I pressed the brass button on the wall. At the sound of an electronic buzzer, the gate and door behind it opened and I entered the foyer.
Frederik’s secretary met me on the third floor. She looked like the trophy assistant: tall, blonde, a made-up face, and curves accentuated by her tight grey dress. If she’d offered a smile I would have found her attractive, but her lips remained pinched together as she nodded her head in the direction of the reception area. Barely blinking, she stared at me through her rimless glasses, reminding me of a Stepford wife. I smiled to myself, catching the glimmer of surprise in her eyes.
While I waited, I scanned the room: the twist of white calla lilies in the vase in the middle of the glass coffee table, the collection of newspapers and magazines positioned around it, the artwork, the furniture. All I observed seemed to be party to a certain public display of the wealth the lawyer had amassed over the years. It was as if every item of furniture and each object had been handpicked to convey sophistication and prestige. Yet to me, it all felt like an imposition, as though he were trying too hard.
Fifteen minutes later, Frederik Müller strode towards me with his wave of silver hair, his three-piece suit and the flourish of a handkerchief in his breast pocket.
‘Max, how are you?’ His nasal pronunciation revealed his Viennese roots. He took hold of my hand with both of his. His fingernails were manicured, their whites perfectly rounded off. There was little warmth in his handshake, although his crescent smile suggested otherwise. He surveyed my face. ‘Working long hours as usual?’
I mustered up a brief smile.
‘Let’s proceed, shall we?’ he said, leading the way to his office. ‘This shouldn’t take long at all.’
Even though his practice had taken off, he had remained loyal to my mother when he could have passed her on to a junior employee. I suspected this was on account of the kick-start she had given him at the beginning – that, and the fact that she had supported him through a difficult patch when he extricated himself from his business partner.
Just as we were about to take our places at the large table in his room, his mobile rang and he excused himself to take the call outside. While I waited for him, I glanced around his office, noting the law books, the first editions, the framed photographs with people of significance. Placed among them was a group shot from some kind of formal dinner. Sitting in the centre were my mother and Frederik. It must have been taken many years ago. Her hair was longer, and in her ringless hand she held a glass of white wine. I didn’t want to have her gazing at me and I looked away, only to catch sight of her will on the table. Before I could take a closer look, Frederik returned to the room, grabbed his glasses from his desk and came over to join me.
‘So …’ He put on his glasses. ‘Did you ever see your mother’s will?’
I shrugged. ‘I think you know the answer to that one.’ I fixed my eyes on Frederik. I assumed he was in on the whole affair.
He pursed his lips and proceeded to leaf through the document. ‘There were some amendments, but nothing material.’ He nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose, then spoke without emotion as if he were reciting a list: ‘The house and its contents are all yours. All her investments, cash deposits, et cetera, are to go to The Albrecht Trust. On that note, I’ll continue to be a trustee. They’re doing excellent work, you know.’
My grandparents had established an institution that had evolved from a basic orphanage to a leading light of charitable care, providing refuge for women and children, as well as counselling and financial support. There was no question that I’d continue to donate, but at that moment in Frederik’s office, I had little interest in it, grappling instead with the news of my mother’s bequest. My eyes flicked back to the picture of her on the lawyer’s bookshelf. I could feel Frederik following my gaze, studying my reaction, waiting for a word or two in response.
‘You expected more?’
His comment drew my attention away from her. I turned to him. ‘I didn’t expect a thing.’
He leaned back in his chair, throwing me a wary smile before stretching over to the edge of the table for the large folder brimming with official papers and envelopes.
‘This is yours,’ he said as he slid it over to me. ‘Title deeds, house plans. It’s all in there.’
I got up from my seat, tucking the folder into my bag, desperate to leave, to get some air. But one question stopped me from hurrying out. ‘There was someone my mother mentioned before she passed away,’ I said. ‘An Oskar Edelstein. Does the name mean anything to you?’
Frederik removed his glasses, dangling them between his fingers. Glancing over to the photograph of my mother he said, ‘She told me she’d come across a photograph – I never saw it – but she said something about tracking him down. I offered to help her, but she brushed off my offer. Finding the man seemed important to her though. Something about the need to make amends.’ He glanced at me as he shuffled the rest of his papers. Part of me wanted to press him further, but thoughts of my mother’s legacy loomed larger.
Uttering a brief thank-you-and-goodbye, I left the confines of Frederik’s offices and turned right, down Neuer Markt. I had no idea where I should go and I wandered aimlessly, ending up at a cafe in front of the Donnerbrunnen. Sitting down in such a place seemed like a good idea; I thought it might offer some respite.
As soon as I stepped inside I relaxed a little. The air there was cooler and filled with the murmured conversations of only a handful of people. I chose a table tucked away in the corner with a view of the fountain and ordered a mozzarella sandwich and a coffee.
When my food arrived, I couldn’t eat. The bread tasted as dry as firewood and I pushed away my plate. My mother’s departure from her threats to disinherit me threw out question after question. My mind raced on to Oskar Edelstein. I wondered what Frederik meant about my mother wanting to make amends. I stirred my drink, the teaspoon chinking against the porcelain while I looked out towards the fountain, staring beyond the tourists grouped around it. They seemed to fade into the background as I replayed the scene in Frederik’s office, frame by frame. I stopped mid-motion, the teaspoon suspended between my thumb and forefinger.
I left some money on the table, grabbed my bag and made my way out, breaking into a jog towards the U-Bahn station at Karlsplatz. On the way, I called Vivienne. She didn’t answer, so I left a message telling her about my inheritance, that I was heading over to my mother’s house and that I’d phone her in the morning. I knew she wouldn’t mind.
OBER ST. VEIT, VIENNA, 1938
‘Eva, you must sit still,’ says Annabel. ‘Otherwise it’s very difficult to draw you.’ Although she’s only eight years old, she thinks it’s apt to adopt the tone Mama uses with Maria and the other staff at home when she issues instructions.
‘Of course, Fräulein Annabel,’ says Eva in return. She stifles a laugh, which Annabel catches, narrowing her eyes like she’s seen Mama do when she’s annoyed. And then she giggles because when Eva laughs, it’s infectious and they can’t stop.
But Annabel must, as she’s set on drawing her black-haired friend who she secretly wishes was her older sister. She is sketching in the book her father gave her. Her tongue pokes out of the corner of her mouth as she pencils in Eva’s eyes, so large and almond-shaped.
‘I wish mine looked like that,’ Annabel says out loud.
‘Like what?’ says Eva.
The door opens. It’s Maria, and although Annabel knows she shouldn’t, she ignores her nanny and continues to sketch away.
‘Very good, Fräulein Annabel,’ Maria says, hovering by her shoulder.
Annabel’s waiting for the next bit. Here it comes – the huff and puff of Maria’s breath, the shift of her soft mass from one foot to another. Annabel looks up and sees Maria giving poor Eva one of her dagger stares while she says, ‘I think you’re needed downstairs.’ In the past, Annabel’s tried to argue with Maria to let Eva stay and play with her, but her protests never seem to dent Ma
ria’s will. Maria’s like God, Annabel thinks to herself. Of course, she’d never say anything like that out loud. Not even to Mama.
Eva nods and slips out of the room, sticking her tongue out at Annabel as she closes the door and Annabel stifles her giggles because it really wouldn’t do if Maria caught her smirking.
‘Is Oskar coming today, Maria?’ asks Annabel.
‘I believe so,’ she says, picking up Esther, Annabel’s doll, from the floor.
‘Hooray! If the weather’s nice, can we go outside? Please? Pretty please? We need to finish off our pirate game.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Yes then!’ And Annabel races out of the nursery, clatters down the two flights of stairs and charges into Mama’s drawing room.
‘Oskar’s coming, Mama, and we’ve got a …’
Mama and the friend she’s with – Herr Meyer – jump away from each other and Mama’s fingers go to her throat, which turns almost crimson, the same shade as the dress she’s wearing. The dress is one of Annabel’s favourites: the colour, the way it shows off Mama’s waist, the pretty flair of the skirt …
Annabel’s daydreaming is cut short by Maria slipping behind her into the drawing room, her bosom heaving with the effort of chasing after her young charge, and Annabel knows she’s for it. She feels Maria’s hands clamp around her shoulders, twisting her round to face the door.
‘I’m so sorry, Frau Albrecht,’ Maria says. ‘It won’t happen again.’
‘I’m just leaving anyway,’ says Herr Meyer as he walks towards them. He stoops down to Annabel and lifts up her chin. ‘You’re a bold one, aren’t you?’
Unlike Papa, he always dresses as if he’s on holiday. There’s something horse-like about him, and his eyes are curious: one is green while the other is hazel brown. Both are fixed on Annabel. She doesn’t know what to say, and looks to Maria, then to Mama.
‘She’s a free spirit. Like me,’ Mama says.
Why must adults talk in riddles?
CHAPTER FOUR
I jumped on a train at Karlsplatz. As it rattled through the city’s underbelly, the house continued to dominate my thoughts. With every flicker of light in the carriage, the house and its features blinked before me: driveway, windows, entrance, stairway, paintings, ornaments, photographs. The stops skipped by – Kettenbrükengasse, Pilgramgasse, Margaretengürtel, Schönbrunn, Hietzing, Unter St. Veit – then Ober St. Veit. From there it was a twenty-minute walk to the house, mostly uphill. But I didn’t mind. Its distance from the tourist trails lent the streets a calmness. There were fewer people, less traffic, smaller boutiques and cafes. Even the whir of the passing electric trams was muted, lessening any anxiety I felt.
I approached Himmelhofgasse. My mother’s house lay at the end of that road. I regarded the incline, the surroundings, the woodland crowning the hilltop. A breeze rippled about me with the air of an idle spirit as I walked on, taking in the pastel-coloured houses and the mix of conifers and deciduous trees lining the street. They stood like soldiers, ready for inspection, running all the way up the road as far as the house. I came to a stop, standing face to face with the wrought-iron gate. I placed my hand on the latch, then slid it open with all the apprehension of a son returning home after a long absence, and stepped into the horseshoe-shaped driveway.
My mother’s ancestral home had a refined otherworldly feel about it with its white stone walls, now dressed with the orange-tinted green of a mature honeysuckle that climbed towards the roof. The windows sparkled with the kiss of the late afternoon sun, as if to say, Welcome back. I took this as my prompt and walked up the three steps to the door. I drew the house key from my pocket and held it in the palm of my hand, studying its turreted teeth. Placing the metal in the lock, I twisted it until it clicked, signalling my invitation to enter.
From the threshold I contemplated the house’s interior: its white marble floor with its thread of grey veins, the curve of the staircase leading to the two galleries above, the Venini chandelier that hung from the domed atrium. The light from the doorway fell on two wooden carvings of a saint and an angel fixed to the wall on either side of a bench. It was another antique; my mother had had it reupholstered in crimson velvet that always made me think of blood. I glanced at the mahogany chest next to it. Lying on top were my mother’s reading glasses and a stack of unopened mail.
As I shut the door to the outside world, the stillness struck me – not so much the quiet of inside, but a brooding silence that pressed down upon me. I placed my bag on the bench, then looked around once more. Despite the lingering scent of my mother’s jasmine perfume, the permanence of her absence infiltrated the house, its corners, its eaves, floating in and around me, until I felt its chilled embrace. I slumped to the floor, my hands cradling my head. Tears seeped through my fingers. I felt like a young boy again, but this time alone. I couldn’t move. I didn’t feel like moving. I stayed like that, hunched against the wall mourning a mother who barely loved me.
When I eventually pulled myself up, a dull pain made its presence known in my lower back and shoulders. I had a throbbing headache and my mouth felt like straw. The dim light suggested it was early evening. I looked at my watch: it was shortly after six thirty. Pushing back my hair, I walked into the kitchen, half expecting to see Ludmilla, my mother’s housekeeper, preparing supper. I gulped down a glass of water, then refilled it, sipping from it while I looked out the window to the garden beyond. The lawn had been mown, the roses, begonias, marigolds and other flowers were still in bloom and the garden furniture out on the terrace basked in the late sun.
I went through to the drawing room and drew back the curtains to let in what was left of the daylight. Musty air wafted about me, so I unlocked and opened the French windows, feeling the cooler air slip inside. I surveyed the room: its cream upholstery, the primrose walls with their treasured collection of art, including, on the wall opposite the windows, the most precious piece of all, worth far more than the house itself: Egon Schiele’s Mother with Two Children. The painting always left me cold. Seeing it again after some time, I felt no different. Set against a mass of muddy charcoal, it depicted a woman with her offspring sitting on her lap, one blonde, the other brunette. While the artist had given the children a colourful vigour, his rendering of the mother – her pallor, the deadness of her eyes, her gaunt body – told a different tale. And she stared, not at the children but at some imagined point. What I would do with it – and the other things, for that matter – I couldn’t even begin to consider. At that moment all I wanted was to feel the sun’s early evening warmth on my skin.
I walked out on to the lawn and sat down on the grass. It was soft to the touch, as if no one had ever set foot on it before. Above me, the clouds skimmed across the sky, accompanied by the sound of the breeze tickling the leaves on the trees and the low chirrup of the birds. My gaze drifted to the house. It was funny how the ebbing light played the fool, creating silhouettes and movement in some of the windows. I closed my eyes, imagining my mother looking down at me from one of them. In a different world, she would be smiling rather than frowning … Picturing my mother’s frown pierced the tranquillity of being outside, and feeling my tiredness return, I went back indoors, fetched my bag and headed upstairs, conscious of a heaviness pressing down on my body.
It was strange how my mother had kept my old bedroom. Over the years it had morphed into something like a memorial dedicated to my childhood and teenage years. The colours remained unchanged, with the walls painted a shade of light blue – her choice – and a cream carpet that she’d had cleaned every six months. An ancient hi-fi stood in one corner, along with a CD stand, packed with albums reflecting my hard-to-pin-down taste in music: Def Leppard, Guns N’ Roses, Metallica, Nirvana, Pearl Jam, with a few Madonna and Michael Jackson albums thrown in for good measure. My desk was bare but for an old Pentax camera that had accompanied me on my year-long travels before I started at Princeton. Above it were three bookshelves filled with crime and spy thrillers; some
were dog-eared and most were imprinted with coffee stains. The windowsill was home to my collection of model classic cars. I picked up a 550 Spyder and spun the tiny wheels with my thumb. As a child, I’d taken a lot of pride in my collection. Although I grew out of them I couldn’t let them go, and so they remained on permanent display in my bedroom.
I put the model car back down, distracted by the glimpse of my bed standing opposite the window. My mother always kept my bed made, and even with her gone, it had retained its just-made feel. I opened the window and drew the curtains together, before casting off my clothes. I sank on to the bed and fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
Some hours later I woke up. I lay in darkness, unsure of what had stirred me. Sleep still clung to me, but I was conscious of my whereabouts. Moonlight spilled through a gap in the curtains, painting a translucent white streak across the floor. I was aware of my own breathing, the constant rise and fall of my chest.
It felt as though … It was the feeling that I was not alone in my bedroom, that someone lingered by the side of my bed. I closed my eyes and listened. Silence permeated the room, but the sensation remained. Somehow, it felt worse with my eyes shut.
I froze.
Even swallowing proved difficult. Only the thump of my heart filled the stillness of the room, a sound that I wished would subside. I didn’t know what was worse: keeping my eyes closed and letting my imagination agitate my fear, or opening them, only to see … My heart drummed louder. My breathing came in short bursts. Fear or cowardice – whichever, my only thought was that an intruder had broken in. If I kept still for long enough, then whoever it was would leave. That was my hope, at least.
The Silent Children Page 3