Prodigies

by Angélica Gorodischer

  In the afternoons during good weather when the shouts of neighbors’ children playing in Scheller Street could be heard in almost the farthest corner of the house, in the afternoons Katja would bring up a china platter covered by a white napkin and nothing else because Madame Helena’s imperious furnishings held an entire tea service and teapot with its heater already over the marble-topped table. Katja knocked on the door and waited for Madame Helena to open it or give her permission to open the door and enter, and every day during this bothersome interval she tried to adopt a friendly and willing but not servile attitude thanks to which Madame would tell just by looking at her that she was good and proper, someone without strange thoughts intervening in what others would never say was there; nothing perturbed her, and not only that, she felt a certain satisfaction in herself since she knew how to fulfill her duties well, while she watched her hands on the sides of the platter so that only the thumbs were visible, the fingers on the china hidden under the napkin, trying to remember if she had stuffed all her hair, all of it, under the cap, thinking about Wulda almost without trying, the way someone can blow out a candle without thinking, or put a key in a lock without thinking, or clean one’s shoes on a doormat without thinking, because earlier, by earlier meaning her first days in the boarding house on Scheller Street, Wulda was the one who brought the platter with the hot little sesame-seed breadsticks or the soft rolls with butter or whatever Lola had prepared for the afternoon; but one day two or three weeks after she had started, when she was still unsure of herself and trying to learn whether she would be staying or going, Madame Helena had come down to the kitchen at a time when she never appeared there, at two or three in the afternoon, and Lola, sitting at a white table covered with a white tablecloth writing down what she needed to buy in a notebook, had looked at her strangely and had not stood up: she had only stopped moving her hand on the white paper and waited. Madame Helena had said from that day on she, Katja, would be the one to carry the china platter up to her room in the afternoon, and only then had Lola stood up and said yes, from this afternoon, Madame, Katja will bring up the platter and not Wulda, and everyone had been very happy with that change, especially Wulda.

  The afternoon of the day Madame Nashiru arrived at the boarding house on Scheller Street had been as quiet as it had become every afternoon since Madame Helena had taken over the house and turned it into the most elegant boarding house in the city. She imagined Madame Nashiru already unpacking in her rooms, suitcases open, things strewn about, where else but on the bed, the dressing table and the chest of drawers: dresses, coats, underclothing on chairs, open drawers, letters, gloves, photographs, but her jewelry already put away, and her shoes? perhaps barefoot on the bedroom rug with feet that she had not seen and did not want to think about—and Madame Helena stood to one side so Katja could enter through the door that she had just opened. Katja left the platter on the table and asked as always if Madame needed anything more and Madame Helena said no and thanked her and Katja left.

  Some guests were in the dining room drinking tea or hot chocolate or coffee according to their preferences; young Gangulf had not arrived nor had Madame Esther, and Katja had to go down to the kitchen and come back up to bring tea to fat Simeoni and her daughter. Two cups with their saucers, a platter with little browned loaves, butter, marmalade, cheese, two French rolls, two glasses, a pitcher of water, teapot, sugar bowl, milk, cream, knives, spoons, tongs for the sugar, a wand to stir the tea, napkins, strainer, and lemon candies: she did not know how she could manage to carry up so much without exhaustion, climb the stairs without dropping anything, milk, china, water, and honey spilling on the stairway, the rug stained, the tray rolling down and destroying the afternoon silence like maddened drums. She told Lola she did not know how to carry up all that, and Lola laughed and told her exercise would be good for her, it would make her arms fleshy and robust and men liked that, the plump arms of a girl who worked, not those weak things of a consumptive little lady, but all that meant nothing because Lola always laughed and encouraged her and Wulda.

  Almost as if Madame Helena were not there, as if she had gone out, as if she were not on the other side of her door sitting and drinking tea: it occurred to no one to call on her, visit her, or even think about her; downstairs some guests read, others spread marmalade on hot bread without looking; upstairs Madame Sophie scolded her daughter, who did not want to look down the hall to see if Katja was arriving with the tray, and the daughter stubbornly replied that it was still early. Madame Helena, sitting at the table with the marble top, waited for the tea to steep in the teapot. She had become fond of tea after she married; when she was young she never drank tea, then it had tasted as bitter as illness, the scent as thick as fever, the taste like pain and the lethargic weight of convalescence; it smelled of weakness, closed windows, low lights, and whispering. But in Linz the smell of coffee was mixed with the odor of the tobacco plant that riled her stomach and kept her trapped more than a malady would, so behind the windowpanes and the lace curtains she began to drink tea and kept drinking it after all that had ceased to be important to her: in the afternoon she prepared a full pot of tea and knew that when it was ready Katja would knock on the door carrying a platter with freshly baked rolls or bread, not because Katja was punctual but Lola was, as she had said when she had come to discuss employment. If a cook does not smell good, is not punctual, fast, tidy, happy, and a little impertinent, Lola had told her, she would not do as a cook; she might know how to cook but would not do as a cook, and sooner or later that would be obvious; Madame Helena had liked those opinions and had preferred Lola to the first assistant from the kitchen of the former Bieder house, who came magnificently recommended, because he was thin, bilious, and bald and had a sad face; just because of that and his way of dressing, and she had not been wrong. She poured the tea and it fell like a coppery stream into the white cup, and the steam rose up in a sudden, aromatic caress thick with herbs and smoke. She drank tea very hot without sugar, not like the Simeonis who used milk, honey, cream, sugar, boiling water, lemon, and whatever else occurred to them at the time until it became something that was not tea and, she supposed, they complained and fought while they drank the now lukewarm liquid. Tea and silence: in Japan, and it seemed to her that she had heard or read that in other Oriental countries as well, teatime was surrounded by a grand ceremony, a ritual that had to do with religion or love or both. If she were to ask Madame Nashiru about this, it would not be indiscreet, in fact, this question could lead to an interesting conversation for everyone that would have nothing to do with feet locked into boxes or those women who play lutes and recite poems in houses of ill repute. She had not been able to get pearl tea but what she ought not to do was ask Madame Nashiru about the pearls she used, although she had told her she drank any kind of tea, green or black, and Madame Helena had wondered how that could be. Would Madame Nashiru be down there having tea with the General and Mr. Pallud? Would young Gangulf arrive in time for a cup of tea today? The tea ceremony would include, how could it not, silence; not silence like the silence in the house in the afternoon but a silence with the rustle of silk or the beating of wings. She brushed away a dream with the wave of a hand, a sip, a movement of her head: the dream in which a woman walked barefoot in the shadows of a bamboo and paper room, trembling because she did not wish to but she would submit, while in the darkness someone waited for her, rapacious, brushing his trophy with the tips of his claws.

  7. Awakening

  Barely dawn, Lola in the kitchen brushing aside ashes, reviving the fire, Katja opening the lower floor windows, Wulda more quiet than at any other time knocking on the service door, sleeping standing up if she could, if she knew that Katja had not heard her and was coming to open it; a little later but not much, the noise of china, knives, decanting liquids; Miss Esther being the first to enter the dining room, sometimes finishing breakfast and leaving before anyone else had arrived; before the clock in the salon struck eight, Madame Helena coming down to t
he kitchen; and perhaps at or about this moment Mr. Pallud entering the dining room nose to the wind detecting breezes and the smell of coffee; the General returning from his hike; and then the Simeonis coming down when they came down to breakfast since they did not always come down, indeed, as Madame Sophie’s health deteriorated, more and more frequently they remained upstairs, calling and waiting for trays to be brought up to their rooms; just before nine Madame Helena appearing in the dining room, and then, eager and smiling, the last one to arrive, strange because a student ought to be in class or at his books at dawn, young Gangulf seeking his strong black bitter coffee and, as if guilty, drinking it quickly without eating anything, saying good-bye and leaving even before Madame Helena sat, and breakfast service waited until she had finished and left to patrol the house looking at everything, checking, watching, listening, and touching, at times calling to point out was needed at that moment in the morning as people left the house: Madame Helena doing her duties as lady of the house, visiting the plumber or lawyer or wallpaper shop, going to the bank or upholsterer, Lola in the market buying parsnips or a half-peck of durum wheat flour or ordering claret wine since it was about to run out, the General marching toward the Army Museum, young Gangulf to the university, Miss Esther to “Miraflora,” but Mr. Pallud in slippers shut inside his room diligently cleaning and arranging his treasures, Nehala and her mother arguing over a pillow Madame Sophie wanted a little lower, not that much, on the side, there, there where her back hurt so much and her daughter ought to know where it hurt unless she was doing that intentionally, Katja and Wulda cleaning, scrubbing, shaking, polishing, progressing up and down without pause until the time when everyone except often young Gangulf and Miss Esther started arriving for lunch, when Katja changing in her bedroom watched herself reflected in the glass of the open windows against the dark wall, and Wulda, settling into the kitchen, adjusted her apron and looked at Lola, looked at her, as if by looking at her she would hear her better, and felt hunger creeping in through her nose, sauces as porous as tulle arriving through her eyes, golden broths making her mouth water, meat the color of pressed grapes in summer dropping into her stomach, silver and marble fish dancing in her belly, rosy and jasmine creams, come on girl pay attention or you’ll burn your fingers and the devil will get the chance to put his hand under your petticoats; and upstairs conversations measuring words against the clatter of cutlery, Madame Helena presiding over a long table with a white tablecloth and chalk-colored dishes with a border of Amadou-style twining rosy birdweed branches that she treasured although it was no longer in style.

  After lunch once again the house emptying itself of noise, voices, and movement, purring only in the kitchen and in the Simeonis’s rooms, the General absorbed in some battle plan, Mr. Pallud dozing in his armchair, Madame Helena balancing the books; culminating in rest, in the silence of teatime and beyond that, the house and with it its inhabitants waking only close to dinnertime, Katja lighting the lamps in the salon, each one coming downstairs feeling uneasy, appearing in vain at the double doors because they had to wait patiently for the arrival of Madame Helena once again presiding over a snowy-white table at night with a silver centerpiece, suggesting a discussion topic, asking a question, the General clearing his throat, always falling into the trap, the Simeonis very close together on the other side of the table, asking each other questions, back and forth, answering each other, complaining quietly, Katja entering with trays and bottles and clean plates but then, unlike after breakfast, the house did not quiet down but instead lit up, bright and lively in the salon, the guests conversing, Madame Helena offering bonbons, Katja bringing liquors in etched bottles with silver necks, someone laughing, proposing a game, and finally arising and wishing good night, little by little and one by one others doing the same and from there on the house becoming hushed, lights being put out, doors closed, windows shuttered, and only a creak, a rustle, a murmur, and the dominion of dreams.

  8. The Forest of Birch Trees

  Every morning, hungry for battle, the General embarked on a long march from Scheller Street to Krieger Park that took him ninety minutes and for which he arose at six fifteen when it was still night in winter and day had broken in summer. The General’s room did not have a window with the luxurious false exterior balcony like the one Mr. Pallud occupied in the middle of the hall: his had only one paltry window that opened into an airshaft facing the blind wall of the house next door and allowed a little sunshine to enter, a bit more in summer when it was less needed and close to midday when it was more of a bother than a convenience. Neither sun nor light mattered to the General: he had not had the curtains removed and although he slept summer and winter with the glass panes open and closed them when he left to keep out bugs and dirt, he never looked out and did not need light at all. He dressed in the dark because he knew perfectly well where he had left each item of clothing before he went to bed: pants, socks, shirt, vest, tie, jacket, every accessory, belt, gloves, hat, shoes, every detail, glasses, keys, shoehorn, and wallet. He placed his folded pajamas on the bed and left in darkness for the hallway. The glass doors that faced the garden let in a little light, a gray luster that struck the rug and with great effort rose up on the walls but never reached very high. In the light shining off the plaster, the General entered the bathroom, relieved himself, washed his face and hands, brushed his teeth, moistened his hair and combed it, and left without returning to his bedroom; he left with a pace barely slower and more careful than the one which in six minutes he would use on Scheller Street toward Muse Avenue. He considered the way he moved, dressed, avoided making noise, and maintained everything orderly as important steps in everyday life that should be performed without distraction; punctuality was a cardinal virtue along with prudence, justice, strength, and temperance, but also the highest virtue if that were possible because while the others were mere outward appearances, punctuality could not be concealed and never feigned: at six thirty-four he unlocked the chancel door, at six thirty-five he opened the door to the street, he closed it, and he left. He arrived at Krieger Park at seven twelve, walked down the cinder-covered paths, entered the grove of birch trees, went around the fountain, climbed up to the pergola, came down again, and traversed the walkways, and at seven twenty-eight he returned, arriving at Scheller Street at eight and entering the dining room to have breakfast at five after eight.

  The arrival of a new guest did not bother him nor was he bothered that Madame Helena had provided her with the large suite that faced the garden, the best of the house, with her own bath, four windows and a glass door to the gallery and the terrace, according to the servant girl. He had nothing to do with those people, and even less with a foreign woman who fortunately was not French, something which would have made him obliged to force Madame Helena to choose between himself and the interloper and to leave the house if its lady were disposed toward that woman, but, almost worse although it required no action on his part, she was a female of a race destined to serve and obey. The General greeted Mr. Pallud because he could not fail to do so: Pallud was a habitually disorganized man so sometimes they coincided and met in a doorway or one of them arrived at the bathroom while the other was leaving. He respected Madame Helena as discrete, strong, decisive, and capable of taking charge. He was courteous to young Gangulf who would perhaps become a worthwhile man in spite of his chosen profession when by his bearing and manners he could just as well have been in the military. He was not interested in the ex-prima donna or her daughter and saw them rarely, only from a distance during meals, or in the other woman, who had a store or something in the elegant part of Morgenröte Street but who occupied the worst room of the house, with a window to the garden to be sure, but the smallest one, the farthest up, like a servant’s or governess’s room and thus, by the General’s calculations, the cheapest. He said good morning and good evening to the service personnel and did not react rudely if the girl who cleaned his room took it upon herself to speak to him; he did not need to greet the cook becaus
e he never saw her; he had seen her only once, a week before moving there, on the day he had gone to see the boarding house on Scheller Street on the advice of his student’s mother when they had beaten Bazaine’s troops, when he had asked to be shown the kitchen: but he had not greeted her that day since he still did not live in the house.

  The day Madame Nashiru arrived was one of many for the General: the almanac indicated a day, and afterwards, insignificantly, he did not know exactly which one in September of 1902; but on that day and precisely that day he had noticed the first chill of autumn, which was useful information only for the choice of clothing. After breakfast he left more warmly clad for the morning and made his way to the museum’s library where Mr. Kämpfer had ready the atlas, two treatises on strategy, one by Bonastruc de Porta and one by Watling, and the second volume of The Compendium of Famous Battles, subtitled Modern Wars. He went to the desk to the right that was tacitly reserved for him and there spread out the maps, opened the book by Watling and went to war thinking as he had thought on other afternoons like that one that he had not fallen into the trap of superficiality because of books like the ones by Knoche and Watling and protocols like the one about the war that Kao Lieu Tchiyueng had embarked upon against the Tartars. He did not return for tea at the boarding house on Scheller Street and only left the library when closing time was announced. Then he abandoned the books, put the notes he had taken into the left pocket of his coat, said good evening, and left.