Gretel and the Dark (7 page)

‘The brat does better than most. That’s why he sticks around. Think I want him forever hanging on my shirt tails? No, I bloody don’t. I can hardly hear myself think above his constant chatter.’

Benjamin laughed. To his knowledge, the kid had uttered a single word in the last hour. Apart from that he was silent as the grave, barring an occasional bout of sniffing. ‘Don’t know how you put up with the noise. You’re philanthropy personified, my friend.’

‘Can’t leave them all to die,’ muttered Hugo, sending a chill up Benjamin’s spine. ‘We’re on the road to Gehenna when the whole world turns a blind eye to children’s suffering.’

‘Gehenna,’ echoed Benjamin. In the Talmud it was Gehinnam. He no longer adhered to the religion of his forefathers,
but remembered the terrifying images summoned up by the Book of Isaiah. Gehinnam was the burning place. It was a vile place of child sacrifice, of pitiless live immolation. The passage still brought night terrors that made him glad to be living in a civilized country in enlightened times. ‘And the king,’ he muttered, ‘shall cause his children to pass through the fire.’

‘Your Gehenna, our Hell,’ said Hugo, after a short pause to quench his prodigious thirst. ‘Same bloodthirsty God threatening the same miserable hereafter unless there’s a whole lot of bowing and scraping and self-denial. Slave religions, all of them.’ He glared from the table to the boy chewing on his scraps. ‘And that’s the second time the little sod’s forgotten.’

‘Forgotten what?’

‘Obstler!’ roared Hugo, aiming a blow. The boy ducked and ran.

‘You mentioned missing girls,’ said Benjamin in an effort to get the conversation back on track. ‘Anyone in particular? Girls from good families, I mean.’

Hugo’s bleary gaze sharpened. ‘I didn’t mention anyone missing. What’s your interest, anyway?’

‘Might be a reward,’ Benjamin said ingenuously. Hugo snorted.

‘You’re out of luck then. This city mops up missing wenches. Vienna’s lousy with pimps and madams. Little wonder, since every well-heeled
Frau
dismisses her maids when the family leaves for their summer residence. What happens to the poor bitches if they haven’t got homes to go back to? Do they care? No. It all provides easy pickings for the
Hurenböcke
, the filthy pimps. Summer’s the time when raddled old madams trawl the parks and riverbanks harvesting young women – offering sympathy, a meal, a temporary roof over their heads. Next thing
they know they’ve got new careers, flat on their backs in Bulgaria, Turkey, Rumania, and even here.’ Hugo paused to drink, tipping the tankard at such a precarious angle that liquid spilled from the sides of his mouth, trickling down the sides of his neck and under his collar. He dried his face on his sleeve and produced another spectacularly loud belch. A tall, sharp-featured man glanced down at him, his lips pursed into a moue of disgust as he passed.

‘And are there any records of these maids?’ asked Benjamin, shifting uncomfortably. Even kindly Frau Breuer had dispensed with plump little Greet before departing for Gmunden. He’d been sad to see the kitchen maid go – she was hardly more than a child, full of songs, old folk tales peppered with her own wild inventions – but he hadn’t given her subsequent welfare a second thought. The journalist shrugged and spread his hands.

‘Why would there be?’

‘Just wondered.’ Benjamin scratched his head. So Lilie might have been somebody’s maid – a
superior
maid, of course – who’d suddenly found she was without a job or home. Perhaps she’d been caught in such a trap as Hugo described, and escaped. That would explain the distressing state he’d found her in. Yes, that was it. They’d beaten her. They’d taken away her clothes along with her memory. But to her credit she’d refused to give in. Lilie was too sweet, too pure, to have been involved in any … his mind slewed away from the details, though in truth he frequently dwelled on far more elaborate fantasies concerning the two of them. It occurred to him that he’d stand more of a chance with a maid, superior or not, than the runaway daughter of a well-to-do family. A good thought, that. Not entirely fuelled by alcohol and warmth. However, he was no nearer to discovering Lilie’s real name. And it mattered.
How could anyone live without knowing who or what she was? Benjamin blinked and sat up, realizing that Hugo was still holding forth.

‘Another few weeks and all the nice big houses in the
Altstadt
will be opened up again. We’ll have a new influx of young girls fresh from the provinces, eager to scrub floors and gut fish. Country wenches. Not, as you say, from
good
families, whatever that might be. Moneyed, I suppose you mean. But innocents, all the same.’ Leaning his chin on his elbow, he stared narrow-eyed at Benjamin for a long moment before adding: ‘Why don’t you start again and this time try asking the question you really want answered.’

‘I don’t –’

‘Fallen for a whore, have you?’

‘She’s not –’ Benjamin stopped dead. The blood rushed to his face. Fool. Shouldn’t have had the beer. He wasn’t used to it. ‘No,’ he said, firmly. ‘There’s no one. I was talking hypothetically.’

‘There’s a long word.’ Hugo raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re still intent on educating yourself, I see.’

Benjamin said nothing. The damage was done, so, since Hugo was footing the bill, he concentrated on emptying his second tankard and reached for another. His plan of one day entering the university as a student must remain a secret. Nobody, not even
Herr Doktor
Breuer, who had encouraged him to read more widely and even, to Gudrun’s disapproval, given him the freedom of his library during the summer, knew about that.

‘Sometimes,’ said Hugo, ‘more can be learned by people’s silences than their words. It’s the gaps in the conversation you have to listen to most carefully.’ He waited, then added: ‘Here’s what I’ve learned so far. You –’ He laughed and took another
swig. ‘I’m joking. Don’t look so worried. It’s obvious you’ve come across some pretty wench who claims to be in trouble. She’s spun a story that’s brought out the knight in shining armour. Am I right?’

‘Well …’ said Benjamin, and stopped.

‘Put your cards on the table, Sir Galahad. What is it she needs you to find out? Has she done away with a carping housekeeper jealous of her youth? Fleeing a brutal husband, perhaps? Or is an embezzled employer on her seductive tail?’

‘Nothing like that.’ He gulped desperately at his beer. ‘She’s just –’

A glass of Obstler was set before him and Benjamin followed Hugo’s example, downing it in one swallow. He choked and was still clutching his throat when the sharp-featured man walked slowly past again, leaning to one side as the room tilted, his nose grown incredibly long, sniffing out trouble. Benjamin attempted to draw Hugo’s attention to him, but the effort was too great. Besides, his glass had been miraculously replenished … and again. The walls buckled, receding and advancing at an alarming speed. The noise of the tavern ebbed, flowed, and finally broke over him like an angry seventh wave. He shook his head hard, like a dog trying to dislodge a particularly troublesome flea from its ear, and glared at his glass.

‘It’s only distilled fruit juice,’ Hugo said reassuringly. ‘Home-grown schnapps.’

Benjamin saw that the journalist’s familiar had emerged from his place among the cinders to perch, smirking, on the arm of the settle. ‘What’s he laughing at?’

‘Nothing,’ said Hugo. ‘Ignore him.’ One beefy hand wiped the smile off the boy’s face. ‘You were telling me about your young lady.’

Benjamin lifted his heavy head and looked carefully round. Suddenly everyone was listening. The three parading girls had paused, ostensibly to warm themselves at the fire, where another tavern slut joined them, her clothes in artful disarray, winking at Benjamin, squeezing his arm as she manoeuvred around his seat. The woman’s large breasts pushed into his shoulders and she laughed aloud when he politely moved the chair forward, giving her more space. Back came the fellow with the long nose, moving past as slowly as possible. The wall-eyed man continued to stare. And now the blond man on the other side of the hearth closed his book and sat with his hands folded, waiting.

‘She’s not my
young lady
,’ he said, very carefully and in a stage whisper. ‘A friend found her … wandering around. She’s lost her memory. Can’t remember her own name.’

‘Or so she says.’

Benjamin clenched his fists beneath the table in the effort not to spring to Lilie’s defence. He nodded. ‘That’s what she says.’

‘Pretty, is she?’

‘Beautiful.’

‘Uh-huh. And what about her clothing? Rich? Poor? Any clues there?’

‘None,’ said Benjamin, adding, before he had the chance to think better of it: ‘She wasn’t wearing any.’ He immediately wished the words unsaid. The level of noise in the tavern hadn’t diminished and yet a curious stillness seemed to hang over the table.

‘You’ve got yourself –’ Hugo laughed. ‘Or should I say,
your friend
has got
him
self, a runaway whore. And probably a dose of syphilis into the bargain.’

‘No,’ muttered Benjamin, knuckling his temples. ‘She’s no whore.’ An image of Lilie’s pretty face danced before his eyes. Conscious that so far he’d achieved nothing on her behalf, he cleared his throat and tried again. ‘She must have been held prisoner somewhere –’

Hugo laughed; his small familiar dutifully followed suit.

‘For ransom, I presume?’

‘No. Yes.
Maybe.
Why not?’ Benjamin glowered. ‘This isn’t funny.’

‘Very well.’ Hugo straightened his face. He pursed his lips as if giving the matter serious consideration. ‘Many brothels – no, hear me out – many such establishments curtail freedom when the novice is unwilling.’ One stubby hand drew another draught of beer towards him. ‘But I hear the inmates of a certain misnamed gentlemen’s club are slaves in all but name. Unlikely that she escaped from such a place – from what I hear the security is better than that of many banks – but it’s a possibility, I suppose.’

‘You mean the Thélème club? I thought of that.’ The words dropped into one of the curious hushes that sometimes fall in noisy, crowded places and Benjamin felt rather than saw heads turning. His eyes slid sideways and met those of the blond man, who was now pocketing his closed book. He noticed for the first time the man’s curiously cherubic face, as if the statue on the Plague pillar had stepped down and, in taking on life, matured a little. One of his cheeks bore a duelling
Schmiss
and Benjamin felt a twinge of envy. Girls couldn’t fail to be impressed by such a scar; it was a badge of personal bravery and gallantry. A smile played over the man’s lips; he nodded and drew on a cigarette, surrounding himself with a cloud of aromatic Turkish tobacco smoke. Was he offering friendship?
Benjamin felt drawn to him, and yet something in the fellow’s eyes suggested he would not think twice about plunging the flaming brand into anyone that got in his way.

‘Hair colour?’ repeated Hugo.

‘What?’ Benjamin looked at him, confused. ‘Oh, hers … it’s sort of golden.’

‘Might be, in that case. Apparently, those at the Thélème have very specific requirements. The stamp of Jerusalem isn’t favoured there.’

What was that supposed to mean? Benjamin tried to get his fuddled thoughts in order but the atmosphere had changed again and he saw that Hugo’s attention was elsewhere. Or rather, it was everywhere, for the journalist had returned to work. His eyes darted here and there, sizing up customers, lingering on one, dismissing another, his head turning this way and that as he homed in on a dozen or more conversations. For the most part his face remained impassive, though occasionally his lips twitched and once he scowled.

Others had now begun pulling chairs and stools up to the table, moving in close with the air of those with weighty secrets to impart. Try as he might, Benjamin couldn’t make out a word until a woman joined them, stiff and prim, radiating respectability, tightly buttoned from her high neck to her well-polished boots. Disapproval of her surroundings had tightened her mouth into a thin, reptilian slash. Her refusal of a drink was accompanied by an expression of such intense disgust that the proffered liquid might have already been filtered through somebody else’s kidneys. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot from crying, perhaps even from tears unshed. She drew her shawl more tightly round her meagre bosom as she took in the plunging décolleté of the powdered and perfumed
woman at the fireside, who was now lifting her skirts to warm her haunches.

Benjamin found the prim woman’s presence incomprehensible. He watched her pale fingers agitatedly screwing a fold of skirt into tight knots as she spoke; saw Hugo’s face become grim and observed that he, like the snot-nosed boy, who was now wide-eyed and nervously licking his lips, was hanging on every word. The woman grew steadily more agitated. At one point she stopped and covered her face with both hands as if unable to continue. After calming herself, her voice became harsher, more distinct, and Benjamin caught a single word: Hummel. It was a name that had preoccupied Gudrun over the past weeks, for Juliane Hummel was branded Vienna’s most monstrous and unnatural mother. Twelve months ago she and her husband, Joseph, had received a police warning concerning the mistreatment of their four-year-old daughter. A year later, the child was dead. Already the papers hinted at unimaginable levels of cruelty and neglect, but the official cause of death was blood poisoning, and premeditated murder had yet to be proved. Evidence or no evidence, Gudrun wanted to see the pair of them flogged and hanged. Thinking to take home some sensational titbit, Benjamin dragged his chair further away from the noisy altercations at the fireside.

‘They often left Anna at home all day,’ the woman said, through bloodless lips, ‘locked in a filthy shed without food or water. I used to push bread and little cakes through cracks in the door. When Juliane caught me, she got him to nail boards over the gaps. I saw her hit the little one’s hands with a red-hot poker and laugh while she did it.’ She looked down at her own hands, as if surprised to find them unscarred. ‘They tied her, naked, to a tree – like a dog – and put a little dish of food down
for her, just out of reach. One bitterly cold winter day they made her stand in a tub of cold water from dawn until it grew dark. And when they beat her, they muffled her screams with rags tied round her head, thinking we wouldn’t know what was going on.’ Every last vestige of colour drained from the woman’s face as she clutched Hugo’s sleeve. ‘They meant to kill her. It was no accident. Day after day, I went to the police and told them Anna was being starved and tortured to death. Nobody would listen. They won’t listen now – I’m nothing, only a gardener’s wife. Will
you
listen? Will you tell Vienna what really happened?’