There was ample evidence of that. At that interesting moment the music ended with a crash of cymbals, and Tony charged toward us, towing Elise, whom he thrust into Jan’s arms. “Change partners?” he suggested.
Tony pressed me to his manly bosom and we went blundering around the floor to the strains of “Du kannst nicht treu sein.” How appropriate, I thought sadly. How tragically, poignantly, painfully appropriate. Champagne always make me sentimental.
Champagne makes Tony belligerent. “What were you doing with Jan?” he demanded. “You turn me down and then go groping around with that—that—You know what he’s after, don’t you?”
“The same thing I was after. We were both wasting our time, actually.”
“Oh. You can’t trust him, Vicky. He just wants—”
“Tony, will you try to get it into your head that this has turned into a farce? It’s like one of those films about comic secret-service agents falling over each other’s feet and out windows and into swimming pools.”
We went back to the table. At least Schmidt was having a good time. Dieter appeared equally relaxed and happy, but Jan sat in frowning abstraction, replying to Elise’s bright chatter with brusque monosyllables.
When we reached the coffee-and-dessert stage, I saw Friedl circulating among the guests like a good hostess. Hoffman had done the same thing, but with a grace and genuine good will his widow could only imitate, not emulate. Her smile was mechanical, her movements abrupt, and she kept glancing toward our table.
Jan had been watching her, too. “Is that Frau Hoffman?” he asked.
“She used to be a waitress. Don’t you remember her?”
“No.” Jan added, “One never looks at their faces, does one?”
“Especially not in Friedl’s case.”
“Bitte?” Jan asked, looking puzzled.
“It was a joke, Jan. Not a very good one, though. Are you sure you don’t remember her? She used to have brown hair—braids—”
“Oh, yes,” Jan said indifferently. “She is the one who was Dieter’s friend.”
“Not yours?”
“I prefer tall blond ladies,” said Jan, looking at me sentimentally.
I never know what to say to remarks like that; fortunately, they don’t come my way very often. After a moment, Jan said in quite a different voice, “Surely he would confide in his wife.”
Dieter caught the remark. “He would be a fool if he confided in that one. She hasn’t a brain in her head.”
“Oh? And how do you know?” Jan demanded.
“Don’t be such a self-righteous little puritan,” Dieter said without rancor. “We all had a try for Friedl, including you; if you want to have another try, go ahead. But I can tell you, she would not be running this crummy little hotel in this dull little town if she knew where there was something of value to be sold. She would sell her mother…. Ah, Frau Hoffman! Please, won’t you join us for a liquor? We are enjoying ourselves so much.”
He liberated a chair from a nearby table and Friedl accepted the invitation with a gracious inclination of the head. Dieter, his round face now as lugubrious as an undertaker’s, offered his condolences on her husband’s death. A mildly embarrassed and wholly unconvincing murmur from the rest of us seconded the sentiment, which Friedl acknowledged with proper sobriety. Accepting a glass of brandy from Dieter, she said, “I remember all of you were here last year at this time. I hope you find everything satisfactory?”
We murmured at her again. “I am glad,” she said. “It has been difficult for a woman alone. It is hard to get good help.”
“But surely,” Jan said, “many of the former employees are still here. In such a small place, it is almost like a family, yes?”
I could see what he was thinking, the foxy devil. He was trying to find someone in whom Hoffman might have confided. It was the sort of thing a good thorough private investigator would do, but I had already considered the idea, and dismissed it. If Hoffman had not divulged the secret to his best friend, he was not likely to have confided in his cook or his driver.
Friedl answered him with a long string of complaints. Several of the older employees had left, the cook was threatening to quit, the younger ones preferred to work in Garmisch, where wages were higher and there was more excitement. Dieter patted her on the back in an avuncular fashion. “You are still young, Frau Hoffman. It is too soon to be thinking of such things, but believe me, time will heal your wounds. A woman of your attractions will not always be alone.”
Friedl simpered. “You are very kind to say so, Herr Professor.”
“But it is true. A little more brandy?”
He caught my disapproving eye and winked openly. His hand was still on Friedl’s shoulder, squeezing and squirming in Dieteresque fashion. Friedl didn’t object. She giggled and nodded.
“Humph!” said Schmidt, staring.
He wasn’t the only one to find their behavior unbecoming. Elise said loudly, “We should leave if we want seats for the performance.”
“There is plenty of time,” Dieter said easily. “The seats are only for the town dignitaries; the rest of us commoners will mill around in a friendly confusion.”
He handed Friedl her glass. Reaching for it, she was a little too eager—or perhaps her hand was a little too unsteady. Only a few drops of the liquid spilled, but one of Friedl’s fake fingernails popped off and flew across the table, landing with a splash in Schmidt’s coffee. His expression of disgust as he stared at his cup would have been funny if the whole performance had not been so repellent.
The incident put Schmidt off his food, and shortly thereafter, we left. Friedl tried to keep her hand out of sight, but I caught a glimpse of the denuded finger. The nail was bitten to the quick.
After the overheated, stale confines of the restaurant, the night air felt like wine. Clouds hid the winter stars, but the Marktplatz was as brilliant as a stage, and the dark slopes of the Hexenhut twinkled with lights like a giant Christmas tree. Even Elise forgot her ill humor. “Oh, look,” she cried, “what is it?”
“Torches,” Tony said. “The young men carry them in procession through the forest and end up on top of the mountain where there is a huge bonfire.”
“It is in essence a pagan festival,” Jan explained. “The old pre-Christian commemoration of the winter solstice. On the longest night of the year, the fires were lit to welcome the returning Sun, who was the god of these heathens. The demons of darkness are most dangerous at this time, you understand, so the ignorant villagers make loud noises to frighten them away. No doubt there was once a pagan sanctuary on that very hill; the name Witches’ Hat—”
“We’ve all studied folklore, Jan,” I said.
“Yes, don’t lecture to us,” Dieter added. “This is supposed to be fun. Come, let us find a good place. Where does the parade go?”
“Down from the mountain, I think,” Tony said. “It ends up at the church.”
From pushcarts and stalls draped in greenery, people were buying trinkets and refreshments—mundane modern offerings like cotton candy and popcorn along with fragrant, freshly baked gingerbread and twisted canes of red-and-white sugar. Schmidt bought an enormous candy cane and a pocketful of gingerbread, which he munched as we made our way through the crowd. People filled the Marktplatz and the surrounding streets, whose steep slopes made an informal viewing stand. It was a cheerful, well-mannered crowd, but beer was flowing freely and I suspected there would be a few fights before the night was over. Ropes strung from wooden horses outlined a path through the Marktplatz and around the fountain; it ended, as Tony had said, at the church.
Christian theology had converted the spirits of forest and field into demons, to be expelled and exorcised. The hunters on the hillsides would drive them from their refuge and into the church, where the priest would cast them into outer darkness. Poor little harmless nymphs and satyrs, stumbling and squealing as they fled the hunters, cowering under the ceremonial lash of the priestly voice. Since the ceremony had to
be repeated every year, one might reasonably assume that the demons weren’t annihilated, only temporarily inconvenienced. I was glad of that.
I realized I had taken a little too much to drink. Contrary to popular belief, fresh air doesn’t clear one’s head; in fact, it concentrates the fumes. The others were feeling no pain, either; Jan’s face was flushed and he had an arm around Elise, under her coat.
Alternately pushing and wheedling, Dieter forced a path through the milling bodies. His methods were deplorable—I heard him tell one large woman who was reluctant to give up her place that his poor old father was suffering from leprosy and wished to watch the festival once more before he died. He was referring to Schmidt, whose face did suggest some loathsome disease; the crumbs of the gingerbread had stuck to the patches of sugar from the candy cane and he looked absolutely disgusting. The woman backed away, whether from compassion or fear of catching the disease I would hesitate to say. Dieter’s technique was effective; we ended up right against the ropes.
The twinkling torches twisted in snakelike symmetry, converging on the mountaintop. Then a great tongue of fire rose heavenward, and a roar of delight rose from the watchers. It was paganism, pure and simple, and it was very contagious; I realized I was yelling, too. As the voices died away, a spatter of firecrackers echoed across the valley. Like sparks from a spreading fire, or burning lava from the heart of a volcano, the torches reappeared and expanded out and down, faster now, as the runners took the downhill slope at perilous speed. The sounds of explosions accompanied them, growing louder as they approached the village—firecrackers, horns, and an occasional blast from one of the old-fashioned blunderbusses resurrected for the occasion. There were special organizations, called Christmas Shooters, in some Alpine villages; the members practiced all year with the old black-powder, ramrod weapons.
The crowd swayed back and forth, laughing and cheering. Children broke away from their parents and capered madly in the open space; they were promptly snatched away by an adult, but some of the younger men remained, daring the headlong rush that would soon be upon them. The priest came out onto the church steps, robed in scarlet and lace, holding the Book and surrounded by his entourage.
Then the head of the procession appeared. It wasn’t a parade, it was a rout; they came at a dead run, their feet trampling the snow, their torches whirling, their faces flushed with exercise and excitement. The noise was deafening. Some of the youths waited till the last possible second to throw themselves aside, or to join the fringes of the rushing throng. Parents clutched their children tighter; girls squealed with half-real, half-pretended terror as the bright tails of the waving torches came dangerously close to them. As the procession thundered toward him, the priest stood his ground, smiling and raising the gilded crucifix; the runners came to a sudden stop, spreading out to fill the spaces reserved for them on either side of the church steps.
That should have marked the end of the performance, but instead of dispersing, the crowd pressed closer to the ropes, and nervous giggles replaced the shouting. The priest remained in his place, his crucifix raised. Then from the darkness beyond the Platz came a soft pattering of feet and an odd rustling.
They ran in silence, with a strange broken step, darting from side to side and then huddling together, but never slowing their frenzied speed. Wrapped in straw, like animated haystacks, with faces out of nightmares—long hairy muzzles, pointed fangs, horns crowning their brutish heads. They were armed, not with guns, but with chains, axes, hatchets, and long, sharp pikes.
One of them darted toward us, its hatchet raised. It had a stag’s head, the great horns rampant, the glazed eyes fixed. The people around us gasped and swayed; I lost my footing and felt a moment of sharp, genuine terror as I feared I might fall under the close-packed bodies and booted feet. Then I was caught and held by someone’s arms. The menacing figure spun back to join its fellows, and the bizarre procession passed on, to the open space in front of the church, where it was surrounded and menaced by the runners. The crowd cheered as the honor guard, the last of the forces of light, marched proudly past. They carried guns and wore a kind of uniform—apparently a select group from one of the Christmas shooting clubs.
That was the end of the parade, and people started moving away, toward the church. Jan continued to hold me close. His lips brushed against my ear. “Poor little Vicky, did the demons frighten you? Never fear, I will protect you from the darkness.”
“I slipped,” I said coldly. The truth is, I have always been terrified by witches and demons—or perhaps I should say by scary costumes. It stems from a Halloween outing when I was about eight and was cornered by a bunch of fierce twelve-year-olds dressed like skeletons.
Jan didn’t believe me. “I have always desired you,” he whispered hotly. “Later I will come to you. Tell me where your room—”
Even if I had been tempted by the offer, which I wasn’t, being somewhat suspicious of Jan’s motives, the sheer publicity would have put me off. Several of the group overheard—Tony, for one.
“Next time it gets to be too much for you, just put a notice on the bulletin board,” I said rudely and swung the heel of my boot against Jan’s shin. He released me, a little more abruptly than I had anticipated; I staggered forward, bounced off the ropes, and found myself nose to nose with an individual wearing a ski mask patterned in shrieking colors of crimson and green. Two eyes blue as cornflowers gazed soulfully into mine; the mouth framed by the slit of the mask was twitching with some strong emotion. Probably suppressed laughter.
John melted into the crowd, as was his wont, and my dear old friends clustered around to confer about what we should do next. Dieter was all for hitting the night spots of Garmisch, and Elise, shivering and tottering on her ridiculous heels, seconded the idea of indoor entertainment. No one else was interested, so the two of them went off arm in arm. Jan had a hard time deciding which group to spy on; after wavering indecisively, he ran off after Dieter and Elise.
Their departure cleared the air considerably. I was still mad at Tony, but not as mad as I had been. Once I cooled off, a possible explanation for his inexcusable behavior had come to me—a relatively harmless and mildly flattering explanation. I decided to let bygones be bygones, at least for the rest of the evening.
Schmidt bought more of everything that was edible and pressed samples on us—gingerbread and candy canes and cookies and pretzels shaped like snowflakes and marzipan pigs wearing sugary wreaths around their sweet pink necks—and, of course, beer. The church was packed, not even standing room; but the doors stood open to the bright night, and we gathered with other spectators beside the steps and listened to the sweet high children’s voices singing. “Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht,” “O du fröhliche,” and the lovely old cradle song—“Mary sits among the roses and rocks her Jesus-child…”
Schmidt was too choked by emotion to sing, which was fortunate, since he can’t, but the others joined in; Tony hummed in a mellow baritone and I threw in a few wobbly notes of my own. When the mass ended, the congregation poured out, full of virtue and ready for fun; there was dancing in the plaza and an exhibition of marching by one of the shooting societies, and an incredible amount of eating and drinking. This was the last night of public revelry—Christmas Eve would be spent in family gatherings and quiet devotions—so people made the most of it. The merriment was still in full swing when I persuaded Schmidt we ought to pack it in. The children and older people and family groups had gone home and things were getting rather lively. A couple of fights had already broken out; I was afraid that, left to his own devices, Schmidt would start challenging people to duels and some other drunk would take him seriously.
A final nightcap in the bar consoled him, and we went upstairs arm in arm singing his favorite carol, a corny old pop song about the Weihnachtsmann. Tony didn’t know the words, which did not prevent him from singing along. As Schmidt entered their room, bellowing the refrain—“Didel-dadel-dum und didel-dadel-dum—” Tony caught my hand.
“Can I…I mean, is it okay if I…I mean—”
“I know what you mean and no, you can’t and no, it is not okay.” I pulled my hand away and marched off. Honestly, I thought—it just shows what a mistake it is to be nice to some people. At the door of my room I turned. Tony was looking at me, his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face. If he had appeared apologetic, or pleading, or even disappointed, I might have weakened, but his pose of righteous indignation brought my anger to the boiling point.
“Shame on you,” I said. “Faithless and forsworn already? How could you so easily forget dear little Ann, the knitter of sweaters?”
Out of consideration for sleeping guests, I did not slam my door. Dimly in the distance I heard the reverberation as Tony slammed his.
The maid had left a single light burning; the room looked warm and cozy, but it was already cooling off. Tossing my jacket onto the bed, I quickly got into my nightgown and opened the window a crack. I was about to leap into bed when suddenly there came a tapping—as of someone gently rapping—at my chamber door.
“Go away, Tony,” I called.
The tapping came again. It occurred to me that it might not be Tony. I unlocked the door and looked out.
Not Tony, not Jan, not John. Dieter.
I assumed he must be up to one of his unseemly jokes. He was dressed for it, in an overcoat that practically touched the floor and a fifties fedora pulled low over his eyebrows. The reek of beer was so strong I fell back a step. Dieter took this for an invitation; he slithered through the opening and closed the door. Then he turned the key.
“Oh no, you don’t,” I said, backing away from him. “Get the hell out of here, Dieter.”
“I will take off my coat and stay awhile,” said Dieter, with the profound air of a man quoting from the classics.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” I began.
He did anyway. My eyes popped. He was wearing the most hideous pajamas I have ever seen—and I include Schmidt’s, which range from the merely tasteless to the utterly unspeakable. Dieter’s were lavender, printed with sketches of naked women and rude sayings in German, French, and English. I started to laugh. Dieter looked hurt. He put out one hand and pushed me, hard. I fell backward onto the bed; Dieter fell on top of me.
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