The Other Me

by Saskia Sarginson

She’s busy rolling her sleeves down, and she pats her hair. Dark, thick hair twisted up into a bun. Strands hang around her cheeks and she hooks them back behind her ears.

  I follow her into the narrow hall and through into a front parlor. I’m inclined to duck, even though my head clears the ceiling. It feels low and closed-in. The room is clean and tidy. Nothing out of place. As I look around at the spotless carpet, neatly arranged furniture and polished table with a fruit bowl set in the exact center, I guess that they haven’t had children after all. I wonder why. Gwyn seems the motherly type: she’s all curves, with a tiny waist, billowing hips and generous breasts. I try not to stare, forcing my gaze to meet her eyes. I see a familiar flicker of discomfort in her face, a flush creeping over her cheeks. It isn’t to do with my admiration of her figure. She’s noticed my scar.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” she says. “Otto will be here shortly. I can offer you a slice of fruitcake. Just made this morning.”

  I know she’s looking at the bumps and folds of flesh, the milky cast to my eye. But her interest doesn’t feel intrusive or unkind.

  “Is it a war injury?”

  “In a way.”

  “I’m sorry for the pain it must have caused you.” She shakes her head. “And now I’m forgetting my manners. You’ll surely be tired after such a long journey. Sit.” She gestures towards a hard-looking sofa. “I’ll fetch that tea.”

  I stare around me. A plain wooden cross takes prime position on one wall. A carriage clock ticks solidly from the brown-tiled mantelpiece. There’s a cold gas fire beneath it in the grate. A reproduction print of misty mountains hangs next to a framed tapestry. I squint at the embroidered lines of text with my good eye, but don’t get up to peer at it, in case Gwyn finds me snooping; I presume they are lines from a prayer. A collection of wooden biblical figures jostle each other on a shelf, and the carriage clock sits next to an ugly jar with a lid, encircled with flowers and birds.

  At a noise outside the door, I pull myself to my feet, thinking it will be Gwyn back with the tea. But it’s Otto. My brother still has his braced way of moving, as if holding himself to attention in a strong wind. He is as tall as I remember, and broader for being older; his body thicker, his chest almost barrel shaped. His blond hair has grayed, but rises from his scalp in a thick, vigorous thatch like an animal’s pelt.

  I wonder if I can look him in the face, if I can even stay inside the same room as him. I force myself to take deep breaths, remembering that coming here was my idea. This is our chance to heal. After a moment’s hesitation we shake hands. He grips hard. I’m at a disadvantage with my raddled, aching fingers. He doesn’t seem to notice my disfigured grip. Close-up, I see doubt pulling at the corners of his eyes.

  Gwyn bustles about setting out tiny tables and pouring tea, spooning sugar into cups. We sit balancing plates on our knees. Otto is working two jobs, he says. He is a bus conductor and a security guard at a local warehouse. Seeing their simplicity, their restricted means, I feel hesitant about explaining my wealth. I tell them I work in the building trade and leave it at that. I tug at my cuff, pulling it over the heavy silver Rolex that nudges my wrist bone. I notice the leather patches on Otto’s elbows, sewn on with neat stiches, and the worn shine on his trouser knees. Otto hasn’t lost his strong German accent.

  “Do you have many Welsh friends?” I ask, stirring my tea.

  “Gwyn has her chapel friends. We keep ourselves to ourselves most of the time,” Otto says. “We don’t go in for a social whirl, do we Gwyn?”

  She wipes a crumb from her lip.

  “Where are you staying?” Otto helps himself to a slice of cake.

  When I tell them, Gwyn says that I must stay with them. They have a spare room. And I’m family. I protest. She insists, looking to Otto for support. His mouth twitches in annoyance. I put my cup down on the doll’s table next to me, and although I know that I should comply with Otto’s wishes, seeing his need to control the situation rekindles the old competitive relationship between us, and I find myself offering Gwyn a smile.

  “Then, if you’re sure. I’ll go back to the hotel and fetch my bags.”

  I turn at the doorway, considering my brother. There is something else that’s different.

  “Your nose.” I tap my own. “No sniffing.”

  “I was allergic to horses. Not many around here.”

  We both smile and I feel a tug of yearning coming from the mire of our past. When I’d booked my ticket, I’d done so with the hopeful conviction that we were old enough, and had traveled far enough from our childhood and the war, to be able to wipe the slate clean. Standing in that little parlor, I set my hopes against the physical reality of this brother of mine. I put my hand on his shoulder; under my touch, his muscles tighten in a reflex of distrust.

  Back at the hotel, as I pay for the unused room, tearing off a check and handing it to the receptionist, I realize what else is different about Otto, the way he’d looked at Gwyn, his gaze following every movement. He’s in love.

  * * *

  My room is hardly larger than a cupboard. It has a tiny single bed. I lie down on it, remembering Otto’s long limbs overflowing the confines of his cot above the stables. A pair of orange curtains droops at the window. Tugging them to one side, I am met by a blank stare from the grimy crush of terraced houses opposite. I have a moment of longing for the generous proportions of my penthouse, with its sweep of pale carpet across the living room, and the grand piano that I can’t play; my collection of paintings and the huge bank of windows that offers a dazzle of sky, of stars, and always the tops of the trees in Central Park: the clattering of winter branches, summer’s green, or a riot of red in the fall.

  I’d arrived in Cardiff on a Saturday. The next day Otto isn’t working and Gwyn cooks a roast meal with beef and small cakes made of batter that Gwyn tells me are called Yorkshire puddings. Otto bends his head over his plate and says a prayer. I am caught out, my fork in my hand. It’s strange to hear him speaking words of thanks to a God I don’t believe in. Gwyn smiles at me, nods that I should start.

  The meat is pink and tender, the Yorkshire puddings light and crispy. Gwyn hums as she eats. I fork potatoes and gravy into my mouth, eating until my belt strains around my waist, wondering how I can offer them money in return for their hospitality. We go for a walk in the afternoon, through a scrubby, hilly park. A gust of wind whips Gwyn’s dark hair across her face, she laughs and pushes it back, and for one dizzying moment I see Sarah. The light gets inside Gwyn’s eyes. Only they aren’t brown like Sarah’s; they are violet, a color more brilliant and intense than any butterfly’s wing. In Gwyn’s presence my brother is transformed. He rarely touches her. But he watches her with an expression of hunger and wonderment. I envy him for the first time in my life.

  Gwyn keeps asking me about New York. I tell her about my bus journey from the docks through Lower Manhattan when I’d first arrived, and how I’d peered up at the skyscrapers, thrilled by their beauty and power. I tell her about the horses that pull open carriages through the park, and how I carry carrots in my pockets for them. I describe the palatial shops on Park Avenue, the streets busy with yellow cabs and buses. Steam rising from gratings. Jazz. Hot dogs.

  She is like a little girl being told fairy stories. Otto frowns disapprovingly. “You never married?” he asks.

  “No. I’ve had girlfriends, of course. Maybe I’ve been focused on my career too much. No time for anything else.”

  “You just haven’t met the right woman yet,” Gwyn says in a conspiratorial tone.

  It’s unnerving how like Sarah Gwyn is. Being with her sets memories free, and I can see Sarah as a girl again. She stands knee deep in brambles, raising her finger, a frown plucking at the space between her eyebrows as she examines the pulse of red. But she was a girl, not a woman. I see her by the gaping entrance of the cattle car, passing her case to her brother, climbing in with the hem of her blue coat swinging. Bodies press after her, pushing her out of sight.


  I put my hand over my eyes, wiping away the images. When I turn to the other two, Gwyn has stopped next to a woman with a pram; she bends to look inside, cooing at the unseen baby; and I wonder again why Gwyn and Otto have no children.

  “You could come to New York, you know,” I say casually. “I’d help you. I could arrange to get Otto a job…”

  “We don’t need your charity.” Otto takes his wife’s arm, linking her hand through his hooked elbow. “We are happy here. We have a home.” He pauses. “We have Jesus.”

  It sounds odd. As if Jesus is a useful possession. Like central heating, or an insurance policy.

  * * *

  I’ve been with them a week. The night before I leave for home, Otto goes off to his job as a security guard. He’s been out of the house before, but not at night. I feel awkward with Gwyn, anxious to show her that I’m not going to be a nuisance. I offer to help with supper, but she laughs and makes me sit.

  While she cooks, I show her a few snaps of Manhattan and one of a building site with the sign that says “Meyer Construction. A Name You Can Trust.” She admires the photos and congratulates me on the company. She wants to know how I worked my way up from construction worker to manager and then owner. I’m not used to anyone showing such a genuine interest, and her expressions of admiration and praise embarrass and please me.

  I get a bottle of Scotch and a couple of jazz records out of my suitcase. We have cold ham and mashed potatoes at the kitchen table and I pour a tumbler of whiskey.

  I toast her. “For your kindness, Gwyn. My brother is a lucky man.”

  She blushes. The sudden pink makes her eyes look more vivid. The drink slips down my throat. I smack my lips together. “That’s good.” I pour another one. “Just say the word. If you’d like some.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Did you know that you hum when you eat?” I ask.

  She laughs. “I hum whenever I’m happy.”

  I put Sarah Vaughan on the turntable singing “Misty,” and turn it up loud. We sit opposite each other under the glare of the electric light and she puts her head on one side, listening. “I love it. You feel it here,” she pats her chest, “don’t you?”

  I nod. “That’s what I like about jazz. It’s visceral. And this song … well, I guess this is a little sentimental…”

  “It’s beautiful. Otto feels the same way about his opera records.”

  “Did Otto tell you much about his life before the war?”

  She fixes me with that steady gaze. “I know about the Hitler Youth. He regrets it all. He understands how evil it was. He was looking for somewhere to belong.” It sounds like a speech she’s used before. She smiles. “Finding faith in Jesus saved him.”

  “I think it’s you he’s found faith in.” I stop. I have to be careful. The whiskey is loosening my tongue.

  She glances away, swallowing. Her cheek flickers with a twitch of muscle.

  “How did you get your scar?”

  “I was taken prisoner by the Russians. At the end of the war. I took a beating from some of the guards for trying to escape.”

  “Oh!” She puts her hand over her mouth. “Does Otto know that you were a prisoner of war?”

  “I wrote to him. I don’t think he got the letter. Communication was sporadic, unreliable. It felt as though we’d been forgotten. After the war was over, they kept us locked up for three more years.” I turn my face so that I look at her with my good eye. “What did Otto tell you about me?”

  She shifts in her seat, crosses her legs. “He told me that you were never close. Even as children. That you had your life in America, and it was too far and too expensive for us to visit, and anyway, he said there was no communication between you … he said it was better that way.”

  This is the first time we’ve talked about anything personal or mentioned the past since I’ve arrived. Otto has guided the conversation up until now, keeping it in careful, polite territory. The intimacy of this exchange has taken me by surprise, and I’m hungry for more. She reaches across the table and takes hold of my hand. I flinch. She examines my fingers, runs her own small fingers over the blunt, reddened ends of mine. I feel the squirm of shame in my belly.

  “And how did you lose these?”

  “Frostbite.”

  She winces, screws up her face. “How did you manage to survive all of that … all that horror … without God?”

  “I believe in man, not God. I believe in the good in people. Even inside all of that evil, good existed.”

  She places her other hand over the top of mine, so that I’m cushioned inside her fingers. “What you see as goodness—that’s what I see as God.” She lets go of me. “I think I will try some of that drink now.”

  * * *

  We stand at the sink, shoulder to shoulder, as if we’ve known each other for years. She scrapes at streaks of mashed potato, washes and rinses our plates, handing them to me to dry; I stack the dishes on the draining board; she flicks soapy suds at me, giggling like a schoolgirl, and I see that she’s languid with whiskey. Her movements have that loose, unfettered feel, and when she slips on a pool of water, losing her balance, she clutches at my sleeve with a chirruping laugh.

  Our domestic duties done, we go into the neat parlor and I set the needle down gently on a Billie Holiday record. Gwyn turns off the overhead light, bends to switch on a side lamp. We collapse on the sofa, heavy with drink and food, our heads lolling back, and I ask her how she met Otto.

  “There was a lot of freedom for the prisoners, especially the ones who worked on the farm, like Otto.” Gwyn tugs at the neck of her jumper. “He looked like a film star. He was different with me. He talked to me. Opened up. It was like being with a wild creature that would let only you touch it.” She sits forward, perching on the edge of her seat. “When he told me he loved me,” she gives a small shrug, “I was overwhelmed. I loved him too. I left my home and family for him.”

  “And do you love him now?”

  I shouldn’t have asked her. I begin to apologize, but she puts her hand on my knee. “I’m a grown woman. Not a little girl anymore. Love means something different. He needs me. He’s the loneliest person I’ve ever known. He breaks my heart.”

  I can’t concentrate on her words; her touch is making my nerves hum. “Come on.” I get to my feet. “Let’s dance.”

  I wait, holding out my arms. She uncurls herself slowly and stands for a moment, like a swimmer at the edge of an ocean. And then she steps forward over the brink.

  “I haven’t danced in years,” she murmurs.

  I inhale. A scent of lavender comes from inside her clothes. Her hair reminds me of apples and butter; stale cooking smells coil inside it, rise from the wool of her sweater. The women I take to my bed trail exquisite perfumes. They smell of silk and skin cream and lipstick. But it’s Gwyn I find intoxicating. My hands slip down to circle her waist. The button on her skirt is under my fingers.

  One song stops and another begins. Billie Holiday is singing “All of Me.” Gwyn shivers. Saxophone notes fill the small room. I keep my eyes closed, losing myself in the scent and the texture of her. Billie Holiday’s voice is imploring, take my lips, I want to lose them.

  The song ends. The record is spinning on, hissing as the needle catches in the grooves. Abruptly Gwyn pulls free. We stand apart, staring at each other.

  Gwyn snaps on the glare of over-head light, and begins to set the sofa cushions back in place with brisk pats and shakes as I gather up my records and bottle of Scotch. The floor seems to tip under me, but not because I’m drunk. Being apart from her makes me unsteady. We wish each other an awkward goodnight.

  I stumble up the stairs and shut myself into my room. Lying awake, watching the street light seeping through the curtains, I hear Gwyn’s feet on the landing, the gurgle of water through pipes, the click of her door closing, and tell myself that I will never come back. I will never see her again.

  * * *

  I keep my promise for a whol
e year. I work hard. The business expands. I have girlfriends, elegantly dressed women who know how to call a waiter with an arch of an eyebrow, who hail cabs with confident arms, stepping off the curb in high heels. We kiss in the back of those cabs, and afterwards the woman will pull out a little mirror and stare into it, dabbing at her lips, reapplying crimson or fuchsia, giving herself a smile of approval. And I think of Gwyn wiping floury fingers on her apron, the way her cheeks flushed after that first drink. Sometimes I see Sarah’s face instead, her pale skin, black hair and laughing eyes. But it isn’t physical similarities that confuse the two of them in my mind. Somehow Gwyn transforms me into a better person, just as Sarah did. Both of them make the darkness brighter. Every night before I go to bed, I stand and stare over the skyline of Manhattan towards the Atlantic, feeling the pull of her.

  * * *

  Then a business trip to London comes up, or rather I engineer a trip by offering to meet a business associate in England instead of New York. It’s only a few hours on the train from the capital to Cardiff. How could I go all that way, and not make a quick detour to see my brother and his wife?

  Otto is less than pleased to see me. But I hardly notice. There she is, exactly as I’d remembered, with that shy look on her face, her eyes cast down; only this time I have my own secret knowledge of her. Under that restrained exterior is a strong woman of faith; and an innocent girl who loves to dance, who wants to have fun, who takes delight in all the small details of life.

  And I think that I can manage, that I can be with her in the same room without touching her, and that Otto won’t notice. I am a fool. The air between us is like molasses, suffocating, impossible to pull away from. We don’t meet each other’s eyes. I stay for three days. Otto is there all the time, but I think we both know that his presence keeps us safe.

  On the day before I’m leaving, I offer to take them both out to celebrate, as a thank you for their hospitality.

  “We don’t live your kind of life, Ernst,” Otto says. “Why would we go out for a meal when we can eat a better one at home?”