The Right Hand of Sleep (35 page)
Read The Right Hand of Sleep Online
Authors: John Wray
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary, #Contemporary Fiction, #Literary
—I hate that goddamned cottage, said Voxlauer, smiling faintly.
She laughed a little and crossed over to the table and took him by the hair. —Oskar Voxlauer! she said after a moment, tugging his head back and forth. —By all rights you should be on the blacklist.
—I thought I was already.
—Not
theirs
. Mine. I have one of my own.
—I can’t think who would be on it, if not me.
—Yes. She laid her hand against his forehead. —I think you have a fever, she said after a moment. —I’m sure of it.
—I don’t care. Please don’t forgive me this easily, Else. I couldn’t stand it.
—Where did you sleep last night? she said, ignoring him. —Down a rabbit hole?
—In a casket, said Voxlauer. —Did I tell you . . . He let his voice trail away.
—What is it?
—I feel dizzy.
Else sighed. —Don’t run out like that again. I was up half the night. You’ll ruin my looks if you’re not careful.
—I went up to the colony.
—The colony?
—There’s the proof, he said, pointing at the honey.
—Why there, of all places? What’s left to see?
Voxlauer didn’t answer for a time. Her hands on his temples lay smooth as polished wood and he was afraid if he said anything she might remove them. —A mouse, he said finally.
—And bees.
—Yes. But they disappeared. I told you before—
—Go to bed, Herr Gamekeeper. She raised his head and smoothed the hair back from his face. —You go to bed now.
—It’s just past noon, said Voxlauer, sitting up.
—That’s never stopped you before, has it? said Else. —I’ll come with you, if you want.
—In that case, said Voxlauer, following bashfully behind her. Sometime after dark he woke alone in the bed with a light streaming over the kitchen steps. He heard voices in the kitchen: Else’s and a man’s. He sat on the edge of the bed, dressing quietly without lighting the lamp. They were talking in a low monotone, his voice often indistinguishable from hers. Voxlauer finished dressing and went up the steps. —Oh! Hello, Pauli, he said after a moment, smiling confusedly.
—Oskar . . . Ryslavy said. He rose awkwardly from his place at the table.
Voxlauer looked from him to Else. —Why didn’t anybody wake me?
—You were fast asleep, said Else.
—What’s going on? said Voxlauer. —What are you two plotting?
—Oh, Oskar, said Ryslavy quietly.
Maman lay stretched out on a linen-covered plank over two wooden sawhorses in the parlor. A faint dew had gathered on her waxen upper lip. Voxlauer bent over and brought his face down close to hers. She looked younger now than before, younger and finer-featured and in some strange way more alive. But she was not, not at all. He laid his hands on hers and felt the rigor in them. A vague odor of lilac hung in the room. He turned round to Ryslavy. —Did you have her perfumed?
—I don’t think so, said Ryslavy. He stood a bit behind, shifting from foot to foot.
—You can go, Pauli.
—What? Ah! Of course, Ryslavy murmured. He went out.
The coffin lay behind her under the window, the lid propped against its side. He looked down at her. In the light from the shaded lamp she glowed dully, as though cast in bronze. He reached out again to touch her face through the parted veil. Then he drew the veil closed again and left her.
—I mean to pay for all of this, he said, finding Ryslavy sitting on a low stool in the kitchen, staring at a bottle of beer.
—
Ach,
Oskar. Allow me this little thing.
—There was no need for any trimmings. She wouldn’t have wanted them.
—Trimmings? Ryslavy said, frowning.
—That casket. The cosmetics.
—This is her last time, Oskar. Allow me this one thing. I don’t think she would have minded.
—Goddamn it, Pauli. Look after your own goddamned business.
—I’d rather not, Ryslavy said, staring down at his feet.
They sat silently for a time. —She was kind to me, God bless her, Ryslavy said. —Kinder than all the rest of them piled together.
—I mean to pay you, Pauli. Voxlauer took a breath. —I’m set on it.
Ryslavy said nothing. He passed the bottle to Voxlauer and Voxlauer tipped it back.
—God knows she always did right by us, Oskar. God knows, Ryslavy said. —She was a goddamned saint in my eyes. He shook his head slowly. —Not that I have much use for saints, needless—
—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.
At the top of the stairwell a high, mansard-roofed passage
began, bounded on either side by mesh enclosures filled to the
rafters with unmarked, gothic-looking crates. A dull brackish light
filtered down through skylights. I walked along the passage to a
soot-stained window the size and shape of a bicycle wheel and
pushed it open very gently. It turned smoothly on cross-hinges and
through it I saw the lieutenant general of the gendarmerie, on the
chancellery steps, give the order to storm the building.
The window was tucked high into the façade, just above
the main set of double doors, and I was able to watch as they were
battered open with a small wooden ram by a group of six men
without the slightest trouble. An instant later a swarm of gray-shirted Home Guards poured in. There was a sudden wave of
sound, smooth at first, then breaking into facets, and a puff of
black smoke rose slowly up the façade toward me. Through the
smoke came the steady chatter of gunfire. I looked across the Ring
at the crowd that had gathered along the margins of the park,
and marveled at its utter lack of fear; any stray bullet could have
reached it. I smiled at this thought for a moment, feeling for a few
seconds invisible and cunning, then ducked my head in and ran
down the passageway.
At the other end, by the stairwell, was a second window, identical to the first except that it was locked and painted over. I could
hear shouts and gunshots echoing up the stairwell and the sound
of more doors being battered in. I slipped furtively down the stairs
and rearranged the drapes in an attempt to hide the stairwell, then
ran full speed back up to the window. Its cross-hinges were caked
with rust and clotted greenish-yellow paint, cracked and ancient. I
looked around for a loose brick or some other thing to smash the
lock, then stopped myself all at once and stared up at the skylights.