John Wray - The Right Hand of Sleep

— You’re a Reichs-German, aren’t you, said Voxlauer after a moment.

— We all are, citizen, said the clerk impatiently, his cowlick rising danderlike behind him as he spoke. — Even in this sow’s-milk valley. Now then, he continued, pulling out a sheet of the heavy gray stationery from the drawer and uncapping a pen. — What was the message, in ten Reichs-German words or less? Be sure to talk slowly enough, mind, so that I’ll understand you. None of your back-valley gibberish.

Voxlauer said nothing, watching the clerk’s damp, white hands tapping against the desktop.

— Come now, Herr Voxlauer! said the clerk after a moment, smirking. — No message, after all, for the Obersturmführer? I’m confident that you can think of something. I’ve just put fresh ink into my pen, and I’m very eager to put it —

— Shove it up your ass, said Voxlauer. — And keep the hell away from my mother, you sons of bitches. He leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice. — With that first request I was addressing you specifically, you mincing, cow-faced bastard.

— Duly noted! the clerk said amicably, putting away the stationery with a neat click of the sliding drawer.

Voxlauer stood up slowly and hobbled out of the foyer and down the Polizeihaus steps. His leg had fallen asleep in the chair and the blood now trickled back into it, prickling and searing. He leaned back against the wall and raised the leg up and massaged it. Two more clerks had come down into the foyer and Voxlauer leaned back against the wall and listened to the noise of their chatter scored by fits of mule-like braying. He spat out a string of thick gray spittle and looked wearily down the street toward the toll road, waiting for the pain to lessen.

Up along the canal came a figure on a bicycle. Drawing closer, it broadened into the shape of a heavy man in a red-and-white-checkered shirt, open to the belly, and a freshly greased pair of lederhosen. The bicycle veered, slowed, and came to a halt a few meters away from Voxlauer. Its rider let out a knowing chuckle.

Voxlauer cursed quietly to himself. — Hello, Uncle, he said, still massaging his knees.

Gustl dismounted from his bicycle, grinning with his entire face. — Never too late for some of us, eh, nephew?

Voxlauer made to step into the road and winced. — Buy me a drink somewhere, would you, Gustl?

Gustl touched the side of his nose mischievously with a finger. — You just mind this machine for two halves of a minute, boy. I’ll be back directly. He climbed up the Polizeihaus steps and went inside.

A minute later he reemerged, adjusting a band of black elastic above his left elbow. — Off we go now and high time for it, he whispered, taking back the bicycle. They walked purposefully down the Bischoffstrasse to the square, Gustl ringing the bicycle’s bell at every passing citizen, tipping his hat to many of them, whistling all the while loudly and emphatically off-key.

— What are you in mourning for, Uncle? said Voxlauer, looking at the armband.

— Nothing, boy! Not one blessed thing! Gustl chuckled again and slid his arm merrily through Voxlauer’s. — A little drink’s the thing just now, I’d say. You look fairly parch-mouthed. No excuse for that in a man of sense and substance.

He led Voxlauer straight past Ryslavy’s to the sun-spattered patio at Rindt’s. — Now then. Let’s set ourselves up out here under God’s high heaven and force a little air into the icebox.

Voxlauer looked over his shoulder at the blank blue windows of the Niessener Hof. — Could we go inside?

— Ho-ho! said Gustl. — Naturally, Oskar. As you prefer. He leaned his bicycle absently against a lamppost and turned back toward Rindt’s with a contented sigh.

— Aren’t you going to lock it? said Voxlauer, pointing at the bicycle.

Gustl shrugged. — If you’re troubled, nephew, I suppose. He waved Voxlauer on and turned back to the lamppost, producing a ring of jangling keys from a pocket of his lederhosen. — Go on in, Oskar! Stake our claim.

Voxlauer passed reluctantly through the iced-glass doors into the barroom. Werner Rindt was behind the bar as always, leaning on his wide, pillow-like elbows, halfheartedly toweling a row of steins. Two drunks sat on barstools just across from him, bobbing their heads and mumbling to each other. Most of the stools were occupied and a low, steady murmur hovered over them. The top of the bar was greasy and wet. Voxlauer found a vacant spot and leaned across it, motioning to the barmaid. — Two little mugs, Fräulein, he said.

Rindt and a few others had broken off their conversations to look at him. The barmaid nodded, keeping her eyes on the buttons of his shirt, and turned without once having met his eyes back to the taps. — Bring them over there, said Voxlauer, pointing to a table near the door. The barmaid bobbed her head slightly, busy at the taps.

He walked back at a leisurely pace along the bar, not looking at Rindt or at anyone else, went to the table and sat. The barmaid came almost before he’d pulled in his chair, set two mugs down in front of him and went quickly back to the bar. He took up the damp and mildewed list of specials and, feeling Rindt watching him, made a show of looking it over with morbid interest.

When he glanced up again Rindt had gone. Rindt’s two drunks and a handful of others at the bar were still turned part of the way round, keeping him in view. A moment later the glass doors swung open and Gustl waddled through them. He looked carefully from face to face in the crowded and smoke-thick dining room, touching his hat brim now and again, and making out Voxlauer in the corner crossed quickly to the table. — Touch somber in here all of a sudden, he said with a wink.

— I took the liberty, said Voxlauer, indicating the mugs of beer.

— And right you were, said Gustl, raising his mug to his lips. An instant later he was coughing and retching and staring to the right and the left of him with outraged eyes. — What in God’s name? he sputtered, holding his mug away from him at arm’s length as though it might pollute him.

— I asked for beer.

— Well! Gustl grimaced and stood up from the table. — You sit tight here a minute, boy, and I’ll see if I can locate some. He went back over to the bar and returned a short time later with two unopened bottles. — For safety’s sake, he muttered sheepishly, pulling an opener from the breast pocket of his shirt. Voxlauer allowed himself a smile.

— They’ve a bit to learn here, I concede that, said Gustl, opening the first of the two bottles and setting it down on the table.

— We could easily have gone to Pauli’s.

— Not so easily, actually, said Gustl, wrestling with the second bottle.

— The help’s a damn sight better there. And they keep beer in their taps.

— Between you me and the bedpost, said Gustl, bringing the bottleneck up to his lips — the help improves here by the day. By-the-day, he repeated, tapping his nose.

— What are you doing for them, Uncle? said Voxlauer, holding his beer up to the light.

Gustl clucked and waved a finger. — You won’t draw me into your stratagems that easily, my boy.

— Stratagems?

Gustl nodded, sipping cautiously from the sweating rim of his bottle. — Yes, Oskar. I said stratagems. I know what sort of society you’ve been keeping in those hills.

— Strictly Aryan society, Uncle. I’d swear an oath.

— Don’t make light of this, Oskar. I try hard enough to keep the peace, Lord knows.

— What are you, Gustl? said Voxlauer, examining the armband more closely. It was the width of a palm and elastic and silken and looked as though it might have been fashioned out of a pair of women’s stockings. — Some sort of policeman’s helper?