John Brady - Poachers Road

“Yes,” said Felix’s opa. “I remember that. Like a pirate or something. It was on the bend down the far side of the church. He must have been bottled to be out in the cold like that. Big red face no, a beard on him. A Viking or something.”

“A red beard? Red hair?”

“I suppose. He had goggles. Like a Scotsman, I thought later.

Like I was saying, he must have been pretty well drunk to drive like that… ”

The conversation ebbed. Felix’s mind kept backpedalling, spiralling, coming up empty. He made a long, aching stretch.

Yawning, he missed half of his opa’s words.

“God, that guy Speckbauer knows them all,” he said.

“He will surely apologize,” said Oma Nagl. “He must be under a lot of pressure but I still think he is a gentleman underneath. It’s his manner. He’s not a city type.”

Opa Nagl groaned.

“Like he never did any mischief, this Horst? Right, Felix?”

Oma Nagl waved away her husband’s observation.

“Right Felix? A man should have mischief, no?”

Felix rubbed more at his eyes.

“Every road in life should have its scenic routes. The autobahn is direct and fast of course, but it is on the byroads up in God’s country that one can savour real life.”

“Mein Gott, will you listen to that,” said Oma Nagl.

“Rossegger has come back from the dead.”

Felix eyed the shy smile his grandfather had now, the turning motion he made with his finger as though winding up a toy.

Oma Nagl began filling the sink. Felix took in the wooden table where they sat. It was hundreds of years old. His gaze wandered from chair to kacheloffen, back over the geraniums on the window sill, and then to the cats’ dishes licked clean next to a pair of boots.

Nothing should change here, he felt.

“Yes,” his grandfather murmured, an ear cocked again to the more subdued tones of Speckbauer’s voice in the hall yet. “One must make one’s own map for a full life.”

“Opa, I want to ask you something about this.”

“Advice? Of course. You have come to the right man.”

“No not joking. It’s about maps.”

“You need one? I think we have some. Oh, I know. It’s that stuff from the shed. I forgot. Yes, your dad asked me about them, I remember.”

“They were his, weren’t they?”

“No. That’s the thing, I remember now. I think he said he got them up at his father’s place. The old house.”

There was something in the way his grandfather said it, ‘the old house,’ that stayed with Felix.

“He dug them up, I think. Not literally. They were up there somewhere. But they’re old, aren’t they? They’re not antiques, I don’t think. Are they? No.”

Felix’s mind went back to the map with the marks on it.

“They were not his?”

“No. They were his father’s. Or the father collected maps or something. And that’s what sort of struck me then, when he left them here. He said he’d be back to look at them later, that he didn’t have time. “ “Later?”

“Well, we know what that meant,” said Opa Nagl. “Maybe it’s funny now, but I was thinking at the time that your grandfather, the old bas, well I thought he might come to the house here and accuse me of stealing them or something.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. That’s the way he is, the way he was. God forgive me.”

Felix said nothing, and for a few moments imagined his father driving off from the farmyard here in a hurry, waving as he went out of sight.

“Your dad left them here in a big plastic bag somewhere. He said he wanted to show them to me. He said he had some questions about them for me. Sometime.”

“May God and his angels be good to him,” said Felix’s grandmother softly, in the quiet that followed.

Speckbauer’s voice was barely audible now. Felix saw that his oma seemed to be distracted in her dishwashing.

Felix heard the receiver being returned to its cradle in the hall.

Pages were turned, and Speckbauer cleared his throat. Then he was in the open doorway after a polite single tap on the door.

“Many thanks,” he said. “Most helpful. I have left something under the phone to cover the call.”

“Not necessary,” said Opa Nagl, a little too quickly.

“Still,” said Speckbauer with a show of reluctance.

“Really. Graz is nothing these days.”

“It is farther, I am afraid Herr Nagl. Vienna. But you will see on your bill. A mobile phone is useless here. So much for progress.

But again I thank you.”

“Ah, Graz is not enough for you fellows,” said Opa Nagl. “See Felix? Stick with these guys and you’ll go places.”

Speckbauer offered a noncommittal smile. Felix wondered if he’d pretend he wasn’t picking up the signal from his wily, inquisitive opa.

“Vienna,” Speckbauer murmured. “Big shots my eye. They can be as slow as anywhere else.”

“Coffee?” from his grandmother.

“No thank you, Frau Nagl. But how kind. We must do a little work.”

He nodded at Felix.

“If I may use the klo before we leave?”

Felix waited until he heard the door close. He stood slowly.

“Opa. Was Opa Kimmel much for ‘mischief,’ the kind you were on about there?”

Felix’s grandfather made a grimace that was half bewilderment, half suspicion.

“You have strange questions in your head today.”

“A good fellow then,” said Felix.

“Don’t kid yourself,” said his opa sharply. “We kept out of his way. Such a

“Walter!”

Felix looked over at his oma. How rarely she said her husband’s first name, he realized. A dish poised in her hand with suds sliding down, she stared at her husband.

“I know,” said Felix’s opa, with a dismissive gesture of his hand.

“I know.”

Water running in the pipes made Felix’s grandmother turn back.

“Oops,” she said then. “I forgot! I must put proper towels there.”

She wiped her hands as she scurried across the floor, and down the hall.

“Tell me now,” said Felix. “About Opa Kimmel.”

“No way! We are related, Felix. It’s not proper. Your oma is right, damn her. Of course I don’t mean that. God help my clumsy words.”

“Political?”

“Christ no that’s easy enough in Austria, boy. No. Don’t you know what he was up to, the SS thing?”

“I know they found his age. Something about a fake name.”

“But he was the man of the house at sixteen. His father?”

“Stalingrad, I heard.”

“Ach,” said Felix’s grandfather. “So they say. No one knows.

He disappeared, a casualty. God only knows.”

“Did you not approve of the marriage or something?”

“At first, no. But then your father came out, and bit by bit, he won us over. So much different from your granddad. Life is strange that way. It was your oma, I say.”

“Farming, then his own garage too. What else did he do for a living?”

“He had other things, I think. Christ, I’m like an old woman, gossiping! Ach, it’s ancient crap.”

“Tell me.”

“Gossip? We heard rumours he was in business of course gasoline, coffee, cigarettes. But that was what a lot of people did.

And it died out.”

“I only found out he was in the Gendarmerie recently.”

“Hah. They’d take any fellow then. So many men hadn’t come back. There were still ‘operatives,’ guys up in the hills or loading trucks with things they didn’t own.”

“That was it? All of it?”

Felix’s grandfather narrowed his eyes and stared at the door to the hallway. There were voices, Felix’s oma and Speckbauer, and the intonations of polite and elaborate demurrals and assurances and appreciation.

“I heard years ago that he used to run messages for people. He had one of those motorbikes. But he was up and down a lot with it.