by Moss, John
Startled by the piercing clang of the iron door, he scrambled onto all fours. Blinded by the flooding light, he rose to his feet and staggered toward it. He tried to speak, but no sounds came out. He coughed.
“Hello, hello,” said an ancient voice in the light.
Harry closed his eyes and stepped through.
“Ach, mein Gott in Himmel.”
The old woman from the village struggled as she put her arms around Harry to steady herself.
“Your friend, Fräulein DeBrusk, by herself she take your car, I think.”
Harry struggled to bring his rescuer into focus, to make sense of her voice. The old woman held both his hands in hers. They steadied each other.
“She call last week to see where you were. So I came looking for you, but Rachel’s chalet to the ground had burnt. The person who lived there took the Russian away, I think. A man from Salzburg very angry he came and drove away his BMW auto.”
The old woman was depleted from opening the door, from climbing the mountain, from finding Harry. She reached into a small rucksack and pulled out a water bottle. While he took deep sips, she unwrapped a mint and handed it to him, nestled against its wrapper so her skin wouldn’t touch it.
“So, Mister,” she continued. “A few days ago, your Fräulein DeBrusk, she call me again. So I come back. I even look into the mine like she said, but you are not here, only some pieces of burnt wood. Then today, since I think about that fire it was fresh, I come again and mein Gott you are here now. You stink very much like death. But, ist gut, better than if you are dead.”
Back in Toronto, when Harry stepped off the elevator on the twenty-third floor, he felt a surge of relief, but only after he walked into his living room and gazed out at the magnificent vista, taking in the harbour, the islands in full autumn colour, and the cold open blue of the lake rising to meet the horizon, only then did he relax.
It’s good to be home, Harry.
It was. And yet he felt an uneasy distance had grown between them, like she wasn’t quite there.
It’s called “getting used to it.” Life intervenes. Sooner or later you’ll need to move on. It’s what we both need.
For God’s sake, he wanted to protest. Stay with me, Sailor. You’re the only one I can count on.
That’s an illusion, Harry. I’m dead.
No response seemed adequate.
Harry poured himself a single malt scotch from the bottle he bought duty free in Vienna and stood with his back to the Klimts, gazing at the malevolently grinning whale in his Blackwood etching. Then he slowly turned and examined the paintings, picking out the brush strokes and tracing with his eyes where the hard edges and soft contours merged, trying vainly to reduce art to technique and design. The woman in The Kiss was ecstatic. He could easily imagine Gustav Klimt locked with his beloved Elisabeth Bök in eternal submission. The detail from The Forces of Evil was not so allusive. It did not deliver a narrative or allegory. Removed from an imponderable story and painted with exquisite precision, it seemed to animate the most elusive blending of innocence and desire that anyone could ever envision. Apocryphal, perhaps, but it was a perfect and haunting portrait of the model’s great granddaughter, Madalena Strauss.
It hadn’t been until he and the old woman had descended the mountainside to the village and he had eaten, cleaned up, and changed into clothes she went out and bought for him that he felt confident there would be no one looking for Madalena. She had died in early July in Vienna. Her funeral had been held in the Secession Building. As Frau Honsberger had assured him on his circuitous way through to Toronto, giving her thin hair streaked with fresh green strands a knowing shake, it was a worthy place to celebrate the life of an exquisitely beautiful woman.
No one at all would be looking for Dimitri Sakarov.
Harry looked back to the Klimts with bittersweet nostalgia. He knew he’d have to return them to Austria where they belonged. If he negotiated with sufficient finesse, he might get a finder’s fee to cover his costs.
He wandered restlessly from room to room then picked up his phone. There were several messages. He decided he needed ice in his scotch and paused to admire the untouched Dom Pérignon in the fridge before skimming through until he came to David Morgan’s voice. He listened as he sipped his drink.
Harry, call me when you get back. I talked to Detective Honsberger. She said you’d been staying with an old woman in a village near Salzburg. Thanks for sending Joan home safely. She was elated when she got back. She said you and Madalena had been very kind in getting her through a rough time. You helped her to find herself, Harry, which at her age is apparently more important than losing herself. But she’s done the strangest thing. When I went over to let her know you were on your way back, she told me some damning things about Conrad Fearman, and then she told me that she’d been contemplating taking vows for some time and had made her final decision. As of this moment, she’s a novitiate with The Sisters of Perpetual Grace, somewhere near Brockville. I gather our mutual friend, Madalena Strauss, has gone into necessary seclusion of a different sort, being officially dead—but I hardly expected Joan to give up the ghost. Let’s have a drink. Call me.
Harry jumped as the security buzzer from the lobby reverberated through the apartment. He had come straight from the airport. No one knew he was back. A few minutes later, a delivery man handed him a wrapped bouquet at the door. Inside were three stems of white orchids with a blush of scarlet at their centres. After he carefully removed the little tubes on their cut ends and settled the flowers into a vase he opened the envelope and read the card.
Welcome Home, Harry,
I’m glad everything worked out for the best!
Mr. Fearman’s anonymous donation to the Children’s Centre is a Godsend. I’ve given Morgan evidence to prosecute him without our involvement. And you’ll be relieved to know I’ve retired from the world.
Love, Joan
P.S. Our Lucy is back with her parents in Central Siberia.
For the best? Was it for the best that Lena died? Could she possibly have lived in a world beyond redemption? Did Joan know she was dead? Did it matter if she knew? Joan believed in salvation, if only for herself. Let her be disengaged, he thought. Let her be.
He picked up the orchids and walked out to the trash chute beside his front door. He opened the chute but hesitated before releasing his grip. He held up the flowers to the fluorescent light, smiled, and gently closing the chute he carried the bouquet back into his condo.
“We deserve, these, Sailor. The nights are getting cool and autumn’s coming on. Flowers are good. And people, people always … aren’t.”
Aren’t always, she said, cheerfully adjusting his grammar.