by Joe Bandel
These wonderful Indian carpets were presented to him by the Maharaja of Vigatpuri, whose life he had saved during an elephant hunt and this earthen eight armed Durga, begrimed with the blood of animals and people, he had received from the High Priest of the dreaded Kalis of Kalighat–
His life lay in these rooms, every mussel, every colored rag, reminded him of long past memories. There lay his opium pipes, over there the large mescal can that had been hammered together out of Mexican silver dollars. Near it was the small tightly locked container of snake venom from Ceylon and a golden arm band–with two magnificent cat’s eyes–it had once been given to him by an eternally laughing child in Birma. He had paid many kisses for them–
Scattered around on the floor, piled on top of each other, stood and lay crates and trunks–twenty-one of them. They contained his new treasures–none had been opened yet.
“Where can I put it all?” he laughed.
A long Persian spear stretched through the air across the large double window. A very large, snow white Cockatoo sat on it. It was a Macassar bird from South Africa with a high flamingo red crest.
“Good morning Peter!” Frank Braun greeted him.
“Atja Tuwan!” answered the bird.
He climbed solemnly over the spear and down to his stand. From there he clambered onto a chair and down to the floor, came with bowed stately strides up to him, climbed up onto his shoulder, spread out his proud crest and flung his wings out wide like the Prussian eagle.
“Atja, Tuwan! Atja, Tuwan!” he cried.
The white bird stretched out his neck and Frank Braun scratched it.
“How’s it going, little Peter?–Are you happy that I’m back again?”
Frank Braun climbed halfway down the staircase, stepped out onto the large covered balcony where his mother was drinking tea. Below, in the garden, the mighty chestnut trees glowed like candles, further back, in the monastery garden, lay an ocean of brilliant snow-white flowers. Brown robed Franciscans wandered under the laughing trees.
“There is Father Barnabas!” he cried.
His mother put her glasses on and looked, “No,” she answered. “That is Father Cyprian.”
A green amazon squatted on the iron railing of the balcony and as soon as he set the Cockatoo down, the cheeky little parrot came rushing up to it. It looked comical enough, walking sideways, like a shuffling Galatian peddler.
“All right,” he screamed. “All right–Lorita real di España e di Portugal!–Anna Mari-i-i-i-i-a!”
He pecked at the large bird, which just raised his crest and softly said, “cockatoo”.
“Still saucy as ever, Phylax?” Frank Braun asked.
“Every day he gets saucier,” laughed his mother. “Nothing is safe from him anymore. He would love to chew up the entire house.”
She dipped a piece of sugar in her tea and gave it to the bird on a silver spoon.
“Has Peter learned anything,” he asked.
“Nothing at all,” she replied. He only speaks his soft, “’Cockatoo’, along with some scraps of Malay.”
“Unfortunately you don’t understand any of that,” he laughed.
His mother said, “No, but I understand my green Phylax much better. He loves to talk, all day long, in all the languages of the world–always something new. Sometimes I lock him up in the closet, just to get a half hour of peace.”
She took the amazon, who was at that moment strolling across the middle of the table and attacking the butter, and set the struggling bird back up on the railing.
Her brown hound came up, stood on its hind legs and rested its little head on her knee.
“Yes, you are here too,” she said. “Would you like some tea?”
She poured tea and milk into a little red saucer, broke off some white bread and a piece of sugar, putting them in it as well.
Frank Braun looked down into the wide garden. Two round hedgehogs were playing on the lawn and nibbling at the young shoots. They must be ancient–he, himself, had once brought them out of the forest, from a school picnic. The male was named Wotan and the female, Tobias Meier. But perhaps these were their grandchildren or great-grandchildren–then he saw the little mound near the white, blooming magnolia bush. There he had once buried his black poodle. Two large yuccas grew there now, in the summer they would bloom with hundreds of white, resounding bells. But now, for spring, his mother had planted many colorful primroses there.
Ivy and other wild vines crawled up the high walls of the house, all the way up to the roof. There, twittering and making noise were the sparrows.
“The thrush has her nest over there, can you see?” asked his mother.
She pointed down to the wooden trellis that led from the courtyard into the garden. The round nest lay half-hidden in ivy. He had to search before he finally found it.
“It already has three little eggs,” he said.
“No, there are four,” his mother corrected him. “She laid the fourth one this morning.”
“Yes, four,” he nodded “Now I can see all of them. It is beautiful here mother.”
She sighed and laid her old hand on his. “Oh yes, my boy–it is beautiful–if only I wasn’t so lonely all the time.”
“Lonely,” he asked. “Don’t you have as many visitors as you used to?”
She said, “Oh yes, they come every day, many young people. They look after this old lady. They come to tea and to dinner. Everyone knows how happy I am when someone comes to visit me. But you see, my boy, they are still strangers–you aren’t.”
“Well now I’m here,” he said and changed the subject, described the various curiosities that he had brought back with him, asked her if she wanted to be there when he unpacked.
Then the girl came up bringing the mail that had just arrived. He tore his letters open and glanced fleetingly at them. He paused, looked at one more closely. It was a letter from Legal Councilor Gontram that briefly communicated what had happened at his uncle’s house. There was also a copy of the will and his expressed wish that Frank Braun travel over as soon as possible to put the affairs in order. He, the Legal Councilor, had been court ordered to act as temporary executor. Now that he, Frank Braun, was once more back in Europe he begged him to take up his obligation.
His mother observed him–she knew his smallest gesture, the slightest movement of his smooth, sun tanned features. She read in the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth that it was something important.
“What is it?” she asked, and her voice trembled.
“Nothing big,” he answered easily. “You know of course that Uncle Jakob is dead.”
“Yes, I know that,” she said. “It was sad enough.”
“Well then,” he nodded, “the Legal Councilor has sent me a copy of the will. I am the executor and to become the girl’s guardian as well. To do that I must go to Lendenich.”
“When will you leave?” she asked quickly.
“Well,” he said. “I think–this evening.”
“Don’t go,” she begged. “Don’t go! You’ve only been back with me for three days and now you want to leave again.”
“But mother,” he turned to face her. “It’s only for a few days, just to put things in order.”
She said, “That’s what you always say, only a few days–and then you stay away for years.”
“You must be able to see it, dear mother!” he insisted. “Here is the will. Uncle has left you a right decent sum of money and me as well–Something I certainly was not expecting from him. We could certainly use it, both of us.”
She shook her head, “What should I do with the money if you are not with me, my boy?”
He stood up and kissed her gray hair.
“Mother dear, by the end of the week I will be back here with you. It is scarcely two hours by train.”
She sighed deeply, stroked his hands, “Two hours–or two hundred hours, what is the difference?–You are gone either way!”
“Adieu, dear mother,” he said, went
upstairs, packed only a small suitcase and came back out to the balcony.
“There, you see! Scarcely enough for two days–Auf Wiedersehen!”
“Auf Wiedersehen, dear boy,” she said quietly.
She heard how he bounded down the stairs, heard the latch click as the door shut. She laid her hand on the intelligent head of her little hound that looked at her with faithful trusting eyes.
“Dear animal,” she spoke. “Now we are alone again–Oh, only to go again, does he come here–when will we see him again?”
Heavy tears fell from her gentle eyes, rolled over the wrinkles on her cheeks, fell down onto the long brown ears of the little hound. He licked at them with his red tongue.
Then down below she heard the bell, heard voices and steps coming up the stairs. She quickly wiped the tears out of her eyes, pushed her black lace scarf into place and straightened out her hair. She stood up, leaned over the railing and called down into the courtyard for the cook to prepare fresh tea for the guests that had come.
Oh, it was good that so many came to visit her, Ladies and Gentlemen–today and always. She could chat with them, tell them about her boy.
Legal Councilor Gontram, whom he had wired about his arrival, awaited him at the train station, took him with to the garden terraces of the Royal Court, where he explained everything to him that was important. He begged him to go at once out to Lendenich, speak with the Fräulein and then early the next morning come back into the office.
He couldn’t really say the Fräulein would make trouble for him, but he had a strange, uncomfortable feeling about her that made every meeting with her intolerable. It was funny in a way, he had worked with so many criminals–murderers, assassins, burglars, abortionists, and once he really got to know them he always found that they were really pretty decent people–with the exception of their crimes.
But with the Fräulein, whom you could not reproach for anything, he always had the same feeling that other people had toward the criminals he worked with. It must lie completely in him–
Frank Braun requested that he telephone ahead and announce his arrival to the Fräulein. Then he excused himself, strolled through the park until he hit the road to Lendenich.
He walked through the old village, past the statue of St. Nepomuk and nodded to him, stood in front of the Iron Gate and rang, looking into the courtyard. There was a large gas candelabra burning in the entrance where once a paltry little lantern had glowed. That was the only change that he saw.
Above, from her window the Fräulein looked down, searched the features of the stranger, and tried to recognize him in the flickering light. She saw how Aloys sped up, how he put the key in the lock more quickly than usual.
“Good evening young Master!” cried the servant and the stranger shook hands with him, called him by name, as if he had just come back to his own house after a little trip.
“How goes it, Aloys?”
Then the old coachman hobbled over the stones as quickly as his crippled leg would carry him.
“Young Master,” he crowed. “Young Master! Welcome to Brinken!”
Frank Braun exclaimed, “Froitsheim! Still here? Glad to see you again!”
He shook both hands vigorously. Then the cook came and the wide hipped house keeper. With them came Paul, the valet. The entire servants quarters emptied itself into the courtyard. Two old maids pressed to the front, stretching their hands out to him, but first, carefully wiping their hands on their aprons.
“Jesus Christ be praised!” the gardener greeted him and he laughed.
“In eternity, Amen!”
“The young Master is here!” cried the gray haired cook and gave Frank Braun’s suitcase to the valet.
Everyone stood around him, everyone demanded a personal greeting, a handshake, a friendly word, and the younger ones, those that didn’t know him, stood nearby, staring at him with open eyes and awkward smiles. Off to the side stood the chauffeur, smoking his short pipe. Even his indolent features showed a friendly smile.
Fräulein ten Brinken snapped her fingers.
“My guardian appears well liked here,” she said half out loud and she called down:
“Bring the Gentleman’s things up to his room–and you, Aloys, show him the way.”
Some frost fell on the fresh spring of his welcome. They let their heads drop, didn’t speak any more. Only Froitsheim shook his hand one last time, walked with him to the master staircase.
“It is good you are here, young Master.”
Frank Braun went up to his room, washed himself, and then followed the butler who announced that dinner was served. He stepped into the dining room and was left alone for a moment. He looked around, there, like always, stood the giant buffet, ostentatious as ever with the heavy golden plates that bore the crest of the Brinkens.
But no fruit lay on them today.
“It is still too early in the season,” he murmured, “or perhaps my cousin has no interest in the first fruits.”
Then the Fräulein came in from the other side, adorned in a black silk gown, richly set with lace down to her feet. She stood in the door a moment, then stepped in and greeted him.
“Good evening, Herr Cousin.”
She reached out her hand to him, but only the two fingertips. He pretended not to notice, taking her entire hand and shaking it vigorously. With a gesture she invited him to take his place and sat down across from him.
“May we be informal with each other?” she began.
“Certainly,” he nodded. “That has long been the custom with the Brinkens.”
He raised his glass, “To your health, little cousin.”
“Little cousin,” she thought. “He calls me little cousin, thinks of me as a doll.”
But she replied, “Prosit, big cousin.”
She emptied her glass, waved for the servant to refill it and drank once more, “To your health, Herr Guardian!”
That made him laugh. Guardian–guardian? It sounded so dignified–”Am I really that old?” he thought.
He answered, “And to you, little ward.”
She got angry–little ward, again; little?–Oh, it would soon be shown which of them was the superior.
“How is you mother?” she asked.
“Thank you,” he nodded. “Very well, thank you–haven’t you met her yet?–You could have visited her at least once.”
“She never visited us either,” she retorted.
Then when she saw his smile, she quickly added, “Really cousin, we never thought of it.”
“I can just imagine,” he said dryly.
“Papa scarcely spoke of her and not of you at all.”
She spoke a little too quickly, rushing herself. “I was really surprised, you know, when he made you–”
“Me too!” he interrupted her, “and he certainly had some reason for doing it.”
“A reason?” she asked. “What reason?”
He shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t know yet–but it will soon come out.”
The conversation never faltered. It was like a ball game; the short sentences flew back and forth. They remained polite, amiable and obliging, but they watched each other, were completely on their guards, and never came together. A taut net stretched itself between them.
After dinner she led him into the music room.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked.
But he requested whiskey and soda. They sat down, chatted some more. Then she stood up, went to the Grand piano.
“Should I sing something?” she asked.
“Please,” he said politely.
She raised the lid, sat down, then she turned around and asked:
“Any special request cousin?”
“No,” he replied. “I don’t know your repertoire, little cousin.”
She pressed her lips together. That is becoming a habit, she thought.
She struck a couple of notes, sang half a stanza, broke off, began another song, and broke that off as well. Then she
sang a couple of measures of Offenbach, then a line from Grieg.
“You don’t appear to be in the right mood,” he observed calmly.
She laid her hands on her lap, remained quiet awhile, drummed nervously on her knees. Then she raised her hands, sank them quickly onto the keys and began:
There once was a shepherdess
And ron, ron and small patapon
There once was a shepherdess
Who kept her sheep
Ron, ron who kept her sheep
She turned toward him, pouting. Oh, yes, that little face surrounded by short curls could very well belong to a graceful shepherdess–
She made a cheese
And ron, ron and small patapon
She made a cheese
While milking her sheep
Ron, ron, while milking her sheep
Pretty shepherdess, he thought, and poor–little sheep. She moved her head, stretched her left foot sideways, tapped out a beat on the floor with a dainty shoe.
The naughty cat watched
And ron, ron and small patapon
The naughty cat watched
From a small distance away
Ron, ron, from a small distance away
If you touch it with your paws
And ron, ron, and small patapon
If you touch it with your paws
I will hit you with a stick
Ron, ron, I will hit you with a stick!
She turned and laughed at him, her bright teeth gleaming.
“Does she mean I should play her kitten?” he thought.
Her face became a little more serious, and her soft lowered voice rang with a mocking, veiled threat.
He did not touch it with his paws
And ron, ron and small patapon
He did not touch it with his paws