by Ian Wedde
But why was she laughing, he wanted to know in a rather gruff tone, as if he was even somewhat offended, though the offence didn’t obstruct his attentions, which were quite industrious.
Because of their silly garments over there on the chaise longue, she told him, but, oh! – oh, never mind, now it didn’t matter.
There was a fuzzy line of hair from the end of his spine down to his pale bottom and she kept her hand there once he had stopped hurting her, it was a simple tactile sensation that was almost pleasant, the feel of the fuzz against her fingers.
It was when he withdrew quickly from her and then groaned with his own satisfaction that she felt something sympathetic but not very much. She didn’t really want his breath around her face at that point, a cool breeze through the curtains would have been more welcome.
There was some blood that she knew was to be expected, but not so expected was Hugo’s rather triumphant tone when he said, ‘Wenn alle untreu werden, so bleib’ ich dir noch treu,’ adding the name Novalis.
But then after a while and a glass of the riesling – ‘all the way from the Rhinegau!’ – they did it again and this time was better and the pleasure of his fingers in her after he had taken his willy out was irresistible. She liked his willy, too, though that was the word she had used when Wolf was little and she had helped him to pee with his tiny worm of a thing, and not appropriate for Hugo’s sturdy shaft with the rosy-coloured collar around its sleek emerging head.
That was where his animal sensitivity was, he told her somewhat breathlessly, helping her hand to the correct position.
Stop trying to teach me, she told the professor, about Novalis for the love of god, Hugo, but also about this. What we might know together may not have to be taught or even known before.
Hugo was at that point somewhat crestfallen.
There were their comical cast-off garments on the other side of the room on the chaise longue, and there was their bottle of wine ‘all the way from the Rhinegau’, and there was a pleasant tingling lassitude, but there was also at that somewhat dreamy moment the unsteady memory of her lovely little mutti after Papa Hein’s funeral on that spring day, saying to her when she was no longer a child but still more ignorant than she thought herself to be, ‘He was a very good kind man but he was also notfalls, do you know what that means, Catha, my dear foolish Hein, he was ne-ces-sary, we both understood that, and I was notfalls as well, we could help each other, it was better to be married, the world is not kind.’
And yes, she had understood in a way, and perhaps she had been old enough to understand, their lives had not been simple or easy, and her mutti’s least of all.
Papa Hein’s comrades from the harbour, where the watersiders’ strike had happened that winter, carried his coffin from the little church on the corner of Ghuznee Street to the hearse with its two black-plumed horses that Wolf admired with a quiet whistle. The comrades, with Mutti, Wolf and herself in front, walked in a procession behind the hearse, together with the Maoris who were his crew in the pilot boat, and there was a small brass band from the wharf because Mister Wenczel had been very well liked, the man said, taking his hat off and shaking Mutti’s hand, her husband had been strong during the strike, and had taken a beating, and would she please accept this subscription as a mark of their respect for a brother worker? He gave her an envelope with a black border around it. One of the Maoris gave Mutti a greenstone pendant like a little hatchet to hang around her neck, and he shook hands with Wolf and Freddy. And then there he was, a small grey stone with his name on it in the Bolton Street cemetery, the comrades had paid for it.
He had always liked the spring narcissi that made their own way into the spring air, and so every year on a Sunday near the anniversary she and Wolf and Freddy would go with Mutti to take some narcissi to the funny pirate’s grave. Mutti told her she sometimes went there by herself, it was a good quiet place for her to think, and it was better to think in a place of thankfulness than in one ruled by disappointment or anger.
They were on opposite sides of the kitchen table, folding some ironed tablecloths that Mutti had edged with simple green loops and with a few fern-leaf shapes in the body. More and more she was preferring to do plain designs with much clear space – not all her customers liked the simplicity she said, but why should she go on making those stuffy overcrowded arrangements of many-coloured flowers just because they ordered them?
Mutti had also stopped wearing puffed shoulders so that now she looked at once younger and yet older than she was.
Her mutti’s rather piercing look at that moment, those clear blue eyes asking firmly that Catha not turn away. They had just agreed that she should continue with her schooling, that they could manage, there was a small pension from the Verein, there were still customers who liked her plain needlework and for the garments, there was often fish from Hein’s Maori friends at the harbour, and vegetables and eggs from Vicky, and soon Wolf would be apprenticed, it was what he wanted, he could contribute.
Did Catha understand the difference between gratitude and thankfulness? Because it was important. She used a German word, Schirmherrschaft, it meant something like patronage. One should not be grateful for favours. It had been the hope of favours that had made her own poor mutti sick to death back by Kielerhafen.
But now, how was Catharina to leave Hugo’s lodgings? She had requested some privacy as she washed and then dressed herself. There was the issue of the professor’s reputation and, of course, of hers.
Professor von Welden was smoking his pipe with resourceful puffs in the drawing room and he withdrew it to bestow an enthusiastic smile on her. Her satchel with the books she had brought to his private lodgings were on the table. Her hat was on a chair nearby. She gave the professor a long kiss while he held his pipe at arm’s length with one hand and pressed her waist with the other. Then she pinned her hat on and picked up her satchel.
Would Hugo mind walking her to the tram?
Yes, there had been a hesitation like a little flinch in his smile before his mock-formal bow.
Why yes, of course, it would be his pleasure to do so!
There were some patches of rosy-coloured light on the floor below the stained glass of the professor’s rather splendid front door with its polished brass doorknob. He twisted the knob with a muscular flourish, and out she went into the nice sunshine with his hand against her shoulder as he followed. Then she paused by the arched wrought-iron gate while he locked his door. The wrought-iron arch had a ‘pineapple’ on top, like the ones Wolf had learned to make at the forge. The iron was pleasantly cool under her hand as she waited for Hugo and traced the ‘pineapple’ patterns with her fingers.
Wolf
Papa Hein was reading in his book-growly voice. The dog called Turk killed the mother monkey and ate it. Her baby hid in the grass. Then the baby jumped on to Fritz’s shoulders.
‘. . . he has lost his mother, and he adopts you for his father; perhaps he discovered in you something of the air of a father of a family.’ Papa Hein stopped reading and made his hrrrmm hrrrmm noise.
In the coloured picture the little monkey was clinging to Fritz’s hair. Fritz had a long musket across his back and a pistol in his belt. His father had a musket too.
Wolf made his arm into a musket and shot little monkey Freddy who was trying to climb up Papa Hein’s leg.
No, of course Freddy couldn’t understand the story, Papa Hein agreed. What he understood was in-fan-tile. But he could sit with them. That would make him peaceful.
‘. . . I will give him all my share of the cocoa-nuts till we get our cows and goats; and who knows? His monkey instinct may one day assist us in discovering some wholesome fruits.’
‘Whole-some fruits,’ Papa Hein said again, making a funny shape with his mouth and wiggling his beard.
Freddy liked the wiggling beard and took hold of it.
Did Wolf know what a cocoa-nut was? Oh yes, he, Heinrich Wenczel, had drunk of the milk of the cocoa-nut, very delicious an
d sweet the milk was, it was at a tropical island where hungry tigers prowled along the beach waiting for thirsty sailors to jump out of their boats and run to the cocoa-nut trees and climb up to the juicy nuts. And perhaps Freddy would rather play with Papa’s watch?
But how did they get back to their boat with the nuts?
Ah, the trick was to drop a nut on the tiger’s head and then run to the boat while the tiger was un-con-scious.
Un-con-scious.
Yes, un-con-scious. Wolf would be un-con-scious if someone dropped a cocoa-nut on his head.
But was that true? About the beach with the tigers?
It was true if Wolf could see the beach and the tigers when he closed his eyes. That was the best way to find out.
Wolf could almost see Days Bay where there were poisonous spiders. They went there twice with cold-meat sandwiches that got sand in them. Catha was trying to swim.
Papa Hein was turning the pages of The Swiss Family Robinson and humming in his chest. Wolf kept his eyes closed waiting for a different beach with tigers to appear. Meanwhile he could almost see Papa Hein in the sea. He could swim and he made a waterspout with his mouth. He was being a whale. He’d seen whales as long as a ship.
But then Papa Hein found another picture. The Swiss family father with the red shirt was firing his pistol with a flame coming out of it. The mother buffalo was crashing its face into the ground. Its tongue was hanging out the side of its mouth. Jack was running away from the buffalo with his musket in his hand. But where was Fritz?
‘This one, a female, was no doubt the mother of the young buffalo which the dogs had seized . . .’ hrrrmmm hrrrmmm ‘. . . was advancing in her rage, and would have torn them to pieces, if I had not prevented her by firing upon her with my double-barrelled gun, and thus putting an end to her existence.’
‘Verschone mich!’ Papa Hein held his head with one hand and Freddy with the other.
But that was enough bloodshed for one night, did Wolf agree?
Papa Hein put Freddy down on the floor but put his watch back in his pocket.
And yes, it was a pity about the mama monkey and the mama buffalo. Yes, it was indeed sad. Yes, it was! But now, could Wolf tell Papa what he’d done today that didn’t involve shooting mamas, Papa Hein hoped.
He went to the forge with Catha.
But school? Papa Hein made a frown that was also a wink.
It was after school. Catha was walking home with him but he could do that by himself.
‘But she is your big sister and you have to obey her.’
Wolf wasn’t sure if Papa Hein’s frown was real.
‘Continue, please, go on,’ Papa Hein said, turning his frown into a smile and making a wheel movement with his free hand. The other one was keeping Freddy’s hand out of his watch pocket.
‘Catha went to see Miss Vicky . . .’
‘. . . and got a nice piece of cake!’ Papa Hein was shaking his head. ‘Poor hungry little Wolf!’
But he hadn’t wanted any of Miss Vicky’s cake. It was always hard. He’d wanted to . . .
‘So you went to the forge!’
Was Papa Hein angry? It was hard to tell what it meant when he shook his head like that.
Miss Vicky called the man at the forge Bob but his proper name was Mister Kelly. Could Wolf help him with the bellows? That way Doyle could go for his cup of tea. Doyle’s ears stuck out and they went red when Mister Kelly told him to go for his tea.
But first Doyle had to put another shovel of coke on the fire.
Doyle did it and dropped the shovel beside the forge.
‘And stand that shovel up!’ Mister Kelly shouted. Doyle came back and stood the shovel up. He gave Wolf a mean look as he went out.
‘What are you waiting for!’ Mister Kelly shouted, but he was smiling so Wolf began to bellows as hard as he could. Soon his arms ached but he kept going. The coke turned from red to white. His face was red hot but maybe it was white. Mister Kelly was making spear shapes for a fence, or they were pointy leaves. Then Catha came in and said they had to go, so he didn’t see Mister Kelly hammering the red rod. Another time he’d seen him pouring melted iron into an iron box to make round things called pine apples.
Now Catha was reading a book by herself. She wasn’t listening to anyone.
But what did Wolf like so much about Mister Kelly, Papa Hein wanted to know.
He liked the way he made something hard into something soft and then into something hard again but different. It was magic.
Papa Hein had the happy look on his face. He liked to hold his top lip inside the bottom one and make his eyes crinkle at the edges.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said, ‘magic!’ But that was all he said.
But magic was real. That was what he wanted to say to Papa Hein. The hard iron could be soft or melted and then be something else. That was different from Papa Hein’s stories about the cocoa-nuts and tigers because he couldn’t see them when he closed his eyes. But he could see what Mister Kelly did to the red iron and what happened when he poured some of the melted iron into the special iron box. And he’d seen that special magic look on Papa Hein’s face when he was reading out loud from one of the German books in his old chest. Papa Hein was seeing what the words did. Sometimes Catha made the shapes of Papa Hein’s words behind his back and goggled her eyes. O Erd O Sonne O Glück O Lust O Lieb O Liebe.
But now Papa Hein had to go down to the wharf. It was his turn to guard the harbour during the night.
Guard against pirates?
But of course. And also against the giant octopus that lived under the wharf. Sometimes it reached up with its arms and tried to steal Papa’s supper. But Papa had his cutlass and he could cut the arm off.
But the arm could grow again.
Yes it could. Had Papa told Wolf that already?
Papa Hein was putting his boots on and then his big coat.
But where was his cutlass?
It was down at the wharf, and so was his pistol.
Papa Hein was in a hurry. He might have to go out in the pilot boat and guard the ship that was trying to come in past the octopus.
But now Catha would have to take her nose out of her book and get the supper ready before Mama came home from Mrs Sanderson’s. And would she please make sure Freddy had a pee before supper because otherwise. And make sure the kettle was hot for Mama’s tea.
Catha was looking at Papa Hein over the top of her book but she was hiding the rest of her face.
Then he went out making the door bang.
They were having the cold rabbit pie from the meat safe with some bread and also apples. She hoped the flies hadn’t found it. Maybe Mama would bring something else. What would Wolf like?
He liked cherries. But once Freddy got one stuck in his throat. Papa Hein had to squeeze him and he was sick on the table.
Catha hoped Mama would bring some fresh peas. Then they could pop the pods.
Pop the pods!
Freddy tried to say it too. He already had some words.
Plop the plods!
Catha stopped laughing first when Mama came in, because of the expression on her face. She put her bag down and sat in the chair where Papa Hein had been. Then she began to cry.
‘My papa has died. My papa in Germany.’ She held her arms out. ‘Come here, my babies.’
When he thought about the moment Mama told them about her papa being dead he didn’t see her as very small. But of course she was always small, and now that was how she appeared day by day, very straight but small and neat. Her fair hair pulled back, and that blue-and-white brooch at her throat some days, and on other days the greenstone axe shape. But when he remembered the day she told them about her papa there was another outline of her, the size of the one that had held out her arms. Her spread-out arms had been wide enough to fit them all in then, though Freddy got her lap and took up most of the space. Her neck had smelled of the lavender water she shook on cloths before ironing them. That smell he would never forget.
How did this giant come about when his dear little papa had been such a lustiger kleiner Gnom?
Catharina was certain she remembered the ‘little gnome’ and told their mama off for making fun of him. She was also certain she remembered her grandfather from the farm near Kiel, but he didn’t believe that. There were lots of bees, she said. It was summer. They sat outside at night singing under a tree. There was an auntie who sang the loudest. She was big and soft, but her grandfather had been a tall thin man with very bright blue eyes looking at her all the time. She played with a big cousin called Tilda.
But how could she remember all that! She’d have been, what, three or something?
But she insisted, that insistent sister of his. There was no point going on about it.
Now – Papa Hein when he drowned and the Maori men brought him to the house on a cart dripping water! That he could remember as if it were yesterday.
Well, compared to her remembering her grandfather with the blue eyes, Papa Hein’s death might as well have been yesterday, wouldn’t he agree?
Of course, he had to agree with that. There was nothing to argue about with that one. But what about his Wolf father? What did she remember about him?
The ‘little gnome’?
She shouldn’t call him that. He’d have liked to know him. The wolf whose name he had.
He was a funny little man, very quick like a bird, not anything like a wolf, with very shiny black eyes and a slight mound on his back. He talked a lot. He hopped around and stood with his head on one side. She could tell that their mama had loved him very much. She remembered him having a cold seawater bucket wash on the deck of the ship. He was very hairy!
What was it about people’s eyes, with her? Why did she always notice them?
The windows to the soul.
