by John Wray
—Does she live with you? said Voxlauer.
—She lives with her father’s family in St. Marein.
—I thought I might have noticed her.
—Yes.
—I’d mistaken her for you in those sketches.
—Yes. Well, you didn’t know about her until today, did you, Herr Voxlauer.
—No, I didn’t. He smiled at her. —I’m a bit of a fool.
—And a drunk, she said, looking off into the trees. —And that’s a shame, Herr Voxlauer, because otherwise we get along very nicely.
Voxlauer stopped short and took hold of her arm again. —Be careful, Fräulein. All gamekeepers are not alike.
—I deserved that, I suppose, she said, staring past him up the road.
—Don’t confuse me with your father, that’s all. Or with mine.
—What a habit you have of grabbing hold of a person, Else said expressionlessly, waiting for him to let go of her. They walked without speaking for a while. Where the track met the road she slowed slightly and took hold of his hand. The girl was waiting restlessly for them at the next turning. Else turned Voxlauer wordlessly to face her and looked straight up into his eyes, pushing her fingertips lightly into his ribs. Her face was unsmiling now and close to his.
—I won’t confuse you, Herr Voxlauer, she whispered.
That first night it seemed to Voxlauer they were in the low cold attic of a house full of people with no idea what was happening above them. He would reach over and lay hold of her still form, put together of all the quiet dark suffering things of this world, and she would turn and stretch herself lazily in her sleep. She was unaware of his hand, unaware of the room, unaware even that she was suffering. Maybe she isn’t, thought Voxlauer, taking in a breath. The thought seemed hollow and false at first but bloomed in him slowly, like a drink of wine. He sat up in the bed to look at her.
She slept with her knuckles to her mouth like a teething child, indifferent to everything but sleep. In the dull glow of the lamp she looked like something seen through silt-dark water. Gradually as Voxlauer watched her she became frightening to him, otherworldly, alien in her completeness. It seemed to him that if she awoke she would look at him calmly and he would die.
Her eyes as he watched them moved back and forth serenely under their heavy lids. The air whistled in her mouth. A scar ran the length of her side, relic of a childhood burn, and the rippled skin felt smooth and fossil-like under his hand. He ran his fingertips along it from her shoulder blade to her hip. Like the rest of her body it reminded him of water, of two stones clicking together at the bottom of a river. Her arm closed over it protectively. Her eyes opened.
—Give me a kiss, she said.
Slowly, haltingly, he bent to kiss her. She was looking up at him as he’d been afraid she would, calmly and deliberately, eyes still faraway with sleep. Sleepily she raised an arm and brought it to his neck and pulled him closer. Her lips were cool and dry and as he moved his mouth across them they drew together and slowly parted. Her breath came soft and noiseless against his skin and he felt a sudden tightness in his throat and brought his lips along her neck. She sighed. She was seemingly all things, smooth and whorled, soft and edged, light and dark. But she was not all things. She had a want. He sucked his breath in sharply and bent over her.
Again it seemed to him that they were in a tiny attic room. People were asleep beneath them and he could hear them groaning and creaking in their beds. She was holding his hips loosely in her hands like the reins of a cart and he was moving above her. The room continued dwindling, focusing itself into a grain of clear, white light. She was straining up to meet him, propping herself on her elbows. He was alive, alive! He was not afraid. All the past had been exploded. They were moving together in an absence of future and past. Light was there, sped up into a film reel of stuttering movement. A spare dry snow was falling all around them in the room. He looked out at it and cried.
In the early morning he was sitting at the edge of the bed, wide awake. She was awake also and talking to him and he felt calm and effortless.
—I’m walking shoulder to shoulder in a wide line of people, a search party, across a field of very tall grass. You’re there, Oskar, and Walter and Herta are there, and so is my father, who is looking well. Our arms are linked together and we’re moving step by step across the field. The line comes to a point with me and falls away on either side as far as I can see.
—We’re walking?
She frowned. —Not so much walking, I think, as hovering. Gliding. The grass is well above our heads, more like bamboo, really, or very high reeds. The farther we go the harder it is to keep together. The woman next to me turns toward me and smiles. “Let go of my arm, Else,” she says. “Go and find it.” “Who?” I ask. “The baby,” she whispers, her mouth close to my ear. I’m aware then suddenly of moving my legs and of a smell in the air like beeswax, or summer pollen.
She paused a moment, fingering the sheet.
—We’ve separated now into smaller groups and soon I’ve lost sight of everybody. A storm is building in the distance, black and horrible-looking, and I duck down under a bush to escape the wind. The grass is being beaten now in great swaths all around me. Close by on the ground I see someone else hiding, half hidden by the bush. I bend down closer and see a tiny gray man with the head of a sparrow.
—Christ! said Voxlauer, laughing.
—Listen, Oskar. Are you listening?
—Is it the baby?
She nodded. —He peers at me out of his frightened yellow eyes, then up at the sky. I’m filled all at once with a strange nervous happiness. “Lie down,” I tell him. “The grass will cover you.” He looks at me gratefully, then disappears.
Later I rejoin the others. I see nobody I recognize and begin to feel afraid. It’s as if the line of people I knew has been replaced, though I begin to recognize some of the faces. They’re all huddled together, discussing something in whispers. “Where have you been?” they ask. They seem very surprised to see me. “Hiding the little promise!” I laugh back at them. They turn away from me, beaten.
—Beaten? said Voxlauer, looking at her confusedly.
—Beaten, said Else, smiling.
Over the next days and weeks his feeling of blank surprise and shock consolidated itself into something understood and manageable even as each surprise led obliquely to the next like views in a baroque garden, distracting and bewildering him until he felt altogether lost in its immensity. That he could walk down at a given hour, cross the empty square at Pergau, turn up her drive and climb the villa steps to find her waiting for him in the narrow kitchen, calm and expectant, dumbfounded him each day as it had on the first. Often he would wonder secretly at his inability to get over his surprise. Am I so modest? he would ask, looking at himself in her parlor mirror late at night when she was sleeping. Do I think so little of myself? He would turn his body to the right and left, studying it in the light of the lamp: his pale, flat, bearded face, his wandering, distrustful eyes, his belly, his legs, his stooped, servile shoulders. Yes, he would think. I do think little of myself. Then it would come over him again, the slow, almost painfully acute surprise, the stubborn disbelief. And he’d laugh at his pitiful reflection in the dark.
—Look here, said Else.
They’d been walking along the valley road, shirtsleeved in the mid-April sun. She had stopped and let go of his arm and now stood bent over the stump of a fallen birch, holding the brush aside for him to see. With her free hand she pointed to a thing like a cloven oak leaf hanging from the tattered bark. —Look here, Oskar, she said.
Bending closer, he saw it was a moth of some kind, covered in silver fur, matted and slick like the pelt of an otter. Its head was hidden in a cowl of sulfur bristles. Bands of sulfur ran into pools along its abdomen, glowing dully against the silver. The bark curled away above it and it hung fixed in the shadow, motionless and gilded as an icon. —What is it? said Voxlauer, not knowing what to say to her.
&nb
sp; Else took its wings between her fingers and pulled them open. The bands he’d imagined to be marks along the body now resolved themselves into bright yellow crescents on the underwings. The hooked black legs scrabbled wildly and the fern-shaped antennae batted and quivered against her thumbs. She held it up for his instruction, turning it slowly, as she might have for one of her schoolchildren. He nodded.
She was precious to him now, ridiculously so, more precious already after those few weeks than Anna had ever been. Any guilt he felt at this was eclipsed by his fear, not of her, precisely, but of the future: the future he’d seen the night of his accident, the future he was connected to again, against his will and intention, because of her. He could no more disconnect himself from it now than he could be rid of his surprise at the fact of her presence in his life each day. The image of Anna’s face the day she died came to him suddenly, drawn and bloodless, grayer than the wallpaper behind it. No, he thought. I won’t do it. I won’t move upstream against the future anymore. I can’t.
—Dove-of-the-moon, Else was saying brightly. —Colias mnemosyne. Very rare here so early. She held the wings spread between her thumbs now, like a cat’s cradle. —I think we’ll take it home with us, for Resi’s box. Do you have a kerchief, Oskar?
—Oskar? she said again.
—Yes, of course. I have one here, said Voxlauer quickly, reaching into his pocket.
—Take it, said Else. —Carefully. Do you see this row of spots, here? Along the abdomen?
—Yes.
—Those are its breathing holes.
One morning, a week after the beginning of their time, they awoke to find everything under glass. The garden tinkled like a chandelier and the transparent crowns of the pines along the road glinted amber and turquoise in the early light. Else wore a blue cotton wrap over a calico dress and carried a jar of olives in a linen purse, passing it to him from time to time to hold. They went across the square in Pergau and out the cemetery road without meeting a single soul. A shallow mist lay on the roads and in the ditches. Where they met the main road curving up to Ryslavy’s land a few boys out spading turf waved to them from across a field.
They continued lazily on to the junction, then bore right up the long slope to the colony. Everywhere branches sparkled and clacked together in the breeze. Coming out of the pines they saw Piedernig leading a ragged line of men across the meadow, his white crest bobbing beacon-like ahead of him as he walked. Halfway to the huts Else called out a greeting and the column stumbled to a halt.
—Hail to the patrol! Voxlauer called.
—Blessings, blessings! said Piedernig once they drew even with him. He frowned. —Where are your trouts, children?
—Best stick to roots and grubs, prophet, said Voxlauer, handing him the olive jar.
—You’ll take what you get, Walter, said Else. —And praise us for it.
—I will at that, said Piedernig, bowing. He turned and waved the men on to the settlement. There were seven of them in all, somber and dirty-faced, in crudely made leather sandals made of three flat loops threaded into one another. A few greeted Else with a slight nod as they stepped past her. None of them were wearing clothes.
—Praise be to supper, first and foremost, at the present time, said Piedernig, carving the air into generous and equal portions with his cane.
They sat in the same room as before, around the same blanket, eating Else’s olives on crumbling sourdough rolls. —How’d you come by this bread, Professor? asked Voxlauer between mouthfuls.
—Our own Herta made it, said Piedernig, nodding toward a squat, smiling woman to his left. Voxlauer recognized her vaguely as the frowning woman in the garden from his earlier visit.
—It’s delicious, Herta, said Else. The woman shook her head bashfully and waved a fat round hand. It struck Voxlauer suddenly that she was the only one in the room who looked adequately fed.
—Our Frau Lederer doesn’t know what to make of flattery, God bless her, said Piedernig, winking at Else. Herta shook her head again and stared fixedly down at the olive bowl, reddening a little.
Voxlauer looked around the room, at Piedernig and Herta and the rest, and at the blanket laid out between them. It was sparer than before, and the conversation quieter. —Where do the children eat? he asked, chewing.
Down the circle someone guffawed. —Oh, here and there, said Piedernig absently, waving a hand. —About.
—You don’t know Walter’s policy toward children yet, I see, said Herta. It was the first time she’d spoken.
—I can guess at it, said Voxlauer.
—Slander! said Piedernig, waving a hand dismissively. —Slander and defamation!
—I brought olives especially, Walter, said Else. —So you wouldn’t have to share with your little urchins.
—You understand us pretty well, Fräulein, called a man from the kitchen. —Keep the little pilgrims skin and bones.
—Fat lambs make better Fascists, said Piedernig into his teacup.
—That’s not always true, said Else.
—We defer to you, Fräulein, of course, said Piedernig. The others laughed.
The bread was passed again. Two small boys wandered in and ate sullenly from a bowl of dried apple peels. An older, cropped-haired woman Voxlauer didn’t recognize was describing a visit to town.
—There were banners flapping everywhere, she was saying, glancing importantly round the circle. —Like during Republic Week, but on the houses, the cottages, even the better cattle stalls. Red and gray banners. Felt. And that huge pornographic cross. She paused a moment for effect, nodding at each of them in turn. —The illegals are marching in Villach tomorrow. With full state’s honors.
Piedernig let out a low groan. He turned to Else. —Is this true? —How should I know, Walter? said Else, staring down at the blanket.
Piedernig shrugged and waved a hand. —The march of progress, Oskar. There’s no resisting it. We’ve lost three of our fattest citizens to the festivities already.
—A plump citizen is their easiest mark, the man called in from the kitchen.
Voxlauer looked slowly around the circle, dwelling for a moment or so on each of the assorted faces. —I’d judge the rest of you are in the clear then, he said finally.
—By the by: our bees are coming to, said Piedernig, as they took their bowls into the kitchen. —Care to honor us with an appraisal?
Voxlauer laughed. —I’d esteem it a solemn privilege. He glanced back over his shoulder.
—She’s with Herta in the garden, said Piedernig, winking. —Never fear. He pulled open a cupboard and took out a tin of tobacco, raising a finger to his lips. —Come along now. Lend us your studied opinion.
The sun had thawed most of the morning’s frost and water shone under the grass and on the roofs of the cabinets. As they neared them Voxlauer grew aware of a steady hum, electric and smooth, rising in pitch with each step they took forward. A second, louder hum sprang up suddenly like the starting of a generator as Piedernig stepped to the door of the first cabinet and pulled it open. Bees teemed out across the shelves, moving in wide, bewildered spirals, giving pattern to the noise. Voxlauer leaned in closer to the cabinet. The hive’s paper face was completely obscured by the whirring, trembling bodies. A light breeze rose from their wings and played mildly on his face and hair. —Why don’t they fly? he said.
—They’re still mostly asleep, said Piedernig, pulling a wad of black tobacco from the tin and working it into his pipe bowl. —Watch now. He reached in and gathered a cluster of bees into his palm, closed his hand and shook it. —See that? What they want now is a shock to let them know winter is over. He grinned and lit his pipe. —Maybe I should tell them about the Anschluss.
—Christ, let them sleep, said Voxlauer.
They stood awhile and watched the bees, not speaking. —We’re nearly finished here, Piedernig said.
Voxlauer smiled. —You mean your good work here is done.
—Ha! Yes. Exactly right. Piedernig was silent again f
or a time, sucking on his pipestem. After a while he struck a match, brought it up to the bowl of the pipe and said:—No. I mean finished. He let out a sigh. —This is not another country, Oskar.
Voxlauer laughed. —I know it isn’t, Walter. I’ve been to other countries.
—I mean up here, you blessed fool. This valley.
—Yes. I know you do.
Piedernig was looking at him. —I know it, Walter, he repeated.
—And Ryslavy? Is he worried?
—I don’t know. I don’t think so.
Piedernig sucked his cheeks in doubtfully.
—He has money, said Voxlauer.
—I don’t doubt it.
—Bribes should be worth as much to them as to anybody else. They can’t all of them be such fanatics, can they?
—Yes. Well, said Piedernig, looking back toward the huts—it’s the Monte for us, early fall at the latest. Veritas, venitas, vicetas, as the saying goes.
—Italy? said Voxlauer.
Piedernig laughed. —You’ve been away nearly twenty years, Oskar. I have it from irreproachable sources that the Italians are now our friends.
—I’m very relieved to hear it. Still—
—Move back a step now, there’s a man, said Piedernig. He leaned in toward the cabinet and blew a thick jet of smoke onto the shelves. The column of sound ruptured suddenly and fell away as the bees funneled outward, beating and stinging the empty air. Voxlauer put up his hands and felt a bright rain of sparks across his wrists and knuckles. Piedernig took him by the collar and jerked him fiercely backward, cursing him.
—It’s all right, said Voxlauer. —It’s all right. It’s beautiful.
—You’re a queer one, aren’t you? barked Piedernig, squinting into his face. —Are you stung badly?
—No. I’m all right, said Voxlauer. —I’m sorry, Professor, he said after a little pause.
—No harm done on my side, said Piedernig, still regarding him closely. —They certainly livened up obligingly, didn’t they?