John Wray - The Right Hand of Sleep

— Can’t you leave me alone a little while? Voxlauer murmured.

— All right, Oskar. Ryslavy stood. — I’ll come round in a bit.

— That’s fine.

After Ryslavy left he sat well into the night, cradling the empty bottle. There were more bottles in the cellar but he had no strength to get them. The house with all its rooms seemed far larger now without her in it. But she was in it, in the parlor, laid out in charcoal-colored silk. The thought came to him suddenly that he had never spent a night in the house by himself. He sat quietly on the stool, looking into the bedroom. He felt younger than he could ever remember feeling. A weak candle beam from the parlor played over the floorboards.

He woke early the next morning to footfalls on the stairs and the sound of women’s voices. He let them go around through the vestibule into the parlor, listening through the bedroom. — The candles have gone out, one of the women said. They whispered together for a time before reciting grace for the dead in a flowing mumble and stepping out again into the stairwell.

When they had gone Voxlauer raised himself from the stool and went in to see her. Her veil was parted and the window shade pulled partly up, letting sunlight fall in a broad, flat band across the floor. He pulled down the shades and closed her veil and sat down on the piano bench. Before long another set of footfalls carried to him from under the vestibule door. He let them come as he had the others, not minding the commotion of their voices. There were three this time, a gaunt, shambling man and two women, ancient and pale, dressed in the stern black silks and white bonnets of the preceding century. When they saw him there at the piano in the dark they stood still for a moment, then dipped their heads respectfully. The man stepped over to him and held out a pale and liver-spotted hand.

— Jürgen Schuffner, Herr Voxlauer, if you please. He paused. — You don’t remember me, I’m sure.

— I remember you, said Voxlauer. He smiled. — You work at the mill.

The man let out a little laugh. — Years ago, Your Honor. Years ago. I remember your visits, though, very well. Your Honor loved to visit that mill as a little Herr.

— You sifted the flour, said Voxlauer. — With a two-handed sieve.

— I did, and other things. The man paused, turning his hat brim thoughtfully in his hands. — She was the right kind, Your Honor’s mother. A lady in all cardinals. Of a different time, I always thought, if you’ll pardon my so saying. A different time altogether.

— She often said the same, said Voxlauer.

The women were moving around the body slowly, murmuring to themselves and setting down small, gilt-bottomed candles. That’s how they do it in the hills, thought Voxlauer. Even now. I wonder which valley they come out of. Dirt-poor, most likely. Look at his suit, their dresses. I’d like to touch them if I could. Watching the women and listening to the queer old-fashioned pleasantries of the man he felt transported suddenly into the sepia-toned flatness of a daguerreotype. The feeling was strange but not unpleasant, like a slow, warm immersion in muddy water.

— You’ll not see many like that anymore, if Your Honor pleases, the man was saying. — She was the right kind, was your mother. The grandest kind.

— I’d never thought of her as grand, Herr Schuffner. Formal-mannered, possibly.

— Well. Your Honor wouldn’t, being her son.

— Did you have far to come?

The man shrugged. — Down from In der Höll. Your Honor wouldn’t likely remember to place it.

— I remember it very well. That’s a fair piece of travel.

The man shrugged again. After a time he nodded. — She kept her contract with us long after Your Honor’s uncle had gone over to those stinking Yids in Ammern, he said finally, as though in answer to a question.

— Well. If it’s any consolation to you, he lived to regret it, said Voxlauer.

The man snorted. — He always was a weather-watcher, your uncle, if you don’t mind my saying.

— I don’t mind.

— He about?

— What?

— The uncle. Is he about?

— I haven’t seen him.

— He’ll get his bill, said the man, dropping his voice low. — His kind always have.

— Everybody gets their bill, Herr Schuffner, said Voxlauer. — We’ll get ours, too, before much longer.

— As you say, Your Honor. Well now. He inclined his head again and lifted his hat slightly as a signal to the women, who were rustling around the body. — If there’s anything you might be needing, we’d feel privileged.

— The burial is on Thursday, said Voxlauer.

— We’ll have to be going back up directly, I’m afraid. Thanks to the Herr, though, all the same. The women came up now behind him, beneficent and smooth-faced. They curtsied.

— Yes. Well, good-bye then, Herr Schuffner, said Voxlauer. — Good-bye the ladies. The women curtsied again, eyes downcast, and followed the man with a rustling of petticoats out of the room and down the stairwell.

The rest of the day people came in twos or threes, mostly quietly, up the stairwell and past him, moving stiff-jointedly around the body or sitting for a time on the bench he’d carried in from the verandah, moving their lips soundlessly and quickly. Most stayed only a few minutes, mumbling and bowing to him and moving on. And always more behind, the muted, sustained murmur of their voices, the steady bustle on the stairs. The men bowed as they passed him, most of them, and removed their hats. The women took him briefly by the hand. Ryslavy came in the early evening. — Well? he said, looking sideways at the casket.

— I’ve just been sitting here all day, said Voxlauer.

— Come on out of here. You look like you’re waiting your turn.

— Watch yourself, Pauli. I just might beat you to the ribbon.

— Scant chance of that. You’ve a good dozen more years of self-abuse ahead of you, little man. He took Voxlauer by the elbow. — Come along. You’ll be depressing me in another minute.

Voxlauer shook his head. — I’m waiting here.

— What for?

He waved a hand. — A state visit. Condolences.

— Else told me what happened last week. Scant chance of that either, I’d say.

— Yes. He got a shock, didn’t he, the Obersturmführer.

— I’ll say he did, you blessed idiot. Ryslavy grinned.

— Both of us did.

— Ach! Come off it, Oskar.

— Is it true what I hear?

Ryslavy’s grin faded. — What’s that?

— That you’ve finally dropped your pants to them.

— To hell with you. To hell with you, Oskar Voxlauer. Ryslavy’s face worked and stiffened. — You’re a damn fool. You think things through like a goddamned wet-assed baby. He bent low over Voxlauer. His breath reeked of wine. — You’ve let Kurt Bauer do your thinking for you. That’s what you’ve done.

— I’ve let him? said Voxlauer. — You’ve got things turned around a little, I’d say. You’re the one with his pants at his knees.

— There’s no talking to you, Ryslavy said, almost too quietly to hear. — There’s no good in it.

— Don’t talk to me, then, said Voxlauer, turning away. A few seconds later he heard the bright slam of the stairwell door.

I waited for the boys to lift the first of the bodies and start with them down the stairs, keeping my face expressionless. I’d decided to escape even before I saw the angel over Spengler’s shoulder but I knew now that it had to happen soon. I had no idea how to manage it, only that first impulse to send the boys down. I heard them grunting on the staircase, cursing as they missed their footing on the marble steps.

At the end of the corridor a tall leaded-glass window looked out over the Ring, and to the left of it, half hidden by drapes, a small open stairwell led to the topmost floor. Through the window I saw quivering, dark-edged shapes running together and dissolving silently in all directions. I couldn’t make any of the shapes out clearly but I knew their significance well enough. I pulled the drapes aside and ran upstairs.