Erwin Mortier - Marcel

*

“Hold this while I fix my hairpins.”

Stella, seated at her dressing table, had seen me go past in the mirror. The light in her room was tinged puce by the curtains, and the air around her bed was stale from her breath. She inclined her head forwards, guided my fingers to the knot of hair on her crown and opened a box of pins.

“Don’t prick my fingers,” I said, “I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

“Can’t you do without your fingers?” she laughed. “I thought you didn’t need them any more. Not for twisting Miss Veegaete round your little finger, at any rate.”

Her eyes gleamed like spotlights.

“Two months from now you’ll be in class with Master Norbert, that’ll be a different kettle of fish … You can let go now.”

I laid my hands on the back of her chair. She had put on a close-fitting flowery dress with a low neckline and a zip up the back, which was still half open. Her shoulder blades were dotted with moles, some of which had wiry hairs sticking out.

“Norbert’s not as bad as you may think,” she said. “At least you always know where you are with him. Calls a spade a spade.”

She stretched the hairnet with both hands and fitted it over her bun with a practised gesture. Her fingers knew exactly where the pins had to go.

“By the way,” she said, “I’ve got something for you. You probably left it lying around somewhere. It’s in there …”

She nodded towards the drawers of her dressing table, in front of her knees. “In the top one. Go on, open it … Go on.”

The drawers had brass handles shaped like roaring lion’s heads with unnaturally long shiny tongues hanging out. I slid the drawer open. At the front, on top of a row of boxes of old face powder, lay Marcel’s letter.

Stella fixed me with her eyes in the mirror. I bit my lip and squirmed, wishing I could shrink, turn into a beetle and scuttle away on my six legs to hide in the crack between wall and floor.

“It was lucky for you Andrea was out when Miss Veegaete called … Are you going to take that letter out of the drawer or what? It won’t bite. It didn’t bite you the first time, and it won’t bite you now. Go on, take it. I don’t want any stolen goods in my room.”

“She stole it herself. Stole it from me.”

“Keep your voice down. You don’t want your grandfather to hear, now do you? Listen …” she said, taking both my hands in hers. “I saved your skin, my boy. That’s all that matters as far as I’m concerned. You’ll have to own up, though. The sooner the better.”

“It was only because of the eagle …” I protested. My eyes filled with tears.

Stella pulled another drawer open and offered me a handkerchief.

“You might as well cry now. Get it over with. You can tell her it was because of the eagle. She’ll understand.”

“Can’t I just put it back with the others?” I pleaded. “Wouldn’t that be all right? I know where she keeps them.”

Stella completed her toilette by putting on her round spectacles. The look she gave me was stern but compassion — ate, like that of a judge in a courtroom.

“You mustn’t stick your nose in other people’s affairs. To sin once is quite enough. Why don’t you thank me with a kiss?”

She drew up her shoulders and pouted her lips. The red on her mouth tasted of raspberries.

*

The afternoon heat rushed in behind the grandmother as she stepped into the hall. She set her handbag on the chest under the mirror and removed her straw hat. Crouching halfway up the attic stairs I watched her kick off her Sunday shoes and crouch in front of the shoe cupboard to fish out her sandals. From the gaping handbag protruded a bottle of bleach, a trowel and the bristles of a wire brush. Over the clasp hung the limp, mud-encrusted fingers of a rubber glove.

I leaped to my feet, screwed up all my courage and called out to her from the unlit stairs: “Grandma, I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Goodness, you scared me out of my wits.” she said, startled but in good humour.

I thought I had better do as Stella said and confess right away. I counted up to three under my breath and dashed toward her waving the envelope.

She did not look at me. She did not take the letter.

“Grandma!”

“Not now. Not now!” Her grey curls swung from side to side.

Stunned, I stuffed the letter in my shirt pocket and crept up the stairs to the attic.

Under the rafters the heat was suffocating. Dust danced in the sunbeams pouring in through the skylight and the chinks between the tiles. Outside, the elderberry growing against the south-facing wall was alive with the chatter of magpies. The pigeons scuttled about in the zinc gutter.

I settled down on Marcel’s trunk. If only I could just live in the attic. Death was different here. It was sort of friendly, the way it filled the closets, jostling the tangled spectacles, playing carnival with old shirts and meekly retreating when I had had enough.

*

Downstairs was in a hubbub, with Stella going round like a tornado whisking egg whites, kneading dough and chopping vegetables all at once. Plates were set on the dinner table with a loud clatter, the lid of a saucepan clanged to the kitchen floor and a door was flung open.

I heard Stella shout “You can’t keep this up forever … Damn … damn …” The door of her room slammed so hard it made the floorboards shake. She was directly beneath me and I could hear her stifled sobs.

After the outburst all went quiet in the house. Geese gibbered drowsily in the orchard.

The grandmother lingered at the bottom of the staircase, her fingers drumming softly on the banister. Then she started climbing, slowly, step by step, pausing to reflect with each step but progressing steadily all the same. I could hear the rustle of her nylon apron. Finally the top of her head rose above the trap door, her forehead, her eyes. She stopped there and raised her arm to beckon me, as if she were drowning, as if she were a creature of the night shrinking from the shaft of sunlight in which I would dismantle her fibre by fibre.

I refused to budge. The attic was mine, it belonged to no one but me. And Marcel.

“Come here, my lamb, come.”

I looked down and shook my head.

“You can have the letter. You can keep it. But come downstairs, there’s a good boy.”

She must have been crying. I had never seen her cry. Her voice was furry with emotion.

“It’s not healthy, sitting up here in this oven … Come down.”

She turned to go downstairs again, but changed her mind. She sat down on a step midway and patted the space beside her. “Come and sit here.”

I got up.

She wrapped her arms around her knees. “You mustn’t think everyone is as good as they make out,” she said.

“And you mustn’t be cross with me. I just wanted the bird. Miss told us to bring something to school for the nature class.”

“I’m not cross with you. Not with you … Not any more.”

She stared at her toes peeping out from the straps of her sandals. She pressed her lips together, making her chin pucker.

“She should have given it back to you. You shouldn’t have taken it, but nor should she.”

Her chin puckered again, her sandals creaked.

“Grandma?”

“Yes …”

“I’ll look after it …”

“I should say so.”

“And when I grow up I’ll go and visit Marcel’s grave. You can come with me if you like.”

She laughed bitterly, sending a ripple across her stomach.

“We’ll have to search long and hard.”

“Not if I ask the way.”

“What, you ask the way? In Russian I suppose?”

“I can learn Russian, can’t I? Miss Veegaete says it’s the hardest language of all, but I’ll manage, she says I’m clever enough …”