by Linda Stift
MEIKE ZIERVOGEL
PEIRENE PRESS
On the surface this is a clever thriller-cum-horror story of three women and their descent into addiction, crime and madness. And at times it’s very funny. But don’t be fooled. The book also offers an exploration of the way the mind creates its own realities and – quite often – deludes us into believing that we control what is actually controlling us. Uncanny, indeed.
For me
I can’t eat as much
as I’d like to vomit.
MAX LIEBERMANN, 1933
Contents
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
EPIGRAPH
BOOK ONE
BOOK TWO
ALSO FROM PEIRENE PRESS
AUTHOR
TRANSLATOR
COPYRIGHT
BOOK ONE
She was inspecting the pink and green custard slices, the glazed tarts and fancy meringues piled high in the window of the patisserie. Her dress touched the floor, with only the toes of her shoes poking out. The dress was black and woollen, and around her shoulders sat a black lace mantilla, whose dipped hem was tucked between her armpits. Not exactly the most appropriate outfit for a warm day in early May. She had no intention, so it appeared, of buying anything; she simply seemed to enjoy gazing at the layers of light and dark chocolate, the white cream toppings and the colourful sugar decorations. Just as I was walking past – I was in a hurry that Friday evening; the supermarket was going to shut in half an hour – the woman turned around, looked me boldly in the eye and dropped her purse. She held her hand in front of her mouth as she giggled. I bent down and picked up the purse. Taking it back, she noticed the scars on my knuckles and raised her plucked eyebrows, which locked into sharp angles. Would you like to share a Gugelhupf? A whole one is too much for me, and they don’t sell them by the half here. She spoke in a very genteel way, which was at odds with the ill-mannered stare she had just given me. I said nothing in reply, but accompanied her into the shop. Catching the eye of the girl behind the counter, who was sporting a pink, box-shaped hat fastened to her black bun with hairclips, she told her what she wanted. The shop assistant cut a marbled Gugelhupf into two halves and packaged these in boxes like the one on her head. Three euros each, please, ladies. I paid my share and took the box. I was now in possession of half a Gugelhupf I had no idea what I was going to do with; I’d hardly touched sweet things for years. I tried to say goodbye to the strange woman, annoyed by the pointless purchase I’d been coerced into, but she ignored my attempts to leave. You know, even half a Gugelhupf is too much in the end. My housekeeper and I can’t eat it all between us. I’ll never be the sort of person to buy by the slice, touch wood. There’s something dreadfully sad about that and, in any case, the slices are dried out because they cut them early in the morning. My apartment is just around the corner; please do me the honour of joining me for a cup of coffee and some cake. Only for a while, I shan’t keep you long. In retrospect I can’t say why I followed her, but I did. That was my Saturday ruined. I’d have to go shopping in a supermarket heaving with people. And I really didn’t have a clue what I was going to do with half a Gugelhupf after stuffing myself with cake at this woman’s place. Even contemplating what might happen with my share was giving me a headache. I was annoyed at having got myself into this situation and displeased that now I was obliged to visit a stranger’s apartment. The best thing would have been to leave the cake right there; maybe somebody would be happy to find it. But the thing would probably end up in the bin. I mean, who takes abandoned cakes home with them? While she muttered away to herself I tried to guess the woman’s age. Her voice was very soft. You had to concentrate hard when listening to her. The skin on her face was brown and weather-beaten, like that of people who do a lot of hiking or sunbathing, and pronounced wrinkles were etched around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Despite this she looked young, almost elastic, perhaps because of her upright posture, which emphasized her tall, slim figure. Her dark hair was plaited into an intricate coiffure. We turned into a narrow side street, only a few minutes away from my flat. She unlocked the front entrance to an old Viennese apartment block and we climbed the stairs to the third floor. I concealed my breathlessness as best I could. Ever since I’d been living on the ground floor I’d found going up stairs hard work. When we entered her apartment a dog with scraggly fur leaped up at the woman, standing on his back legs and hugging her with his front paws. He was an Irish wolfhound, almost as large as a Great Dane, with a rough, grey-brown coat and folded ears. His long, thin legs enhanced his scrawny appearance. He looked just like the picture that forms in my mind whenever the word dog is mentioned without reference to a particular breed. And yet this was an intensively bred variety of sighthound, more than 1,500 years old, which almost died out in the seventeenth century. It only survived by being crossed with other, similarly large dogs, stabilized, as it’s called in breeding terminology. I knew this from Charlotte, who read endless books about dog breeds, even though she didn’t have a dog herself. Mongrel, I thought as I looked at him. The woman wrestled with the dog for quite a while, before calling Ida! with a hint of hysteria in her voice. She must have shouted this name thousands of times in the past. A thin, concealed door opened and a fat woman of around sixty shuffled out of a cubbyhole cluttered with furniture. The woman stood by the opening, with ruffled, clumsily tied-up hair. She’d clearly been asleep; she was blinking and her face was crumpled, showing the lined traces of a headrest. She wore the same black dress as the other woman, without the mantilla, but it didn’t particularly suit her. It was the wrong cut, the arms too long and too wide, while the material was tight beneath the armpits. Wouldn’t believe she’s four years younger, would you? What a lovely beauty she was, my little Ida, my kedves Idám, she said, glancing at me. And now? Just look at her! Oh well, none of us is getting any younger. She shook off the dog and gave Ida, who acknowledged these comments with a grimace behind her back, instructions to make coffee and set the table in the drawing room. The dog sniffed at me and tried to thrust his stubby muzzle between my legs, which I nervously pressed together. Realizing he wasn’t getting anywhere, he went to lie down in Ida’s room. If only you knew the lengths I go to in order to – touch wood – keep my figure! But it’s worth it; I can eat what I like without putting on much weight. Madame eat like a sparrow, Ida called out unsolicited from the kitchen.
*
I was often present when they sewed her into her clothes. I would read her Heine poems or tell her about my beautiful Hungary. She could not get enough of the endless plains and mysterious forests, the wild horses and legendary riders. Her clothes had to fit as tightly as possible, and the only way to achieve this was by sewing her up. As undergarments she loved little, close-fitting camisoles. I would gasp for breath when I saw how tightly she had herself laced up. How she would berate her lady-in-waiting if she tied too loosely, and how the lady-in-waiting, now dripping with sweat and panting, would keep tightening the laces until the material started to crackle. Her waist measured no more than fifty centimetres; a man could have put his hands right around it. This was no surprise as she barely ate a thing. To appear even slimmer, she wore none of those voluminous petticoats which bulked out dresses enormously, but long drawers, made of silk in summer and the finest deerskin in winter.
*
The drawing room was stuffed full of carpets, divans, small tables and imitation rococo armchairs, generating an oppressive intimacy that made you feel like an intruder. Dark-red brocade curtains hung in front of the windows. The nest of an alien species. In one corner stood a birdcage in which two light-grey parrots with red tail feathers and white eyes were jabbering away to each other. In another corner
was an old television, beside it a video recorder and in front of it a bottle-green TV recliner with footrest and tilt function. The only concessions to the present. The present twenty years ago. Propped up all over the room were grainy photographs from the nineteenth century: boys in sailor suits and pirate costumes; girls in conical ruched dresses; women with top hats or wrapped in Arabic burnouses, surrounded by large hunting dogs or clipped poodles with lion’s manes; young men in uniform with sables at the hilt; even a portrait of Emperor Franz Joseph with his obligatory mutton chops, the embodiment of staid bourgeois life; as well as several pictures of the young Empress Elisabeth, including a small copy of the famous painting in which Elisabeth is dressed only in a nightie, her long hair tied in a thick knot in front of her chest. Some rings, the sort that gymnasts use, hung from the door frame between the drawing room and a second room, which was fitted out with similar rugs and furniture. The rings alleviated the sinister atmosphere somewhat. In an unfamiliar apartment my first thought is always how I would change the furnishings, what could be thrown out to make the room look better. Often it’s just a little thing upsetting the overall harmony, sticking with fashions that once made sense, or a temporary solution that over the years has blended in with the rest of the room and no longer appears makeshift to its owners. Here, there was nothing to do. The interior, including the gym rings, was perfect in its own way, although terribly depressing. The sooner I got out of this apartment the better. My hostess, who now introduced herself as Frau Hohenembs – she didn’t mention a first name – had sat in the only chair with armrests. The housekeeper pushed a trolley into the drawing room and put on the table the portioned cake half – the slices cut thickly – a pot of coffee, three cups and three small plates. The coffee sloshed out of the spout and the cups clattered on their saucers a touch longer than might have been expected, the sound ringing in my ears. The parrots made noises not dissimilar to the clattering; you might even have construed it as laughter. Ida had put on a white doctor’s coat over her dress. It was tight across the chest and too short, with the result that her dress showed beneath it and her overly long sleeves protruded from the arms. She folded a napkin twice and laid it on the tablecloth, hiding the coffee stains she had just made, placing on it a framed photo of a woman sitting side-saddle on a horse, her legs covered by a dress, and holding a fan to her face. She poured the coffee, first Frau Hohenembs, then me, then herself. Her fingernails were bitten to the flesh, something I’d never seen on an elderly woman. Ida took off her housecoat, hung it over the back of the chair she was sitting on and looked at Frau Hohenembs. Only when my hostess had taken a plate and broken off a piece with two pointed fingers did Ida start eating too. She now looked a little fresher than before: her hair had been put up again and her face was no longer marked with lines from the headrest. Her fuller figure meant she had fewer wrinkles than Frau Hohenembs, who definitely fell into the category of thin, if not emaciated. Ida rapidly ate four pieces of cake, one after the other, pouring herself a refill of coffee each time without worrying whether Frau Hohenembs or I had finished ours. Frau Hohenembs only sipped at her coffee, whereas my cup was already empty. Although I didn’t like the coffee – it was too bitter for my taste – I had knocked it back in two gulps. I crumbled my Gugelhupf on my plate. If I had cake now I wouldn’t be able to eat any dinner; I’d much rather be enjoying some salad or a cheese and tomato sandwich. This wretched cake was unsettling me. What’s wrong with you, don’t you like it? Frau Hohenembs asked, holding her gnawed piece of cake between thumb and forefinger. I put a large chunk in my mouth. What makes you think that? To change the subject I asked her why there were these pictures of the empress everywhere. She shrugged and gave no reply. I pretended not to have noticed this rudeness and looked around the room with a display of interest. I pointed to the rings that were set fairly high. Do you exercise on those? I said, trying a second time for an answer. Well, I used to, you know, in the past! Sometimes I still swing back and forth a bit, but I’m really too stiff these days. You’re very welcome to try them out if you’d like. I can talk you through a few exercises. Ida, lower the rings. No, thanks, I declined, even though I was quite tempted. At school the rings were the only thing I didn’t loathe. Better not, I might bring up my coffee, I offered by way of an excuse. In any case, Ida had ignored the instruction, pouring herself more coffee instead. At least take another slice, then, Frau Hohenembs said, offering me the plate after Ida had already put out her hand, which now grasped at thin air. I took a second piece of cake and devoured it in three mouthfuls.
*
As time went on my kedvesem rarely joined in with large family meals. If she ate anything at all, she would usually have the dishes brought up to her private apartments. The emperor sometimes came to see her at breakfast; this was the only meal of the day when she tucked in properly rather than indulging in her peculiar dietary habits. In the early days of her marriage she tried to introduce Bavarian beer at dinner, but her mother-in-law disallowed it, deeming the drink insufficiently smart for the ladies and gentlemen of the court. This, combined with the stuffy formal ceremony of mealtimes, thoroughly ruined her enjoyment of eating together as a family. From that time onwards she consumed beer less frequently, only when she visited the Hofbräuhaus in Munich. Instead she would drink milk from selected goats and Normandy cows, freshly squeezed orange juice and that horrible meat juice. On her beloved maritime voyages there always had to be two goats, which were usually seasick and gave no milk. They would start bucking the moment they came on board and the sailors had to drag them forcibly by their tethers across the deck. Many a lady-in-waiting suffered in similar fashion; my édes lelkem alone had the sea legs of an old captain, and she even had herself strapped to a mast in a storm – the more tempestuous the better as far as she was concerned.
*
I placed the cake on the kitchen table. The coffee had made me jittery. Coffee always unsettles me. After an initial hesitation I’d eaten the first slice of cake with some relish, the second was forced on me against my will by Frau Hohenembs, the third I helped myself to without invitation because it was irrelevant by now. I’d forgotten that it was always relevant; no matter how much you ate you didn’t have to keep eating just because it was irrelevant, you could always stop. I gazed at this thing with its light and dark marbled ribbons, like narrow flags blowing in the wind. With its round folds, it had the appearance of a bulging fan. In places the icing sugar on the ridges and in the valleys had worked into the crust of the dough and shimmered white. I picked out a knife from the drawer and let it slide slowly through the Gugelhupf. I ate the slice standing up. The soft, slightly crumbly mass spread pleasantly to all corners of my mouth. I could taste cocoa powder and lemon zest, with a hint of vanilla. I cut the next slice slightly thicker. On the third I spread apricot jam, which had stood unopened in the fridge for two years, and the fourth I dipped into a jumbo mug of cold chocolate, which I had made myself. I cut the final piece into two and held a slice in each hand, both thickly buttered, then took alternate bites from them while squatting down to inspect the fridge. I took out everything that was more or less edible and ate it, rapidly and silently. I was abandoned by the day. A faint trance descended onto me like a silk cloth. I went into the bathroom and regurgitated the whole lot. The grotesque face of my abnormality, which had lain dormant within me, resurfaced. It was the first time in fifteen years. I had always known that there was no safety net. But I hadn’t suspected that it would arrive so unspectacularly, that it would not be preceded by a disaster such as heartbreak or dismissal or a death. It was as if I’d absent-mindedly taken the wrong path when out for a walk. The silk cloth was pulled away. A visit to an elderly lady had sufficed. On the way home I thought about inviting Charlotte for breakfast the following morning and giving her the rest of the cake. That was unnecessary now; there was no way I could see Charlotte. How could I let her see me? I stood in front of the mirror and looked at my naked belly. There it was again. It had reannounce
d itself after a long phase of restraint or sleep, while I had painstakingly ignored it. Maybe all that time it had been waiting for this opportunity and was now demanding the attention and control it regarded as an ancient right. I’ve spent half my life pulling in my stomach. As if that could possibly fool anyone. I heard a banging and crashing in the flat above me, which could only be someone shifting furniture around or jumping up and down. The two pairs of double doors in my room creaked on their hinges. I resisted the urge to calculate my body mass index. I could not resist the scales, however; they showed half a kilo less than the previous evening. I pushed them under the chest of drawers. If I didn’t have to look at them everything would sort itself out; a single relapse wasn’t enough to send me into free fall. It had been a mistake to buy a set of scales, that was obvious now. At least they weren’t digital scales that calculated to the tenth of a gram. In the past I’d frequently get on the scales every few minutes. When my parents were at home I would slip into the bathroom and stand on the scales, very gently, so that nobody could hear the needle racing upwards. Before a meal, after a meal, before having a pee, after having a pee, naked and dressed, so I knew how much to subtract when I weighed myself with my clothes on, which was most of the time. And always very carefully, as if the scales could be cheated by sneaking up on them. Leaning on the edge of the sink and lowering the final half a kilo in slow motion. Making myself as small as possible (and thereby supposedly lighter), crouching. I can’t stand on scales normally, as men do – with a firm stride, making the needle wobble around noisily for several seconds. It was sheer torture for me if I weighed half a kilo more than on my previous check half an hour before. And indescribable joy if I weighed less. The mere presence of a set of scales causes me physical discomfort, that’s even without standing on them. The large scales you sometimes find at railway stations are particularly unpleasant. They entice me, I slink around them, I even check to see whether I have the right change. But I will never climb on them. A stranger could peer over my shoulder, glimpse my weight and draw their own conclusions. I really wanted an apple to get rid of the stale aftertaste, but I had eaten everything, including the apples. Eating and puking scrapes and scratches away till you’re empty, but some residue always remains. An empty vessel with persistent filth sticking to the insides, that was me. How quickly my muscle memory had returned, so horribly familiar. Fifteen years had been swept away. Perhaps I ought to ring Charlotte after all, I thought. But the moment I articulated this possibility, the outcome was a foregone conclusion.
