“But you haven’t even . . .” He indicated the coffee that stood untouched, getting cold since he’d brought it to her. She waved him away, pressing a five-euro bill into his hand. She left without waiting for the customary polite protestation. He stared after her, shaking his head, eyebrows raised.
As she dived into the tumult of arriving and departing passengers and those waiting to meet them or see them off, the jumble of voices blended into a monotonous hum. Now I’m late, she thought, and had to grin. Now she’ll be the one waiting for me with disapproval all over her face. I’ll take her into my arms and press her to me. I’ll feel her resist at first and then gradually relax.
Yes, Gertrud was late. Slightly. Lilli was already through the barrier, standing there waiting. Her stubborn little girl. She had grown. Grown up. Elegant. Gertrud was amazed. How beautiful she is, she thought. Why didn’t I ever notice that?
“Mama,” Lilli said. “Hello, Mama!” She allowed herself to be hugged, and Gertrud noticed that she had warmed toward her a little.
3
Gertrud stood on the terrace, a last glass of wine in her hand. The children were in bed; Moritz had been asleep for two hours, and Lilli had just gone. Christian was loading the dishwasher. She heard him banging around and thought of the meal and the relaxed atmosphere they’d enjoyed. Their little boy had quickly become tired, and after he’d clung to Lilli, wheedling a promise from her that she’d still be there in the morning, his father had managed to persuade him up to bed.
“I’ve missed him,” Lilli had said quietly, with a smile.
Gertrud nodded. “He’s a little treasure, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Lilli said. “Yes, he is.”
A light breeze blew up, carrying the scent of ripe damsons. Lilli smiled. “Damson jelly? Like every year?”
Gertrud smiled, too. “Of course,” she said. “You can’t just leave the fruit to rot.”
“No,” said Lilli. “You can’t. Can I help you? In return for a few jars?”
“Oh yes, that would be lovely! Of course you’ll get some.” They were silent for a moment, then she added, “Will you be staying here awhile?”
“No,” said Lilli, “I want to go home tomorrow.”
Gertrud felt a pang of regret. “But I could take care of your laundry for you. You could relax and have some peace and quiet to settle back in.”
“No.”
“But you—”
Lilli shook her head, cutting her off. No discussion. There was a brief pause.
“I went to her exhibition,” she said finally, and waited for Gertrud to freeze, to coolly arm herself as she always did when the name Hanna was mentioned, although that was hardly ever. It was a taboo, a red-hot coal no one touched. No one ever spoke about Hanna, no one. The photo on her grandparents’ living room wall was the only evidence that she’d ever been part of the family.
This time Gertrud didn’t freeze. She took a sip of wine and looked at her daughter wearily. “Well? Are they nice, her photos? Did you like them?”
“Yes,” Lilli answered in surprise. “Yes, they’re wonderful!” She hoped Gertrud would say more, but she didn’t. She merely stared out into the darkness of the garden.
“Mama,” Lilli said, tentatively touching her arm. “Mama!”
Gertrud shook her head. “No!” She heard the vehemence of her own voice. “No, don’t ask me. I can’t tell you anything. Maybe someday, maybe . . .”
She trailed off. Lilli nodded, stroked Gertrud’s arm, stayed silent.
Hanna, Gertrud thought, always Hanna. She began to shiver in the darkness of the terrace.
“Maybe I’ll shut up shop and fly out to Greece for a few days,” she said. “It would be a good time to do that. Could you look after Moritz while Christian’s at work?”
“Sure,” Lilli said.
Christian came back out and refilled their wine glasses. Lilli told them about London, and time passed. Gertrud now found herself standing alone on the terrace with her last glass of wine, waiting for Christian to come up behind her and embrace her, waiting for him to trace the lines of her neck with his lips. She would give him a gentle shake and say, It’s late. I’m tired. And she would leave without turning back, knowing that he was standing there with drooping shoulders and a resigned expression, wishing she were on the moon or in hell or wherever.
She shrugged. There was nothing she could do about it. It was as it was. And now Tonio had come back. For some mysterious, crazy reason he was back in her life, and somehow also in Lilli’s and probably also in Hanna’s. Which would mean that Hanna was also in Gertrud’s life.
He had just approached her on one of the last mild evenings in August, when the fall was starting to make itself felt in the air. She had been walking down the avenue toward home, wearing a dress of copper and stone, the bronzed moons of her breasts swaying to the rhythm of her steps, black-red shadows falling from the canopy of the maples—a harmonious picture, precious and rare.
He’d told her he started walking toward her as if drawn by a string, silently praying for her to stop. He’d thought, Stop! Wait for me. Turn around!
And then she actually had stopped. She’d turned her face to the light, closed her eyes, and taken a deep breath, breathing in that early hint of fall, amazed by the moment of joy and peace.
“How strange,” he said, touching her arm lightly. “In my thoughts I asked you to stop. And now you really have.”
He grinned, embarrassed and nervous, cleared his throat. “I must have powers of hypnotism.”
She stared at him, shaking her head slightly.
“What . . . ?” she said, faltering, taking a step back. He seemed to enjoy her bewilderment and shock.
“I know I resemble my late father.” He looked a little remorseful. “Maybe I should have warned you so I wouldn’t have given you such a fright.”
She stared into his face, his eyes, taking in his hair and his clothes. This was no ghost, no illusion—different from her memories, but even so . . .
His father?
She felt her blood run cold and saw her past open up before her, a gaping abyss.
“Can I take you for a coffee? Or would you prefer tea? Perhaps a glass of wine?”
He talked away in embarrassment, his breath close to her face. What insolence, she thought. What insolence!
His lack of respect for her space irritated her, made her angry. She took a step back, shook her head silently, and stared with fascination at that remarkably familiar face.
It can’t be true, she thought. She stared fixedly at his mouth, the lines of his cheeks, the gray of his eyes. The familiarity was almost enough to choke her.
“Who are you?” she asked breathlessly. “Who are you?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, gnawing nervously on his lip before finally giving her his first name and surname. She only remembered the first name. She’d never heard the surname, but his first name shocked her afresh. It was clear that it was no coincidence that he was there for her, for Hanna, for the distant past.
“Like my father,” he said, and she finally sensed the way he shifted with embarrassment. She thought, Like his father. What an idiot—can’t he see it’s obvious?
“You knew him, didn’t you?” he asked, hoping for her assent.
She shook her head hastily, cleared her throat, and said, “No.”
It’s not possible, she thought again and again, shaking her head. But she could handle it, or at least do her best to.
“No,” she said, louder than necessary. “Leave me in peace. Stop bothering me!”
She turned away.
“Please,” he said. “Don’t just go! Let me explain! Please!”
But she had already walked away. He followed her and pressed a piece of paper into her hand.
“My cell phone number. I’d really like . . . Please call me. Please! In a few days, a week. Whenever you want to!”
She stared at him and then at the note in her hand and then back at him,
before finally leaving him standing there. At home she got out the old photos. She was alone. Christian was visiting friends and Moritz in bed. It was one of the last warm nights of the year, the summer on the wane. She wasn’t happy about it. Perhaps she suspected that . . . No. She suspected nothing. There was nothing to suspect.
She stared at the photos: Hanna, Tonio, herself. How young we were, she thought. How young. She felt a slight longing for those days.
So, Tonio. Tonio again. With a dull taste in her mouth, she went to the window and leaned out into the night. She felt a churning in her stomach. Shit, she thought. Shit. But it was already too late.
Later, she lay helpless on the sofa, finally coming to terms in her heart and her head with what was logical and obvious. He had spoken of his father, his dead father, mixing the past with the present in such a way that nothing felt right.
So he deceived us, she thought. He deceived us, the bastard. Hanna more than anyone, but also me somehow. He fucked around with others, who knows with how many, and had a son, who knows how many, and he even gave him his name.
This boy is not coming into my happy life, she thought, feeling helpless that he had casually appeared as if it were nothing. He’ll ruin everything.
She jumped up, went back over to the window, and looked out into the night. The darkness was soft, like down. There was nothing to get hold of.
Ah, well, she thought finally as she calmed down. Ah, well, if that’s how it’s to be. Time seemed to stand still for a fraction of a second and she turned . . . backbackback . . . backthenbackthenbackthen . . .
4
Twenty pounds! Franza groaned. Twenty damned pounds! Twenty stupid pounds!
They simply didn’t fit. If only the weight would vanish. Just like that, without fuss, like the snow in spring. Why couldn’t it be like that for her?
Franza sighed and then smiled. She was stuck in a ridiculously cramped dressing room. That in itself was bearable when absolutely necessary. But what was so much worse was that she was stuffed into the jeans. And that . . . that was unbearable. Or difficult, at least. She could just manage by holding her breath and pulling her stomach in.
Or like raspberry ice cream in the sun, she thought, daydreaming a little. You lie down in a sunbeam, and soon you begin to melt. After twenty pounds have gone, you’re done and you stand up, take a deep breath, shake yourself off, and make sure everything’s still in the right place. Double-check your bust, your stomach, your backside are right where they should be. And then you go into that boutique and the sales assistant doesn’t give you a pitying smile because you’ve arrived twenty pounds too soon. She smiles sincerely and warmly because she knows that the jeans, those stupid jeans, will cling to you like a second skin and that they’ll be just perfect for the right shirt, the right blouse, or perhaps even the right jacket—that crazily expensive jacket that’s hanging out front in the display window. She’ll know she’s going to make an amazing sale.
Franza grinned and slowly released her belly muscles, relaxing. She was amazed to find that somehow it was working.
“Do they fit?”
The shrill, squeaky voice rang into the cubicle, and Franza noted its shrillness with satisfaction. At least that’s fair, she thought. At least this Barbie girl has a squeaky voice.
“I’m still not sure,” she said, pushing the cubicle curtain aside and taking a few steps out. Away from the mirror, the world already looked a bit different, a bit better. Ah, well, she thought, it’s not so bad, they’re only one size too small. Two weeks’ starvation and they’ll fit as if made for me. And a few gym sessions.
She closed her eyes with a sigh.
Well, sex, perhaps. Hot, wild sex. She preferred that to the gym. Much preferred it. After all, life was there to be enjoyed, in all its facets. She thought of Port, such a good lay. She wanted him even then. She longed for him to be there, tearing those damned jeans from her flesh. Then she thought of how he was at an audition right then and in the evening had a monster production. He wouldn’t be available until late that night, and then he’d be tired, incredibly tired . . . perhaps the gym was the better option after all.
With a sigh she thought of the fresh-baked cookies in a tin in her bag. She knew their scent would leap out as soon as she removed the lid. Felix and Arthur will be happy, she thought as she twirled back and forth in front of the mirror.
“Excuse me. That jacket in the window, that light-brown leather jacket—I’d like to try that on.”
The sales assistant coughed politely.
“I’m very sorry,” she said, “but I’m afraid we don’t have it in your size.”
Franza turned and looked her in the eye with her best Detective Inspector expression. Even as she did so, she feared it would make no difference.
“You’re afraid you don’t?” she said. “Would you mind taking a look?”
“Yes, if you like,” said the assistant with an almost imperceptible sigh. “I’ll gladly take a look.”
She went on a search for the right size.
Stupid cow, Franza thought. There are plenty of women like me! Her size wasn’t really all that excessive.
“You’re losing it, Franza,” she muttered. “What are you doing in a boutique like this?”
She had not had any particular plans—just a little shopping expedition to buy some of that delicious pasta they stocked at the delicatessen on the corner. Nothing was happening at the station. She had to make the most of it. It didn’t happen very often, and she was accruing overtime like the dust bunnies in her living room.
Yes, she had time, so much lovely time, so she’d wandered through the mall from store to store, up the escalator, past the windows until that jacket had suddenly appeared before her—the leather jacket she’d just discovered they didn’t have in her size. The light-brown marvel had smiled at her, calling her in through the door, and that was why she had squeezed herself into the jeans, as she had no intention of trying on the jacket in her old baggy pants.
Enough already. She went back into the cubicle, sat down on the stool, carefully unzipped the jeans—her stomach enjoying its newly regained freedom—and waited for the assistant to return. Perhaps she had found something after all. But Madam was taking her time.
Fair enough, Franza thought. She took the opportunity to peep out and look around unseen. There were few people in the store, which was hardly surprising given the prices. The store sold jewelry, perfume, and shoes, as well as clothes. Everything was arranged in tastefully minimalist quantities in prominent positions. Boredom gradually set in, and Franza wondered what the assistant was doing—polishing her nails, picking her nose, catching up with a thousand friends on Facebook?
Suddenly, the door opened, and a young woman entered and looked around. Wow, Franza thought. Stylish. Sweet girl. Purple velvet coat, over-the-knee boots, hair neatly pinned, an intelligent, direct gaze.
I know her from somewhere, Franza thought. Where do I know her from? She ran through criminal records in her mind’s eye and then reprimanded herself with a shake of her head and a faint smile. Idiot. What would a young woman like this be doing among that set of hardened criminals?
Although . . . Franza continued to watch her in amazement, becoming more uneasy as the seconds went by. The young woman suddenly seemed to be full of desire; the velvet of her coat almost glowed with anticipation. She was practically sniffing the air, carefully turning her head from side to side to sense any lurking danger. Franza quickly ducked out of her line of sight.
It was the small, delicate, sparkling bottles of perfume that had caught the girl’s eye. Franza saw her hand hover above the bottles for a drawn-out moment before her fingers closed in. A final quick glance around the store seemed to give the girl confidence, and the bottle vanished into the depths of her purse.
Franza sat on the stool, a little shocked, a little amused, a little amazed. She had caught a little shoplifter—a little kleptomaniac, in fact. The way she’d behaved indicated both a comp
ulsion and that it was a repeated act. Yes, Franza thought, repetition, compulsion.
Franza heard the sound of the door. The girl had gone just as she came, silently, unobtrusively. The assistant, on the other hand, was still nowhere to be seen. It was as if she knew the police were on the premises.
OK, Franza thought, and jumped up. Let’s get to it. Let’s do our duty. She felt her instincts awaken, wild and predatory. She rushed out after the girl, through the door and out into the mall. As she ran, she heard the assistant yelling after her, “Hey, what are you doing?” Franza was wearing an expensive pair of designer jeans, and the assistant couldn’t help the fact they didn’t have the jacket in her size. If she didn’t come back immediately, she’d call the police.
As if the little thief had also heard the shrill voice, she turned and saw Franza approaching. Recognizing the danger, predator against predator, she broke into a sprint toward the escalator, toward the exit, toward safety. Despite the high-heeled boots, the girl was fast, incredibly fast. Franza suddenly realized that she was not wearing boots, not even shoes, nothing. She had nothing on her feet except a pair of thin cotton socks, her shoes still lying next to her purse on the floor of the dressing room. For a brief moment Franza felt embarrassed and hesitated. As though her embarrassment had transferred to the young woman, she, too, faltered and turned around. She glanced at Franza’s stockinged feet and slowed. The escalator came into view, and they hurled themselves onto it. Franza felt the ribbed step digging into the soles of her feet and realized how ridiculous she must look, chasing after a girl in her stockinged feet, the fly of her jeans open.
What an idiot, she thought and stopped and bent over, her hands on her knees. Why do I get involved in things that don’t concern me? A young madwoman lifts perfume from a stupid, totally overpriced store. Can’t I just let it go?
She took a deep breath, raised her eyes, and looked ahead. The young woman was standing twenty yards away at the entrance to the shopping mall, looking at her. Franza shook her head and gasped for breath. Is she crazy? she thought as she began to run again. Is she crazy? Surely she isn’t waiting for me!
Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2) Page 2
