by Eva Ibbotson
Sigi came back and played the rest of the programme. The applause at the end went on and on; he was recalled for one encore, for two, for three . . . The women in particular would not let him go and clapped their gloved hands; bunches of flowers were brought in from the wings.
I slipped away, certain that I had not been seen. It was snowing, but I turned my collar up and plunged my hands deeper into my muff, needing to walk through the lamplit streets, needing the air.
A number of carriages passed me; then one which slowed down in front of me, stopped . . . The door opened and someone jumped down: someone muffled and very small.
‘Why did you hurry away?’ asked Sigi. ‘Why didn’t you wait?’ And as I looked at him, finding no words, he said: ‘We have to eat Indianerkrapfen, don’t you remember? You said in the Prater that we would.’
‘Yes, Sigi. I remember.’
The carriage had driven away. In search of chocolate eclairs, at eleven o’clock on a winter’s night, we went to Sachers.
They recognized him — from the posters, from the concert, I don’t know. The head waiter bowed and addressed him as Meister Kraszinsky and a fat lady in a mink coat came over and asked him for his autograph.
‘Is it nice being famous?’ I asked him.
He shrugged. ‘It is necessary if I am to make enough money.’
‘Why do you need so much money, Sigi? Why so much?’
‘Why?’ He looked surprised. ‘So that I can buy for you a house, of course. A house with a shop in it because you have lost yours.’
Thank heaven the waiter came then for our order. It gave me a few moments, at least, to control myself.
‘Wait, Sigi. Is that why you’ve been working so hard and giving so many concerts?’
‘Yes. But it doesn’t matter because it will be so beautiful, the house, and the shop will be beautiful too.’ He leant across the table. ‘It will be by a lake and there will be a balcony so that you can look over the water and see when I am coming home in the boat from my concerts. And on the other side, not by the water, will be the shop with yellow curtains like you have now. I saw such a house in Switzerland — ah, it was beautiful! It was like looking in a cave in the Grottenbahn. And Nini can come too if you wish it, and I will buy you a dog like . . . like Rip but with proper legs.’
I saw it as he spoke. I saw the house as he did, lit like a cave in the Grottenbahn and I tell you this: I wanted it. I wanted to live with him in a house by a lake with a dog with proper legs. I wanted to stand and watch him come home across the water to a meal I had made for him, and a glowing stove. I wanted it very badly.
Our order came and as the waiter set down the round, cream-filled puffs doused in ink-black chocolate, I knew that never in my life would I eat another Indianerkrapfen. And all the time my frantic thoughts went round and round. How could it be done? How could I set him free for his life without hurting him unbearably? How could I cut the shackles from this child whom life had already dealt the most terrible of blows, and not reject him. It was impossible.
Or was it?
I lifted my head. ‘Sigi,’ I said. ‘I can’t come and live with you in your house. In any house. I can’t.’
He had started to eat. Now he put down his fork.
‘Why can’t you? Why?’ The husky croak was very faint now, scarcely audible.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I’m going to tell you something that nobody else knows — not Nini, not anyone in the square — and you must tell no one. You see, I have a daughter.’
And as the café emptied, I told him the whole story. To this foreign child whom I now loved, I spoke as I had spoken only once before, to Gernot von Lindenberg that first time in the rain-swept hunting lodge. I told him of my daughter’s birth, her loss, the agony of seeing her once again in Salzburg and leaving her.
‘I don’t know where she is now, Sigi, and she’s not small any more, but I still hope . . . I still wait for her to come back to me. And if she came . . . if she needed me . . . and found you there instead, it would hurt her so much. She might come one evening to the window and see us having supper together and she would say “My mother doesn’t need me, she has another child.”’
He understood. His dream died and he grew pale, but he understood. ‘If it was your mother, Sigi . . . if she had lost you when you were little, she would wait always, wouldn’t she?’
‘Yes, she would wait.’
Then . . . listen to this . . . he felt in his pocket and he handed me — he handed me — his handkerchief because I was no longer in control. So I’ve done something, haven’t I? Surely, God, you can say I’ve done something for this child whom I found so ragged and unkempt? I’ve hurt him, I’ve handed him over to an unscrupulous man — but I’ve taught him about handkerchiefs!
I seem to have stumbled on another impasse. Marie Konrad came to see me this afternoon.
I’ve always liked Peter Konrad’s wife. A good mother, a good wife, pretty and entertaining. I’ve been to her villa in Schünbrunn for dinner, and we meet sometimes in theatres or restaurants.
Still I was surprised when she asked if she could speak to me alone. We’re acquaintances rather than friends.
‘I’m sorry to come like this,’ she said when we were settled upstairs. ‘I feel ashamed . . . but . . . I’m frightened. Yes, to tell the truth, I’m frightened and I came to ask if you could help me.’
‘I’d like to help you,’ I said, mystified. ‘But how?’
She had begun to fidget with her reticule, to smooth down her perfectly smooth collar. Then she lifted her head and I saw that she was blushing.
‘By not taking the job my husband offered you in the store,’ she blurted out. ‘That’s how you could help me, Frau Susanna. That was what I came to ask you to do.’
I didn’t at all understand what she was trying to tell me. ‘But why? How would that help you? Have you someone else for whom you want the job?’
She shook her head. ‘It isn’t that.’ She was dreadfully ill at ease and I was becoming increasingly puzzled. ‘It’s Peter. He’s a good husband — a very good husband — but he looks so distinguished, and well . . . he’s susceptible. There have been affairs, of course, but they didn’t last. But if you came to work with him, if he saw you every day and stayed behind with you to consult and so on, I know . . . I just know how it would end. And this time it would be serious.’
‘Frau Konrad, I assure you, on my honour that I have never and would never —’
She interrupted me. ‘No, no — I don’t mean you. I’m not accusing you of anything. I know you would do what you could to stop it — but you’re not like the others and he has always . . . felt attracted to you. You should have heard how he spoke of you after he took you to the Opera. The way you walked up the staircase . . . the Arab who wanted to buy you with camels. And a Field Marshal in full uniform — a Field Marshal — picking up your handkerchief.’
I winced as the knife went in, but Marie noticed nothing.
‘He doesn’t know yet; he thinks it’s just admiration. But I know — and I’m afraid. Seeing you all the time, sharing your interests . . .’ Her head was bent; she laced and unlaced her fingers. ‘You can’t help it — you’re so beautiful.’
‘Am I?’ I said, suddenly flooded with bitterness. ‘Are you sure? Am I still beautiful?’
She looked up, staring intently at my face. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘You look tired now, but it doesn’t matter. It’s your bones and the way you move . . . and your smile.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘Oh God, it’s really so awful isn’t it, this love.’
‘Yes, it’s fairly awful.’ I walked to the window, looked out at the square I’ve loved so much, turned. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell him no. I’ll refuse. But he must still take Nini if she wants it.’
‘And you won’t say that I’ve been?�
�� she begged.
‘No, of course not. Don’t worry, I’ll find an excuse.’
‘You’re so good. So good!’ She tried to take my hands but I shook my head and freed myself. I was good once, in a village behind the hill in Salzburg, and it has nothing to do with something so trivial as this.
All the same, I don’t quite know what is to happen now, or where I shall go.
At eleven this morning a carriage stopped outside my shop and a woman got out. She was in early middle age, slim and small, with an unremarkable face which nevertheless seemed familiar and a look of purpose and intelligence.
She greeted me, gave no name, removed her furs — and I gasped. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but you must tell me. Who made that dress?’
She smiled. ‘It’s good, isn’t it. So simple . . .’
‘Yes, but that kind of simplicity . . . And I’ve never seen worsted used like that; only in clothes for men. It’s French?’
‘Yes. Her name is Coco Chanel. She makes hats in the Avenue Gabriel and a few dresses privately for people she knows. She’s only a girl still, but there’s no doubt she’s a genius.’
The perfection of the beige wool dress so hypnotized me that it was a while before I realized that I had a wealthy customer with impeccable taste, but alas too late. My stock is practically exhausted.
‘I’d like to see some evening dresses. Is there anything you could show me?’
‘Very little, I’m afraid.’
I explained the situation and she nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve heard. I’m so sorry, it’s such a delightful square. Still, now that I’m here I’d like to see what you’ve got.’
‘There’s a green taffeta and a white silk. I’ll fetch them and —’
She interrupted me. ‘I’d like to see them on the model, please.’
‘Very well.’
I found Nini and told her to put on the green taffeta, and in spite of her troubles she swept into the salon with her beaky nose in the air, handling the rustling train with her old bravura.
‘Yes, I like it. Could it be altered quickly? I leave tomorrow.’
Nini had been revolving in the centre of the room. Now she wheeled round, walked over to the woman in the gilt chair and addressed her with a sudden and most disconcerting rudeness.
‘Did he send you?’ she asked, at her most Magyar and insolent.
She had met her match. The woman in the Chanel dress drew together eyebrows that were only slightly less arrogant than Nini’s.
‘Nobody sends me,’ she said icily. ‘I am here on business.’
‘But you’re his sister, aren’t you?’
The change was remarkable. The woman’s face puckered up in a smile, the eyes shone. ‘Ah, that was beautiful,’ she said appreciatively. ‘I shall dine out on that!’ Her voice now was gentle, she had seen the wretchedness in Nini’s face. ‘I’m his mother, actually.’
‘Oh. How . . . how is he?’
Frau Frankenheimer shrugged. ‘He’s back in New York and working very hard. His father’s pleased to have him back; he’s put through some useful deals already. So are the eligible girls of our circle. Invitations pour through the letter box . . .’
She broke off deliberately and, ignoring Nini, said: ‘Actually I didn’t come here primarily to buy a dress and certainly not to talk about my son. I came to ask you about a child who used to live opposite. A pianist, Sigismund Kraszinsky. I was told that you knew him well, that he owes his career to you.’
‘No, not that. But, yes, I know him.’
‘Well, the problem is this. I heard him in Paris a few weeks ago and offered him a place in the school I help to run in New York. It seemed to me that he was exactly the sort of child we want: highly talented but in need of a very thorough grounding in musical techniques. And in need of a stable background in which to develop — the school is residential; any child who enters it is cared for till he’s ready to make his debut. However, the boy refused. He said he had to make money, a great deal of money. He seemed to be obsessed by that.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I see.’
‘So I left it — in any case we have far more applicants than there are places. But a few days ago, just as I was leaving Paris, I had a cable. Apparently the child has changed his mind and he now wants to come. I’ve talked to Van der Velde and he’ll let him go — he knows by the time we’ve finished with him he’ll be worth a fortune and he can take some of the credit. But . . . I don’t know how to put this without sounding priggish . . . though we offer a highly technical curriculum, we do try to develop the idea of a talent as a gift from God, something that carries certain obligations. And if there’s something money-grubbing in the child himself — if money is the prime objective, which would be perfectly natural given his background — then I don’t think he’d fit in.’
‘No, no, no!’ I came towards her; I think I was wringing my hands. ‘No, he’s not like that at all! Listen, please listen. Let me tell you why he wanted money.’
Once I began to talk I couldn’t stop. I told her everything about Sigi — our first meeting by the fountain, the day at the Prater, the accident — and the last evening at Sachers. ‘That’s why he wanted money, you see. Not for himself — never for himself.’
When I finished she rose and laid a hand on my arm. ‘I won’t tell you that you are going to be proud of him because I know you are already. I won’t even tell you that the world will hear of him, because you know that too. I’ll just tell you that we’ll look after him as you would have done . . . you or the red-haired angel.’
Then deliberately shrugging off emotion, she became practical.
‘Now the only question that remains is how to get Sigismund to New York. I’d like him to go at once because term begins next week and I’ve lured Leschetizsky over to take a master class. But I’m not going home yet — I’m on my way to St Petersburg; I still have grandparents there, they’re in their eighties and I’ve promised to visit them before it’s too late.’
‘Sigi’s too young to travel alone,’ I said.
She nodded, holding my eyes.
‘Yes, definitely. Daniel will meet him and take him to the school, but I’ll have to try to find someone to go with him on the boat. The uncle’s going back to Preszowice, and anyway he’s useless. Well, no doubt something can be arranged.’
There was a rustle of taffeta as Nini stirred in the green dress.
‘I could take him,’ she said gruffly. ‘If you like. Just take him over and maybe stay for a short time, if Frau Susanna can spare me. Just for a visit.’
‘Would you?’ Frau Frankenheimer was entirely matter of fact. ‘That would certainly solve the problem.’
And she began to discuss the alterations to the green dress — but it was at this point that I remembered something Daniel had said. Something about wolverines . . .
It all happened so quickly after that.
Less than a week after Frau Frankenheimer’s visit, I stood on the platform of the Westbahnof saying goodbye.
Nini was shivering in her cloth coat. She has sold the Russian sable and given the money to the family of the little boy who lost his legs.
‘You’ll be cold on the boat,’ I said. ‘Let me lend you my shawl.’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll wrap a rug round me,’ she said, and I saw her swaggering round the deck, starting a new fashion for steamer-rug cloaks.
‘It’s only a visit,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Of course.’
‘And anyway you’ll come. It would be a marvellous place to have a shop, New York.’
‘Yes, marvellous.’
We’ve said these things to each other a hundred times since Frau Frankenheimer’s visit. We had to.
The guard came along the platform, calling to the pass
engers to take their seats.
‘Goodbye, Nini.’
We hugged each other quickly, and then she climbed into the train and waited for the boy.
A stupid, concert-going lady had presented him with an outsize bouquet of hothouse flowers. As I bent down to him, his face was almost hidden by the outsize blooms.
‘We’ll meet again, Sigi. We won’t lose each other. Not you and I.’
He said nothing. This child of all children knew how easily people are lost. As I kissed him I heard for the last time that husky, almost inaudible croak.
‘I hope she comes soon.’
‘Who, Sigi?’
‘Your daughter.’
‘Yes, I hope so too.’
But she could have come running down the platform with outstretched arms and I wouldn’t even have seen her, as I stood watching the train go out and waving, waving . . .
There were a number of things I needed as I came back from the station: oblivion, a hot bath, a large glass of Gretl’s uncle’s eau de vie — but not, God knows not — Frau Egger pacing dementedly between the packing cases.
‘Oh there you are, Frau Susanna! Thank heavens! I’ve been so distracted . . . I don’t know what to do. I’m at my wits’ end!’ But this was too much.
‘Frau Egger, your husband has destroyed my livelihood and made a great many people most unhappy — I really cannot discuss any more intimate details of —’
‘No, no. It isn’t that! It’s far worse! I know I shouldn’t come to you, but I have no friends, and it’s all to do with the buttons he says, and now he’s gone completely mad. He’s going to fight a duel!’
‘A duel?’
She nodded. ‘This afternoon, in that meadow by the Danube Bend where they used to fight — except that I think it’s a corporation dump now, but that wouldn’t stop Willibald.’
I sighed and removed my coat. ‘You’d better come upstairs. And try to be calm — just tell me what happened, quietly.’
It had begun just before Christmas, she said, with the arrival of a mysterious stranger late at night asking to see her husband.