Dissonance (28 page)

‘Luise,' Madge called out from her bedroom. ‘I think we should all get some sleep.'

Erwin stood and hugged her.

They kissed.

Then she went in to sleep in the double bed beside Madge.

Chapter Three

Luise stood at the window of 2A and watched towels, on a clothes line strung out of a window across the street, dancing a sort of spastic tango in the breeze, flying up and folding over themselves, forming clumps that would never dry. She noticed a boy selling newspapers in the shade of the washing, a shopkeeper sweeping leaves from the footpath, into the gutter and onto the road, where they refused to blow away.

She sat down. Erwin stopped his practice, turned, stood up and walked towards her with slow, unsure steps. Then he sat next to her and put his arm around her shoulder.

He could smell biscuits cooking and hear the thud of a pneumatic drill, and Luise started crying again, burying her head in the pocket of air between his shoulder and the lounge.

‘She wasn't even old,' she whispered.

‘How old?' Erwin asked.

‘Thirty-eight.'

‘Older than many, I suppose,' he said, and knew that it was the wrong thing to say. ‘Think of all the children that die of disease, and accidents.'

He shrugged and bowed his head. ‘Not that that's much consolation, I suppose.'

Thirty-eight, he wanted to say. That's half a life. With all the important business taken care of: love, lust, children … It wasn't a bad death, really, falling asleep and never waking up. Compared to my dad … that took so long (coming home from school, listening to him moan and punch the bedhead with his fist as he faced the horror of hearing and smelling his own death).

‘She wasn't at all judgemental,' he said.

Luise looked at him. ‘No, she wasn't, was she?'

‘She would've made things easier.'

‘Yes, she could handle your mother.'

‘One of the few that could.'

‘Yes.' She smiled, but then dropped her head. ‘Still, you think she'll let me stay here?'

‘Of course. She'll want to get her hands on the little fella.'

Luise took a moment, and then said, ‘I can still see her foot.'

Sticking out of the rubble like a broken piece of furniture.

‘Madge should've made her go.'

‘She tried.'

Luise knew death, and it was always nasty. She never talked about her dad, but she could remember him. She could remember their house in the hills with its half-timbered
fachwerk
, a clear, blue-sky day and Sara hanging out the washing in a field of everlasting daisies. She could remember going into her father's shed and seeing him – shaved, his hair combed, wearing mismatched socks, a tie and a freshly pressed suit with a pencil in the pocket. Her mind drifted back to this shed with its earthen floor and wooden shingles that let in sharp, white shafts of sunlight.

She walked towards a small writing desk that was pushed hard against the wall. Her father had left it neat. He'd flattened, straightened and stacked each of the fifty or sixty job applications he'd written.

Dear Sir,

My name is Peter Hennig and up to twelve months ago I worked as a sanitation inspector for the district council …

The last letter, on top of the pile, was dated 21 March, 1930. There was another neat, smaller pile of replies.

Dear Mr Hennig,

Thank you for your interest in Grumman Brothers. At present we have no openings. In the last twelve months we have had to lay off sixteen men. We have no new orders on our books. If it is any consolation, your application was well written. Twelve months ago things might have been different …

He could and would try almost anything, he explained in his letters: manual work, sweeping, processing.

Now she was standing in front of his desk. He'd cleaned the nib of his pen and placed it in a groove at the top of the table; he'd tightened the lid on his bottle of Indian ink and placed it on a window ledge; he'd taken off his shoes, retied the laces and placed them neatly under his desk.

Then he'd taken a length of rope and set up his ladder under a heavy oak beam.

Back in 2A, Luise turned her head to the window, watching washing fluttering in the breeze. ‘Do you know how Dad died?' she asked.

Erwin squinted. ‘A bomb?'

‘He hung himself.'

Silence.

‘You never told me.'

She was screaming, squatting in the hay on the floor. The wind blew him and his odd sock brushed against her cheek. She screamed again. Sara was running across the yard; she could already see her husband.

Grief. It was all coming back to Luise. This is what she explained to Erwin as they sat together on the lounge. The shoes, the pencil, the pendulum motion, the feel of his woollen sock, the screaming and wailing and not knowing what to do or say.

It doesn't matter, Erwin wanted to say. This is God's work, apparently.

‘It was the same with my dad,' he managed.

‘You've still got a mum.'

As if it was a competition.

And he said, awkwardly, ‘But you've still got me.'

She kissed him. She moved closer and put her fingers down the top of his pants. He didn't know what to do. But she was already at his belt.

Madge stopped to rest on a window ledge. It was a barber's shop and the window had been painted out. The thumb muscle in her left hand quivered and she used her other hand to cover it, massaging the muscle with her thumb.

Tremors, she thought. What now? Next thing I'll be strapped in a bed, shitting myself (as she imagined Jo, smiling at her from beyond the grave).

Don't be stupid, you old cow.

She smelt glue on her hands. She rubbed her fingers together and a dandruff of white flakes came away. Then she laid her hands flat across her legs, to warm in the sun, to stretch, to heal. She moved her fingers, but there was no music. Instead, just images, glossy colour photos she'd spent her morning sticking into books: dam builders in Silesia, a spaghetti of new autobahns criss-crossing central Germany, Glücksburg Castle, Zeppelins over Breslau, Ruhr Valley factories, a Frankfurt wind quartet – images of a smiling, happy country that the publishers of
Germany, Day and Night
wanted the world to see.

Sara had found her the job. Her uncle's best friend was the publishing editor of a firm that produced travel books: large, cloth-bound volumes singing the praises of Germany, mostly intended for public libraries, to reinforce the already self-evident truth that Germany was a sort of Paradise on Earth. Some volumes were meant for export, to show other countries what they were missing out on.

Madge's job was simple. Where the book said ‘Figure One' she stuck the photo numbered 1, always within the thin, black borders that were just covered by the edges of the photos. If she worked quickly she could finish thirty books in a session. She was paid per book. Boring, mindless work, but it profitably filled otherwise empty mornings. Then she'd come home, have lunch and teach her few remaining English students, or look after Erwin as he practised or taught his own students.

She clenched her hands on her legs. She looked up. Across the road a large mare, attached to a delivery cart, started making a series of long, loud moans. Then her back legs weakened and she started to drop. She lay on the ground and tried to turn over but was held in place by the harness. A woman on the pavement stopped, put down her shopping and said, ‘She's about to deliver.'

Madge wondered what to do. She stood up, looked around and sat back down. The horse's owner, a fat man in an apron and black boots, came out of a shop and smacked his hand on his forehead. ‘Not now,' he said to the horse.

‘Why do you have her working?' the woman scolded.

‘I have no choice.'

‘It's cruel.'

The fat man began to undo the harness. When he was finished he pushed the cart back. By now a small crowd had gathered and one man asked, ‘How long does it take?'

‘How should I know?' the fat man replied.

‘A few minutes,' someone suggested.

‘It could take days,' a young boy groaned.

The horse kicked its legs a few times and then held still, as if it were dead, propped up like an oversized doll.

Madge looked at her and whispered, ‘Come on, girl.'

The mare started with the loud noises again. This time they were sharp and full of pain. Madge smiled. The mare kicked its legs again and everybody looked on helplessly.

‘We should call a vet,' the young boy said, but the fat man was having none of that. ‘It comes,' he said, ‘so let it come.'

‘Then what?' the boy asked.

The fat man stopped to think. ‘Go on then,' he said to the boy.

‘It's not my horse.' He ran off.

‘There's a vet in Havelberg Strasse,' another woman said.

‘Good. Watch my horse.'

‘No.'

‘Telephone, please.'

Madge smiled. Yes, it was best the girl stayed – in her flat, on her terms. Then, eventually, after all the crying and drama, things would return to normal and she could steer Luise away from Schubert, along a more common-sense path.

She stood up, walked quickly along Bramweg, leaving the cries of the horse behind. A few minutes later she was walking over the fine dust that was all that remained of the Hennig apartment. She climbed the stairs, unlocked her door and stepped into 2A.

Two doors closed at once: Erwin's and the bathroom. She went to her son's door and knocked, ‘Erwin?'

‘I'm getting changed.'

‘Where's Luise?'

‘In here, Madge,' the girl called, breathlessly, from the bathroom.

Madge waited.

After another minute Erwin's door opened. He wore his shirt loose, as if he'd just been in for a swim.

Madge shook her head. ‘What's going on?'

‘Nothing.'

She went into her room, loudly opening a tin of hand cream as she mumbled under her breath.

Early the next morning, Luise jumped out of bed (as Madge reclaimed the sheets), ran to the bathroom and vomited in the sink. Erwin lay in bed and thought, What now? He opened his eyes and saw it was still dark, a faint, grey light coming in through the gap in his curtains. ‘What's wrong?' he managed to call out.

No reply.

As Luise wondered, Is this how it's going to be?

‘It's your son,' she called out, between bouts.

Erwin took a deep breath, threw back his sheets and sat up. Then he went into her. ‘Are you sick?' he asked.

‘I'm pregnant!' she screamed at him.

Enough to wake Madge. She looked at the clock: five thirty.

I can't have this, she thought. He's got a busy day, a busy day.

She crawled out of bed, slipped on her dressing gown and went in to join them.

‘Erwin, back to bed,' she said.

Luise wiped a trail of dribble on her arm and glared at her.

‘What?' the older woman barked.

‘We're alright,' she said.

‘He's got his lesson, and his students.'

Erwin looked at his mother. ‘Mum, I can take care of it.'

‘Back to bed.'

‘Mum!'

Madge stopped. She tied the cord of her dressing gown in a bow and clenched her jaw.

‘It doesn't matter,' Erwin said to her. ‘I can't get back to sleep now.'

Luise had emptied her stomach. She was breathing deeply, steadying herself on the sink. She was glaring at Madge, her eyes narrowed into slits that concentrated her fury. Madge turned and walked from the bathroom, shaking her head. She went into the kitchen and filled the kettle.

Why can't he be like his father, she thought.

She could remember the same thing – on her knees, dry-retching into their cracked toilet bowl as Jo snored in their bedroom, and she called, ‘Jo, do you care at all … Jo?'

Erwin handed Luise a towel. ‘Better?' he asked.

‘It'd be better if I didn't have to sleep in there.'

Erwin shrugged.

‘Why can't she have your room, and we share?'

‘Ssh.'

‘Tell her.'

‘We're not married.'

‘So?'

‘Your mum wouldn't have agreed.'

‘She would.'

There was no point arguing when she was in this mood. She always had to have the last word. In that respect he had two mothers now.

Madge made herself a cup of tea and sat down at the table. She crossed her arms, stared at the piano and when Erwin and Luise joined her there was silence; nothing but light coming in through broken blinds. Eventually she said, ‘Erwin, could you make me some toast?'

He looked at her and bit his lip. Then he looked at Luise. ‘Yes, please,' she said, folding her arms as well.

Erwin toasted four pieces of bread under the gas griller. He buttered them, and piled on jam, and then divided them between two plates. Then he gave them their toast, careful not to put one plate down before the other. Nonetheless, they both looked at him.

What, he wanted to ask. Who's not happy now?

More silence. The crunching of toast. Erwin making himself and Luise a cup of strong, hot coffee.

‘The thing is,' Madge said, at last, ‘Erwin needs to keep up his practice.'

‘Mum,' Erwin defended, ‘it's only been two days.'

That's hardly the point, she wanted to say. Instead, she leaned forward and feigned concern. ‘I know this is very ­difficult …'

Luise stared at her. You old cow.

‘But we need to decide.'

Luise wanted her mum. She wanted to reach out, to touch her, to hold her. Instead, there was just Madge.

‘You're quite welcome to stay here,' Madge said, closing her dressing gown around her neck. ‘As long as there's no more door slamming.'

Luise dropped her head.

‘Mum,' Erwin said.

‘This is still my house … my apartment.'

Luise looked up at her. At her puffy cheeks, her hair, frizzed like broombush, jam smeared around her mouth and over her cheek.

Mum, she thought, wishing there was some way, any way, of bringing her back. She started to sob. Before Erwin could get to her Madge was up, taking the girl in her arms, rubbing her back.