John Wray - The Right Hand of Sleep

Voxlauer raised his eyebrows. — Whose father? Else’s?

— No no, Oskar, said Piedernig. He paused. — The father of the girl.

— Ah, said Voxlauer. — No. No I haven’t. He’s not been heard from as yet.

— He hasn’t?

— No.

— I see.

— The cousin has.

— The cousin. Yes, I’d heard, said Piedernig, clearing his throat. — You’ve met this cousin, then?

— I’ve not yet had that pleasure either.

Piedernig said nothing. Across the plain the sun caught the windows of the onion-headed steeple of a church. — What church is that, straight across? Voxlauer said, squinting.

— I’m not sure. Ah — St. Marein, I think.

— Looks far away.

— Not far enough, said Piedernig. He looked at Voxlauer and grinned. — Italy, Oskar! he said, brandishing his cane like a hussar’s saber. — Italy for vagabonds and fools!

— Rehearsing for Passport Control, are you?

— Passport Control? said Piedernig, stopping in mid-swing.

That afternoon Else came to the door as he was halfway up the steps and led him around the house to the garden gate. — The rhubarb is almost due, she said. — Look at that first row, and the one behind it. We’ll have compote soon, and rhubarb tortes. All manner of cakes and delicacies. She beamed at him. — Where have you been?

— With Walter. He’s leaving tomorrow. You know that, I suppose.

— Yes. He came by this morning. She bent over and pulled a clump of grass from among the cabbage heads along the fence. — Seemed in very high spirits.

— Some kind of spirits, said Voxlauer, smiling. — He wanted to go to the Holzer farm for schnapps. Asked if we’d mind minding the children for a year or two. I told him we weren’t running any kind of game-preserve and he said that was perfectly obvious.

Else laughed. — He’d never manage without those brats of his. Not for a second. They’re the only ones left with any sap in them, aside from Herta.

Voxlauer was quiet a moment. — Maybe we should go up tomorrow, to see them off. What do you think?

— You’ve grown fond of the old gasbag, haven’t you? Don’t pretend any different.

Voxlauer shrugged. — He’s honest, Fräulein. I admire that in a fraud.

Going up the next morning they found them already on the road, the children first in an absurd procession driving a column of mud-caked goats ahead of them, the adults close behind, shuffling heel to heel like convicts, Piedernig and Herta last of all on a looseaxled cart pulled by mules. Voxlauer and Else stepped back from the road and waited for the dust to settle. Piedernig smiled down at them with weary dignity, wiping mock sweat from his brow with the hem of his moth-eaten riding coat. — Blessings, pilgrims! he said, both hands raised in benediction. Herta nodded to them stoically.

— Morning, all, said Else. — Morning to the collective! she called down the convoy. A chorus of mumbled greetings rose up in answer. — You’re the pilgrims, Walter, she said brightly. — Oskar and I are as sedentary as they come.

— Off to stake your claim, Professor? said Voxlauer.

— Naturally, said Piedernig. — I’ve read my Cooper, child. A golden future awaits us in the west.

— Why head south, in that case?

— It’s the spirit of the thing, Oskar, Else whispered.

— Quite right, Fräulein, quite right! Piedernig said, looking hard at Voxlauer. — The direction of course is immaterial, Herr Gamekeeper.

— I beg pardon, said Voxlauer. — Keep an eye out for the redskins.

— Wrong again, Oskar! The redskins will befriend us and teach us their ways.

— There’s a different sort of tribe in power now, Professor, from what I’ve heard.

— Nonsense, Oskar! said Piedernig happily. — Fairy stories!

Else stepped forward and curtsied. — We brought you some very nice strawberries as a token of good riddance.

— No fishes, children? said Piedernig, looking sorrowful.

— You’ll have to provide your own loaves and fishes from now on, Professor, said Voxlauer. — There’s no getting around it for a man of your position.

— Walter thinks he has that all arranged, said Herta. She smiled down at Else.

— Good-bye, Fräulein, Piedernig said brightly. Of their own accord the two mules and the column of raggedly attired bodies began to move. — Mind those aborigines! said Voxlauer, reaching up a hand.

— Don’t trouble yourself too much about us, said Piedernig, leaning over and taking it solemnly in passing. — Best look to yourselves awhile. Remember, Oskar: if they come for you, take them fishing.

— Duly noted, said Voxlauer.

Piedernig gave a shout and a huddle of boys who’d been lolling in the grass got up grudgingly and began to drive the goats and the cows down the road. In a few moments they were all of them gone in a clatter of iron pots and a cloud of sepia-tinted dust. For some time afterward the shouts of the children and the bleating of the animals carried back to them up the road, dimming and returning like water lapping against a pier. Then that, too, faded and Else and Voxlauer were alone.

The two of them spent that afternoon laying damp hay on the garden to keep down the weeds and clearing beds along the warm south wall for summer corn. As evening came the air cooled unexpectedly and they went inside to the parlor and took out the dog-eared tarok deck and tried to play. They kept at the game halfheartedly for an hour or so, not bothering to keep score, then sat dumbly at the table as night fell, uneasy for the first time in each other’s company. The evening sun canted across the table and the cards and ran in soft pink streaks along the floorboards. They sat quietly looking across the floor at nothing, waiting, it seemed to Voxlauer, for something to happen. The last pale rays were just ebbing from the garden when they heard the shouts coming up the hillside.

He came calling her up the road, pushing his heavy olive-colored motorcycle in front of him. When he came within sight of the villa he left the bike idling and hung back at the edge of the fenced-in garden, watching the kitchen lamp being lit and her figure a moment later in the doorframe with the lamplight steady and full behind her. Seeing her he stopped a moment, muttering to himself, then went back to the motorcycle and started it and turned it to face the woods. He reached into the pocket of his riding jacket and fished out a shallow hinged-topped flask and tipped it back. Still cradling the flask, he leaned forward and switched on the headlamp and spun the handlebars back and forth, watching the ball of light arcing through the clay-colored trees. Then he shut off the motorcycle and walked back up the hill, all the while calling out to her: Liesi!

Voxlauer was still at the kitchen table, shuffling the tarok deck clumsily and cutting it and watching her stare out the window, rapt and breathless, her whole body tense with waiting. Finally she looked over at him. She opened her mouth once and closed it.

— Is it your cousin? he said tonelessly.

She nodded.

They were quiet a moment. The light of the motorcycle swung steeply across the kitchen and into the woods.

— He seems reluctant to come in, said Voxlauer. — Why is that?

— I don’t know, said Else. — He knows you’re here, she said after a pause.

— Ask him to come in. It’s all right.

She looked at him again. — I don’t know, Oskar.

— He’s your cousin, isn’t he? Shouldn’t he like to meet me? I’d think he would. I’d think he would be curious.

Her mouth opened slowly. — Yes.

Voxlauer sat silently, holding the cards.

— Oskar—

— Yes?

She made a low sound, not moving her lips. The light passed again behind her. — I don’t think I can not go to him, Oskar.