John Wray - The Right Hand of Sleep

— My age?

She nodded.

— What did you talk about?

— He was here to visit.

— I see.

— A bit younger than you perhaps, Oskar, she said, appraising him.

— What did he want? He squeezed her hand gently. — Maman?

— Yes?

— Tell me what he wanted.

She leaned back on the couch, resting her head on the wall behind her. The nodding had given way now to a steady shudder. She seemed oblivious to it, however, gazing into the woods. Her face was tranquil. — Cold now toward night, she said after a while. — I’m not properly dressed.

Voxlauer stood up and went to the linen trunk and dug out an old gray blanket. — This young man, Maman, he said, coming back to the bench. — What did he want to talk about?

— Herr Bauer, she said. — An Obersturmführer. Imagine!

— Maman, he said, arranging the blanket, ducking down to catch her eye. — Please tell me what he wanted. Can you say?

— Wanted? She frowned. — I wouldn’t know, Oskar. Some of them are quite decent.

— Maman.

— We talked about Berlin. He was there five years. Five years, Oskar! We talked about the opera.

— He was an illegal. A Nazi, Maman. That’s why he left.

— Yes. She nodded her head emphatically. — Yes, he was.

— Maman, said Voxlauer, gripping her tightly by the shoulders, bringing his face down close to hers. — Look here at me. What is it? What? Can you answer? Tell me, Maman. You have to tell me. Tell me. I can’t bear it.

When she didn’t answer he knelt in front of her and took her hand. He stayed there for a long time as the light faded, waiting for her to tell him what was the matter. She sat smiling at him contentedly, interestedly, as though watching him from a great distance through glasses that were too weak for her. — Maman! he heard himself saying over and over. He felt then, staring up at her, as though he were calling out her name from a ship that was traveling quickly out to sea. Soon the point would come when he could no longer see her, not even as a speck against the shore, and he would give up calling. — Maman, he said again, almost to himself, weeping openly now in front of her.

Eventually a change came over her face and she sat up and took a long, deep breath.

— Oskar? she said, a trace of a shadow crossing her face. — What’s wrong?

— Nothing, Maman. It’s nothing.

This answer seemed to satisfy her. — I had a dream yesterday, she said, smiling down at him. — Would you like to hear it?

He nodded.

She took a shallow, girlish breath, repositioned herself on the couch almost coquettishly and began.

— I’m a tiny thing. A girl. She sighed. — Seven, or six. I’m going from the farm to Herbst’s to sell cream. She paused a moment, lightly touching the side of her face. — The pail is knocking against my knees. It’s very bright in town and everything is going slowly. Wagons and traps are passing on the street and the gentlemen all step off the curb to let me by. You’re not alive yet, Oskar, she said, reaching for his hand.

— I know it, said Voxlauer.

— Your father passes by and tips his hat. He seems to be doing well. He has on his spectacles. I keep down the street with the pail, which is really very heavy and beginning to hurt my wrists. When I get to Herbst’s the tables are all very crowded and I pick my way through them to the door. Everybody is quiet. The cups are clicking against the saucers. Werner Herbst and the children are waiting. They have horses saddled in the kitchen, drinking out of the kitchen sink. Two bay mares, Oskar, and a yellow pony.

She nodded quietly a moment, smiling in the recollected light of the dream. — Here are the horses! they say, pointing. — Do you want to ride or sing? I don’t say anything at all but hold the pail out for them to see. Then I watch as they lead the horses around the tables between the customers with their drinks and their iced creams on their blue glass plates and canter off. They wave back to me once from the canal bridge. She paused, looking out now along the street. — They just ride away.

— And then?

— That’s all, Oskar, she said kindly, as if to an easily disappointed child.

Voxlauer sat back on his heels. — What a pretty dream that is, Maman.

— Yes. I know. He left a note for you on the parlor table.

— What?

She gestured into the parlor. — On Père’s composing table.

He stood up quickly and went in to the little desk and found a typewritten summons on stiff gray Polizeihaus stationery, stamped and embossed with various red and candlewax-colored seals. The signature at the bottom was jagged and fine, like a crack in an eggshell. Under it were printed the words “Kurt Elisabeth Bauer: Obersturmführer of the Schutzstaffel of the German Reich.” Voxlauer slid the summons into his pocket, feeling the warp of its fibers a moment between his thumb and forefinger. When he came back to the verandah Maman was spitting onto the blanket and rubbing its corners together. — There’s a stain on this blanket, she said quietly.

Voxlauer climbed the wide stucco steps of the Polizeihaus just before noon. Two brass pegs had been driven into the flaking yellow plaster above the entrance and a square felt banner hid each lintel corner. A black swastika on a red and white field fluttered gaudily between them. Two ribbons, frayed and speckled with watermarks, hung down limply to either side. Looking up at them Voxlauer was reminded of Christmas banners left out to rot over the winter. Through the propped-open doors a clerk watched him idly, looking down at his desk and then up at him again, as though sketching out his likeness. As Voxlauer entered he rose to his feet and saluted. — Heil Hitler.

— The same to you, said Voxlauer tonelessly, looking around the foyer. — I’m here to see Herr Bauer.

— I see, said the clerk. — To see the Obersturmführer. He smiled. — Are you here by appointment, Herr. .?

— Voxlauer. By invitation. He slid the balled-up summons across the desktop.

The clerk bent over and picked up the summons, smiling indulgently. Uncrumpling in his smooth white fingers, the paper made a noise like a sack of candy being opened. — Be seated, won’t you, Herr Voxlauer? said the clerk. As Voxlauer went to sit he slipped gracefully around his desk and left the foyer.

Voxlauer eased himself into a padded rattan chair and scratched at the tip of his nose with his thumb. The clerk’s steps receded up the stairwell. Outside the window a column of martins spiraled over the canal and the freshly tarred street steamed and glistened in the sun. A dank smell wafted through the open doors, sweet with compost and oily water. A wrinkle-faced old woman passed carrying a pail. A dray cart rattled by a short while later, piled high with fresh-washed linens. Its driver tipped his hat cheerfully and saluted.

After a quarter of an hour the clerk reappeared. — Obersturmführer Bauer is dedicating a playing field, he said, handing back the wrinkled summons. — Pardon our confusion, Herr Voxlauer. This is a very busy time.

Voxlauer looked down at the paper. — It does say one o’clock, Tuesday the twenty-fifth, he said.

— Does it? said the clerk, blinking.

Voxlauer said nothing for a time. — Expecting him back soon?

The clerk blinked again, coyly, and shrugged his shoulders. — Your guess is as good as mine, citizen.

— Could I leave a message? I’ll be brief.

— If you must, Herr Voxlauer. The clerk pulled open a drawer of the desk with a smooth, precise movement, stifling a yawn. — What might this be regarding? he said. His thin blond hair was slightly damp and stood out from the back of his head like the tail of a canary. His otherwise perfect, featureless voice peaked and fluttered over its r ’s and s ’s. He stared at Voxlauer, pen in hand.