ALSO BY GABI KRESLEHNER
Rain Girl
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2014 Gabi Kreslehner and Ullstein Buchverlage GmbH
Translation copyright © 2016 Alison Layland
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as Rabenschwestern by Ullstein Buchverlage GmbH in Germany in 2014. Translated from German by Alison Layland. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2016.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503934504
ISBN-10: 1503934500
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary-Soudant
CONTENTS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
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56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
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75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
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99
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
1
She glanced at the clock. She had two hours. It was enough time—plenty of time. Should she?
She had seen the little bottle reflecting the shop’s display lights as she’d walked past. Her eyes had briefly lingered over the shelves, but she had not allowed herself to stop and give in to her impulse. Now her heart began to beat faster, and she closed her eyes to intensify the feeling. She liked the feeling, the prickling. The stirrings of excitement. She felt hot and cold all over and forgot all fear. Every fiber of her being was drawn into the shop, to the shelves of perfumes, surrounded by the silent, glittering bottles.
She paused for a moment, all her senses alert. She listened and watched. Sniffed the air. She finally reached out a hand.
She loved it as she always did. Loved the feeling, the prickling. The coolness of the bottle sent a current through her fingers the moment she touched it. It passed through her hand and burned into her skin like a brand.
That was why she did it. Again and again. It was not too often, but whenever her eyes fell upon the subtle sparkle of a bottle, whenever the sparkle of a bottle gently touched her heart, whenever it spoke to her in a suggestive whisper: I’m a possibility. Then she could not help herself.
She looked round, sniffed the air like an animal, eyes alert, ears pricked, heart thumping madly, taking in all there was to be taken in . . . Voices, movements in the aisles, gazes brushing over her . . . dangerdangerdanger . . . Once her heart was calm, once its beat had returned to normal, then she took her opportunity and stepped into the breach between the untouched bottles. She was a tigress, a lioness, a predator stalking her prey, following a scent. A scent she believed she remembered from her childhood, one that had completely eluded her, leaving her in despair during her years of adulthood, those years when certainties had still failed to become certain and she had fallen into a pattern of searching and failing to find.
Later, in the peace of the bathroom, she opened the little bottle with trembling fingers, let its scent flow out, and immediately . . . the spell was broken and it lost the magic that just a moment before had set her heart alight. Not the evocative scent she had hoped for—no, never.
The disappointment grew less with time, with experience and detachment, but it was always there, forcing itself into her memory as a bland taste, a misunderstanding.
She left.
She moved quickly, broke into a run, the image burned into her retina of the bottle she had dumped in the trash, still trying to give out a last sparkle, a final spray from among the cigarette ends, half-eaten sandwiches, apple cores, and crushed cola cans that finally buried it.
Sometimes she imagined how it would be if someone caught her red-handed as she haunted the aisles, approaching her with rapid footsteps and determined eyes. She knew she would defend herself. All she had learned in her self-defense classes in the sports center would finally pay off, and she would bring her assailant up short with a perfectly aimed kick, the toe of her shoe precisely targeted at privates that were protected by nothing but a thin layer of fabric, defenseless against a sharp-toed shoe and its devastating effect.
Lilli wondered how it would feel when her shoe landed in that spot; she wondered whether the cry of that unfortunate scent-bottle guardian would freeze her blood as the pain froze his.
She knew that she would run away then, despite the pain that flashed through them both. No, no one could snatch them from her grasp, the sparkling bottles, the dispensers of relief, the trophies of her intrepid quest.
Lilli smiled shakily and breathed deeply. Still thinking of the bottle in the airport bathroom trash, she leaned back to look at the departure screen. She would be home in a few hours. Home, whatever that was.
She smiled, a little lost, a little shocked by the thoughts that sometimes fluttered inside her like ghosts, vague and translucent but clear enough for Lilli to recognize that there was an abyss.
She thought of how her hand had wrapped around the bottle, how she had felt the pointed top digging into her palm, how the coolness faded into a faint warmth, a warmth that did not penetrate into her fingers.
Suddenly she was freezing. Shivering, she drew her coat tighter around her. The dark purple velvet was really too warm for the season, for the warmth of the early September afternoon, but she felt cold and she loved the coat. She loved its straight lines, which were beautifully softened by the supple velvet. She had discovered the coat at the end of the London summer in the tiny Soho boutique of a still-unknown designer. She had pressed her face against the sle
eve and was immediately absorbed by the softness and security of this dark purple haven. She had to have the coat whatever the cost. It had not cost that much, tidy sum though it was. But the money didn’t matter. She suspected she would wear it until it hung from her body in rags.
Various other items in the shop had caught her eye, but none interested her as much as she interested the designer. The moment he saw Lilli, he assumed a rapt expression, reflecting the very same fascination she felt for the coat.
Would she stay and be his muse, he’d asked. Her features, her hair, her figure, her legs . . . ohhh . . . it was all so . . . Would she stay? What is your name, miss?
She’d smiled with a hint of pride mixed with a hint of perplexity, pretending not to understand. She was a tourist, she explained, and very bad in English.
By the time she finally left the shop, he’d added a pair of boots to the coat. They were dark gray and soft suede, high heels, over the knee. They fit so well, so lightly, that she walked as though her feet were winged. She’d turned back once and saw the designer at the door, giving her a bow and then raising his hands in applause. He’d called after her, Stay! Please stay! Come back, my dear!
Lilli laughed and began to run, waving to him with the full force of her good fortune, jumping into the air, imagining the world turning beneath her—unstoppable and continuous—and sensing the pulse of life all around her.
Back home in her tiny apartment, she’d twirled before the mirror in wonder, thinking, Wow! Such elegance! If Mr. Greenow saw me like this at the office, he would bow and say, “My dear, you’re the best!” and for once actually mean it.
That evening she knew with certainty that she didn’t want to become a lawyer. A small feeling of satisfaction had mounted in her, coupled with delight at the thought of flying home soon.
Her internship had been good. But the city had been even better. Huge. Loud. Glittering. Simply London. She had immersed herself in the city, in its strangeness and its freedom, and it had felt good. Three months had passed quickly, a series of flying visits, every morning starting with the shimmering of the dark coffee she brought to Mr. Greenow’s office, which was received with a sigh of gratitude and the same words every day, You’re the best, my dear.
Mr. Greenow had studied with her grandfather, and it was to that fact she owed her three-month internship in his office, where major cases were handled—revenue matters, business affairs, homicide investigations—the type of cases that made the life of an attorney so varied and exciting.
She had smiled as she participated in negotiations, sitting next to the tough young lawyers—all of them tigers—and listening to their confident voices. But every day she became increasingly aware that it had absolutely nothing to do with her.
It didn’t make her sad. On the contrary, it gave her certainty. That surprised her. The consequences would be bitter—three years gone up in smoke. A waste of a degree course, she thought as she sat in the departure hall at the airport, London Stansted. Mr. Greenow would now be saying those same words—you’re the best, my dear—to someone else.
But her internship had been good, and the city even better. She’d have to tell her grandfather that being a lawyer was just not for her. It was really not her thing at all. There would be something else, although she was not yet sure what it was.
She sighed. She wished she knew what the future would hold. But there was one thing she did know. She knew what her grandfather would say, the aging attorney who had wanted her to succeed him, to be the one to inherit his law firm since his own daughter had disappointed him: You’re like your mother, he would say with a hint of contempt in his eyes. You don’t know what you want. You get carried away by stupid ideas.
No, she thought, and couldn’t help grinning. She was not carried away by “stupid ideas.” In fact, there were no ideas at all for the moment. She felt . . . light. And she also felt a connection with her mother, which surprised her since they were, after all, so different.
She was hungry and wandered through the rows of counters that lined the airport in a cheerful array. Outside, airplanes landed and took off. She thought of the exhibition she had seen a few weeks ago. It was of a German photographer’s work, titled People at the Airport or Waiting Photos or some such. Lilli had been unusually touched by the photographs, as if they were familiar. Perhaps it was the way in which the camera had portrayed the faces—the eyes—as though it recognized them. Lilli wasn’t sure why, but she hadn’t been able to forget the photographs or the photographer. But of course she wouldn’t forget the photographer—she already knew her name, Hanna Umlauf, which she had always found strange-sounding and beautiful. She also knew her face. Her portrait hung on her grandparents’ wall next to that of her mother.
Her cell phone rang. She took it out. Her mother. Not now, she thought as she slipped it back into the pocket of her velvet coat. I’ll be seeing you soon enough.
The ringtone stopped, to be followed a short time later by a beep announcing a text. Lilli sighed.
Lilli, darling, I’m setting off for the airport soon. So looking forward to seeing you! It’s been ages since we saw each other. Have you grown?
Lilli couldn’t help laughing. What a question! Yes, I have, she thought. I have grown. She texted back. Yes, I’ve grown.
“Two salmon sandwiches, please,” Lilli said to the girl at one of the food counters, “a bottle of water, a slice of chocolate cake, a coffee, and an apple.”
She enjoyed the look of surprise on the girl’s face. She thanked God for her healthy appetite and her even healthier metabolism, which disposed of all she gave it in no time at all. She sat down and ate and drank, satisfying her hunger and thirst.
London Stansted. So. She’d gotten this far. As always, she had given herself up to the inexorable logistics that characterized all airports. The map of the systematic processes had taken her under its spell, but now that she was satiated she waited in the row of seats in front of the gate, and snuggled into the purple velvet of her coat. She realized with a shudder that not everything was as perfectly straightforward as it sometimes—only sometimes—seemed.
Boarding was due to begin in half an hour. In just a few hours, she would be in Munich.
“May I have this seat?”
Lilli nodded without looking up and felt a large man sitting down beside her, filling all the nearby space. She sensed a tall, strong body, visible from the side as merely silhouette, and saw a large pair of shoes next to her own. They astonished her. Her own feet were not small, size 9 as they were, but these . . . these were flippers!
Lilli grinned to herself and felt slightly flushed. That was indeed what they were, flippers. Such huge shoes, at least size 14, probably even 15! Now those were what she called big feet. How sure-footed a man with such big feet must be!
Yes, thought Lilli with deep conviction. Yes. She nodded to herself, unable to take her eyes away from the feet. He must be successful in everything he touched, everything life threw at him—everything. Nothing could affect such a person—not cold, not heat, nothing. A man like that wouldn’t chase around after an elusive scent or seek out security in a purple coat. A man like that carried around his own inner security.
She finally tore her gaze from the giant shoes and the equally large feet and turned toward the man himself as if to ask him something . . . But what? Suddenly, he stood and walked away, leaving her staring after him without so much as a glimpse of his face or knowing anything about him. She merely saw his feet clearly before her, those feet that went through life anchored on solid ground, like mountains, or hills, at least (she mustn’t exaggerate).
Lilli finally closed her mouth, which was still hanging open with her unasked question, the question she could not even form into words, the question that now lay somewhere in the mysterious center of her brain.
Crazy, she thought with a self-satisfied sigh. Boy, am I crazy. But there it is. That’s just how things are sometimes. She grinned just as she heard the announcement that
the flight was delayed for another hour and a half.
2
She’s always been like that, Gertrud thought. She’s had that arrogance since she was a child, and I know who she got it from.
She looked at the clock and then at the arrivals board and then back at the clock.
She could have got in touch, Gertrud thought. Surely she could have sent a quick text from London. I needn’t have rushed if she had.
Ah, well, another hour and a half to go. Lousy delay. I might as well have a coffee.
She turned and wandered around the huge concourse, then sat down in a bistro and ordered a coffee. Oh, Lilli, you little devil. I love you so much. How I’ve missed you. Should I have told you the truth? Has the time finally come?
She stirred her coffee, following the dark swirls with her eyes, and trickled in some sugar. She thought about the events of the last few days. It had been only a week. She’d immediately suspected that the world would be turning differently from then on. Faster. In the wrong direction: backward into the past, where no one wanted to go. Not Gertrud, at least. No way. There was no damn reason for the damned past. But he saw things differently. The man who had suddenly appeared.
“I’m Tonio,” he’d said with a smile. “And you’re Gertrud. Forgive me if I gave you a shock. I know how much I resemble my father.”
Then he came out with some cock-and-bull story about how he had watched her coming down the avenue that led to her house, how he had silently prayed for her to stop. How he had thought, Stop! Wait for me. Turn around! And despite herself, she’d actually stopped. He’d started walking toward her as if drawn by a string.
She shook her head vigorously, bringing her thoughts back to the present, and realized she was shaking. If the recent past could shock her so deeply, how would it be if she delved deeper into the past? She suspected it was bound to happen; it sure as hell was bound to happen.
“Can I get you anything else?”
She looked around, and her gaze fell on the huge clock that hung above the counter. It had gotten late. She’d lost all track of time. The London plane must have arrived by now, and the luggage carousel would be turning.
“No, thanks. I’d like to pay now, please.” She looked at the waiter and noticed he was staring at the table, at her coffee cup.
Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2) Page 1
