It was funny that over the years they had all somehow ended up here: Herz, Borger, even Sonja, her childhood friend from the days by the stream, now the district attorney’s wife.
She and Sonja had never really lost touch, bound to one another like sisters. They had been in London together—Sonja had even stayed on for a second year. She studied languages and became a book translator.
Then, one day, she’d come to visit Franza, and while they were wandering around the town center, they’d bumped into Dr. Brückl, at the time about to launch into his illustrious career in the district attorney’s office. Sonja had said she wanted a coffee and Herr Brückl had said what a coincidence, so did he. So they had all gone into a café, and by the end of it Franza had come to feel slightly superfluous.
Dr. Brückl’s illustrious career had not taken off as he’d intended, and he was still chasing it, but he did find his partner for life—Sonja.
Franza was flabbergasted when Sonja announced she’d fallen head over heels in love, that he was the man she wanted to spend her life with, and that she was more certain of it than she had ever been about anything.
“You want to inflict that career-driven asshole on yourself?” Franza had asked her friend, aghast. Until that moment she had considered the whole thing a superficial dalliance. “You can’t be serious!”
“Don’t say that,” Sonja had begged. “He’s not like that. Not a career-driven asshole. You don’t know him. He didn’t have an easy childhood.”
Franza had rolled her eyes. Didn’t they all say that? Just an excuse for never growing up.
She didn’t voice the thought out loud to Sonja, but apologized for her outburst. She didn’t want to lose her as a friend. Besides, they had created a kind of Austrian enclave, which occasionally did Franza good in her German exile, as she sometimes jokingly called it.
When they were together, which they were often, they spoke in their dialect from back then, enjoying those small, special words that belonged to them alone. They still laughed when anyone tried to imitate them, especially when they failed spectacularly.
Yes, they were something like sisters, she and Sonja, so close. Fortunately they had never crossed swords when it came to their taste in men. Despite having so much in common, they had nevertheless always gone their own ways.
That was something that had obviously gone wrong with Hanna and Gertrud. You could have a sheltered childhood, Franza thought, with loving parents, money, a good education, and still be unable to find happiness, have no sense or gift for it. How sad that was, how painfully sad.
Max’s building came into view. She found a parking space, went to the main entrance, and rang the bell. In the elevator she wondered how everything would turn out with Port and Max. Port was sure to want a commitment sometime in the near future.
She didn’t want to think about it.
Would she become a fixture at Max’s place, perhaps? Or would he at hers? Cozy evenings in front of the TV? Max would make a bacon sandwich, his daily evening treat, and ask: “Do you want one, too?” Or something like that. She’d reply: “No thanks, it’s too late to be eating now.” Or something like that. He’d shrug. “Up to you.” Or something like that.
Then he would settle down on the sofa, switch on the TV, and begin to eat with relish. They would spend a while like that, Franza stealing an envious glance at Max’s slim body that simply refused to put on weight, and at the bacon sandwich, which he sometimes garnished with leeks or radishes or simply salt and pepper. But she would resist. At first. But just when he had almost finished and it was nearly too late, her mouth would finally begin to water and her hands would twitch restlessly. It always ended with Max slapping away her fingers, then giving in with a sigh, standing, and going to make another sandwich, or sometimes two.
There would then be coffee and Franza’s cookies, which were sometimes crunchy, sometimes moist, but always fresh and always perfectly decorated. There was always a moment of doubt as to whether they should be eaten at all, they looked so beautiful. But Franza invariably made sure there were plenty in stock, so they could be eaten without a guilty conscience.
It was no longer love, but friendship, a friendship that had grown from many years of living together. It was a friendship they’d only discovered once their mutual desire had faded and finally been extinguished.
This friendship consisted of TV evenings like that, of the wine they sometimes drank from a shared glass, both of them tired, both exhausted from a long, full day. They lay on the sofa, a movie playing, one of them nodding occasionally or jumping because the other had made a noise. Then they would grin, laugh, say, “Oh, you!” and soon drift back off to sleep.
Their friendship was made up of these little halfhearted phrases, the kind of phrases that belonged to the whole world, but also to them, those phrases such as “Leave it now!” or “Get on with it!” or “Calm down!” or “Get over it!” or “You’re really getting on my nerves!”
It was also made up of moments of hatred, like when Franza stood in front of the mirror, contemplating her hips with a sigh, and he would walk past and comment laconically, “Well now, darling,” which would make her want to hit him.
And it was made up of moments of remembering, the moments when she watched him secretly and remembered everything had been all right once.
It was the kind of friendship that came from being forced to live together “for the sake of the family”—no longer a couple but effectively sharing an apartment like in their student days. The other person’s weaknesses required tolerance—those moments when they still hadn’t showered, when their hair was in morning disarray, when mascara had run from too much crying or too much laughing, when tiredness furrowed their brows, when sadness consumed them and they wanted to capitulate before the harsh opposition of the world.
Each of them knew they could call the other if they needed help and the other would be there—perhaps not always or at all times, but mostly.
Franza had missed Max when she moved out. There had been those brief, empty moments of missing him, times when she had been about to turn round and call “Max!” and then realized he was no longer there. She would wonder as she stared into empty space whether she was in fact going crazy. Now that she was finally free of married life, how could she be missing her husband? After all, there had been many times when she’d wished him on the dark side of the moon. Not only the moon, but on Pluto at the farthest extent of its orbit. She suspected there were times when Max felt the same way.
Franza sensed that the time had come to take a further step, to create a little more distance from one another and from the things that had bound them, in order to finally gain her freedom. But those few last steps still seemed a ways off, and they seemed to give her a sympathetic smile, as if to say, “Well, come on! Take me! You still haven’t taken me!”
Franza shook her head at the remarkable image that had popped into her brain, pushed it aside, and stepped out of the elevator. She did wonder whether going to his house was right, especially considering Max’s behavior in the theater tavern only two weeks ago—but hunger had gotten the better of her.
The apartment door was open.
“Hi!” Franza called. “It’s me!”
She closed the door behind her.
“Come in,” he called. “I’m in the kitchen!”
“OK, on my way.”
He had raided the fridge and produced cheese, sausage, tomatoes, gherkins, eggs. Bread was already sliced into a little basket. No bacon today. He was standing at the table, laying out plates and cutlery. She watched him. He was tall and still slim, but his hair was thinning and gray and his shoulders stooped slightly. He fought against it, against gravity, against the pitfalls of aging that were irrevocably setting in. Not only for him, thought Franza wistfully. It happens to us all.
“Hello,” he said, turning. “Everything OK?”
How amicable they were with one another these days. How relaxed and civilized. Friends. And y
et it was clear to her that this was a fragile friendship.
What was that word that so perfectly described the vagueness between feeling and reason? Between that feeling in your belly and what your head told you?
Conflicting?
Yes, that was it. Who had said it? Frau Brendler? Conflicting.
Always. Everywhere. Everything.
Franza thought of the fights they’d had during their gradual breakup—those desperate attempts to find anything that might still hold the love of their early years.
They had been wild, those arguments, unpredictable, flaring up suddenly, flames that little by little burned up all they had had in common, including their feelings for each other. Despite all that, they had somehow managed to keep something, and she was proud of that.
She touched his back briefly. “Well,” she said. “You know what it’s like. A new case.”
He nodded, didn’t ask. He had never wanted to hear about the murders or the acts of violence that made up such a large part of her life.
“Wine?” he asked.
“I’d prefer beer.”
They sat in his kitchen, ate, drank, talked about Ben.
Later it was coffee and the cookies that she still called kekse in deference to her Austrian roots, to the homeland she still missed in occasional unexpected moments. Then she would go down to the Danube, allowing her thoughts to be carried away downstream, leaving her feeling calm.
“Where’s your sweetheart tonight?” Max asked as he stuffed another gingerbread cookie into his mouth.
“Show,” she said.
“Vienna?”
“In a few days.”
He nodded, and then grinned. “Do you remember how we met?”
“Of course I remember. It’s not the kind of thing you forget. Baking cookies. I had dough in my hair. You tugged it out for me.”
“That’s it,” he said. “Baking cookies. Your second passion.”
She had to laugh. “What’s my first, then?”
“Chasing after murderers.”
“Ah,” she said, a little disappointed. “And my third?”
“Ben.”
“Ah,” she said again. “And my—?”
“Men,” he interrupted, smiling at her, enigmatic, wily. She looked him in the eye for a beat too long.
“Time for some wine now?” he asked.
She nodded.
“I sometimes think you might be lonely,” he said as he returned with the wine and glasses. “More alone than before.”
She chuckled and repeated his words. “More alone than before. Did you just make that up?”
He shrugged, smiled, and looked embarrassed, to Franza’s amazement.
“Possibly,” he said. “For you. It seemed appropriate.”
“I’m not alone. Not even more alone than before.”
“Then I must have been mistaken.”
They fell silent, suddenly unable to think of what to say, merely sitting together wordlessly. Eventually she began to talk about Lilli. Then the wine bottle was empty, and she craved a cigarette.
“Since when have I been able to talk to you about something like this?” she asked as they sat outside on the balcony, puffing away. He shrugged.
“You always could.”
She laughed out loud. “Wow,” she said. “You haven’t lost your touch for twisting the facts!”
He laughed, too. “Ah well,” he said. “It was just that you obviously needed someone to listen to you today, so I did.”
“Today?” she asked, thunderstruck. “I needed it today? And I never did before?”
“No, not before. Normally you’re completely in control of things. You don’t always need someone to listen.”
“Oh,” she said, still amazed. “That’s very interesting. Is it something you’ve known for long?”
“Forever,” he replied, looking at her. She let him. Silence like twilight, like a red light in the sky, like . . .
“I sometimes consider the eventuality . . .” Max finally broke the silence.
“The eventuality?”
“Of sleeping with you again.”
He said it carefully, adding that he was afraid she’d take it the wrong way. After all, she was in a relationship. And her lover was a good-looking man. And probably a virile one too, considering his youth. And Max really didn’t know if he could live up to him, but was it possible? With the lover soon disappearing over the horizon . . . Well, only for a few weeks and perhaps not over the horizon, but heading in that direction. Quite a distance away. If you thought about it.
She began to laugh. “Max, you’re out of your mind!”
“Yes,” he said, “it’s possible. I’m out of my mind. I’m going a bit out of my mind with all these thoughts.”
She was speechless. But she’d sensed it, deep down.
“Max, I . . .” she began, but he shook his head.
She sat in silence, looking up at the moon, that semicircle shining like neon.
He eventually continued. Lover-boy would be gone for a while. Think about it. Him. Yes. If he was being honest. About the eventuality. He’d been afraid of saying it to her, but now it was out, now the words were spoken. He was fed up with his life as it was, lonely, cold. Fed up with the female students the university sent him for internships, who knew nothing of life and nothing of love. They had certain abilities, sure, their hair shining, their lips smooth, their spirits gentle and unsullied and free from any corruption, and that was a good thing. She shouldn’t misunderstand him—it was good; as things should be.
He paused, breathed deeply, ran his fingers through her hair, and continued speaking softly, saying he wanted to feel love again, deep in his bones. He might not be the smartest man in the world, but he understood things, and when he closed his eyes . . . When he did that, and he did it often, then he saw his life before him and he saw her in it—Franza.
She closed her eyes and shook her head imperceptibly.
“Don’t say anything right now,” he said. “That’s not what I intended, you’ve got to believe that. I didn’t intend to say all that to you, it just happened.”
And then he continued, talking about how he wanted to make being alone more bearable for her, even though he now knew that she was not alone. They both knew that it was about him, Max, about his solitude, his loneliness.
He had never before in his life been so open, so damned open. Not even to himself. And he would love to see her regularly, and eat half her evening meal. Because she would surely regret it the following day if she ate it all herself. And then she’d stand in front of the mirror, overcritical of herself. Not that he thought she should. No, on the contrary. He had not forgotten her hips. How beautiful they were. Soft and lovely. And beautiful.
She held the glass in one hand and her cigarette in the other. It had burned out without her smoking it. She crushed it into the ashtray, set the glass carefully down on the table, and breathed deeply.
“I’m sorry,” Max said. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t meant to turn into a confession.”
“We drank too much,” she said.
He nodded. “Yes, we certainly did.”
“People say things like that when they drink too much.”
“Yes, they do.”
She turned to him, looked him in the eye, the faint light falling on them from the living room. She placed her hand on his cheek and looked at him.
“Max,” she said. “Oh, Max.”
No, she didn’t hold anything against him. Not now. Perhaps tomorrow, but not yet. Maybe tomorrow.
No, this eventuality was not an eventuality. Perhaps there was the tiniest possibility—an extremely tiny one. An extremely teeny, tiny one. But probably not. Or only in the moment. A moment when they had emptied a bottle of wine, no, perhaps even two, and smoked a pack of cigarettes and it was already so late, so damned late, probably already tomorrow, not today anymore.
What would she think about it tomorrow—or even today . . .
�
�Let’s see,” she said. “But probably not. Better not.”
He moved toward her. She shook her head, but let him. He slipped his hand beneath her sweater, beneath her bra, and laid it on her left breast—he had always had a weakness for the left. His hand was warm and soft and as Franza remembered.
“Still the right size,” he said, trying to make light of it. “Still as if made for me.”
She smiled. “What you’re doing there, it’s . . .”
“I know,” he whispered, burying his nose in her hair. “But it’s so familiar.” Yes, she thought. Familiar, so familiar.
“I have a lover,” she whispered. “A boyfriend, a partner.” She shook her head.
“I know,” he whispered. “Of course I know. And I hate it.”
She thought of Port and the fact he would be spending those few weeks in Vienna and what things would be like afterward, and she suddenly felt . . . that she was a little alone after all, more alone than before.
“Will you come to bed with me?” Max whispered. “Can we just lie together for a while?”
She thought about it, and thought about it some more, and then, her limbs heavy from the wine, she shook her head and nodded despite herself. They went into the bedroom, left the light off, undressed, slipped between the sheets.
They embraced, held each other tight, remembering how it used to be, before. For a moment Franza almost regretted it . . . but then . . .
“You’ve put on a tiny bit of weight,” she said quietly, amazed, teasing. “A tiny, tiny bit. It makes you . . . almost soft, cuddly.”
“Oh, well,” he said awkwardly, but clearly delighted. “Time doesn’t stand still. But you, Franza, you’re beautiful.”
She laughed a little sadly.
“Oh, get away,” she said. “I’m not beautiful. We’re all approaching our fifties.” And it occurred to him that it would be her birthday in a few weeks.
“When I look at myself,” she said in a slightly steely voice, “and I think of certain faces I remember from the old days and then see them after ten years or more, and I notice how they’ve changed, it scares me. It scares me so much. And then I imagine my own face, how it would look to me if I hadn’t seen it for ten years, if I were seeing it for the first time in ten years.”
Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2) Page 16
