“How can I find out more about D.M. Kehl, custodian?” Not brimming over with expectation, Helen’s voice.
Sophie Löwe did not ask why, did not even offer a questioning glance. Instead she looked through her telephone directory and dialed a number. She was calling the Stadtarchiv, the city registry, had a brief conversation during which she took neat, organized notes, then, the inquiry complete, she passed the notes over to Helen.
“Go to this address—it’s not far—ask for this department.” Her fingernail shifted from line to line as she spoke. “This man will help you. I can think of no other way to find D. M. Kehl.”
Helen had no more excuses to keep her in the library. Lingering over her gratitude, regretting her farewell, she stepped back out into Munich’s pandemonium.
“D.M. Kehl. Is he still a resident here in Munich? Do you know if he is alive or not? Have you tried the current telephone book?” The archivist looking over Helen’s list clearly lacked the thrill of the hunt. Helen should have said yes, he had been a resident; yes, he was dead; yes, she ‘d looked; instead, because her mother for some reason was standing next to her—probably because this was a place one hunted for families—she honestly admitted that no, she didn’t know and no, she hadn’t looked. You won’t be here, Mum, she silently told her mother.
“You should exhaust the other possibilities before you come here.” The archivist mustered up some warmth for his voice and looked at her sincerely, trying to evict her with sympathy.
“Do you know where I can find a telephone book? Could you lend me one?” He walked over to a metal cabinet and pulled out the directory. She flipped to the Ks and found the listing for Kehls. There were 42 altogether, one Dieter and six Ds but no D.Ms. What was she to do now, call each of these Ds? She turned and confronted the fragment of her lingering mother. Please go, she pleaded, I’ll ask you back next time, I’ll invite you specially. Her mother disappeared. Helen shut the phone book with a definitive slap of its soft covers and cleared her voice. “No D. Kehls,” she lied.
The archivist, satisfied that he represented the only logical next step, began his own search. He wrote down the sparse details, then disappeared down an aisle, reappearing a few minutes later with a satisfied smile. As he handed his notes to Helen, he told her of the process, “First, I find the address book for the period, in this case you have specified a year, 1936. Then if I find a name, or even if I don’t, I try the Bürgerbücher, the Citizenship List. There are other places to look, but this was simple. Here is your Herr Kehl. He is a relative perhaps?”
Dietmar Mannfred Kehl. Son of, husband of, father of. Husband of Inge Maria, father of Helen Theresa. Dietmar Kehl, custodian at the Munich University Library from 1932 until 1943; born in Munich 1870, died in Munich 1943. Inge Maria, born in Wilheim 1874, died in Munich 1945. Helen Theresa, born in Munich 1907. Addresses were listed. She asked the archivist.
“This address here,” he pointed, “is the last recorded address. It is from the Adressbücher of 1943.” He turned the book around to better read his writing. “Yes, this is not too far. You can go see the house perhaps. If it is still there. He was a member of your family, yes?”
Dietmar Kehl, custodian of the Munich University Library, owner of a house on a street not far from the center. A street that may once have been quaint and pretty but that was now rebuilt in a frenzy of sixties revitalization. Postwar boring. No trace of the Kehls. Helen really had no choice; she had to return to Vienna and confront Anselm’s death.
Just before the Austrian border she got up to pace the corridor. When she returned she found her compartment occupied by a young man playing a guitar and a young woman and child who accompanied him with confident, melodic voices. The child was probably a girl, about ten years old, but Helen couldn’t be positive if it was a girl or a boy. They sat opposite the guitarist, singing a one-note samba with desperate gusto. Helen lingered outside, wondering if they were intending to stay there until she paid them to move. She sank back against the wall and enjoyed, despite her suspicions, the music, which sounded like it combined all of the harmonies in the world: the rhythm from Africa, the velocity from Spain, the minor key from Eastern Europe, and the longing from South America. Suddenly the song ended, and the trio stood up and walked out of the compartment without so much as a smile or nod. Perhaps her mere presence ejected them. She watched them as they walked down the aisle and through the door that led to the next car and then went into her now deserted compartment and sat down. But it wasn’t empty; they had left that single note for her just as their breath had left the steam that condensed on the window. She went out and followed the route they had taken a minute earlier. She could hear the guitar playing from further down the car. Sure enough, it was a different note they were playing, completely different than the one they had left behind.
A crazy idea clung tenaciously. What if Dietmar Kehl had sporadically removed woodblocks from the library until there was nothing left but an empty crate labelled VESALIUS? Stuck, as it had been, in its corner since its return from the Bremer Presse, who would have bothered to open it? Then when the library was bombed, the confusion and debris would have concealed the crime. No more blocks, ergo, destroyed in the bombing. But Dietmar died in 1943. So, he had already removed all or most of the blocks by then. For what? If the library hadn’t been bombed the theft would have been discovered. And what about the 400-year celebration in 1943? Perhaps the blocks had been put on display for the celebration. She hadn’t thought to ask.
Helen Kehl would have been 37 by the time Munich had been bombed in 1944, 36 when her father died the year earlier. Friedrich would have been about 16 then. That seemed right, if she remembered the photographs accurately. Maybe Helen Kehl and Friedrich Anselm had smuggled the blocks out of Munich, into Austria, to Vienna. They’d traveled between Munich and Vienna over one hundred times by 1965; Thüring’s obituary had taken the pains to point this out. And Anselm went blind by 1967. Was that significant? If they’d been spiriting these things away two at a time it would have taken them over a hundred trips. She was losing her mind. Were Helen Kehl and Friedrich Anselm printing with these blocks? Had they been in Anselm’s house all this time? Had Martin discovered this? Was this why he was missing?
Vienna, mute in a blanket of late fallen snow, welcomed her back with characteristic indifference. She went directly to Anselm’s house, a testimony to the conflagration of her only hopes of finding traces of the Vesalius woodblocks and, in turn, of course, Martin. The site was roped off, a threatening sign forbade even thinking about crossing onto the property, but she picked her way past debris that had been flung haphazardly into the lot, through to the ruins, and stood at the entrance. The doors gaped open, partially burnt and hanging pathetically on their hinges. She could see Anselm greeting her—the way he was the first time they met—proudly throwing back his long white hair, voraciously polishing off the box of chocolates, helping her off with her coat. No matter what he had done, nothing could spoil this memory of him, this simple view of a man who had forced her to question her very existence. He was a twist of her fate, inextricably tangled in her past, present, and future.
She left her bags at the entrance and stepped into the house, walking through, retracing the route from the foyer to the study. Everything was ravaged, for here was the heart of the destruction. Drifts of cinder and ash curled over the toes of her shoes, reminding her of her bizarre encounters on the train, of Anna who burnt her shoes with the magnifying glass and of her strangely empathetic dog. Charred bits of furniture and picture frames were trapped in blocks of ice, sacrificed like flies in amber. Monumental icicles threatened to topple ravaged beams. A winter wonderland, destruction’s fantasia.
A scrap of paper, braille, caught her eye; she knelt down and picked it up, running her fingertips over the mute bumps. She stuffed it in her pocket, then stood in the middle of the sickening ruin, surveying the heaps of blackened books, swollen with water like the corpses that float down the Ganges,
aghast that anyone could create such a sacrificial pyre. The walls of the neighboring houses loomed impassive on either side, resolute and secure in their uninvolvement. She left the remains of the room, still fingering the pocketed braille, and made her way through to where the courtyard would have been. Several pits had been dug in the narrow patch of earth, the dirt heaped up in mounds along one side. She’d never come here before, had only heard of its existence through Rosa’s ghastly tale of the pruning shears and the finger. Stones had been smashed and the water and foam that had spewed over the flames had frozen, leaving a tricky path to negotiate. Stumbling and sliding she made it over to the depressions where she knelt to get a better look. The cold ice hard against her knees and shins, she reached down to sweep away the light dusting of new snow, to crumble the frozen clumps of earth. The cold crept through the fabric of her trousers, numbing her legs. She stood up stiffly, brushed off her clothes, shivered, then peered into the second pit, wondering what had been buried there, then turned to leave.
Hauptmann Bauer was not at his office when she arrived, still carrying her bags; she hadn’t even thought about a place to stay. She waited for an hour, examining the fragment of braille salvaged from the house, listlessly scribbling in her notebook, phoning the newspaper to see if they had any news of Martin. Herlsberg, the editorial assistant, was out, and the editor was busy. She then phoned for a room at the hotel that she had stayed at previously. Finally she left, trailing a despondent cloud, leaving word of where she could be reached.
Had Vienna changed or had she? The walk from the office to the hotel was alive with new sensations; even the snow couldn’t hide a vibrancy that she had not observed when last in the city. The air was more complex, replete with an audible, visible urgency. Light was losing its transitory temperament, dawdling later through the afternoon.
Still, it was dark by the time she walked into the lobby of the hotel. By now she was thoroughly cold and tired, but alive to the very tips of every nerve. As the clerk handed her a key the elevator doors opened to the bursting tinkling form of a young girl bundled into a woolen overcoat, knitted toque, and fur-lined boots.
“Sacha, come back!” cried her mother, steps behind.
The little girl ran straight into Helen’s arms. “Where are you going?” Helen exclaimed, looking beyond to the reassured face of the mother. “What are these?” she asked the silent, pouting child, jingling the bells that were attached to her collar. The girl giggled and lowered her head as if Helen had been tickling her chin.
“Bells,” she answered.
“I can see that,” said Helen. “What are they for?”
“I’ve got more!” The little girl did a pirouette, setting the chimes alive.
Helen laughed. She asked the girl’s mother, who was now level with them, “what are the bells for?”
“These,” she said pointing to the bells in the front while the girl continued to spin and dance about, “tell us where she is going. And these,” the mother turned the girl around and demonstrated the bells on the back, “tell us where she has been.” Helen gave the bells one last jangle, committing the simple music to memory, and watched the girl and her mother disappear into the frozen night.
TASTE
CHAPTER 20
THE INVENTORY
Pacing the floor, a legacy of hotel rooms, a legacy of untold numbers of solitary nights in hotel rooms. If lucky a closet, a bathroom, a room; if not so lucky, a room, a fusty wardrobe. Tonight lucky—skulking into the bathroom, switch on the light, open the cabinet above the sink, turn on the taps, watch the water run, turn them off, tear off a square of toilet paper, needlessly blow the nose, sit on the edge of the tub. Back into the room, open the cupboard door, count the hangers—one, two—up on tiptoes, scan the dusty hat rack, a second pillow, an extra blanket. Shut the door, one time two times, faulty catch, three times. Prowl the perimeter, skirting obstacles: desk, chair, bed, extra chair. Same as the chair Rosa sat in but not the same room, after all. Sit in the chair, imagine squeezing, wedging someone else’s broad girth. Why someone else’s? Rosa’s, be frank. Back out of the chair, open drawers, nothing, not even sawdust. Pick up the telephone. Call who? Hang it up. Call Stefan Arany; she missed him, didn’t she? Hand still on the receiver, turn away. Flick on all of the lights in anticipation of turning them all off. Open the inner door, stand in the alcove, test the lock on the outer door, locked tight but turn the key one more time for luck. Sit on the bed, brush the tight pile of the carpet with toes dressed in thin socks. Think of the guest below, looking up, wondering at the cat-like steps crisscrossing the room, crisscrossing. Lie on the floor, ear to the ground, listening to the growl of the hotel’s guts.
An inventory of Rosa’s interference—nerves and skin scraped raw, inflated, then regenerated; sight dragged kicking and screaming into crippling blindness then painful, naked clarity; nostrils plunged into the most unthinkable of odors, exhumed to recognize the most imperceptible of scents; ears hammered with the shattering cries of grief, now welcoming the bellowing peals of life. Audiendi delectatio. The delight of hearing. What’s left? She licked the tips of her fingers.
Why this restlessness? There was still so much to do. Nothing had been achieved, nothing. Martin was still missing, Rosa still an enigma, she herself unfinished.
She pulled the Vesalius proofs out of their envelope and counted them once more. One hundred and three proofs, all of them of different plates. She started to sort them into subject matter, but they were already sorted: the skeleton, the muscles, the veins and arteries, the nerves, the viscera, the heart and lungs, and finally, the senses. The seven books of the Fabrica. One by one, she laid them out across the room, moving the chairs and bags out of the way. Some of the proofs were huge, some were fragments; their total displacement exceeded the dimensions of the room, backing Helen into a corner of the bed.
The piercing ring of the telephone broke through the deadened air. This was the first time she’d received a call since when? Anselm’s, and that wasn’t for her. She cleared a path across the bed and silenced the ring by grabbing the receiver. She looked at the black foreboding apparatus with suspicion.
“Hello?” she said finally.
Clicks, hums, distant words broken by the wires into meaningless syllables.
“Hello?” she repeated.
The buzzing rattled and a connection slipped into place.
“Helen?” the male voice on the other line was clear and suddenly very close. “Helen, is that you?”
Martin?
“Martin?”
Where are you? Yes, that was neutral.
“Where are you?”
“At home. Why are you in Vienna?”
Looking for you, you bastard. No, not neutral.
“Here for research. You’ve been away for awhile. What have you been doing?” Good. Very neutral.
“I was in Vienna ‘til Christmas. Sorry I didn’t make it home. Hope you weren’t worried. I didn’t think you would be. I went to Tahiti. Just got back. How’ve you been?”
He went to Tahiti.
“How did you track me down?”
“Jimmy. He had your number. I must say it surprised me not to find you here. How long have you been away?”
Years and years.
“Since the middle of January. I picked up where you left off. You know, the Vesalius woodblocks.”
Cut the enthusiasm. He’ll think you’re offering Vesalius as a hind of dowry or something. “Will this do, Martin, dear? I have nothing else to give you.”
“Oh that.” He paused. “Why’re you doing that? Nothing to the story. The blocks were destroyed in the war. Stupid rumors. I spend half my life chasing after stupid rumors. When are you coming home? The outside pipe burst, so now there’s no water. The city had to come over and turn it off. And the car has a flat tire.”
Now or never.
“Things have changed, Martin. I’m not sure that I’m coming home.”
There we go again—soft so
ap. Taken by surprise, articulate your hesitation, your inability to make a decision.
A long pause. The transatlantic dollars dripping down the line.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not coming back.”
“You’re going to stay in Vienna?”
She hesitated.
“Have you met someone?”
As if there’s no other reason to leave.
“I don’t know where I’m going. I haven’t worked this out. Your call has come out of the blue. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”
“I won’t be here. I’m off tomorrow.”
“Oh.”
Another silence.
“To Belize. I’ll be back in two weeks.”
I’ll write you a letter. Another letter. What more can I say? I’ve changed. It could have worked. But you haven’t. I won’t do it all.
“Well, we ‘11 talk later. We can get in touch with each other through Jimmy, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
Another pause.
“Helen?”
“Yes?”
“I missed you not being here when I came home.”
Too late, Martin. Too late.
“It’s too late, Martin.”
She hung up and, kicking the papers out of her way, recommenced pacing the room that now at times seemed insufferably tiny and at times incomprehensibly large.
The next morning she woke to the chambermaid’s knocking. It was incredibly late, and she ‘d slept mercifully well, smothered and comforted by the weight of Vesalius’s bodies that she ‘d left scattered across the bed. It was late but morning late: bright and cloudless, no trace of falling snow. The maid, not hearing any response, opened the door, then silently, discreetly shut it again at the sight of the young woman tangled up in aged sheets of bone, muscle and nerve, stretching her own to shake out the perfect sleep. Yesterday she would have been humiliated at the intrusion, today it pleased her. Partly dressed, she opened the door and scanned the hall, hoping to catch sight of the maid, to reassure her that she could come and clean the room whenever she wanted. There was no one in sight, but a newspaper had been left outside a neighbor’s room. The doorknob sported a do not disturb sign. Helen, miffed that no paper had been left for her, tiptoed over and grabbed it, carried it back to her room, finished dressing, and went out for a breakfast that revitalized her as much as her night.
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