The Right Hand of Sleep (25 page)

—Herr Bauer, she said. —An Obersturmführer. Imagine!

—Maman, he said, arranging the blanket, ducking down to catch her eye. —Please tell me what he wanted. Can you say?

—Wanted? She frowned. —I wouldn’t know, Oskar. Some of them are quite decent.

—Maman.

—We talked about Berlin. He was there five years. Five years, Oskar! We talked about the opera.

—He was an illegal. A Nazi, Maman. That’s why he left.

—Yes. She nodded her head emphatically. —Yes, he was.

—Maman, said Voxlauer, gripping her tightly by the shoulders, bringing his face down close to hers. —Look here at me. What is it? What? Can you answer? Tell me, Maman. You have to tell me. Tell me. I can’t bear it.

When she didn’t answer he knelt in front of her and took her hand. He stayed there for a long time as the light faded, waiting for her to tell him what was the matter. She sat smiling at him contentedly, interestedly, as though watching him from a great distance through glasses that were too weak for her. —Maman! he heard himself saying over and over. He felt then, staring up at her, as though he were calling out her name from a ship that was traveling quickly out to sea. Soon the point would come when he could no longer see her, not even as a speck against the shore, and he would give up calling. —Maman, he said again, almost to himself, weeping openly now in front of her.

Eventually a change came over her face and she sat up and took a long, deep breath.

—Oskar? she said, a trace of a shadow crossing her face. —What’s wrong?

—Nothing, Maman. It’s nothing.

This answer seemed to satisfy her. —I had a dream yesterday, she said, smiling down at him. —Would you like to hear it?

He nodded.

She took a shallow, girlish breath, repositioned herself on the couch almost coquettishly and began.

—I’m a tiny thing. A girl. She sighed. —Seven, or six. I’m going from the farm to Herbst’s to sell cream. She paused a moment, lightly touching the side of her face. —The pail is knocking against my knees. It’s very bright in town and everything is going slowly. Wagons and traps are passing on the street and the gentlemen all step off the curb to let me by. You’re not alive yet, Oskar, she said, reaching for his hand.

—I know it, said Voxlauer.

—Your father passes by and tips his hat. He seems to be doing well. He has on his spectacles. I keep down the street with the pail, which is really very heavy and beginning to hurt my wrists. When I get to Herbst’s the tables are all very crowded and I pick my way through them to the door. Everybody is quiet. The cups are clicking against the saucers. Werner Herbst and the children are waiting. They have horses saddled in the kitchen, drinking out of the kitchen sink. Two bay mares, Oskar, and a yellow pony.

She nodded quietly a moment, smiling in the recollected light of the dream. —Here are the horses! they say, pointing. —Do you want to ride or sing? I don’t say anything at all but hold the pail out for them to see. Then I watch as they lead the horses around the tables between the customers with their drinks and their iced creams on their blue glass plates and canter off. They wave back to me once from the canal bridge. She paused, looking out now along the street. —They just ride away.

—And then?

—That’s all, Oskar, she said kindly, as if to an easily disappointed child.

Voxlauer sat back on his heels. —What a pretty dream that is, Maman.

—Yes. I know. He left a note for you on the parlor table.

—What?

She gestured into the parlor. —On Père’s composing table.

He stood up quickly and went in to the little desk and found a typewritten summons on stiff gray Polizeihaus stationery, stamped and embossed with various red and candlewax-colored seals. The signature at the bottom was jagged and fine, like a crack in an eggshell. Under it were printed the words “Kurt Elisabeth Bauer: Obersturmführer of the Schutzstaffel of the German Reich.” Voxlauer slid the summons into his pocket, feeling the warp of its fibers a moment between his thumb and forefinger. When he came back to the verandah Maman was spitting onto the blanket and rubbing its corners together. —There’s a stain on this blanket, she said quietly.

Voxlauer climbed the wide stucco steps of the Polizeihaus just before noon. Two brass pegs had been driven into the flaking yellow plaster above the entrance and a square felt banner hid each lintel corner. A black swastika on a red and white field fluttered gaudily between them. Two ribbons, frayed and speckled with watermarks, hung down limply to either side. Looking up at them Voxlauer was reminded of Christmas banners left out to rot over the winter. Through the propped-open doors a clerk watched him idly, looking down at his desk and then up at him again, as though sketching out his likeness. As Voxlauer entered he rose to his feet and saluted. —Heil Hitler.

—The same to you, said Voxlauer tonelessly, looking around the foyer. —I’m here to see Herr Bauer.

—I see, said the clerk. —To see the Obersturmführer. He smiled. —Are you here by appointment, Herr . . . ?

—Voxlauer. By invitation. He slid the balled-up summons across the desktop.

The clerk bent over and picked up the summons, smiling indulgently. Uncrumpling in his smooth white fingers, the paper made a noise like a sack of candy being opened. —Be seated, won’t you, Herr Voxlauer? said the clerk. As Voxlauer went to sit he slipped gracefully around his desk and left the foyer.

Voxlauer eased himself into a padded rattan chair and scratched at the tip of his nose with his thumb. The clerk’s steps receded up the stairwell. Outside the window a column of martins spiraled over the canal and the freshly tarred street steamed and glistened in the sun. A dank smell wafted through the open doors, sweet with compost and oily water. A wrinkle-faced old woman passed carrying a pail. A dray cart rattled by a short while later, piled high with fresh-washed linens. Its driver tipped his hat cheerfully and saluted.

After a quarter of an hour the clerk reappeared. —Obersturmführer Bauer is dedicating a playing field, he said, handing back the wrinkled summons. —Pardon our confusion, Herr Voxlauer. This is a very busy time.

Voxlauer looked down at the paper. —It does say one o’clock, Tuesday the twenty-fifth, he said.

—Does it? said the clerk, blinking.

Voxlauer said nothing for a time. —Expecting him back soon?

The clerk blinked again, coyly, and shrugged his shoulders. —Your guess is as good as mine, citizen.

—Could I leave a message? I’ll be brief.

—If you must, Herr Voxlauer. The clerk pulled open a drawer of the desk with a smooth, precise movement, stifling a yawn. —What might this be regarding? he said. His thin blond hair was slightly damp and stood out from the back of his head like the tail of a canary. His otherwise perfect, featureless voice peaked and fluttered over its
r
’s and
s
’s. He stared at Voxlauer, pen in hand.

—You’re a Reichs-German, aren’t you, said Voxlauer after a moment.

—We all are, citizen, said the clerk impatiently, his cowlick rising danderlike behind him as he spoke. —Even in this sow’s-milk valley. Now then, he continued, pulling out a sheet of the heavy gray stationery from the drawer and uncapping a pen. —What was the message, in ten Reichs-German words or less? Be sure to talk slowly enough, mind, so that I’ll understand you. None of your back-valley gibberish.

Voxlauer said nothing, watching the clerk’s damp, white hands tapping against the desktop.

—Come now, Herr Voxlauer! said the clerk after a moment, smirking. —No message, after all, for the Obersturmführer? I’m confident that you can think of something. I’ve just put fresh ink into my pen, and I’m very eager to put it —

—Shove it up your ass, said Voxlauer. —And keep the hell away from my mother, you sons of bitches. He leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice. —With that first request I was addressing you specifically, you mincing, cow-faced bastard.

—Duly noted! the clerk said amicably, putting away the stationery with a neat click of the sliding drawer.

Voxlauer stood up slowly and hobbled out of the foyer and down the Polizeihaus steps. His leg had fallen asleep in the chair and the blood now trickled back into it, prickling and searing. He leaned back against the wall and raised the leg up and massaged it. Two more clerks had come down into the foyer and Voxlauer leaned back against the wall and listened to the noise of their chatter scored by fits of mule-like braying. He spat out a string of thick gray spittle and looked wearily down the street toward the toll road, waiting for the pain to lessen.

Up along the canal came a figure on a bicycle. Drawing closer, it broadened into the shape of a heavy man in a red-and-white-checkered shirt, open to the belly, and a freshly greased pair of lederhosen. The bicycle veered, slowed, and came to a halt a few meters away from Voxlauer. Its rider let out a knowing chuckle.

Voxlauer cursed quietly to himself. —Hello, Uncle, he said, still massaging his knees.

Gustl dismounted from his bicycle, grinning with his entire face. —Never too late for some of us, eh, nephew?

Voxlauer made to step into the road and winced. —Buy me a drink somewhere, would you, Gustl?

Gustl touched the side of his nose mischievously with a finger. —You just mind this machine for two halves of a minute, boy. I’ll be back directly. He climbed up the Polizeihaus steps and went inside.

A minute later he reemerged, adjusting a band of black elastic above his left elbow. —Off we go now
and high time for it,
he whispered, taking back the bicycle. They walked purposefully down the Bischoffstrasse to the square, Gustl ringing the bicycle’s bell at every passing citizen, tipping his hat to many of them, whistling all the while loudly and emphatically off-key.

—What are you in mourning for, Uncle? said Voxlauer, looking at the armband.

—Nothing, boy! Not one blessed thing! Gustl chuckled again and slid his arm merrily through Voxlauer’s. —A little drink’s the thing just now, I’d say. You look fairly parch-mouthed. No excuse for
that
in a man of sense and substance.

He led Voxlauer straight past Ryslavy’s to the sun-spattered patio at Rindt’s. —Now then. Let’s set ourselves up out here under God’s high heaven and force a little air into the icebox.

Voxlauer looked over his shoulder at the blank blue windows of the Niessener Hof. —Could we go inside?

—Ho-ho! said Gustl. —Naturally, Oskar. As you prefer. He leaned his bicycle absently against a lamppost and turned back toward Rindt’s with a contented sigh.

—Aren’t you going to lock it? said Voxlauer, pointing at the bicycle.

Gustl shrugged. —If you’re troubled, nephew, I suppose. He waved Voxlauer on and turned back to the lamppost, producing a ring of jangling keys from a pocket of his lederhosen. —Go on in, Oskar! Stake our claim.

Voxlauer passed reluctantly through the iced-glass doors into the barroom. Werner Rindt was behind the bar as always, leaning on his wide, pillow-like elbows, halfheartedly toweling a row of steins. Two drunks sat on barstools just across from him, bobbing their heads and mumbling to each other. Most of the stools were occupied and a low, steady murmur hovered over them. The top of the bar was greasy and wet. Voxlauer found a vacant spot and leaned across it, motioning to the barmaid. —Two little mugs, Fräulein, he said.

Rindt and a few others had broken off their conversations to look at him. The barmaid nodded, keeping her eyes on the buttons of his shirt, and turned without once having met his eyes back to the taps. —Bring them over there, said Voxlauer, pointing to a table near the door. The barmaid bobbed her head slightly, busy at the taps.

He walked back at a leisurely pace along the bar, not looking at Rindt or at anyone else, went to the table and sat. The barmaid came almost before he’d pulled in his chair, set two mugs down in front of him and went quickly back to the bar. He took up the damp and mildewed list of specials and, feeling Rindt watching him, made a show of looking it over with morbid interest.

When he glanced up again Rindt had gone. Rindt’s two drunks and a handful of others at the bar were still turned part of the way round, keeping him in view. A moment later the glass doors swung open and Gustl waddled through them. He looked carefully from face to face in the crowded and smoke-thick dining room, touching his hat brim now and again, and making out Voxlauer in the corner crossed quickly to the table. —Touch somber in here all of a sudden, he said with a wink.

—I took the liberty, said Voxlauer, indicating the mugs of beer.

—And right you were, said Gustl, raising his mug to his lips. An instant later he was coughing and retching and staring to the right and the left of him with outraged eyes. —What in
God’s
name? he sputtered, holding his mug away from him at arm’s length as though it might pollute him.

—I asked for beer.

—Well! Gustl grimaced and stood up from the table. —You sit tight here a minute, boy, and I’ll see if I can locate some. He went back over to the bar and returned a short time later with two unopened bottles. —For safety’s sake, he muttered sheepishly, pulling an opener from the breast pocket of his shirt. Voxlauer allowed himself a smile.

—They’ve a bit to learn here, I concede that, said Gustl, opening the first of the two bottles and setting it down on the table.

—We could easily have gone to Pauli’s.

—Not so easily, actually, said Gustl, wrestling with the second bottle.

—The help’s a damn sight better there. And they keep beer in their taps.

—Between you me and the bedpost, said Gustl, bringing the bottleneck up to his lips—the help improves here by the day. By-the-day, he repeated, tapping his nose.

—What are you doing for them, Uncle? said Voxlauer, holding his beer up to the light.

Gustl clucked and waved a finger. —You won’t draw me into your stratagems that easily, my boy.

—Stratagems?

Gustl nodded, sipping cautiously from the sweating rim of his bottle. —Yes, Oskar. I said stratagems. I know what sort of society you’ve been keeping in those hills.