John Wray - The Right Hand of Sleep

— Ah.

She took a half step toward him. — Oskar—

— They were both of them illegals, were they? The two of them?

— Right, she said, turning back down the slope. — Lovely young garden-variety Black Shirts. The two of them together.

— That’s a. . a surprise, said Voxlauer.

— Is it, Oskar? Is it such a surprise?

They were standing now side by side looking in the same direction down the trail. Past a little rise they could see the rust-colored stripe of the junction road dimly through the trees and scrub.

— Who was he, then? said Voxlauer finally.

Else frowned slightly. — Who was who?

— The father.

— A boy, Oskar. That’s all. She shrugged. — From Marein. His mother looks after Resi now.

Voxlauer was quiet again for a few moments. — Why is that?

She had begun walking again, stiff-legged and deliberate. He followed close behind her. They passed silently into a stand of elms showing their first hesitant green. Her steps in the brown leaf cover ahead of him made small brittle noises as she went, as though she were walking over waxed paper, or onionskin. He drew alongside her.

— Why is that? he repeated.

— What?

— Why does his mother look after her?

— Because I’m unfit, of course, Oskar. It’s not right that I look after her. Is that what you wanted to know? I’m unfit. That’s all. She was taken away from me.

— But why? he said again, unable to check himself. — What had you done?

— Oskar, she whispered, turning toward him. Her face was wet and she was trembling. — Can we stop this, Oskar? For God’s sake? If we don’t stop right away, I have to go. I’ll have to go, Oskar. Do you hear?

He looked at her for a few seconds, then shut his eyes. The fear that he’d half forgotten in the last weeks rose and heaved under him again all at once and he felt weak-kneed as if from sudden vertigo. — Go where? he said finally, opening his eyes. But Else had begun walking again, moving away from him down the slope.

Later that day, when Voxlauer arrived at the ponds, he found a pine-green sedan parked alongside the bridge and Ryslavy slumped over between the cottage steps and the woodpile. He picked up two splints from the pile and clacked them together next to Ryslavy’s ear.

— Citizens of the Reich! This is your Führer speaking!

Ryslavy jerked violently awake, looking around him with wide-open, bulging eyes. Seeing Voxlauer he began cursing immediately. — You’ll get yours, little friend. By God you’ll get yours.

— I was just thinking about going to see you, Pauli. Tomorrow or the day after. And here you are laid out on my doorstep like a birthday present.

Ryslavy sat back against the wall. — Just you come a little closer, birthday boy.

— Thanks all the same, said Voxlauer. He leaned lightly against the woodpile. — I’ve been wondering about you a little.

— What, pray tell?

— I don’t rightly know.

— No?

Voxlauer shrugged. — If you’re still in business, I suppose.

— In business? said Ryslavy, eyes narrowing.

Voxlauer nodded.

Ryslavy studied him awhile longer, then let out a grunt. — They haven’t stopped drinking beer, if that’s what you’re getting at. Or started caring much who pours it for them.

— Still eating trout?

— They’ll still eat mine, Oskar. Don’t you worry. If I have any left to fry, that is. He looked toward the ponds accusingly.

Voxlauer took another splint from the woodpile and began knocking the dirt from his boots. — It’s true I haven’t been around so much lately.

— No?

Voxlauer grinned. — You come up here to sack me, Pauli?

— We’d just have you in town then. Thank you kindly.

— It wouldn’t be so bad. I could help you lay sandbags.

— No thank you.

— Or courier your bribes, depending. .

Ryslavy made a face. — On what?

Voxlauer scratched his chin. — Your plan of action. Your tactical agenda.

— I think we’ll keep you in reserve for the moment, Oskar, if you’ve no objections. Seeing as how you appreciate your work.

— Is it so very obvious? said Voxlauer.

In the last light they went up and cast lines into the creek. Ryslavy lay with his head against a tussock of new grass, smoking and holding forth on selected topics. Occasionally he sat forward to check his line. Voxlauer had a second rod and was casting into a shallow eddy.

— They’re no more socialists than I am, Ryslavy was saying. — If they’re a workers’ party then I’m a burr up a barmaid’s ass.

— You wish you were.

— They went after the perfumed citizens straight off, no dillydallying. Old man Kattnig, Otto Probst, that new doctor moved into the Villa Walgram. Even came snuffling round my door, if you can believe it, that first week. Turned out I was a Zionist.

— If you’re a Zionist, then I am a wheel of cheese, said Voxlauer, yawning.

— Believe me, Oskar. Nobody was more surprised than I was.

— I believe it very well.

— Came round your mother’s house, naturally. Brought along some paperwork. Mentioned you, of course, I needn’t say what regarding. She asked could any of them speak French.

Voxlauer said nothing.

— They want her, all right. Your Père too, rest his bones. “Your personal loss, et cetera, was a loss for all of Germany.” She was grand, though. Asked did Germany feel the loss of all Austrian geniuses so deeply. That buggered ’em.

— They mentioned me?

— Hmm. Ryslavy nodded, fumbling with his pipe. — Toward the end.

— Well?

—“We sympathize with your shame, et cetera, Frau Voxlauer,” et cetera. The paperwork came out again. A pardon or some such was hinted at. She told them to get pissed.

— Ah, said Voxlauer.

— For pity’s sake don’t club away like that. For pity’s sake, Oskar. A little charity. Ryslavy took up his rod with a gesture of despair and arced it soundlessly out over the water. — These are graceful, delicate things we’re after. Beautiful things.

— Floating sausages, said Voxlauer. — Bug-eyed gluttonous little fiends.

— Conversely, the favored food of your prophet, according to apostles Paul and Peter, said Ryslavy, raising a hand in benediction.

— I never knew! said Voxlauer thoughtfully. He reeled in his line and cast again. — Who’s your favorite apostle, Pauli?

Ryslavy cursed picturesquely. — Speaking of which, that heap of kidneys is making things hot for me a little. Not to dirty the subject.

— Our boy Rindt of the greasy knickers?

— That’s the one.

— Sopping piss off barstools not enough for him anymore, I guess.

Ryslavy shrugged. — Black Shirts drink free on Tuesday. He grinned crookedly. — The pan-German angle.

Voxlauer spat into the grass.

— Wish I’d thought of it myself, really.

— You did, Pauli. You couldn’t stomach it, that’s all.

Ryslavy laughed joylessly. — You expect me to work the pan-German maneuver, Oskar? Me? Paul Abraham Ryslavy, money-lender? Corrupter of womenfolks? The bandy-legged menace? He hunched over in the twilight, leering.

— Speaking of which, said Voxlauer. — Could you spare half a schilling?

— Very comic, said Ryslavy. He stared blankly out at the water.

— I thought not, said Voxlauer.

— You go to hell.

They cast quietly for a time. — Is it all so far gone, then? said Voxlauer quietly.

Ryslavy thumbed his nose. — They drink until they’re pissed, then they toddle home. It’s a happy time, really.

— We could all do with one of those.

Ryslavy moved his pipestem fondly from his right mouth corner to his left. — I’d say you’ve done all right, Oskar.