Little Fortress

by Laisha Rosnau

  Again, Marta and I simply nodded. I wasn’t sure what was appropriate in this circumstance and neither was she. Mr. Brandt looked from one of us to the other. “Marta, I will show you the staff quarters. You can get settled in,” though she had very little to settle. They started down the hall and I stood in the entry and waited, wondering what to do. Mr. Brandt was back in a few minutes. “Miss Jüül, you’ll join me at my brother’s?”

  “Of course. Should I make arrangements with Marta?”

  “She’ll be fine. I’ll have the hotel staff bring her some dinner.”

  I left my own bags where they were in the foyer and followed Mr. Brandt to his brother’s apartment. Onkel was now wearing a long white tunic like Egyptian men wore, and he had taken off his shoes and socks. I was not used to seeing the bare feet of men, and I tried to not keep looking at them, ill-formed and bony as they were. Onkel brought us each a drink. The glass was cut crystal and I could smell alcohol. “Egyptian whisky.” Onkel paused. “I know, it seems like an oxymoron, but it’s actually quite good.”

  “An acquired taste, really.” Mr. Brandt raised his glass. Light refracted off it, glinted as he took a drink. I stood looking dully at mine. “Go ahead.” Mr. Brandt tilted his glass toward me. “See what you think.”

  Onkel was grinning like an eager child. I wasn’t sure why I was with these brothers instead of with Marta or what was expected of me. I tipped the glass and touched the drink to my tongue, not enough to swallow. I licked my lips. It tasted like the whisky Carl had once shared with me at the lighthouse. “Well?” Onkel raised his eyebrows at me.

  “It’s warm.” I suppressed the tickle in my throat, the desire to cough.

  “Warm!” He clapped his hands once and clasped them in front of his chest, beamed at me. “Well, aren’t you lovely? Isn’t she lovely?”

  Mr. Brandt smiled in response, didn’t look at me directly. It was, of course, inappropriate to answer.

  As though sensing this, Onkel asked, “Aaannnd,” he elongated the word, “your lovely wife, Bror? How is our Ingeborg?” Onkel waved his arms to guide us into the apartment.

  “She’s as well as she can be. Sven seems to be receiving good care in Copenhagen. It’s difficult, though. With so much talk of war –”

  Onkel pointed to chairs turned toward open doors to the balcony, heavy drapes pulled open so that the white curtains underneath billowed with breeze off the water. The ocean was so close that I could smell the thickness of it. I wondered what Marta was doing. Had she opened the doors to let in the air?

  Onkel stepped onto the balcony and turned around, leaning against the stone railing and facing Mr. Brandt and me, still standing inside the apartment. “We’ll have to do something while you’re here.” It sounded as though we were together on a special visit. “All my brother does is work and, admittedly, he’s good at it, but that is so boring, yes?” His question was directed toward me but I wasn’t sure if I should respond. All I’d done in Egypt so far was work, after all. “What do you like to do, Miss Jüül?”

  “Read.” I hadn’t thought before I answered, felt embarrassed – it wasn’t an answer that involved anyone beyond my own mind, and in this way, it was rude. I looked at my hands.

  “Read! Well, I’m afraid the library here burned down.” He chuckled at his own joke.

  “Onk, really.” Mr. Brandt’s tone was admonishing.

  “I’m sorry. You know I’ve nothing but respect for you, Miss Jüül.” How could he? We had just met. “My brother always hires the most intelligent staff. I don’t know how he does it, really.”

  I hadn’t had more than a taste of the whisky, but I was bold to say, “It was Mrs. Brandt who hired me.”

  “Of course! Well, that’s it, isn’t it? He knows enough to leave some things to the lady of the house.”

  I could sense Mr. Brandt shifting uncomfortably beside me. I took a drink and then had to clench my throat so I wouldn’t sputter it back up. From below, a herd of goats griped as a boy yelled. I could hear the switch of his stick, to keep the animals moving, presumably.

  Mr. Brandt cleared his throat. “Miss Jüül likes to ride.” I turned toward him, stifling a cough in my mouth. He slipped a glance at me, a quick smile that wavered at the corners of his mouth.

  “Oh good! We’ll go riding then! Have you ridden in the desert yet?” Onkel asked me.

  “No, I’ve not.” When did he imagine I would have had the chance?

  “Oh, my. You are going to love it. Won’t she? Riding in the desert is like nothing else.”

  “Well, the sand in one’s eyes is like nothing else.” Mr. Brandt had put down his drink and was rubbing his hands along each thigh as though he were about to stand, but he settled back into the chair again.

  “Listen to him! Spoilsport. Don’t mind my brother. If one has the correct form, one won’t get too much sand in the eyes. And the light! It’s so, I don’t know, diffuse – diffusssse. The smells! Did you know that the sand has a scent?”

  “No, I suppose I didn’t.”

  “Not in the cities of course – well, there are smells, of course – ugh, the smells! – but not the ones I’m thinking of. In the true desert, it’s got the most delicious, fragrant scent, doesn’t it, Bror?”

  Mr. Brandt had picked up his drink again. He looked at his brother, surprised, as though he hadn’t heard the question.

  “Oh, I don’t know why I bother asking you. If there is anyone who needs his senses awakened, it is you!”

  “And if there’s anyone whose senses are perhaps too awake, it is you, dear Onk.” I could tell that the two of them had played this game for years – responsible older brother, mischievous younger one – their roles well defined. Mr. Brandt’s annoyance seemed light-hearted, as did his brother’s teasing. “I suppose we should think about dinner.”

  “Why think about dinner when we can have more to drink! Miss Jüül?”

  I looked at my glass. I didn’t need any more. I shook my head.

  “Are you trying to corrupt my staff?”

  There it was, then. For a moment, I’d felt like I was, if not quite an equal, a social guest of these two men. Of course, I wasn’t.

  “Someone needs to.” Onkel winked at me. “There is a new chef at the Monte Carlo.”

  I leaned toward Mr. Brandt, whispered, “Marta.”

  “I’m sure Miss Jüül and the girl would like some rest after a day of travel. Do you not have a cook anymore?”

  “Why have a cook when I never eat in?”

  “Then we’ll order from the hotel kitchen.”

  “What? And keep these lovely ladies in their rooms like a couple of caged birds? You want to stretch your wings, don’t you, Miss Jüül? I can see it in the way you move!”

  “If you’ll excuse me, can you point the way to the powder room?” I knew that it would be inappropriate for us to dine out with Mr. Brandt and his brother. There were no ladies or children to care for, and Marta and I were not here to provide men with the kind of company that was only appropriate for family. Mr. Brandt knew this, as did his brother, likely, though Onkel didn’t seem one much for social conventions.

  When I returned, Mr. Brandt said, “I’m sure you’ll want to rest back at the apartment, Miss Jüül. I’ll order some food and have it brought up.”

  “And then I’ll come by later,” interjected his brother, “to whisk you off for a night on the town.”

  Mr. Brandt got up, cleared his throat. “He won’t.”

  “That’s where you are wrong, Bror. I will! Won’t I, lovely Miss Jüül?”

  Mr. Brandt stood, hands clasped in front of him like a guard or butler, and I realized that he was waiting to walk me back. We said nothing until we got to the door of the other apartment, then he apologized for his brother. “And I assured you that you’d like him. I’m sorry. He’s too brash, too presumptuous. He alw
ays has been.”

  “No, not at all. I like him. You were right.”

  Mr. Brandt nodded slightly, his jaw tight. “Your dinner should be up soon. I hope you enjoy it.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  He backed away from me, nodded again. “Goodnight, Miss Jüül.”

  “Thank you.” I wondered why I was so eager to be easy to please.

  * * *

  Before I fell asleep that night, Marta turned in the bed across from mine, whispered, “It wasn’t them, Miss Jüül.”

  I rolled toward her. “It wasn’t who?”

  “It wasn’t the groundskeepers who hurt me.”

  Cold cut through me, even though the night air was stifling. “What do you mean?”

  “I let you assume it was the groundskeepers, but you should know, it wasn’t them. It wasn’t any of the staff.”

  “Who then, Marta? Who was it?”

  “Some stupid, stupid boys at a club.”

  “What club? The Brandts’ club? Does Mr. Brandt know?”

  “No – and don’t tell him. Not that club. The Foreign Service Club. I let Leonore convince me we should go there for a coed party after hours. They seemed so young and harmless.”

  “But what happened, Marta?”

  “It doesn’t matter what happened, does it? It happened. It’s over. And now I’ve been sent here, as though that could protect me, as though anyone could actually protect us, Miss Jüül.”

  “No, this isn’t right, Marta! I’ll talk to Mr. Brandt, I’ll –”

  Marta sighed loudly and I could hear her turn. When she spoke again, her voice was against the wall. “No, please don’t, Miss Jüül. There’s nothing you or I can do. It’s best if we forget about it.”

  The feeling of cold left me, and air pushed down, weighted me to the sheets, damp beneath my body. I couldn’t sleep. Occasionally, a breeze would shift the drapes, but barely, as though even the air was too lethargic to move. I was thirsty but too tired to get up, too awake to chance not being able to fall asleep. I’d fancied myself smart and savvy, the head of household staff. But I’d been play-acting, even if I hadn’t known it myself until then.

  Thirty-One

  Onkel did not come back to the apartment for me that night as he’d joked he would, which was probably best. The next morning, sound entered my dream, the whirring screech of an enormous insect. I opened my eyes, unfamiliar with where I was. The light was clearer, more defined somehow than in Cairo, but it had the washed-out quality of very early morning. I felt like I hadn’t slept long. The ringing continued, a bell. I put on a robe and went to the door.

  “Good morning, lovely!” Onkel spread his arms as though he wanted me to hug him. “I’m sorry that there is not someone more appropriate here to call on you at this early hour but, as my brother keeps reminding me, I am short-staffed.” I stood holding my robe and looking at him. Was I supposed to invite him in? What time was it? “So, I am your wake-up call. Breakfast will be sent up soon. And then – we’re going riding this morning!”

  “Riding?”

  “Yes, riding, love! We’ll try to beat the heat of the day.”

  “When should Marta and I be ready?”

  “I’m sorry, just you, Miss Jüül. Marta will be working today. As for you – your breakfast will be up shortly. Eat well, dress for riding, then come to my apartment. We will be ready when you are.”

  I had no riding clothes, but I knew that wasn’t expected of me. At the farm, I’d worn woollen trousers. A woman couldn’t wear pants while riding in Egypt – she hardly could in the higher circles in Copenhagen – so I dressed in the heaviest skirt that I had. Onkel drove us out to the stables himself. He yanked on the wheel sharply to get us through the crowds in the city. As we lurched from side to side, I kept my eyes forward. Goats ran alongside the car, donkeys ambled by and when we came across camels, we stopped to let them pass. Once we were out of the city, it was better, though eventually there was no road, only hard-packed sand. “Soon we won’t be able to drive,” Mr. Brandt said. “The sand gets finer the further from the city we get.” I turned my head, the city retreating behind us, the desert burning gold along a wavering horizon.

  British expats ran the stables. Onkel had obviously been there before and staff greeted Mr. Brandt with a kind of respectful familiarity. A man turned to me and said, “You’re looking well, Mrs. Brandt.” I opened my mouth to correct them but swallowed a laugh instead. It was inappropriate, but I had so few similarities in appearance to Mrs. Brandt that it struck me as funny. The moment passed when I could have corrected the mistake. A stable hand led to me an Arabian, muscled and lean, its coat a light ginger tone. He lifted me to ride her sidesaddle. I hadn’t ridden in years by then and had rarely ridden sidesaddle. I gripped the reins, feeling unstable, and resisted lifting my leg to the other side of the horse so that I could ride properly. The stable hands trotted the horses with us on their backs once around the arena and then led us out into the desert. Older men in white robes met us, leading horses draped in patterned, deeply coloured fabric and saddled with bags. “These will be your guides,” said one of the stableboys.

  Mr. Brandt said something in a low voice to one of the guides and they bowed to us and left.

  “Probably a good decision,” said Onkel.

  Mr. Brandt turned to me. “We’ve found that the guides here have very specific ideas about what we should see and how we should go about doing so. It usually involves stopping for tea and hookah ceremonies every ten or fifteen minutes or so, wouldn’t you say, Onk?”

  “Yes, and the distinct feeling that they amuse themselves by riding us around in circles – it’s hard for us cold-blooded people to get our bearings in the desert, after all. I suppose not everyone believes in riding headlong into unknown territory.” Onkel trotted ahead a bit, then turned to face me. “How about you, Miss Jüül? A slow, circular jaunt or headlong?”

  His question felt like a kind of dare. I was riding tentatively, holding the horse at a trot slow enough that I could feel its hooves sink slightly with each step, hear the swish and hiss of sand. Mr. Brandt and Onkel rode on either side, slightly ahead, throwing their words back at me. The desert had its own kind of quiet, as though there were an edge to it off which sound slipped, disappeared. My hat was enormous, chosen for sun protection, but it surrounded me, blocked parts of my vision. The way I was riding, the encompassing hat, the heavy skirt and the building heat made me feel small and contained, the desert huge and shining around me. I remembered home, my legs clenching either side of the horse, the cool balm of air, tall grass and rolling hills instead of sand and dunes heaving in the distance.

  For a while, none of us said anything. We continued at a trot that I could maintain riding sidesaddle. I felt as though the men were holding back for me, so I quickened the pace to a canter. If I angled my chest toward the horse, arched my lower back and steadied my hips, I could achieve some sense of stability. The sky was turning from a bleached-out white to a high, aching blue. The desert lifted and fell like eerily solid waves around us. What scrubby plants and trees there had been when we had begun our ride were gone. Riding in the stance I was, I felt like I was expending a lot of effort to not go very far. When we slowed and eventually stopped, Onkel said, “You don’t look very comfortable, Miss Jüül.” Was it that obvious?

  “She seems like an accomplished rider to me.” Mr. Brandt wiped his forehead and glanced toward me, something of an apology in his expression – or was I imagining that? It was strange to be spoken about between brothers while sitting on a horse between them.

  “I’m fine.” I shifted on the horse again. “It has been some time since I’ve ridden, though.”

  “I sense you’d be much more comfortable riding the horse as it’s meant to be ridden,” said Onkel.

  I laughed. “Is that what this is about? You’d like to see me ride like a man?” So
mething about Onkel made me feel bold. I spoke to him in a way I wouldn’t his brother.

  “A man, perhaps, or perhaps just a person in the best position to ride a large animal.” Onkel was teasing me, goading, and while part of me appreciated his banter, part of me was annoyed. I knew this wasn’t just for me; it was for his older brother, as well. I should have ignored his prod but it frustrated me. I let go of the reins and slid off the horse. Mr. Brandt dismounted as well and reached out to help me, his hands briefly on my waist as if to lift me onto the horse again. I moved away from his hold. “If your brother wants me to ride like a man, I’ll mount the horse like one as well.”

  I am a small woman. The Arabian was a good size, as were my skirts. It took some time for me to gather them in one arm as I got my foot in the stirrup. I paused. It would take momentum and strength to get me up on the horse in one motion. I was in an awkward position, in the desert with two men, near strangers, with whom I shouldn’t have been riding, really – and there I was, trying to prove something. I gripped my skirts under my arm, the rein with my hand, and propelled myself up. I hit the horse off-centre, sloping toward the side from which I’d mounted, but righted myself, settled my skirts around me and took the reins.

  Both men were quiet – I could feel them watching me – then Onkel said, “There we go! That’s much better, yes?”

  “Yes.” I lifted the reins, clucked my tongue at the horse and dug my heels into its side. I wanted to ride in a way that I could forget that I was anything other than a person on a horse. To forget that I was an employee and was perhaps acting improperly. To ride away from Marta at the apartment and what had happened to her. These two men, so different, one of whom – Onkel – seemed to want me to prove something to him, though I wasn’t sure what. The other, the one who paid my way, I knew so little about, and yet I knew it was Mr. Brandt whom I wanted to impress more than I did his brother. To be simply a woman on a horse. To ride as though I knew how. And so, I did.