Airs Above the Ground

by Mary Stewart

  ‘Forceps,’ I said.

  I don’t know whether Herr Wagner knew the English words, but he obviously knew the drill; as he handed me the dressing forceps I saw from the corner of my eye that he also had the artery forceps ready in case of any seepage from my cutting. And when I had pulled away the clotted blood with the forceps, the cotton-wool was ready to my hand without my having to speak.

  In a short time the wound was clean. I dusted it generously with sterile penicillin powder, and reached silently for the suturing needle. It was there. Six blanket sutures, and the thing was done, and Herr Wagner had ready the pad of dry cotton-wool rolled in bandage, to put over the wound for protection.

  I smiled up at Timothy, who still watched rather tautly across Piebald’s unmoving (and you would have sworn indifferent) head.

  I said: ‘That’s that. He’s survived, and he hasn’t bitten me – yet. You see this pad Herr Wagner’s made for me? We call that a dolly. I stitch it on now—’

  ‘You stitch it on? You mean you stitch it to the horse?’

  ‘Where else? Only to the skin – and he won’t feel it any more than he’s felt the rest. Watch.’

  I laid the dolly – the size and shape of a generously filled sausage – along the line of the stitched cut, then knotted the nylon suturing thread in the skin to one side of it, carried the thread close across the dolly, and knotted another stitch in. It took four stitches, then the dry pad lay snugly over the wound.

  ‘Won’t he worry at it and pull it off?’ asked Tim.

  ‘Not unless the wound’s infected, and starts to itch or hurt him, but it looked beautifully clean to me. It’s my guess he’ll never even know the dolly’s there. It can come off in three or four days time. Now, there’s just his anti-tetanus shot and penicillin, and that will be that. Pull his mane across, will you, Tim, I’ll put this in the neck . . . There you are, old darling, that’s you . . .’ I smoothed my hand down the drooping neck. ‘I think you’ll live.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Herr Wagner, behind me, ‘thanks to you, gnädige Frau, he will live.’

  There was something in his voice that made it more than just a phrase. Timothy’s eyes met mine, and his face broke into a grin. Old Piebald rolled a big dark eye back at me, and said nothing.

  ‘You’ll have some coffee now?’ said Annalisa.

  It was not so much a question as an order, and I didn’t protest as she led the way to her wagon. I was suddenly very tired, and longing for the day to be over, but in the pre-dawn chill the thought of coffee was irresistible.

  Behind us, in the stable, Elemer and Herr Wagner were settling Piebald for what was left of the night. Sandor Balog came with us. I gathered that it had been kind, even condescending, of an artiste of his calibre to have helped so far.

  It seemed that this kindness – or his interest in Annalisa – didn’t impel him to anything more domestic. He settled with me on the bench at the table in her wagon, and allowed her to serve the coffee alone. Timothy did offer help, but was refused, and sat down beside Sandor, looking round him with frank pleasure.

  The living-wagon was – just at present – very untidy, but still rather attractive. Though it was a newish caravan, the pattern of circus life with its century-old traditions had modified its streamlined modernity to give it the authentic old gypsy wagon flavour. The stove near the door was of white enamel, and burned bottled gas, but the lamp swinging over it looked like an old converted storm lantern, and the little table was covered with a brilliant red cloth with a fringe, for all the world like a gypsy’s shawl. A faded striped curtain hung over the forward doorway through which could be glimpsed the corner of a tumbled bunk covered with clothes; the light caught the edge of the blue velvet riding costume, and glittered off the jewelled handle of a whip. On a hook near one window hung the hussar’s cap with all its amethysts and diamonds and its osprey plume which wavered and tossed a little in the warm draught from the stove. Between window and stove was the dressing-shelf, with candles stuck to either side of a square mirror with a chipped corner. The candles had guttered down into big blobs of grey wax and the shelf itself was smeared heavily with red and carmine and the white of powder. There was a splash of pink liquid powder across the looking-glass. A wicker cage, swinging from a hook and shrouded with a green kerchief, completed the gypsy picture. Our voices roused the inmate to a sort of sleepy croak, and I remembered Annalisa’s saying something about Uncle Franzl’s parrot.

  ‘But this is terrific, it really is!’ Timothy was enthusiastic, and very wide awake still. ‘It’s just how I’ve always imagined it. Aren’t you lucky? Gosh, fancy living in a house when you could have a wagon, and move on every day or so!’

  She laughed. ‘I wonder if you would say the same thing at five o’clock in the morning? Sugar, Vanessa?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘This is yours, Sandor. Sugar, Tim?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  I curved my hands round the hot blue cup. The coffee was delicious, fragrant and strong, and through the coffee-scent came, seductively, another even more delicious – the smell of hot, freshly baked bread. Annalisa put a dish on the table; croissants, flaky and rich, flat buns shining with sugared tops and still steaming, fresh sweet bread with new butter melting on it.

  ‘Gotterdämmerung,’ said Timothy reverently, if inappropriately. ‘Did you make them?’

  She laughed. ‘No, no! They come from the village bakery. Lee brought them.’

  Sandor looked up. ‘He is here still?’

  ‘He goes back tomorrow. Oh, you mean is he here, in the circus? No. He came down to the stables while Vanessa was busy with the horse, but only for a minute.’

  ‘Did he?’ I said. ‘I didn’t see him.’

  ‘He didn’t stay. He only watched for a minute, then he went to get the bread, but he wouldn’t stay for coffee, either.’

  ‘Was he at the show?’ asked Sandor.

  ‘I don’t think so. I didn’t see him. Did you?’ This to Tim and me.

  ‘No.’

  To my surprise, this didn’t please Sandor either, but then it appeared that a Lee Elliott safely anchored in a ring-side seat was preferable to a Lee Elliott at large back stage . . . possibly in Annalisa’s wagon.

  He said, with a savage intensity that seemed out of place and somehow shocking: ‘I don’t know what he is doing here still. He did what he came for on Monday, then why did he not go back?’

  ‘Because I asked him to stay.’ Annalisa’s voice was light and cold. ‘More coffee, Vanessa?’

  ‘Thank you. It’s lovely.’

  ‘You asked him to stay?’

  ‘Yes. Why not? What objection have you got, Sandor Balog?’

  It was obvious that, whatever his objection was, it was a violent one. I thought for a moment that he was going to explode into words. The black eyes glittered, the nostrils flared like a horse’s, but then the full lips folded sullenly over his anger, and he looked down, stirring his coffee in silence. I found myself hoping for Annalisa’s sake that her cool manner hid no warmer feeling for him; he might be playing lapdog now, but it seemed to me a thin disguise for a creature much nearer to the wolf.

  ‘Tim,’ said Annalisa, ‘have some more. Another croissant?’

  ‘I’d love it. Thank you. Personally,’ said Timothy, muscling in on his third bun with undiminished zeal, ‘I’d say Mr Elliott had real executive sense. This is a terrific idea, raiding a bakery in the middle of the night. I must do it some day. Will you thank him for us if you see him again?’

  ‘We shall be gone before he gets up. You may see him yourself.’

  ‘Where’s he staying?’

  ‘He sleeps over the bakery; it’s the one in the square, there’s a Frau Schindler who lets a room there.’

  ‘Big deal,’ said Tim. ‘I told you he was smart. I wish we’d thought of that.’

  ‘Gimme a bit, you greedy bastard,’ said the parrot suddenly, directly over my head. I jumped, and spilled coffee, and Annalisa an
d the parrot laughed heartily. The green kerchief, twitched aside by a powerful beak, came down over my head like an extinguisher.

  ‘Levez, levez,’ said the parrot. ‘Shake a leg, Peter, changez, hup! Get your mane hogged, you goddam limey, you! Gib mir was! Gib mir was!’

  ‘For pete’s sake!’ said Tim. He tore off a bit of croissant. ‘All right, old chap, here. No, not like that, you fool, like that. There.’

  ‘Put your comb up,’ said the parrot, accepting the bread.

  ‘I’m not a flipping cockatoo,’ said Tim.

  ‘Don’t teach him any more words, please,’ said Annalisa, laughing, ‘and keep your nose away from the bars, Tim, he’s a terrible bird.’ She was helping me to emerge from the folds of the green kerchief. ‘I am sorry, he is so terrible . . . I do not know who had him before Uncle Franzl, but he’s very . . . what is it? . . . he’s a real Weltbürger, and from all the worst places!’

  ‘A cosmopolitan,’ said Tim. ‘Dead right, he is! That bird’s been around.’

  The parrot made a comment, this time in German, that got Annalisa to her feet.

  ‘Please, we must cover him up again before he really starts! I’m sorry, Vanessa, did the scarf go in your coffee? It’s quite clean.’

  ‘Let me,’ said Sandor Balog. He, too, was laughing, and it transformed him. There was (I saw it sinkingly, because I was getting to like Annalisa) quite a powerful animal attraction there. He and Tim draped the cage once more, while Annalisa tried to get me fresh coffee, but this time I refused.

  ‘We must go. Look at the time, and you people have an early start. No, really, it was nothing, you’re very welcome . . .’ This as she began once again to thank me for what I had done.

  ‘If you come near us again,’ she said eagerly, ‘please come to see us. We shall be leaving Austria in two or three days’ time, but we go today to Hohenwald, and after that to Zechstein. If you are near us, on your motor tour, you will call, will you not? If you wish to watch the show again, it will be a pleasure, any time; we will keep you the best seats. But in any case, my father and I would be glad to welcome you.’

  Sandor Balog rose also. ‘I shall see you to the gate.’ When we protested that there was no need, he produced a slim flashlight from his pocket. ‘Yes, please. The ground is all muddy where the tractors have been, and there is not much light. Please allow me.’

  ‘In that case,’ I said, ‘thank you. Good night, Annalisa, and auf Wiedersehen.’

  ‘Auf Wiedersehen.’

  ‘Merde, alors,’ said the parrot, muffled.

  8

  The statements was interesting, but tough.

  Mark Twain: Huckleberry Finn

  ‘Probably just seeing us off the premises,’ said Timothy later, as we walked through the sleeping village towards the Gasthof Edelweiss. The air was still and cold. A clock in the church tower struck two, with a thin, acid sweetness. A chain jingled, and a dog grumbled in its throat somewhere. ‘I say, you don’t really think there could be anything between him and Annalisa, do you? I thought he was an absolute wart.’

  ‘Not on her side, I’m sure. Anyway, you can leave our Sandor safely to Herr Wagner and the parrot.’

  He chuckled. ‘I rather cared for the parrot. I’d like to hear him – That’s odd.’

  ‘What’s odd?’

  ‘I thought I saw someone over there . . . the other side of the square, by those trees.’

  ‘Well, why not?’

  ‘I’m sure it was Mr Elliott.’

  ‘Well, why not?’ I said again. ‘He’s probably been down for some more buns for himself, and now he’s walking off the indigestion. Come along, Tim, I’m just about dropping.’

  But tired as I was, when at length I was ready for bed I found sleep far away, and myself restless. I padded across the boards in my bare feet to open the long windows, and went out on to the veranda to look at the night. Next door to mine, Timothy’s window was open, too, but his light was out already. In the distance the clock struck the half hour. Nearer at hand a soft chiming echoed it as a cow stirred in her stall.

  The night was sweet, cold and clear. The stars seemed close to the mountain tops, as if they were sharp points of reflection off some high snow struck by the moon, and their light showed the soft slopes of meadow and fir wood in silver monochrome and shadow. You could have traced the countryside by its scents alone. Immediately below the veranda the clover and mown hay; beyond it pines, and the cold scent of running water; faint food-smells from the Gasthof kitchen; somewhere a homely whiff of pig, and the sweet smell of the cows with their bells sleepily ringing in the byre.

  It was still and peaceful and very lovely. Anybody should be able to sleep.

  I padded back across boards already faintly damp with dew, and got into bed. The only covering was a large eiderdown, or feather puff, light and warm, but apt to expose the feet when one pulled it up under one’s chin. I curled up facing the window, tucked the puff round me as best I might, and wondered about Lewis . . .

  I don’t think I was asleep, but I may have been floating into the edge of it, because the tiny noise from outside brought me fully awake with a start. I didn’t move, but strained my ears. Nothing. But I was certain something – or someone – had moved out there.

  Then the hand parted the curtains. He didn’t make a sound, just slid between them like a ghost. As I sat up in bed, pulling the puff round me, he was already turning to draw the long windows shut. They latched with a tiny click. He stood there just inside the windows, quite still, listening.

  ‘All right, Mr Elliott,’ I said, ‘I’m awake. What brings you this way? Couldn’t you find your way to Annalisa’s wagon, or was Sandor Balog standing guard?’

  He came forward towards the bed. Even on the bare floors he moved without a sound, incredibly quietly, like a cat. ‘I think I’m in the right place.’

  ‘What makes you think that, Mr Lee Elliott? What makes you think that after what’s been going on you have the faintest right to come wandering in here like a tomcat on the prowl, and expect a welcome?’

  ‘Oh, well, if we’re talking about rights . . .’ said Lewis, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and taking off his shoes.

  ‘And now,’ I said, ‘supposing you start? What in the world are you doing here, and what’s your connection with Annalisa?’

  ‘How like a woman to start at the wrong end,’ said Lewis, ‘I’ll ask the questions, please. First of all, what are you doing here, and who is that boy?’

  ‘Keep your voice down, he’s next door.’

  ‘I know. I looked in when I came along the veranda. He was sound asleep.’

  ‘Efficient, aren’t you? You know who he is; I told you, it’s Tim Lacy. Don’t you remember Carmel? I’m sure you met her once. She gave us that horrible decanter for a wedding present.’

  ‘Ah, yes, that fair fat female, I remember. All soft and sweet, and full of icy draughts at the edges, like this damned feather thing on the bed. Must you have all of it, incidentally? I’m getting cold.’

  ‘Then you’d better get your clothes on again. It would be bad enough if Tim or Frau Weber heard you and came in, let alone finding you like that—’

  ‘I suppose I had. A life of sin is beastly uncomfortable,’ said Lewis peacefully, sitting up and reaching for his trousers.

  ‘Well, for pity’s sake, can’t you tell me why we’re having to lead it? When I saw you standing there tonight, I nearly fainted. I’d have yelled out in another second.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I gave you the high sign to say nothing. I must say you passed it off very well. Did the boy guess?’

  ‘No, but he told me I looked funny.’

  ‘Well, so you did. You looked as if you’d seen a ghost.’

  ‘Of course I did! It was the most unnerving thing that ever happened to me. As a matter of fact, for one dreadful moment, when you looked straight through me like that, I wondered if I could have been mistaken. Lewis, those clothes, where did you get them? They were abs
olutely disgusting.’

  ‘Yes, weren’t they?’ He sounded remarkably complacent about it. ‘Do you mean to tell me that you honestly did wonder whether you’d made a mistake or not?’

  ‘Yes, truthfully.’

  ‘Well – damn, I can’t find my sock – I hope I’ve convinced you now.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Same old technique, same old Lewis. It’s you all right, I’d know that old routine anywhere.’

  He grinned. ‘Well, so long as you’re sure . . . where the hell is that sock? Do you think I could put the light on for a moment?’

  ‘No, I do not. If I’m not allowed to claim you as my husband with benefit of clergy here and now, I’m not going to let my reputation go straight down the sink by being discovered in bed with you. I’ve got Tim to think of.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Tim. You still haven’t told me why you’re here with him. Ah, there’s the sock. Go on, your move, I’m listening.’

  ‘It’s not in the least important how I got here, or why I’m with Tim,’ I said sharply, ‘but I should have thought it was perfectly obvious what brought me here. Lewis—’

  ‘I’ll tell you my part of it later. No, my darling Van, this matters . . . I must know how you found out I was here in Oberhausen. I’ll tell you why all in good time, but you’ve got to tell me your end of it here and now. Of course it’s obvious what brought you here; you knew I was here; now I want you to tell me how you knew.’

  ‘I knew you were with the circus, and when we asked in Vienna where it was, they said the accident had happened in Oberhausen. We came down. We thought the circus might have already left, but that people would know where it had gone.’

  He was pulling on his sweater now, a thick dark affair. As he emerged from it he paused for a moment, and turned his head. He said, in a stilled, listening voice:

  ‘The news reel cameras?’

  ‘Heavens, how on earth did you guess so quickly? Yes, Carmel Lacy saw the news reel, and thought she recognised you, and she wanted someone to convoy Timothy to Vienna, so she rang me up. She assumed I’d be joining you out here sooner or later.’