The Foreigner

by P. G. Glynn

  “Yes,” she said, propping herself up in bed and blinking at his gift, “they are. If you’ll put them in water I’ll take them to Carla in the morning.”

  “But they aren’t for her … they’re for you, Mama!”

  “Then I can decide what to do with them, can’t I?”

  “I suppose so.” Hugo was trying his hardest not to cry.

  “There’s no ‘suppose’ about it. I hope you don’t begrudge your poor sister a few flowers.”

  “She isn’t poor! She … she’s lucky. I wish … ”

  Hugo could not finish. He ran from the room leaving Marie staring after him in bewilderment, asking: “Whatever’s wrong with him?”

  “He wishes he were Carla,” Marta told her, resisting an urge to shake her daughter-in-law, “so that you’d take him flowers each day and … and love him like you love her.” Seeing Marie’s incredulous expression she added with emphasis: “Yes, your son wishes that he were dead and in heaven.”

  “How silly of him!”

  “Is it? Marie, my dear, I swore after interfering before that I’d never again interfere but I’m having to retract on that. I know that you’ve hated me ever since learning from a third party about the contract. I don’t blame you one bit for your hatred over that and over the fact that Carla met her death while her safety was my responsibility. In your shoes I believe even I would hate me! But hatred won’t change anything. All it will do is hurt you, eating you from within and perhaps in the end festering until you are ill.” Sitting on the bed and, despite resistance, taking one of Marie’s hands between both hers, Marta then said: “Hate me if you must, but don’t hate your son … or your husband. I was the wrongdoer and Hugo in particular is totally innocent. He has needs, Marie, and most of these revolve round the mother he worships but for whom he believes he doesn’t exist. You will always feel special love for Carla, of course. She was and is very specially yours. It is right that you should love her and that none of us should ever forget her, but perhaps your capacity for love is greater than you think. My understanding is that love is infinitely elastic and that the more we give, the more we have. Your suffering has been such that it has, quite naturally, blinded you to the suffering of others … and Hugo isn’t one to push himself into the forefront. It’s more his style to hide and lick his wounds where nobody can see that he’s been wounded.”

  “So you’re saying that I’m a bad mother – and that you know my son better than I do?”

  “No. I’m not judging you. Who am I, to judge others? I’ve made more mistakes in my life than you’d probably make in three lifetimes. And I’m no authority on Hugo. All I know is that he needs you … and that Otto does too. They’re both totally devoted to you but can’t come close enough to tell you so. They’re outside the wall you’ve built to protect yourself from further hurt and it’s too high for them to climb. It also blocks out light. If you’ll only lower your wall enough to let even a chink of light into your darkness, my dear, I think you could be pleasantly surprised. Will you try?”

  “I might.”

  +++++

  Hugo lay listening to the morning sounds. He could hear Herr Beck grooming his horses in the stables below and the clack of hooves on cobblestones. Sometimes he would hear an oath as the coachman dropped something and stooped to pick it up. Herr Beck was so old that stooping probably hurt him. Helga said that old bones didn’t bend as well as young ones did. But for Helga saying it Hugo would have doubted that any bones could bend, but he would never doubt Helga because at six she knew everything. In the distance the hounds were barking. Perhaps Onkel Ludwig was going hunting, as he liked killing things. Hugo couldn’t understand this. How could anyone want to kill beautiful creatures with flight in their wings or with four legs that could run as fast as the wind? Better, though, that Onkel Ludwig should kill birds or animals than that he should kill Papa …

  Hugo had once heard his uncle swear that he would not rest until Otto was dead. Could he have been talking about some other Otto? Hugo hoped so. With his whole heart he hoped and prayed that Onkel Ludwig could not mean to kill his own brother. If he did mean to, Papa was surely right in saying he would have killed him by now. Papa said that when Hugo told him what he had heard and there had been some comfort in those words. Supposing, though, Papa had just said them to comfort Hugo …

  Omama often said that worrying was a waste of time and that all the worry in the world would not change anything. So Hugo tried not to be a worrier which was sometimes easier said than done, especially when worries came into his head about Papa being dead. It would be terrible never to see Papa again and not to have him for a friend. Hugo quickly turned his attention to the music the Springbrunnel was making as it splashed water into the courtyard pool. He liked listening to the fountain. Its sound gave him a good feeling like the one he had when the spinners’ wheels were whirring at Oberaltstadt, where the spinning sheds were always hot and damp, smelling of wet flax.

  Tante Petra, who once saw the Virgin Mary at the foot of her bed, lived at Oberaltstadt and must be a good aunt to have had a vision of the Holy Mother. Helga said that only very good people had visions. She also said that people with only one eye could just see half of everything. Onkel Hans, who ran the family farm and brewery at Mohren, had lost one of his eyes in a school chemistry experiment when he was a boy, so when he looked at Hugo could he just see half of him? Hugo supposed so and wondered which half. He hated seeing Onkel Hans’s scars, which made his face look lopsided and blotchy and red, as well as cross even when he wasn’t. All the same, Hugo liked going to Mohren. He went there as often as possible to see his dog.

  He hoped it wasn’t wrong to think of Bobo as his dog when really he was Carla’s. Oh, if only Bobo could come back to live in the castle! Hugo would be having a birthday soon and had told Papa and Omama that he couldn’t wish for a better present than to have Bobo for himself. But they had both said that that was impossible because Bobo was partly to blame for Carla’s death. If Carla hadn’t had him she would have gone with Mama to Prague and wouldn’t have eaten a poisonous mushroom. It wasn’t Bobo’s fault that she had eaten one, though, was it? Hugo knew which mushrooms not to eat because Omama had shown him.

  If he were to disobey her and eat them, how soon would he be dead … and would he like it with Carla in heaven? Hugo wasn’t at all sure that he would like her now that she had been given his flowers. Mama’s flowers, he reminded himself with a wince, which were hers to do with as she wished …

  +++++

  “What’s this?” Instead of the maid putting his breakfast on the table Papa had put a long box across Hugo’s plate. “Today isn’t my birthday, is it?”

  “No,” Otto cheerfully agreed, “so I suppose you could say it’s your unbirthday. The box’s contents, by the way, are from your Mama and me.”

  “They are?” It was an amazing morning. Instead of breakfasting as she usually did, upstairs in bed, Mama was down here with Hugo and Papa … and she was smiling. She was prettier than ever when she smiled. Hugo’s heart felt as if it were turning over with excitement. “Where is … everybody?”

  “It’s unusual for us to be alone as a little family, I agree,” said Marie, “and no doubt we won’t be for much longer … so open your box, unless you’re in no hurry to see what’s inside.”

  In no hurry? Agog with curiosity, Hugo lifted the lid.

  There, belonging to him, with no stems showing, were hothouse narcissi, crocuses, tulips, jonquils … and snowdrops. He had never seen so many flowers all at once, nor smelled such a fragrance. There must have been hundreds of snowdrops that, he now noticed, were arranged in shapes – letter-shapes! What did the letters say? Hugo had a tutor and had learned his alphabet so he could easily make out an ‘H’ followed by a ‘U’ a ‘G’ and an ‘O’. “Hugo!” he read, clasping his hands together in pleasure. “The snowdrops say ‘Hugo’!” Awed, he risked looking at his mother and asking her: “Are these flowers really from you, too?”

&
nbsp; “Indeed they are.”

  “Then I’m the luckiest boy in Czechoslovakia!”

  36

  It was chiefly because of Guy that Marie now saw Hugo in a new light. Her mental image of him waiting patiently in the wings had been quite extraordinarily timely. Two small boys, both with too little love in their lives …

  Mama had also played her part, of course, and had been right to interfere this time. No child should be left to feel unloved by its mother. Having never felt loved by Mam, Marie must not inflict the same fate on her son.

  So, bit by bit, she was returning to the land of the living and trying to manage on less drink. None of which was easy but Uncle John had said it wouldn’t be. Now that her mind was no longer fuzzy from alcohol she remembered him telling her after his death about trials ahead. He certainly wasn’t exaggerating! So had he actually foreseen all that had happened … all that was still to happen? It took some grasping if he had. And now he and Pa were surely watching over Carla as well as regarding Marie with love and compassion.

  Love was a strange phenomenon. It certainly survived death. During the past few years, especially when at her lowest ebb, Marie had felt Uncle John’s presence. Once he had even seemed to be standing in front of her, telling her that drink was never the answer. Though not ready to listen, back then, she had been conscious of the love that accompanied him. So the love given and received while he was alive had not been lost when he died. Instead it lived on in his spirit, which apparently could see into infinity. Oh, to see as he saw! No. Unless one could alter dire events, it was best not to know the future. But it was comforting to have evidence of love’s continuance. And, love being elastic, finding some in her heart for Hugo did not involve loving Carla any less. There were limits, however, to the things she was prepared to do for him.

  “Certainly not,” she said now to Otto as she brushed her hair before going to bed.

  “It’s his biggest wish.”

  “I don’t care how big his wish is; my answer’s still ‘no’. I’m not having Carla’s dog here to remind me of … of everything.”

  Choosing his words carefully, Otto said: “Hugo thinks of Bobo as his dog … and finds it hard, having to leave him at the farm.”

  “Life is hard and the sooner he finds that out the better for him in the end.”

  “It doesn’t have to be … and he’s too young as yet to make such discoveries.”

  “No-one is ever too young and, in my book, it’s wrong to protect children too much. Hugo might think of Bobo as his, but nothing can alter the fact that Mama gave the dog to Carla and that … that she shouldn’t have.”

  Seeing the futility of resurrecting this issue, Otto relented: “Very well then. Now that we’ve established what we can’t give him, let’s start thinking what we can give our son for his birthday present.”

  +++++

  Hugo knew as soon as he saw his gift that the Blessed Virgin had not been listening to him. If she had been he would now be receiving a live dog instead of a dead horse. Of course the horse was not dead, exactly, but it wasn’t alive like Bobo. Still, it was better to have Mama happy than to have his wish.

  “He was a bit too big to be wrapped up like your other packages,” Otto commented, all too conscious of his son’s disappointment, “so your Mama and I decided to tie a bow on him instead. Now that you’ve left four behind it’s time for you to learn to ride. I’ll give you a leg up, if you like.”

  It was a fine dappled horse, with shiny stirrups and with a huge bow tied round his neck. Telling himself that he was lucky to have it, Hugo smiled at his father and said: “Yes. I don’t think I can climb on by myself.” Up in the saddle, surrounded by his whole family and by wrapped presents of all shapes and sizes, he felt for the first time as if he were truly five. Why, he was now almost as tall as Papa … and he was glad to have a rocking horse! A real horse would have had to live in the stables, whereas this one could live indoors and Hugo could talk to him as he would have talked to a brother or sister, had he had one who wasn’t in a coffin. “Oh,” he exclaimed, suddenly noticing an odd thing, “it hasn’t got rockers!”

  “No,” Otto said, “it has something much better. Try turning its wheel and watch what happens.”

  The little wheel was just in front of the saddle, half hidden by the ribbon and by the horse’s grey mane. How very strange! Doing as Papa had suggested, Hugo was astonished when his horse walked.

  “It’s the latest thing,” Marie told him. “You’re probably the only child outside Prague who’s fortunate enough to have one of these.”

  Hugo didn’t feel fortunate. He felt somehow cheated. Real horses walked, but this wasn’t a real horse and it wasn’t a rocking horse either. Helga wouldn’t think much of it. He asked his mother wistfully: “Could rockers be put on him?”

  “There’s ungrateful you are!” said Marie, with strong Welsh inflection. “Your Papa went to no end of trouble and expense to buy the best toy in existence and that’s all the thanks he gets. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  As the colour drained from Hugo’s face Otto told Marie: “You sounded just like your mother. Lieber Gott, don’t go turning into her! It’s our son’s birthday, remember … and Hugo had had his hopes set in other directions, so he’s entitled not to be impressed with second or third best. Just because a thing is expensive it doesn’t necessarily give pleasure.”

  “It has taken you awhile to learn that!” Marie told him angrily, shocked by the comparison with Mam. “And as for me sounding like anyone … you sounded like a preacher.”

  “I am pleased with him really,” Hugo said, fearful at Mama’s anger, “and maybe it’s better to have a wheel on his neck than rockers on his legs.”

  “Maybe it is,” she agreed gently, seeing her son’s anguish, “and maybe it isn’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be cross.”

  “Or to behave like a prima donna?” asked Lenka.

  “You’d need to teach me how,” Marie told her as Otto helped Hugo down from the horse and suggested opening his other presents.

  Rudolf stepped in quickly, saying: “Why not start with this one, from your Tante Anna and me? I think you will like it.”

  Seeing that the parcel his uncle handed him was shaped like a violin Hugo was doubtful. Aside from the old packing-cases over in the corner containing a collection of books Omama intended donating to Prague University and a rare bible that she had promised to St Vitus’s Cathedral, the Kleine Saal seemed to be filled with musical instruments including Onkel Rudolf’s grand piano, baby piano and harp. Hugo had often seen these and heard them but had never felt any urge to make music like his uncle did. Would he have to learn how to play this violin? “Thank you,” he said, trying to feel enthusiastic as he unwrapped it.

  “It isn’t a Stradivarius but it’s the next best thing,” Rudolf told him. “It comes from Cremona in Italy and it’s a lucky boy who has such a fine instrument so early. If only I’d had one when I was five – why, I’d have been a virtuoso, a child protégé, a second Mozart, a .. ”

  “Maybe,” Otto butted in, “but Hugo has his own life ahead of him and must make up his own mind about whether he wishes to be a musician.”

  “Quite!” agreed Marie with alacrity. “Now let’s find some interesting packages, shall we?”

  +++++

  His birthday had begun to improve after that and soon Papa would be taking him to Mohren to see Bobo. Hugo hoped, though, that they would not be going too soon. He was hoping against hope to see Helga first, on her way home from school. Since she lived in a house in the castle grounds he usually saw her if he waited where he was waiting today, beneath the hawthorn tree that stood between the scullery and the path leading to her grandfather’s little garden. He couldn’t climb up into the tree because its branches were very prickly but even so this was a good place to watch from because he had a fine view right across to the school’s roof. He often looked at the roof, either from here or from his bedroom window, and thought of H
elga being in that building learning things. Hugo wished he could go there to learn with her instead of having to stay here with Herr Matzke but Omama said that as a Berger he had to have a tutor. Having one was a bit lonely because there were no other boys or girls to talk to, but Hugo supposed that it was better being a Berger than being anyone else.

  “Where are you, Hugo?” a voice asked.

  It was Helga’s voice and to his astonishment he saw that she was standing right in front of him, her satchel over her shoulder, her straight brown hair blowing in the wind. “You can see where I am,” he said. “You’re looking at me.”

  “I’m looking at a boy who seems to be asleep.” She grinned, showing him why Omama described her as a mischievous imp. “Unless, of course, you were purposely ignoring me.”

  “I’d never do that,” he told her earnestly. “And I wasn’t asleep. I must have been … daydreaming. Did you know that today’s my birthday?”

  “I’d have to be stupid not to know.” She wrinkled her nose and her freckles all joined together, he noticed. “The whole of Herrlichbach knows that the Berger heir is five now and that they’re invited to a party on Saturday to celebrate.”

  There was something in her tone that put Hugo on the defensive. He said: “I’ll be six, like you, soon.”

  “Silly! You’ll never be six like me. By the time you’re six I’ll be seven. I’ll always be older and bigger than you are, so there!”

  He could not dispute the truth of this and it was perplexing to think that no matter what he did, Helga would stay a step – or steps – ahead of him. “I like being five best,” he said.

  “Oh yes?” she asked archly. “You must mean you like it better than being one, two, three or four, as you haven’t been six yet … and won’t be, for another year. You’re still a baby.”