John Wray - The Right Hand of Sleep

— That’s right, cousin-in-law! I thought we might enact the stations of the cross.

— You go first.

Kurt let out a metallic laugh. — Surely you’re not superstitious. God has long since been declared dead in Russia.

— It’s not that, said Voxlauer. — I’d just rather not carry your burden for you, Obersturmführer.

Kurt laughed again. — You’re being reactionary, Voxlauer. I have no Christ complexes. On the other hand, I’m nobody’s mule, either. His voice dropped to a whisper. — Between us, Oskar, I’m a realist.

— Is that so? said Voxlauer, stopping short.

— It is, Kurt said proudly. — Are you surprised?

— Amazed at the coincidence, that’s all. It just so happens I’m a realist, too.

Kurt looked up the road a moment. — You’re a slippery fish, Voxlauer, he said admiringly. — I’ll say that for you.

— I get it from the trout, Obersturmführer, Voxlauer said.

The slatted steps of the reliquary were bowed and needle-covered and as he followed Kurt inside Voxlauer felt again for a moment the presence of the premonition that was building under his feet. The little paper Virgin flickered in its candlelit alcove, dug back deep from the invading daylight, sequestered behind a screen of yellowed lace. In front of the alcove stood eight rows of backless wooden pews, cracked and ricketed from long neglect, and in the third of these rows Kurt sat down gingerly, stretching his legs sideways into the aisle. The wood groaned under his weight and a little eddy of yellow dust rose into the air behind him. — Come on, Voxlauer! he called. — There’s plenty of room up front here, near the Blessed Mother.

Voxlauer came hesitantly down the aisle, stooping to avoid the lowest-hanging shingles. — I wouldn’t say plenty, he said, squeezing into a pew.

— Yes. I do remember it as roomier, from the old days.

— Well. You were probably alone those times, said Voxlauer, composing himself painfully on the bench.

Kurt laughed and leaned across the aisle, his face pulled into a leer. — I wasn’t alone those times either, cousin-in-law.

— What do you want? Tell me what you want, Kurt. Don’t bat me back and forth like a half-dead bird.

— Fair enough, Voxlauer. First of all I want you to know something, Kurt said mildly, leaning back to gaze up at the rafters. — I want you to know this: I’ve forgiven you completely.

Voxlauer let out a little laugh. — I thought you forgave me last week.

— I’m not talking about that silliness. Kurt waved his hand impatiently, as though brushing away a fly. — For other things.

— What have I done?

— Oskar! Kurt said, wringing his hands theatrically, looking to his right and left in helpless appeal, rocking backward and forward on the bench. — Oskar! he shouted, raising his eyes to heaven. — Oskar! What haven’t you done?

Voxlauer said nothing. They sat silently, looking at each other through the heat and the sun-ribboned dust.

— Did Else ever bring you here? Kurt said after a time.

— Whatever you’re going to do to me, Kurt, do it.

Kurt raised his eyebrows. — Do to you, Voxlauer? Do to you? It’s not so simple as that. First of all I’m going to talk to you. And you’re going to listen.

— Start talking then. Start saying something.

Kurt sat back for a moment, looking at Voxlauer with something almost approaching tenderness. He sighed. — I know that you consider me a burden to your peace of mind, Voxlauer. I know that. I want you to know that you’re a burden to me also.

— Don’t think about me, then.

— Ha! I’d like not to, Voxlauer. I’d like that very much. But there doesn’t seem to be any avoiding it lately. You keep wriggling yourself into the public eye.

— I can’t help where the public eye is pointed, Obersturmführer.

Kurt got to his feet now and began pacing up and down the aisle. — Yes you can, Voxlauer. Yes you can. He stopped at Voxlauer’s pew and leaned across it. — You could look to your own a little while, Voxlauer. I’d advise you to most urgently.

— My own? said Voxlauer.

— That’s right. Conceive of that, if you can, for the briefest moment. Looking to your own. Not making a sideshow of your every defect of character. Not parading your Jew relations at every public assembly. Not starting fights and getting drunk and vandalizing the homes of private citizens. Looking instead to your very own hearth and family. Can you picture that at all?

Voxlauer was quiet a moment, squinting into the candlelight surrounding the little Virgin. — But I’m an orphan, he said.

Kurt was on him before he’d finished, seizing him by the collar, shoving him hard against the back of the pew and hissing into his face. Voxlauer could smell Kurt’s breath, hot and bitter, and feel it against the lids of his closed eyes.

— Don’t trifle with me, Oskar, Kurt hissed. — Don’t trifle with me now, because you can’t. Look at me. Look at me, you goddamned derelict. I represent the present and I represent the future. The authority I act upon will endure for a thousand years. A thousand years, you piss-swiller. Look around you for an instant. Look! Who do you have behind you? A flicker of a smile passed across his face. — You have my cousin. Only her. And that won’t be enough, Voxlauer. I promise you it won’t.

Voxlauer waited calmly until Kurt had finished. — Would you like another walk with your cousin, Obersturmführer? Is that what you want?

Kurt jerked back violently, letting go of his collar, taking a half step back across the aisle. — This is not about her, Voxlauer. We’re not talking about her.

— If so, you should talk to your cousin about it. Not to me.

— Listen to me! For the first time Voxlauer noticed the butt of a small-caliber pistol jutting from Kurt’s trouser pocket. — Listen to me, Voxlauer. You’re losing friends quicker than a leper in a bath-house and you barely had any to start with. Mother-of-Christ! Even your own uncle wants you gone and forgotten. Kurt shook his head. — We had a long talk together, he and I.

— Old Gustl, said Voxlauer.

— You see? You haven’t a leg to stand on, Voxlauer. You haven’t a goddamned buggered prayer.

— Oh, I’ll be all right, Obersturmführer. Don’t you worry about me.

Kurt stared hard at Voxlauer a few seconds, frowning very slightly, then composed himself and sat down again at his pew. — We ran into some indigents on the toll road a few weeks back, he said quietly, leaning forward to examine the pew in front of him. — Twenty-seven or so odd citizens. Dandied up as if for a Roman holiday. He broke into a wide, freckle-bordered smile. — Saw fit to mention that they knew my cousin, of all people. Talked the most frightful gibberish. We found them in a cornfield, eating straight off the blessed stalks, chanting and carrying on like a pack of blessed monkeys. I’d never seen the like. He paused a moment. — Friends of yours, possibly?

Voxlauer let out a long, low moan. — What do you want, Kurt? What? You already have the land, for the love of God. All of it. His voice rattled. — Is there no shame in you?

— Ha! said Kurt. — Best to stick to your rods and fishes, old-timer. There’s nothing that I want. He ran his thumbnail up and down the pew, raising jets of orange dust. — I have plenty of shame, in point of fact. Plenty. But nothing to be ashamed of. That’s my dilemma.

— Tell me what you want. I’ll do it, Kurt. You only have to tell me, said Voxlauer. His voice had fallen to a whisper. — But tell me now.

Kurt was next to him again, taking his shoulder kindly. — Calm yourself, Voxlauer. We didn’t formally arrest them. They’re in protective custody, that’s all. Some locals in Arnoldstein were less than enchanted by their share-the-wealth policy. They were half starved when we brought them in.