John Wray - The Right Hand of Sleep

— What’s that?

— You’ve done all right.

Voxlauer cast again. — What would you know about it.

— You’ll notice, said Ryslavy — I haven’t asked where you’ve been.

— I wasn’t expecting you to.

— Still. I haven’t asked.

— Shall I light you a candle, brother?

— Do you remember Sarah Tilsnigg? My second cousin?

Voxlauer didn’t answer for a moment. — I might remember.

— You always did have a weakness for the mountain air. Had an effect on you like a pound of oysters.

— Leave off it, Pauli, for the love of God.

— What year was that? What summer?

— I don’t remember. Eighteen hundred and three.

— We had fine summers up here, though, it’s a fact.

— A few.

— I think of them all the time now. I must be getting old.

— That must be it.

— Père told those endless, wonderfully complicated fairy stories. Do you remember them?

— Some.

— What happened to him, Oskar? To go from such a normal life — go so all at once—

— It wasn’t so all at once. You didn’t see it, that’s all. Maman kept things quiet.

— There were the problems with his pieces, I remember that much. His pieces not getting played, and so on. Don’t say that wasn’t a part of it.

— It was something inside of him, Pauli. In the brain. It wasn’t the goddamned good-for-nothing pieces.

— What makes you so blessed sure?

— Because it’s inside of me too, Pauli. That’s why.

— Oh, said Ryslavy.

They sat awhile in silence. Ryslavy chewed his pipe. — Vulgo Holzer was broken into a few weeks back, he said. — Turned on its ass proper.

— Is that so?

— Just so you’re careful, that’s all, Oskar. These are chancy times.

— I’ve heard that already, said Voxlauer. — You’ll be happy to know of a fellow deep thinker—

There was a hit on his line and he brought it in hard, with a whirring and buzzing of the reel. A fish no longer than a finger struggled fiercely against the hook. Voxlauer pulled it in, cursing.

— Sprats hit quickest just now, Ryslavy said, comfortable again. — The old ones drop lower, in my experience, when dark is coming on. A heavier plumb might clear it, maybe. Or a better floater. You might try one of those damselflies.

Voxlauer yanked the sprat from his line and threw it back. — You’re bothering me tonight, Pauli.

Ryslavy sighed. — I bother myself, lately. He drew his rod back pensively. — You know about her family, I suppose?

— Enough.

— Not simple, is it.

— It’s simple. Voxlauer cast again. — It’s simple up here.

— Don’t believe it, boy. It’s no simpler up here than anywhere. Things take a bit longer to happen, that’s all. Ryslavy jerked his head down valley. — Your nudists know that, you can bet. They won’t be around much longer.

— Look at me, Pauli. I’m fully dressed.

— And thank God for it.

— I couldn’t agree more.

Ryslavy leaned over, took Voxlauer’s arm and shook it. — Don’t make trouble for me, old man. I’m begging you now.

Voxlauer laughed. — Trouble, Pauli? You must not have looked at me too well just now. Am I worth fretting over?

— No, you jackass. I am. I’m worth fretting over for weeks.

— Fret away, then. You don’t need my permission.

— Everyone knows who it was at the Holzer farm. The whole town knows it.

Voxlauer didn’t answer. The creek had darkened now into a small cautious band of gray. The light above it was dim and gravel-colored.

— That seems very far away now, all of that, he said finally.

Ryslavy was quiet a moment. — Well, Oskar. It’s your business, as you say. But for God’s sake don’t pay any more visits to the Holzer boys. Buy your butter in Pergau from now on.

— I just might at that, said Voxlauer.

It rained all that night and the next day and in the evening wide pink spots appeared on the sky and it grew clear and cold. Voxlauer rapped on the window and watched Else move in the warm honeyed light of the kitchen toward the door. She fumbled a moment with the catch. — Fish still belly-down? she said, pushing open the screen.

— I never looked. He brushed the hair from her face and looped it carefully behind her ears. — Ryslavy was by. I think he’d sack me if his conscience would permit him. Lucky for me he’s a sentimentalist.

— He can’t sack you if he doesn’t pay you, Oskar. You still think like a Bolshevik. She took his wrist and brought it along her mouth.

— He gives me a general amnesty, Fräulein. That’s something. And then there are the fishes.

— Tsk, Oskar! What do you need an amnesty for, of all people.

— Oh, I’ve done terrible things, Fräulein.

— I know what you’re thinking of, Herr Gamekeeper. Paul Ryslavy has no business giving out amnesties in that province.

— Well, said Voxlauer, shrugging. — He tries to look out for me.

She laughed slyly. — Some things nobody else can do for you, Oskarchen.

— If you say so, Fräulein. He paused a moment. — He doesn’t seem to like you much. I suppose that’s no surprise.

She made a face. — That man. He should nurture his friendships.

— He thinks he does.

— What does that mean?

— Well. He’s paying enough insurance.

— I’m sure he is. To the wrong people.

— Most likely, said Voxlauer. He paused. — Who aren’t the wrong people, then?

— I’m not. I am not the wrong people, said Else. She laughed. — You tell that to Ryslavy.

For supper they ate dumplings and tinned peaches and the last of the smoked sausages he’d stolen from the Holzer farm. They ate by a gas lantern in a corner of the kitchen with the house door creaking open on the dark, pouring schnapps from a little blue-green bottle into their tea. Else hummed under her breath, half mouthing the words to a nursery rhyme between sips. Her face glowed roundly in the lantern light.

— You’re very quiet this evening, she said.

— So are you.

— I’m drunk.

Voxlauer looked at her. — You don’t look drunk.

— Well, I am.

— A good feeling, isn’t it. He smiled.

— Yes. Yes it is.

— I’m going to town tomorrow, he said, leaning back contentedly in his chair.

Else frowned. — What for?

— My mother. Pauli says she wants to see me.

She said nothing for a time, lowering her eyes to the tabletop, running her fingers restlessly along its rim. — Don’t go just now, Oskar.

— Why not?

— I don’t know, she said, still frowning at the table.

— They don’t care about me in town, Else.

— Did Ryslavy say that?

He waved a hand. — I’m going to see my mother. That’s all, Else. Just her.

Else took a sip of her tea. — What is it? Is something wrong?

— No. Nothing’s wrong at all.

— Aside from everything that is, said Else.

Voxlauer sat on a bench on the verandah, looking out at the red glare along the rooftops. — Well, Maman, he said. — The sun is shining on your little town today.

She set a tray of sweet rolls down in front of him. — You look ill, she said.

— Scurvy, say the specialists. Voxlauer sucked in his cheeks and rolled back his eyes. — They tell me I’ll have to take the Russian cure.

— For heaven’s sake, Oskar. She sat down tiredly in her chair. He noticed for the first time an involuntary shaking of her head, a constant slow avowal of disbelief. She let out a long, involuntary breath. — Is she feeding you well, at least?

— Maman, he said. — Couldn’t we sit quietly for a while?

— Yes, Oskar. I suppose.

The noon light passed through the screen of hanging ferns and dappled the white wall and the table and the plates and cups. The radio was on in the parlor and the garbled remains of an overture carried out to them through the open doors.