John Wray - The Right Hand of Sleep

— Fat lambs make better Fascists, said Piedernig into his teacup.

— That’s not always true, said Else.

— We defer to you, Fräulein, of course, said Piedernig. The others laughed.

The bread was passed again. Two small boys wandered in and ate sullenly from a bowl of dried apple peels. An older, cropped-haired woman Voxlauer didn’t recognize was describing a visit to town.

— There were banners flapping everywhere, she was saying, glancing importantly round the circle. — Like during Republic Week, but on the houses, the cottages, even the better cattle stalls. Red and gray banners. Felt. And that huge pornographic cross. She paused a moment for effect, nodding at each of them in turn. — The illegals are marching in Villach tomorrow. With full state’s honors.

Piedernig let out a low groan. He turned to Else. — Is this true? — How should I know, Walter? said Else, staring down at the blanket.

Piedernig shrugged and waved a hand. — The march of progress, Oskar. There’s no resisting it. We’ve lost three of our fattest citizens to the festivities already.

— A plump citizen is their easiest mark, the man called in from the kitchen.

Voxlauer looked slowly around the circle, dwelling for a moment or so on each of the assorted faces. — I’d judge the rest of you are in the clear then, he said finally.

— By the by: our bees are coming to, said Piedernig, as they took their bowls into the kitchen. — Care to honor us with an appraisal?

Voxlauer laughed. — I’d esteem it a solemn privilege. He glanced back over his shoulder.

— She’s with Herta in the garden, said Piedernig, winking. — Never fear. He pulled open a cupboard and took out a tin of tobacco, raising a finger to his lips. — Come along now. Lend us your studied opinion.

The sun had thawed most of the morning’s frost and water shone under the grass and on the roofs of the cabinets. As they neared them Voxlauer grew aware of a steady hum, electric and smooth, rising in pitch with each step they took forward. A second, louder hum sprang up suddenly like the starting of a generator as Piedernig stepped to the door of the first cabinet and pulled it open. Bees teemed out across the shelves, moving in wide, bewildered spirals, giving pattern to the noise. Voxlauer leaned in closer to the cabinet. The hive’s paper face was completely obscured by the whirring, trembling bodies. A light breeze rose from their wings and played mildly on his face and hair. — Why don’t they fly? he said.

— They’re still mostly asleep, said Piedernig, pulling a wad of black tobacco from the tin and working it into his pipe bowl. — Watch now. He reached in and gathered a cluster of bees into his palm, closed his hand and shook it. — See that? What they want now is a shock to let them know winter is over. He grinned and lit his pipe. — Maybe I should tell them about the Anschluss.

— Christ, let them sleep, said Voxlauer.

They stood awhile and watched the bees, not speaking. — We’re nearly finished here, Piedernig said.

Voxlauer smiled. — You mean your good work here is done.

— Ha! Yes. Exactly right. Piedernig was silent again for a time, sucking on his pipestem. After a while he struck a match, brought it up to the bowl of the pipe and said — No. I mean finished. He let out a sigh. — This is not another country, Oskar.

Voxlauer laughed. — I know it isn’t, Walter. I’ve been to other countries.

— I mean up here, you blessed fool. This valley.

— Yes. I know you do.

Piedernig was looking at him. — I know it, Walter, he repeated.

— And Ryslavy? Is he worried?

— I don’t know. I don’t think so.

Piedernig sucked his cheeks in doubtfully.

— He has money, said Voxlauer.

— I don’t doubt it.

— Bribes should be worth as much to them as to anybody else. They can’t all of them be such fanatics, can they?

— Yes. Well, said Piedernig, looking back toward the huts — it’s the Monte for us, early fall at the latest. Veritas, venitas, vicetas, as the saying goes.

— Italy? said Voxlauer.

Piedernig laughed. — You’ve been away nearly twenty years, Oskar. I have it from irreproachable sources that the Italians are now our friends.

— I’m very relieved to hear it. Still—

— Move back a step now, there’s a man, said Piedernig. He leaned in toward the cabinet and blew a thick jet of smoke onto the shelves. The column of sound ruptured suddenly and fell away as the bees funneled outward, beating and stinging the empty air. Voxlauer put up his hands and felt a bright rain of sparks across his wrists and knuckles. Piedernig took him by the collar and jerked him fiercely backward, cursing him.

— It’s all right, said Voxlauer. — It’s all right. It’s beautiful.

— You’re a queer one, aren’t you? barked Piedernig, squinting into his face. — Are you stung badly?

— No. I’m all right, said Voxlauer. — I’m sorry, Professor, he said after a little pause.

— No harm done on my side, said Piedernig, still regarding him closely. — They certainly livened up obligingly, didn’t they?

— Yes, said Voxlauer. — Yes, they did. He crouched down on the path, breathing heavily. — Yes. That was a surprise.

— Let’s go find the ladies. Up you go, Gamekeeper.

They walked back past a row of empty pens and around the meetinghouse to the terraced garden. Else and Herta and another woman were there, leaning against the gate, talking and laughing.

— What happened to your hands? said Else as Voxlauer stepped up to her, rubbing his knuckles together and grinning.

— The best thing for that, said Herta — is fresh mayonnaise. Cold. In a compress.

Else laughed. — Mayonnaise?

Herta nodded solemnly. — Mayonnaise. It has to be cold, mind.

— I’m sure I don’t have any, Herta, cold or otherwise. Mayonnaise gives me the hives.

— I’ll do just fine without, I think, begging the ladies’ pardons, said Voxlauer.

— Yes. You’ve done yourself just fine, without any help from anybody, haven’t you? said Else, patting him on the hands. Everyone laughed.

— Why did he ask you about Villach? said Voxlauer. It was late in the day and the meadow as they crossed it was dark all along its edges. They crossed it slowly, their boots sloughing off in the thickening mud. Else walked in front, looking up now and again toward the head of the path. — Who? she said.

— Walter. He paused. — About the marching in Villach. If it was true.

— Oh. That, said Else. She made a little wave. — Probably because of my cousin, Kurt.

— What about him?

— He got into trouble. He had to leave.

They had reached the pines and now walked side by side down the steepening hill. — Without a word, she said, half to herself.

— What’s that? said Voxlauer.

— He left us without a word. Kurt. In the middle of the night.

— Us?

— Us. Resi and myself.

Voxlauer slowed for a moment, but as Else kept walking he sped up again. She was looking down the slope into the woods, walking quickly.

— He took care of you, before he left? Your cousin? said Voxlauer, still half a step behind her.

— Yes.

— You and Resi.

— Yes, Oskar.

— Else?

— What?

Voxlauer hesitated, arranging the words carefully in his throat. — He’s an illegal, is he, your cousin?

She nodded. — Yes, Oskar. He was. Until last month. Now he’s just the opposite.

— He’ll be coming back, then, Voxlauer said slowly.

— I wish he wouldn’t.

Voxlauer was quiet for a time. — And the father?

— What about him?

— Where is he?

— With Kurt, wherever that is. I don’t care.