John Wray - The Right Hand of Sleep

— In a manner of speaking. They call us reservists.

— Ah. I understand now. Something like you were in the war.

— Something like that, I suppose, said Gustl, eyeing him suspiciously. — We maintain a presence. He smiled again and waggled one fat-upholstered forefinger. — So keep those nudists of yours in lederhosen.

Voxlauer laughed. — You can rest easy on that score, Uncle. My nudists have all gone down to Italy. In their finest pants and dresses.

Rindt was back at the bar, slopping glasses into a wooden pail. An ancient, wizen-faced man with eyes like the creases in a potato rose up from his stool as if to make an announcement, wavered a few moments in the air like a hand puppet, then collapsed back onto his stool. A round of laughter accompanied this event. Voxlauer raised his bottle toward Gustl, who was looking over at the drunk with something that might almost have passed for embarrassment. — To your good health, Uncle.

— I’d forgotten! said Gustl, grinning. — Of course, Oskar. Prost!

— Prost.

After a time Gustl looked meaningfully around the room. — Listen to me, Oskar. They’re not going to go away. Are you listening? Look around you. These boys won’t be leaving.

Voxlauer looked past Gustl at the tables and the bar. — They look as though they haven’t left for weeks, he said.

Gustl studied him for a time. — When I saw you outside the Polizeihaus today I thought you’d had a breakthrough of some kind. I sincerely hoped so.

— Sorry to disappoint you, Uncle. I’ve broken some ribs, that’s all.

— You’re going wrong, Oskar, Gustl said quietly.

— Don’t trouble yourself too much on my account, said Voxlauer, getting up a little stiffly from the table. He drained his bottle and set it down, along with half a schilling. — For the maid-of-the-bar, he said, looking calmly into Gustl’s face. — See that she gets it, would you? The entire sum.

— I’m trying to explain something to you, Oskar, said Gustl, struggling to keep his voice low. — Sit down, you blessed idiot.

Voxlauer took up his coat and walked out into the daylight, waiting until the doors swung closed behind him to take a breath.

Crossing the square to the Niessener Hof Voxlauer found it locked and shuttered. He rapped on the glass and waited, peering in at the darkened coatroom. A minute or so later Emelia appeared.

— Good afternoon, Fräulein.

— Hello, Uncle, she said, not looking at him.

— Taking a holiday?

She nodded.

— I see, said Voxlauer. He was quiet a moment. Emelia stayed exactly as she was, the door partly open, the even dark behind her.

— The chief in? Voxlauer asked, smiling down at her penitently.

— In his office, she said, acknowledging his smile without moving any part of her face.

Ryslavy was sitting much as he had been that morning months before, with his boots up on the desk and the cowhide chair tilted back under him, casting flies through the open office door into the kitchen. — Oh, it’s you, he muttered.

Voxlauer ducked in between casts and sat himself down on a box overflowing with yellow invoices. — Is today a holiday for your people?

Ryslavy laughed. — You know I’ve never observed any of those, Oskar. Bad for business.

— I thought maybe state-imposed, said Voxlauer.

Ryslavy drew his arm back and cast again. — Ah! That’s different. That’s a different question altogether. He spun the reel back whirringly between his fingers. — You might say that a referendum has been held, Oskar. A quorum of the people has ruled that we might take a holiday.

— Rest for the wicked, I suppose.

Ryslavy turned to him suddenly. — What happened to your teeth, for the love of God?

— A referendum of the people.

— Frau Holzer’s sons?

— In quorum.

Ryslavy whistled. — An able couple of boys.

— You might say.

— Smoke? said Ryslavy cheerfully. He tossed Voxlauer the tobacco tin without waiting for him to answer. — Smoke! he repeated. — Sterilize your gums. He waved at the far corner. — There’s paper on the second shelf behind you. Under that minor continent of bills.

— This?

— No no, Oskar. That’s the subcontinent at best. Farther to your left.

— Shall we stuff your briar, too, while the tin is open?

— I suppose I’d better, said Ryslavy, sighing heavily. He leaned back and put down the reel.

When Voxlauer had finished they smoked in silence. — Been to see Maman lately? he said after a time.

Ryslavy shook his head. — Not in ages. I’ve been meaning to. I’d thought of asking her for help, actually, he said, grinning a little. — What do you think, Oskar? She’s still quite well thought of, you know, hereabouts. Our one solitary claim to Culture.

—“Culture,” said Voxlauer, making a face.

— Laugh if you want, little man. Your mother was once a justly famous lady.

— My mother was an ensemble singer in operettas. A solo part thrown in here and there. Strictly bread-and-butter.

— Nonsense! She was a fine soprano.

— You never heard her, Pauli.

— I don’t need to have heard her. You can see it. Even now, when she does nothing all day but roll her blessed balls of dough. It’s the way she looks at you.

— I suppose you’re right, said Voxlauer after a little pause.

— She sang in Berlin, Oskar.

— Once. She sang once in Berlin.

— Still. That counts for something.

— I’m worried about her.

Ryslavy sat forward slowly. — What is it?

Voxlauer let out a long breath. — I don’t have any money.

— What do you mean?

— For a doctor.

Ryslavy drew a hand over his eyes. — How did this all happen? he said quietly. — All at once, from one day to the next? How, Oskar? He set the rod down cautiously beside him on the desk. — Should we have been keeping some sort of watch?

— Do you have any money?

— Ach! said Ryslavy. He shrugged. — Enough for a doctor, if it comes to that. But tell me what it is, for God’s sake. Is it a stroke?

Voxlauer ashed his cigarette onto the floor. — You need to see her.

Ryslavy said nothing. Through the open door and the kitchen they could hear Emelia sorting bottles at the bar. — Quite a busy bee, that niece of mine, said Voxlauer. — I’m not altogether convinced she’s yours.

— She’s mine all right, worse luck for her. Did she tell you already, when you came in? I’ve taken her out of school.

— Why?

— You live a hermit’s life, don’t you, Oskar. I’d forgotten.

Voxlauer stared uncomprehendingly for an instant. — Is it so bad already? he said, the smile gone from his face.

— I’m a patient man. I give them six months, a year at best. They’re idiots, Oskar. Garden-variety Punicellos. People in this town have never cared too much for circus comedy. They won’t stand for it, in the long run.

— They seem to be standing for it beautifully.

— The trouble is with Rindt, mostly. Rindt and a handful of others. Anton Schröll, from the mill out in Greffen, and some Villachers I outbid five or six years back for wood rights. It has nothing to do with the Germans at all, really.

— They seem to think it does.

Ryslavy grinned. — They’re particularly popular in the hills, as I think you’ve noticed.

— Yes. Well, they don’t seem starved for attention down here, either.

— I’ve said already, Oskar. It’ll pass. Ryslavy cast and reeled the line in slowly. It came snaking around the doorframe, trailing a black-and-turquoise-feathered fly. — It’s just the waiting now that’s killing me.

— Why don’t you go, Pauli? Voxlauer said quietly.

Ryslavy looked at him soberly a few moments, then shook his head. — There’s the land, for one thing.