Trojan Gold (25 page)

They ran in silence, with a strange broken step, darting from side to side and then huddling together, but never slowing their frenzied speed. Wrapped in straw, like animated haystacks, with faces out of nightmares—long hairy muzzles, pointed fangs, horns crowning their brutish heads. They were armed, not with guns, but with chains, axes, hatchets, and long, sharp pikes.

One of them darted toward us, its hatchet raised. It had a stag's head, the great horns rampant, the glazed eyes fixed. The people around us gasped and swayed; I lost my footing and felt a moment of sharp, genuine terror as I feared I might fall under the close-packed bodies and booted feet. Then I was caught and held by someone's arms. The menacing figure spun back to join its fellows, and the bizarre procession passed on, to the open space in front of the church, where it was surrounded and menaced by the runners. The crowd cheered as the honor guard, the last of the forces of light, marched proudly past. They carried guns and wore a kind of uniform—apparently a select group from one of the Christmas shooting clubs.

That was the end of the parade, and people started moving away, toward the church. Jan continued to hold me close. His lips brushed against my ear. “Poor little Vicky, did the demons frighten you? Never fear, I will protect you from the darkness.”

“I slipped,” I said coldly. The truth is, I have always been terrified by witches and demons—or
perhaps I should say by scary costumes. It stems from a Halloween outing when I was about eight and was cornered by a bunch of fierce twelve-year-olds dressed like skeletons.

Jan didn't believe me. “I have always desired you,” he whispered hotly. “Later I will come to you. Tell me where your room—”

Even if I had been tempted by the offer, which I wasn't, being somewhat suspicious of Jan's motives, the sheer publicity would have put me off. Several of the group overheard—Tony, for one.

“Next time it gets to be too much for you, just put a notice on the bulletin board,” I said rudely and swung the heel of my boot against Jan's shin. He released me, a little more abruptly than I had anticipated; I staggered forward, bounced off the ropes, and found myself nose to nose with an individual wearing a ski mask patterned in shrieking colors of crimson and green. Two eyes blue as cornflowers gazed soulfully into mine; the mouth framed by the slit of the mask was twitching with some strong emotion. Probably suppressed laughter.

John melted into the crowd, as was his wont, and my dear old friends clustered around to confer about what we should do next. Dieter was all for hitting the night spots of Garmisch, and Elise, shivering and tottering on her ridiculous heels, seconded the idea of indoor entertainment. No one else was interested, so the two of them went off arm in arm. Jan had a hard time deciding which group to spy on; after wavering indecisively, he ran off after Dieter and Elise.

Their departure cleared the air considerably. I
was still mad at Tony, but not as mad as I had been. Once I cooled off, a possible explanation for his inexcusable behavior had come to me—a relatively harmless and mildly flattering explanation. I decided to let bygones be bygones, at least for the rest of the evening.

Schmidt bought more of everything that was edible and pressed samples on us—gingerbread and candy canes and cookies and pretzels shaped like snowflakes and marzipan pigs wearing sugary wreaths around their sweet pink necks—and, of course, beer. The church was packed, not even standing room; but the doors stood open to the bright night, and we gathered with other spectators beside the steps and listened to the sweet high children's voices singing. “
Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht,” “O du fröhliche
,” and the lovely old cradle song—“Mary sits among the roses and rocks her Jesus-child…”

Schmidt was too choked by emotion to sing, which was fortunate, since he can't, but the others joined in; Tony hummed in a mellow baritone and I threw in a few wobbly notes of my own. When the mass ended, the congregation poured out, full of virtue and ready for fun; there was dancing in the plaza and an exhibition of marching by one of the shooting societies, and an incredible amount of eating and drinking. This was the last night of public revelry—Christmas Eve would be spent in family gatherings and quiet devotions—so people made the most of it. The merriment was still in full swing when I persuaded Schmidt we ought to pack it in. The children and older people and family groups had gone home and things were getting
rather lively. A couple of fights had already broken out; I was afraid that, left to his own devices, Schmidt would start challenging people to duels and some other drunk would take him seriously.

A final nightcap in the bar consoled him, and we went upstairs arm in arm singing his favorite carol, a corny old pop song about the
Weihnachtsmann
. Tony didn't know the words, which did not prevent him from singing along. As Schmidt entered their room, bellowing the refrain—“Didel-dadel-dum und didel-dadel-dum—” Tony caught my hand. “Can I…I mean, is it okay if I…I mean—”

“I know what you mean and no, you can't and no, it is not okay.” I pulled my hand away and marched off. Honestly, I thought—it just shows what a mistake it is to be nice to some people. At the door of my room I turned. Tony was looking at me, his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face. If he had appeared apologetic, or pleading, or even disappointed, I might have weakened, but his pose of righteous indignation brought my anger to the boiling point.

“Shame on you,” I said. “Faithless and forsworn already? How could you so easily forget dear little Ann, the knitter of sweaters?”

Out of consideration for sleeping guests, I did not slam my door. Dimly in the distance I heard the reverberation as Tony slammed his.

The maid had left a single light burning; the room looked warm and cozy, but it was already cooling off. Tossing my jacket onto the bed, I quickly got into my nightgown and opened the window a crack. I was about to leap into bed when
suddenly there came a tapping—as of someone gently rapping—at my chamber door.

“Go away, Tony,” I called.

The tapping came again. It occurred to me that it might not be Tony. I unlocked the door and looked out.

Not Tony, not Jan, not John. Dieter.

I assumed he must be up to one of his unseemly jokes. He was dressed for it, in an overcoat that practically touched the floor and a fifties fedora pulled low over his eyebrows. The reek of beer was so strong I fell back a step. Dieter took this for an invitation; he slithered through the opening and closed the door. Then he turned the key.

“Oh no, you don't,” I said, backing away from him. “Get the hell out of here, Dieter.”

“I will take off my coat and stay awhile,” said Dieter, with the profound air of a man quoting from the classics.

“I wish you wouldn't,” I began.

He did anyway. My eyes popped. He was wearing the most hideous pajamas I have ever seen—and I include Schmidt's, which range from the merely tasteless to the utterly unspeakable. Dieter's were lavender, printed with sketches of naked women and rude sayings in German, French, and English. I started to laugh. Dieter looked hurt. He put out one hand and pushed me, hard. I fell backward onto the bed; Dieter fell on top of me.

I was tired, and still bemused by the lavender pajamas; it took me a few seconds to react. When I did, I was surprised to find that my struggles to free myself were futile. He had both my arms pinned, and his mouth covered mine so that I
couldn't express my exasperation. Exasperation was the word—not fear, nor even worry; he was stronger than I had realized, but I am not exactly a fragile little victim type. I decided to relax and bide my time. It wasn't until I heard the fabric of my nightgown give, with a nasty rending rip, that I got mad. That nightgown had cost me 380 marks.

Before I could slug him, Dieter suddenly soared up into the air. It was the most amazing thing I have ever seen. He seemed to hang there, arms and legs dangling, mouth horribly smeared with my lipstick, for the longest time. Then his feet dropped, his body swung sideways, and he toppled over backward.

I raised myself onto my elbows and stared at John. “Well! That was lovely. Rambo couldn't have done it better.”

“Rambo would have blown him away.” John frowned at his scraped knuckles and raised them tenderly to his mouth. “Which is what I should have done,” he mumbled. “When will I learn to control these impetuous impulses? I suppose now you're going to tell me you didn't need rescuing.”

“Well, no,” I said apologetically. “Although it was a very nice gesture.”

“Who is it?”

“It's only Dieter.”

“Maybe you did need rescuing.”

“Oh, it was just a silly joke. Look at those pajamas.”

“They're a joke right enough. The absolute nadir of bad taste.”

“Exactly. Dieter thinks I'm here with Tony. He probably set this up so that Tony would burst in
on us and find us in a compromising position.”

“Very funny,” muttered John. “Far be it from me to criticize your personal habits, but the way these men keep popping in and out…Is Tony about to join us?”

“I shouldn't think so. But you'd better go. If Dieter wakes up and sees you—”

“He could hardly have missed me,” John said caustically. “Had I but known you were entertaining, I'd have worn my mask.”

“I think he's coming to,” I said.

A mumble from poor Dieter confirmed the diagnosis. John glanced down at him. “No, he's not,” he said.

“John, don't—” It was too late—not that he would have paid any attention anyway. The toe of his boot clipped Dieter's jaw in a carefully calculated, but very nasty-looking blow. Dieter subsided. I winced.

John sat down beside me on the bed. He started to speak, then frowned and fumbled under his thigh. “What the hell is this?”

I studied the object he was holding; things had been happening so fast, I had to think before I could identify it. “It's a bulb.”

“I can see that,” John said in exasperation. “Perhaps I should have been more explicit. Why are you hatching daffodils in your bed?”

“It must have fallen out of my pocket. How do you know it's a daffodil?”

“My dear old mum is a fanatical gardener. I've planted thousands of the damned things for her. There's no use carrying it around, Vicky, it's the wrong time of year.”

“Well, I know that. I found it at the cemetery—on Mrs. Hoffman's grave. It looked so lonesome and cold—”

A moan from the recumbent form at our feet interrupted me. John said, “I should have kicked him harder.”

“Don't you dare kick him again.”

“I suppose I can't go on doing it indefinitely. He must have a jaw like Gibraltar. Honestly, Vicky, you can waste more time on trivial conversation than anyone I've ever met. Get rid of him. Like MacArthur, I will return.”

“When?”

“As soon as you get rid of him.” John rose to his feet, then looked searchingly at me. “Can you handle the fellow?”

“No problem. He's very drunk.”

“Smells like a brewery,” John agreed, wrinkling his nose fastidiously. “Very well, then—
à bientôt
.”

He faded into the night like a shadow, leaving a blast of cold air to remind me my torso was bared to the breezes. After examining the damage, I was tempted to kick Dieter myself. Annoyance made me less tolerant of his moans of pain and protestations of regret than I might otherwise have been; I bundled him ruthlessly out into the hall and watched with mean satisfaction as he set off on a slow retreat, ricocheting from wall to wall.

“You forgot these,” I called, heaving his coat and hat after him.

I suppose I needn't have spoken quite so loudly. As luck would have it, Schmidt chose that moment to open the door of his room. His exclamation of surprise and interest brought Tony to the door as
well; the two of them stood there like Mutt and Jeff, staring from Dieter in his lavender pajamas to me, in what was left of my expensive nightgown.

I retreated and slammed the door. As I turned the key, icy air brushed my back and I whirled around, crossing my arms over my chest. “Close that window,” I ordered.

He had already done so. “Cold?” he inquired. “Personally I find it a bit close in here.” He peeled off his sweater and hung it neatly over a chair. “Stop right there,” I said, as his fingers went to the buttons of his shirt. “This is going to be a business conference.”

“You aren't dressed for it,” said John.

“Where the hell is my robe?”

It was lying on the bed. I reached for it, and jumped spasmodically as a thunderous knock echoed at my door. “Vicky?” Tony bellowed.

“What do you want?”

“I want to come in.”

“Well, you can't. Go away.” I got one arm in a sleeve. It was the wrong sleeve. John, lips twitching, moved to help me—or so I thought; instead of the robe, it was his arms that went around me. After an exploratory traverse, his lips settled into the hollow between my neck and shoulder.

“What happened?” Tony demanded loudly. “Are you all right? What did you do to him? What did he do to you?”

“Noth—ooop!—nothing.” John was laughing soundlessly; the movements of his lips were horribly ticklish. “Stop that,” I gurgled.

“What?” Tony shouted.

“Get lost, Tony. I mean it.”

“That goes for you, too,” I added, as the sound of heavy, offended footsteps thumped away.

John released me and sat down on the bed. “How do you do it?” he asked curiously. “Where do you find these farcical characters?”

“We are not amused,” I said, finally managing to get both arms into the sleeves of the robe. “Do you suppose we can possibly have a sensible conversation now?”

“Yes, I suppose we'd better. There's no telling who will pop in next. Let's see—where were we? You were telling me about visiting Hoffman's grave.”