatrically, looking to his right and left in helpless appeal, rocking backward and forward on the bench. —
Oskar!
he shouted, raising his eyes to heaven. —Oskar! What
haven’t
you done?

Voxlauer said nothing. They sat silently, looking at each other through the heat and the sun-ribboned dust.

—Did Else ever bring you here? Kurt said after a time.

—Whatever you’re going to do to me, Kurt, do it.

Kurt raised his eyebrows. —
Do
to you, Voxlauer?
Do
to you? It’s not so simple as that. First of all I’m going to talk to you. And you’re going to listen.

—Start talking then. Start saying something.

Kurt sat back for a moment, looking at Voxlauer with something almost approaching tenderness. He sighed. —I know that you consider me a burden to your peace of mind, Voxlauer. I know that. I want you to know that you’re a burden to me also.

—Don’t think about me, then.

—Ha! I’d like not to, Voxlauer. I’d like that very much. But there doesn’t seem to be any avoiding it lately. You keep wriggling yourself into the public eye.

—I can’t help where the public eye is pointed, Obersturmführer.

Kurt got to his feet now and began pacing up and down the aisle. —Yes you can, Voxlauer. Yes you can. He stopped at Voxlauer’s pew and leaned across it. —You could look to your own a little while, Voxlauer. I’d advise you to most urgently.

—My own? said Voxlauer.

—That’s right. Conceive of that, if you can, for the briefest moment. Looking to your own. Not making a sideshow of your every defect of character. Not parading your Jew relations at every public assembly. Not starting fights and getting drunk and vandalizing the homes of private citizens. Looking instead to your very own hearth and family. Can you picture that at all?

Voxlauer was quiet a moment, squinting into the candlelight surrounding the little Virgin. —But I’m an orphan, he said.

Kurt was on him before he’d finished, seizing him by the collar, shoving him hard against the back of the pew and hissing into his face. Voxlauer could smell Kurt’s breath, hot and bitter, and feel it against the lids of his closed eyes.

—Don’t trifle with me, Oskar, Kurt hissed. —Don’t trifle with me now, because you can’t. Look at me.
Look
at me, you goddamned derelict. I represent the present and I represent the future. The authority I act upon will endure for a thousand years. A
thousand years,
you piss-swiller. Look around you for an instant. Look! Who do you have behind you? A flicker of a smile passed across his face. —You have my cousin. Only her. And that won’t be enough, Voxlauer. I promise you it won’t.

Voxlauer waited calmly until Kurt had finished. —Would you like another walk with your cousin, Obersturmführer? Is that what you want?

Kurt jerked back violently, letting go of his collar, taking a half step back across the aisle. —This is not about her, Voxlauer. We’re not talking about
her.

—If so, you should talk to your cousin about it. Not to me.

—Listen
to me! For the first time Voxlauer noticed the butt of a small-caliber pistol jutting from Kurt’s trouser pocket. —Listen to me, Voxlauer. You’re losing friends quicker than a leper in a bath-house and you barely had any to start with.
Mother-of-Christ!
Even your own uncle wants you gone and forgotten. Kurt shook his head. —We had a long talk together, he and I.

—Old Gustl, said Voxlauer.

—You see? You haven’t a leg to stand on, Voxlauer. You haven’t a goddamned buggered prayer.

—Oh, I’ll be all right, Obersturmführer. Don’t you worry about me.

Kurt stared hard at Voxlauer a few seconds, frowning very slightly, then composed himself and sat down again at his pew. —We ran into some indigents on the toll road a few weeks back, he said quietly, leaning forward to examine the pew in front of him. —Twenty-seven or so odd citizens. Dandied up as if for a Roman holiday. He broke into a wide, freckle-bordered smile. —Saw fit to mention that they knew my cousin, of all people. Talked the most frightful gibberish. We found them in a cornfield, eating straight off the blessed stalks, chanting and carrying on like a pack of blessed monkeys. I’d never seen the like. He paused a moment. —Friends of yours, possibly?

Voxlauer let out a long, low moan. —What do you want, Kurt? What? You already have the land, for the love of God. All of it. His voice rattled. —Is there no shame in you?

—Ha! said Kurt. —Best to stick to your rods and fishes, old-timer. There’s nothing that I want. He ran his thumbnail up and down the pew, raising jets of orange dust. —I have plenty of shame, in point of fact. Plenty. But nothing to be ashamed of. That’s my dilemma.

—Tell me what you want. I’ll do it, Kurt. You only have to tell me, said Voxlauer. His voice had fallen to a whisper. —But tell me now.

Kurt was next to him again, taking his shoulder kindly. —Calm yourself, Voxlauer. We didn’t formally arrest them. They’re in protective custody, that’s all. Some locals in Arnoldstein were less than enchanted by their share-the-wealth policy. They were half starved when we brought them in.

Voxlauer passed a hand over his face. —Why say anything to me about it, then?

—It can’t go on this way, Voxlauer. Kurt gave his shoulder a little squeeze.

They sat a moment in perfect silence. —Would you harm Else in any way? Voxlauer murmured.

—Listen, Voxlauer!
Listen!
Kurt was standing over him and stumbling a little from side to side, arms flailing crazily toward the rafters as though pulled and jerked by wires. —It’s
you
we’re here to talk about, Voxlauer. You, not her. The State versus Oskar Voxlauer, deserter, son of the famous shotgun suicide, toady to Bolshevists, Yid-loving bastard. Hearings postponed since 1918. This is your turn on the stand, Voxlauer. Hers will come.

—I want to know about Paul Ryslavy.

—Paul Ryslavy is a Jew and a homosexual. I promise you he won’t get less than he deserves.

—You haven’t done anything yet, then.

Kurt waved a hand impatiently. —The charges against you, Voxlauer, are long and detailed. He rustled imaginary pages. —Suppose you began with a brief statement.

Voxlauer took a breath. —What was it you hoped to gain by bringing me up here, Kurt? Were you hoping to make me afraid? If so, then you’re a goddamned fool.

—A fool? said Kurt, half smiling.

—I’ve been a coward my entire life. Everything I’ve ever done was done out of fear, and everything I’ve seen has taught me to be more afraid with each passing minute. The only thing that kept me safe was believing that I was dead already, and I stopped believing that four months ago. Since that time I’ve been scared nearly out of my mind. There’s not one thing you could teach me about fear. Do you understand? Not one blessed thing. Voxlauer leaned a little to one side, struggling to catch his breath. —I’d kill you right now if I could. You are lower in my eyes than a maggot and I’d like nothing better than to see you laid out dead in front of me. But I’m afraid of you, Kurt, and so I can’t. I don’t have the head or the stomach for it and because of that I deserve to die. That’s all; that’s all you’ll ever make me say. If you have any more questions for me I hope you choke to death on them.

Voxlauer sank back against the brittle wood. The light was ebbing from the chapel, gilding the pews and the dust and the slow-moving air. A sparrow flew in the door and up to the rafters. Somewhere close by sheep were bawling. Kurt had taken out his pistol.

—If you’re going to shoot me with that thing, do it, Voxlauer said, getting to his feet. —I’m not sitting here any longer.

Kurt glanced up at him. —Where in hell do you think you’re going?

—Straight to the villa, said Voxlauer. —Straight to your cousin’s house. Straight into bed.

Kurt said nothing for a moment. —Listen to me, Voxlauer, he said as Voxlauer stepped past him, in an altogether different voice from the one he’d used before. A quiet voice, tentative, almost pleading. Voxlauer stopped. Kurt had sat down a third time. With his head bent forward and his back half turned to Voxlauer he looked like nothing so much as a farmhand struggling through his evening prayers. His flat, thick hair hung down in front, shadowing his face. —War is coming, Voxlauer, he said, almost in a whisper.

—War? said Voxlauer. He felt again at that moment the presence of a vague fear, curling forward on the periphery of thought, building itself into a certainty. It was coming on even as Kurt sat watching him, bringing itself silently and inevitably to life. —War? said Voxlauer, trying to bring his attention back to the dust-filled room.

Kurt looked at him almost sheepishly, the smile gone altogether from his face. He nodded. —War is coming, Voxlauer, he said again. —Bad things happen under cover of war. Terrible things. To good men, worse men, and even, sometimes, to better women. He laughed at this, letting his shoulders slump forward. He laughed without breaking into a smile, the laugh defeated and hollow, more a clarion of blank despair than of victory or malice or even pride. —Terrible things, Voxlauer, he repeated. —And I’m not going to raise a finger to stop any of them.

Then suddenly Voxlauer knew what would happen.

That afternoon I set out to find Brigadenführer Mittling, our
liaison to Himmler and poor dead Spengler’s second cousin. I’d
read in that morning’s paper about the Führer’s disavowal of our
putsch, his claim to the English and Italian press that our actions
had in no way been directed or encouraged by the Reich, and I
needed to talk to someone about it right away. It’s possible that he
truly didn’t know about us—we’d only had Himmler’s assurances,
with Mittling as middleman, that the operation had his approval
and blessing. To this day I’m none the wiser. But I’ve certainly
never faulted the Führer for saying what he had to say to keep the
foreign observers mollified, to keep France, in particular, from
starting another war before we were sufficiently rearmed. I’ve certainly never faulted him, but on that particular day I needed to talk
to somebody about it quickly.