Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2)

by Gabi Kreslehner

  Yes, she was waiting. She passed through the revolving doors, then stopped to watch Franza.

  “You’re not in bad form,” she said with a small grin, “for your age.”

  “Oh,” Franza said as she tried to steady her breathing. “You think so?”

  The young woman nodded.

  “After all, we’ve just run through half the mall and you’ve got nothing but socks on your feet.” She grinned again and looked scornfully down at Franza’s feet. “Why?”

  Franza raised her eyebrows, still a little annoyed at the lack of respect and the ridicule from her adversary, although inwardly she had regained her composure.

  “Why what? Why am I running after you, or why am I running after you in socks?”

  “Both.”

  “Hm.” Franza considered for a moment. “You know why I ran after you. Why in socks? Well, sometimes life’s just like that.”

  The girl smiled, and Franza felt a vague feeling of sympathy, of concern.

  “Good answer.”

  “You think?” said Franza. “Thanks.”

  “Can I go now?”

  Franza paused for a fraction of a second, then nodded, looking into the girl’s thoughtful, alert eyes. “Who’s going to stop you? I’m certainly not. I should go back and fetch my shoes.”

  “From the shop?”

  “Yes, from the shop. A crap shop it is, too.”

  The girl laughed. “I know. Why do you go there? You don’t need to.”

  Don’t need to! Franza couldn’t help grinning, but her face immediately turned serious again.

  “What about you?” she asked. “Do you need to? How often do you need to do that?”

  The girl’s face suddenly turned bright red, and all at once she seemed really small, a sapling unable to withstand the wind. She shrugged. “It’s nothing to do with you! Or do you want to send me to a therapist?”

  Her scornful smile was back in place, but it was shaky. Franza felt a desire to take her in her arms and rock her gently. But of course she didn’t.

  “No,” she said instead. “I’ve no intention of sending you to a therapist. That’s something you’ve got to do for yourself.”

  The girl was silent.

  “But that . . . that’s going to take a while, isn’t it?” she continued carefully.

  The girl shrugged again. Franza reached out her hand.

  “Franza,” she said. “And you?”

  The girl cautiously shook her hand.

  “I know,” she said. “You’re Benny’s mother. You’re a police officer. That always amazed me.”

  “Oh!” Franza was surprised. “You know Ben? How?”

  “From school. We were in the same class. I have to go now.”

  She withdrew her hand from Franza’s and walked away.

  “What’s your name?” Franza called.

  The girl turned once more. “Lilli,” she said. “I’m Lilli.”

  Then she was gone, swallowed up by the crowds. Franza stood there for a while, lost in thought.

  “Lilli,” she murmured and recalled her eyes, light mottled brown.

  She turned back into the mall, rode up the escalator, fielding with confidence the looks she attracted in her socks and unzipped fly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

  The sales assistant was standing outside the door of the store, an aging Barbie gesticulating wildly as she talked to a police officer, who was holding Franza’s purse in one hand and her official ID in the other.

  “Oh,” said Franza to the assistant. “I see you’ve called in reinforcements.”

  She smiled at the police officer, whose relief was plain to see. He must have recognized Franza from her photo.

  “Thank God,” he said. “All’s well that ends well. What was the matter, Inspector?”

  Franza shook her head and smiled. “Nothing, my friend. False alarm. You can give me my things back now.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, pressing them into her hands.

  “No problem.” Turning to the assistant, Franza added, “I’ll make myself presentable now.”

  She went into the store and the dressing room, took a last quick look at herself in the jeans, then dragged them down and slipped into her old pants, which would do for a while longer.

  The sales assistant had followed her and was now standing, a little bewildered, outside the door.

  She cleared her throat. “I didn’t know that . . . you . . . were a police officer . . .”

  “No problem.” Franza took a deep breath as she savored the comfort of her old pants.

  “Will you be taking the jeans?”

  “No,” Franza said. “I won’t be taking the jeans, as I assume you don’t have them in my size.”

  The assistant fell into an embarrassed silence, probably feeling uneasy now that she knew Franza was a police officer. She was probably thinking of the traffic offenses she had committed, or the occasional joint she smoked . . . no, probably not. Barbies didn’t smoke joints, certainly not aging Barbies. The most Barbies did was to take turns a little fast, causing the tires to squeal and making them laugh out loud. Apart from that, Barbies were good little girls, well adjusted and pretty. On Sundays they went out on the town with Ken and ate . . . well, anything but sundaes. Franzas, on the other hand, enjoyed sundaes. Franzas sinned occasionally, sinned like crazy, without so much as a bad conscience.

  Precisely, Franza thought with satisfaction. That’s the way of the world. Sometimes you just needed the simplicity of a clear worldview.

  Franza left the store and the mall and went out into the sunshine. She walked with a swing in her step, thinking of nothing, of everything, of nothing.

  5

  Backthenbackthenbackthen . . .

  Back then the world was small, yet huge. Enormous. Much bigger than today. Big houses, people, trees, sky. The perfect size for those giants whose bellies were level with your head. From a child’s perspective, with your head at hip level, voices were from above, looks from above.

  Mama had baked cakes and as always wore that necklace, with the little balls, around her neck, the balls she said were called pearls and very, very valuable. Gertrud must take care and not be too boisterous when she threw her arms around Mama’s neck or the necklace could break and then the pearls would get lost.

  Mama rarely baked. It was usually Sabine who did that with the weekday chores. Mama did the chores on weekends, as well as she could, but she was a doctor and not particularly good at housework.

  Today was the weekend, a special day. Today Gertrud would be getting a sister, and that was why Mama had baked a cake.

  Three days ago, Mama and Papa had come to Gertrud’s bedside, given her a cuddle, and Mama had asked, “Gertrud, would you like a sister?”

  Gertrud had just turned seven, and yes, she really wanted a sister, a little doll that she could mother and drag around with her sometimes, and then when she cried hand her back to Mama or Sabine or even Papa.

  Her reply was full of enthusiasm. “Yes! Yes, I do! When?”

  She peered at Mama’s belly, but Mama’s belly was as flat as ever, so it was going to be a while.

  “At the weekend,” Mama said with a smile and stroked Gertrud’s head, delighted at how easy it had been. “This weekend!”

  Gertrud was amazed. How could that be possible? Three weeks ago her best school friend’s mama had had a baby, but it had taken a long time, many weeks and months. Brigitte’s mama’s belly had gradually grown bigger and fatter and had then finally spat out the baby, Brigitte’s little brother. And now it was going to happen so quickly? Gertrud was amazed.

  Perhaps, she thought, God had blessed Papa with a little magic and all he had to do was click his fingers and the baby would appear and Mama didn’t have to get really fat. Perhaps it was because Papa was an important man, a man who always went to work in a suit and tie, a man who had offices in the town where he helped everyone who came to him and where the rooms were so tall and so wide that th
e world seemed a little bigger and Gertrud was paralyzed with awe.

  “What a good girl,” Frau Umlauf, Papa’s secretary, would say every time Gertrud visited, as she stroked her hair.

  “Do you remember Hanna?”

  Gertrud looked at Papa. “Hanna?”

  He nodded. “Yes, Hanna. She was here once. The daughter of Frau Umlauf, my secretary at the office. Don’t you remember?”

  Yes, Gertrud remembered. Hanna was a thin, pale girl with carroty hair. Anyone who had hair like that was to be pitied. She had been to their house once because Gertrud’s father needed her mother at work. So Sabine had gone to fetch the child, so she wouldn’t be home alone. At first, although they were a similar age, the two girls had not known what to make of each other, but Sabine had finally managed to get them to play together.

  “Hanna’s a poor little girl,” Mama said. “She has no one left anymore, so she’s coming to live with us now. You have to be nice to her.”

  Gertrud was amazed. She couldn’t say a word—at first. Later, she couldn’t stop asking questions.

  Hanna had no father. Gertrud knew sometimes people had no father. But Hanna had no grandma or grandpa either, and no aunts or uncles, no one at all. That happened, too. But now Hanna had no mother. Her mother had not died exactly, but was effectively dead. She’d collapsed like a stone and now she just lay there like a stone. It had happened two weeks ago in the office, in the middle of taking dictation.

  “Isn’t it dreadful?” Mama asked, stroking Gertrud’s hair. Gertrud nodded and snuggled up to Mama’s belly and Mama’s bosom and put her arms around her neck. She thought she should be careful with the pearl necklace so the pearls didn’t roll away.

  That night Gertrud slept badly, waking up in fear several times, dreaming of mamas who simply collapsed and didn’t get up anymore. Three days later, Papa drove off and came back with Hanna. She had nothing but a small suitcase and a doll called Helga, with blond braids. She was given the room next to Gertrud’s, which Mama and Sabine had quickly prepared and which would be made much more cozy over the coming weeks. Hanna didn’t talk much that first day. Mama and Papa made up for it by talking more, perhaps because they didn’t really know what to say. In the evening Papa called the social welfare office and reassured them that everything was OK and that he would see to the paperwork as quickly as possible. He was an attorney, and it wouldn’t be a problem at all.

  When everything was dark and quiet in the house and everyone was asleep, Gertrud woke in fear again. She climbed from her bed and crept out onto the dark landing, something she had rarely done. She slipped along to the next door, opened it, and darted into the room and into the bed in which the little girl lay—the little girl who had no one left in the world. She jumped when she felt the strange body next to her and then immediately put her arm around Gertrud’s neck, hugged her close, and began to sob—softly, but sobbing all the same.

  “Shhhh,” said Gertrud. Hanna slowly calmed and stopped trembling. Gertrud said “shhhh” once again, then stroked her carroty hair that shimmered in the moonlight and thought how pretty she was, so pretty . . .

  They eventually fell asleep, the children, the little girls, the sisters who weren’t sisters but who eventually became sisters. They embraced each other in their sleep and became one another’s support, anchor, burden.

  I have a sister now, Gertrud wrote in the red book she had been given for her last birthday. A sister is for life. My sister is called Hanna.

  It was lovely to have a sister, someone you could share everything with, all your joys, all your pain. It was horrible having a sister, someone you had to share everything with, all Mama’s caresses, all Papa’s kind words.

  6

  Tonio stood on the hill, observing the house. He knew he must be a bit mad to be observing them—spying on them—like this, but he did it anyway.

  “You have to stop this,” Gertrud had said after he’d called her for the third time, asking her to meet him. “It’s going nowhere. I can’t tell you anything about your father. I knew him, sure, but not particularly well. He’s dead, leave him in peace. Enjoy your inheritance and just get on with your life.”

  He called a fourth time.

  “If you don’t stop harassing me, I’ll have to tell the police,” she said.

  But she had not called the police, which emboldened him and gave him confidence. He continued to follow her, approaching her on the street. He could see she was beginning to unravel; panic taking an ever-increasing hold of her. But still no police.

  So my gut feeling’s along the right lines, he thought. There’s something in the air, something . . . bad from when my father was still alive. I have to know what it is. I just have to know! Perhaps this is his legacy to me, his gift. Perhaps it will be my downfall, this knowledge, but I can’t have it any other way. I owe it to him, my father. I owe it to myself!

  No, he couldn’t have it any other way. He was Tonio’s son. He bore his father’s name and looked like him. His father had never even seen him. His mother had been a mere one-night stand for this man, not even a brief affair. There was no connection between father and son, nothing—only the name and the resemblance. It was probably a curse. Gertrud was probably right that he should merely enjoy his inheritance and be done with it. A father like that was owed nothing, absolutely nothing.

  Tonio remembered the day, just a few weeks ago, when he had finally gone to pick up the letter from the notary’s office. It had been an awful day. There’d been another death on the ward before his shift ended. He got in his car and revved the engine. Over by the pond Rasmus stood smoking, staring into space, his face vacant and expressionless.

  Asshole, Tonio had thought, amazed at his own anger, which was out of all proportion, based on nothing but that dumb grin Rasmus always wore on his face. He was such a suck-up. He needed a good beating. Tonio wished he could hold him down and let him have it!

  As Tonio turned out of the parking lot, he saw Rasmus getting smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. Once Tonio could no longer see him, he finally did what he had been longing to do all along: he stuck up his middle finger and yelled at the windshield, venting his anger not only at Rasmus, but at them all, the whole world, the temples of shopping, the fitness centers, the sales talks, the peace and harmony—all of it. If he was hoping for relief or release, nothing of the sort came. The air remained dull, and the rain that had been threatening all day finally came down from the sky, turning the day so dark and oppressive it seemed as though the world were about to end.

  At the traffic light Tonio stared at the circle of red that seemed to hang from the sky. When he narrowed his eyes, the red blurred into the gray of the sky, boring into his vision and his body as the wind whipped the rain through the car’s open window. Tonio felt the cold, sharp bite of the rain lashing into his face, his arms, his brain. He wished for the end, and he waited and waited, but the end didn’t come.

  As if from a vast distance, he heard the angry blare of a horn from the car behind him. The light had long since changed to green, but he was glued to the spot, nailed in place. Assholes, he thought. You’re all assholes. Up yours!

  And he thought of Rasmus again and the constant grin he used to keep the world at bay. He thought of the hospital and the ranks of the sick who lay there, some of them close to death. He wanted to—needed to—get away to another life. He thought of the puke, the pus, the succession of running sores.

  Behind him horns blared, lights flashed—rage, irritation—new, different sores. He flung open the car door, leapt out, and gave them all the middle finger. He spun around and yelled, “Shoot me; why don’t you just shoot me?” Then he ran off across the junction, arm and finger still aloft, while brakes squealed and horns blared. The car stood abandoned at the light, its door still open—a nuisance, a lump in the throat, a stomach ulcer.

  He saw a sign for the U-Bahn and stumbled toward it and glided down the escalator into its cathedrals of silence. He boarded a train, and t
he strange silence that reigned there calmed him.

  He’d once seen a young man take a running leap into the rumbling path of a train, the darkness of the rails. As the young man vanished, Tonio thought of blood, of spilled brains, of pulped flesh, and turned away, leaving behind a knot of passengers who suddenly seemed united in their horror, their screaming, their gawking.

  “Retards,” he had muttered. “Fucking retards!”

  There’s no getting away from it, he thought as he got off the U-Bahn and lost himself in the crowds, with their umbrellas and dark-colored hooded jackets. There’s no getting away from this town, it craps out its viscous, sticky slime into your brain, then releases you, but only a little; you jump like from a trampoline, flung into the air, and it pulls you back and starts the shit all over again.

  “What’s up with you? I thought you drove?” asked Kristin when he arrived home dripping wet. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Why should there be? Don’t bug me.”

  He went to the bathroom and lay down in the tub. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t switch off.

  Shit, he thought. Shit, I’m losing control. It was all getting too close, eating into him—the hospital, his ward, the cancer cases, the half dead. Their eyes were already misted over with visions of the next world, the existence of which he seriously doubted.

  But he couldn’t tell them that, and when they spoke of going over to the other side, entering a new life—be it white, red, or yellow, whatever kind of world they envisioned—and reached out for his hand in search of his affirmation of their hopes, he sometimes thought he would die himself of despair and shame. He had absolutely none of that damned hope.

  There were no lines anymore. He felt it. Everything penetrated his thoughts, his feelings. He wasn’t even free at home. There was no hope of washing it away in his bathtub or in his washing machine. Later, he knew, the images would seep into his sleep, his dreams. Like spiders, they would spread their webs, and he would finally be caught, a sticky package of prey, a chunk of meat that they would suck dry. Once he was spent, they’d spit him out and head off in search of new victims.