John Wray - The Right Hand of Sleep

— Christ above, said Voxlauer. — ’Tis the dead again risen.

— What time is it? said Else, yawning.

— Breakfast time, said Ryslavy, beaming down at them. — No time for dallying.

— This is the newlywed service, you son of a pig?

— The Fräulein may sleep on if she wishes. You, however, are no newlywed. Take a look at yourself if you have any questions.

— I’d rather not, said Voxlauer, rubbing his eyes.

They ate the remains of the previous night’s supper in the barroom. The sun was already beating down on the square and they sat over their cups of coffee watching a troop of uniformed boys assembling a podium in front of the fountain. A tepid wind was blowing. The Kärnten state colors hung from bent birch poles over the platform and above them fluttered the long, gaudy banner of the Reich. A man in a brown uniform, cinched and pleated at the waist, called directions to the boys from Rindt’s patio. As the three of them watched he sat down gingerly in a chair and began fanning himself with a newspaper. The boys were uncrating a public-address system from a row of orange boxes.

— What is it? said Voxlauer, squinting. — Is it a Bible Youth meeting?

— SA, said Ryslavy.

— Brown Shirts? Those children?

— He’s looking at us, said Else.

— Who?

— The head boy. The dandy.

The man had taken off his peaked brown cap and sat shading his eyes, his head turned toward the glassless barroom windows.

— Do you know him? said Voxlauer.

— I don’t think so. She craned her neck forward. — It almost looks as though he’s smiling.

— Wave to him, said Voxlauer.

Else rose slightly from her seat and waved. The man sat bolt upright and turned his head back toward the boys, who were now unpacking microphone stands and rolls of thick blue wire from the crates.

— Must not like women much, said Ryslavy. — No great surprise.

— That’s not the miller’s boy, is it? said Voxlauer.

Else gave him a crooked smile. — When he arrives, Oskar, I’ll let you know.

Later that day the two of them walked to the old house. — She knows everything about you already, said Voxlauer, unlatching the garden gate. — It’s useless to feel nervous. The doors of fate have long since clanged shut on you forever.

Else laughed. — Why bring me at all, then?

— To be honest, I could use the company. He swung the gate open and raised a finger to his lips. — Be as quiet as you can. It’s a game we play.

— A game?

— Shh!

— She’s an old woman, Oskar.

— You just wait.

When they reached the house she was waiting for them on the verandah. — I heard you coming over the bridge, she called down happily.

— I’ve brought somebody with me, Maman.

— Yes, yes. Come along upstairs.

They climbed to the landing and waited for her to shuffle to the blue-paned stairwell door and draw the bolt. — I hadn’t known you were coming, she said to Else. — But I heard you on the bridge.

— Yes, Maman. You always do, said Voxlauer.

— Come in! Come in and sit.

— Is there any tea?

— There’s still some, I think. Yes! There’s tea, Maman said after a moment, more confidently.

Voxlauer looked at the tea set laid out painstakingly on the table and the bone-china plates arrayed in neat arrow-shaped regiments across the carpet. — Did you have company today, Maman?

Maman raised her eyebrows. — No, Oskar. Not today.

— Those are lovely plates, said Else, smiling.

— Yes. Don’t touch them.

— Oh! No, said Else. — I wouldn’t. She glanced at Voxlauer.

— Maman. We’ll need cups at least, for the tea.

— That’s right, Oskar. Go and get them from the cabinet.

— Which one?

— The cabinet, Oskar. The cabinet. In the kitchen.

— All right, Maman. Sit down, now. I’m going.

When Voxlauer came back Else and Maman were sitting at the parlor table. Maman was holding a saucer up to the light. — How beautiful, Else was saying.

— Yes. Oskar broke most of these, the little monster.

— You must have me confused with some other little monster, Maman, said Voxlauer. She looked up and smiled at him as he set the cups and teapot down before her. Voxlauer poured the tea.

— Where did you come by these? she said after a time, studying her cup intently.

— From the kitchen, Maman, said Voxlauer after a little pause.

— Yes, that’s where they’re kept. There’s marble cake in the cupboard.

— Should I get it? said Voxlauer, rising.

— Yes. And the sugar.

— I have it here, said Else. — Here you are, Frau Voxlauer.

— Oh! Yes. Never mind, Oskar. She blinked at Else. — Oskar was born here. In this house.

— Yes?

Maman nodded gravely. — He was. She paused for an instant. — December 11, 1902. At the bottom of the stairs.

— Halfway out the door already, said Voxlauer, taking the sugar from her.

— The war took him when he was very young.

— I’m still alive, Maman.

— Yes, Oskar. And then to Russia, she said, raising her teacup.

— Oh, yes, said Else.

Voxlauer went out again into the kitchen, opening the cabinet and cupboard doors methodically one after another. Else and Maman sat across from one another at the table. After a time Maman shifted heavily in her chair and let out a sigh.

— You and I, she said, taking Else’s hand. She paused. — They go away. We sit here and wait for them. And we get old, don’t we, Irma? Don’t we get old?

— What are you doing out there, Oskar? Else called.

— I couldn’t find any cake, said Voxlauer, coming back into the room.

Maman nodded. — It’s just as well. I’ve gotten fat.

— No you haven’t, said Voxlauer, crouching down next to her and looking nervously up into her face, the corners of his mouth twisting involuntarily into a smile. His voice when he spoke was as high-pitched as a child’s, and the embarrassment he felt at his sudden fear was a child’s as well. He was angry, bitterly angry at being embarrassed in this way. His voice twisted and balled up in his throat and he couldn’t make a noise. — Maman, he said finally. — You’re not fat at all. You’re thin as a breath.

She shrugged her narrow shoulders and patted lightly with her palms at her ravelling bun of hair. — I’m glad you’ve come back, anyway, Oskar. She nodded again. — I certainly am. I’m very glad.

— I’m glad of that too, said Else, taking her hand. Voxlauer was already standing.

An hour later, as they stepped out of the Niessener Hof with Ryslavy, the square was already full of people. Old faces familiar to Voxlauer looked out uncertainly from rows of younger faces fixed in proud solemnity. Rindt, his grease-flecked tapper’s bib tucked sharply through a wide brown leather belt, made the rounds with a platter of yellow beer. Here and there a gray or black uniform stood out among the linen jackets and dirndl dresses.

— Where are the guests of honor? said Else.

— Guests of honor are always late.

— We won’t have any trouble recognizing them, at any rate, she said. — They’ll be dressed in harvest colors.

— I’ll be in my cellar, if anybody asks, said Ryslavy. — Call me if that fat bastard runs out of beer.

— In case you’ve forgotten, Pauli, said Voxlauer — we drank your last bottle yesterday.

— I might have a case or two somewhere, tucked away, said Ryslavy. He bowed to them gravely and stepped back into the ruins of his foyer.

As Voxlauer and Else moved into the crowd a rift opened on the east side of the square and the first wedge of SA marched in, alternating kick steps like horses in trap, holding their rifle stocks diagonally out in front of them. — We used to call that Gypsy-marching, back in my time, said Voxlauer, smiling to himself at the irony of it. Else was a few paces in front of him and didn’t answer.