Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2)

by Gabi Kreslehner

  . . . i want to taste your skin and your thoughts . . . alien two wrote . . . i want your trail to interweave with mine . . .

  Franza jumped and at the same time felt overcome by an incredible sweetness, suddenly there on her computer screen, but then she recalled Lilli and the diary.

  . . . i’m sorry . . . she wrote . . . i’m not really with it—as i said, things aren’t easy right now, i’ve got a whole load of unfinished business around me, nothing’s easy, sorry . . .

  . . . i know . . . he wrote, . . . as i said, i know. i’d like to meet you. now. right now, i’ll wait for you . . .

  He named a bar that she knew; she went there now and again, formerly with Max, now sometimes with Port, sometimes even with Sonja. Her heart missed a beat because he was being bold and she didn’t feel bold, and what did bold matter anyway. She didn’t need any more unfinished business.

  . . . i’ll wait for you . . . he wrote again, . . . i’m wearing a dark blue jacket, sitting at the bar, drinking a glass of red wine. i’ll wait for you for precisely an hour and a half . . .

  Then he was gone, logged out, no reply possible. She sat in front of the PC like a wet kitten, shocked, shaky. Her eyes wide-open, she shook her head.

  “What a madman,” she muttered to herself. “What a crazy madman!”

  She glanced at the clock. An hour and a half. What if . . .

  No! She shook her head determinedly. No! She went slowly into the bathroom, slowly.

  Hanna’s copper hair will warm him, Gertrud had written in the red diary. Franza thought about that as she stared into the mirror, as she wondered whether she should perhaps, maybe, possibly . . . get ready for the interweaving of the trails.

  She wondered what else alien two was thinking and what his skin tasted of. She wondered whether it tasted good or not, and whether she really wanted to taste it at all.

  A prickling feeling settled in her stomach, and she wondered whether he had another name and whether she really wanted to know it. Whether he had a face and whether she really wanted to see it, or whether it might be better . . . to stay in their alien world with their alien names and alien faces—whether that might not be so, so much better.

  Hanna’s copper hair had not warmed Tonio, Franza was quite sure of that. When the water got into you, nothing could ever warm you again. Everything was cold and clammy, and your blood froze in your heart.

  My heart, Franza thought. I ought to protect my own heart a little. It’s very vulnerable as it is. She looked thoughtfully into her eyes in the mirror, and decided to leave alien two in the alien world. Shaking her head over the incredible silliness of the names, she settled down on the couch to read Gertrud’s diary.

  Poking about in the realm of his life, Gertrud had written a little pathetically, everything becomes less clear and more involuntary. Big Sea, you’re my friend, my accomplice, my partner. She wrote that the water was like blue-black ink, like oil, a soft death perhaps, caused by the penetration of a little oil. That was a comfort, the only one.

  Then there was the phrase on the voice mail and the phrase in the red book, the last one Gertrud wrote, faded a little over more than twenty years. I’ve done something dreadful.

  No, Franza thought, I don’t want to read any more, I can’t read any more. Why can’t I sleep?

  She looked at the clock. Half an hour left—enough time. It would be tight, but there was enough.

  She leapt up as if she’d been stung. Jacket, shoes—nice shoes. I must be mad, she thought. Car keys. I’m out of my head, but I can’t sleep anyway, so what the heck. I’m out of my head, but that’s life.

  76

  I come to the river every morning. Even though I come quietly, the birds hear me, rise up, and disappear into the mist, which still hangs thickly over the water. But I know the light will soon be here. When the birds fly off, they fly into this light. When I stand there and watch them go, I feel dizzy, as the mist has diffused all the contours and merged the sky and the water, leaving no trace—nothing to hold on to, no anchor, nothing, only the waterline. It holds me morning after morning, lapping at my feet with a quiet smacking sound. But I don’t feel it. I’m drifting up, into the mist, into the white wall over the water. Everything loses itself—no orientation, no more knowing.

  But somewhere at the limits of the mist, somewhere high above, the sun breaks through, a white disk with a pale light. It has so little strength, and that seems . . . familiar to me. That’s why I love this sun, for the strength it lacks, for the light that doesn’t catch anywhere.

  I understand it; it’s familiar to me. I understand it so well, so well. And so I spend morning after morning at the edge here. Ships sound their blaring foghorns as they pass, but even they are made small by the white thickness of this mist. In the background are the cries of the Danube gulls, dipping and weaving on light wings through the fleecy clouds of the mist, while fishermen let their lines whir into the water with a sound like pea whistles.

  Yes, I’m drawn again and again to this boundary, lured by the river and the fog, where everything is indeterminate, vague, aimless. Here I can see Tonio sometimes—Gertrud too. They stand and wave me over, but I know they are nothing but hallucinations. When I’ve looked at them for long enough, I turn and look at the water meadows, the footprints in the sand. Back to reality.

  What happened, happened. They go. Tonio. Gertrud. They go, lose their shapes, dissolve. It’s the mist that causes it, covering them with its flurries, and then . . . It’s a good thing that they go. It’s time.

  77

  Blackmail, then. He had been seen. It didn’t matter. It was all over, anyway. But he simply couldn’t let her carry on any longer.

  For two days he had been suffering nosebleeds. At first he had lain down and the blood flowed down into his throat, back into his body, and he had swallowed and swallowed, but then he had to cough, and saliva mixed with blood sprayed from his mouth, soaking the pillowcase with drops of his carelessness, his helplessness, his anger. Afterward, he had been enraged by the mess and thrown the pillowcases in the trash.

  The next time his nose bled, he’d immediately bent over the sink in the bathroom, staring down at the bright red stream splashing up in a thousand tiny droplets.

  “I’ll tell her everything, and then she’ll destroy you, your sacred Hanna,” she had spat angrily into his face.

  “And you?” he had asked. “Don’t you have just as much to lose?”

  “Me?” She’d laughed hysterically. “I’m already destroyed. I’ve already lost everything.”

  Then it happened.

  In the giddiness of the evening light, he wanted to cry for her. He hoped for rain, to split the light into cold streaks. He wanted to cry for her in a cathedral, in the dim light of the candles as the faithful walked slowly and softly up and down the nave. The smell of incense would mix with the clammy scent of moisture evaporating from damp clothes. There would be the occasional raised voice, the occasional foreign language.

  Oh, Gertrud, he had thought, as he’d stared into her silence. One second, he’d thought, shivering in the cold that had suddenly radiated from her, give me one second to pull myself together. The eyes must be closed, he had thought. Oh, Gertrud. He’d done it for her. You were my Gertrud, too.

  She had been beside herself when he arrived, cursing him, attacking him, saying she would bring it all out into the open, unerring and clear as cellophane.

  It had gotten to be too much. He’d lost it. Cried out like a cornered animal. As if his life depended on it. As if he didn’t know that it was not about him, but about her—her life. He’d felt a heat rising in him, an anger, a despair. The knife suddenly in his hand. Amazement on both their faces.

  He had no idea how it had gotten into his hand. It felt cool and real, and he himself was cool, calm, and clearheaded. Only a brief second’s hesitation. A tiny moment. He saw the fear in her eyes as she began to sense that he was prepared to do it, that it wouldn’t cost him anything anymore, only the
slightest effort. She began to tremble.

  “No,” she said. “You can’t do that. It’s me. Me!”

  He said nothing. He looked into her eyes, and their glint became powerful, growing to a storm, which welled up and beyond her and finally . . . finally . . . settled into stillness. He stabbed. She fell to the floor and lay stretched out, dying on the tiles in the kitchen.

  She heard the blade as it clattered to the floor. Perhaps she heard a low tone in the air, and then she heard nothing more. No gasping, no moaning. Nothing. Death swallowed all her sounds, made her quiet, made her calm, made her still.

  He froze—everything seared firmly into his brain forever. Her fall, her astonishment, her voice as she said, “Don’t go. Don’t leave me here like this, please.” Her hand, that bitter white, her tearless dying that she perceived in amazement. No comma any more. Period.

  Now he would wait. He would do no more. Only wait until they came. They would come.

  78

  That night Tonio had once again settled down to lie in wait. It had become a bit of an obsession. He knew he had to get a grip on himself, but he allowed himself this fixation about her life. What he was doing wasn’t that bad. There were worse things.

  All she had to do was tell him her side of the story, her version of his father’s death, and then he’d disappear, leave her in peace again. Then he’d be off in pursuit of the other one.

  Yes, he had settled down to wait. He had seen it all. Now he wanted to get some capital from it.

  It had been like Grand Central Station around there. It had begun in the afternoon, when she had suddenly appeared, the red-haired one, the one with the letters, the one from the newspaper photo—Hanna.

  He had been perplexed, hadn’t expected it. Didn’t she live a world away, in France? What a story, he thought, and had to fight hard to stop himself from shouting for joy. What total madness. His letter—or rather his father’s letter—had had such an effect.

  He shook his head in amazement. What a story he’d set in motion, what a crazy train of events!

  He’d had to look at her twice to make sure it really was Hanna. Her long hair was gone, her long red hair from the photos of her youth and from the paper.

  A pity, Tonio thought. A real pity. She had been so unique, distinctive. She’d impressed him with a wistful beauty that he was unable to describe.

  So, she had short hair now. He had to admit he was disappointed. She was one of the images he liked to play with in his mind. They shouldn’t just go out and experiment on their own. He wanted them to conform to the way he wanted them.

  Ah well, he couldn’t control everything. He continued watching.

  They did what women always do: sat in the garden and talked.

  From his hill he could see them well with his binoculars, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. He didn’t dare to go any nearer. Maybe later, he decided, when it had gotten dark. He had to stick it out here, even as it got cold in the darkness. He hadn’t brought a jacket, and he began to shiver.

  Time passed slowly. The women talked and talked, and eventually went into the house. He scanned round to the kitchen and had them in his sights again. They were cooking—at least he saw Gertrud stirring something in a large pan.

  Time went by. Nothing happened.

  Why do women always have to chatter on? he thought. Are you telling each other stories from the old days? You should be telling those to me!

  He moved nearer in the darkness.

  He slipped down from the hill, toward the garden. The gate was still unlocked; it was simple. He crept toward the terrace, from which he knew he would have a good view into the kitchen, and the living room. This was not the first time he had been here. He’d already sounded it out a little. Perhaps there would be windows open or doors, and then he could hear, too . . .

  But, nothing, nada, zilch, no windows open, no door.

  Shit, he thought. Shit, just my luck!

  So . . . what now?

  Silence? No more stories?

  No more stories . . . Gertrud lay her hand over Hanna’s, and Hanna allowed herself to be led out of the room and up the stairs.

  Yay, Tonio thought, out on the terrace, raising his eyebrows in surprise. Yay, yay, yay—new developments?

  He listened. Nothing to hear from upstairs. Time passed, but not too much. He had no idea what was happening, what it all meant. He wondered if it made sense to stick around. He’d just decided it made no sense to stay, when . . .

  . . . a car pulled up the drive and Christian Rabinsky got out, the husband. Apparently in a good mood, whistling a little tune, he unlocked the door, went into the house, and up the stairs . . .

  Out on the terrace, Tonio held his breath . . .

  Then . . . Noise. Shouting. Footsteps on the stairs—hurried footsteps. Followed by others. Christian hurtled through the kitchen to the sink, poured himself a glass of water, swallowed it down, tore the window open, and held his face out to the cool darkness. Scraps of words were heard in the background.

  “. . . you don’t understand . . . complicated . . .”

  Gertrud entered the kitchen, ran to Christian. He grabbed her hands, wanted to hold her tight, but she yelled that she was going. With Hanna. Her mind was made up. Something like that.

  Then Hanna. Who turned it all around: “Don’t send him away.” She said that they were only sisters.

  Then Gertrud flipped. Set on her husband, attacked him, shouted. She went crazy, lashing out, scratching. Hanna held her back, Gertrud collapsed, tears. Christian left the house and raced out of the drive, gravel spraying.

  Silence in the house, silence on the terrace. Tonio, behind a bush, held his breath.

  And then there was Gertrud’s monologue. This heap of incredibly tragic knowledge, infinite guilt, that she painstakingly released from inside herself and dumped before Hanna as if before a judge, as if seeking absolution.

  But Hanna gave no absolution. Hanna left.

  Gertrud stayed. Destroyed. Her world in ruins. Heart broken in pieces. Everything.

  The doorbell rang again. And Gertrud jumped up, full of delight, thinking it was Hanna. Still hoping for absolution, for a second chance, a second life.

  But it wasn’t Hanna.

  Tonio had never seen the visitor before. But Gertrud seemed to know him well. Gertrud let him in, without a hint of surprise. Let him in to her kitchen. She appeared to be unafraid, to have no hint of doubt. As if it were perfectly normal for him to come to her house at that time of night—as if it were a daily ritual.

  79

  It was as if it were normal for him to come to her house at that time of night, as if it were normal for him to bring death with him. Because he did bring death. Not immediately. Not right away. He probably didn’t even know it when he arrived. He was probably as surprised by the dreadful sequence of events, the awful dynamics of all the decisions that followed, as Tonio out on the terrace, as Gertrud.

  It looked like a peaceful visit. They sat across from one another at the table, talking quietly. Tonio couldn’t hear any of it.

  He didn’t dare come any closer to the window. They would have seen him: a ghost in the night, a shadow that didn’t belong there.

  Later, Tonio couldn’t recall how the idea had come to him. Suddenly, it was there in his head and he gave in to it, quietly leaving his place on the terrace and slipping down the garden path until he reached the man’s car. Tonio felt the hood. It was still warm. He nodded in satisfaction, and then took a picture of the license plate with his cell phone. Later he would do a bit of hacking, child’s play. It was always good to know who he was dealing with.

  Cautiously, he slipped back to the terrace.

  The scene in the kitchen had changed. No longer peaceful. Gertrud had leapt up and was gesticulating wildly with her arms, her voice loud, shrill, cracking. She had been stirred up by the day’s events, which had exposed her life like never before. She had been drinking, she had lost all stability—but the vis
itor couldn’t have known all that.

  From behind his bush by the window, Tonio heard his father’s name, heard Hanna’s name. He stared, transfixed and shocked. He saw the silhouettes of the two people whose voices had suddenly grown loud, who were fighting with one another. He saw the knife in the man’s hand, as if it had arrived there by chance, and then saw his arm move . . . his hand . . . forward . . . toward Gertrud . . . who stood as if mesmerized . . .

  . . . and then the pain spread, the cold, the gray of the in-between . . . she fell . . . lay . . . stretched out . . .

  . . . the man . . . as if mesmerized, the knife still in his hand, Gertrud lying on the floor, stammering out words. The knife fell, clattering on the tiles, into the blood that flowed fast from the wound, spreading out around Gertrud, giving her back her stability, her contours . . .

  Tonio thought . . . nothing, nothing . . .

  The man in the kitchen eventually broke the spell that bound him, took a step back, looked around, breathed deeply, leaned briefly on the table with both arms, and gradually got control over himself.

  And then, finally, he ran from the kitchen—out the front door, down the garden path, and through the gate.

  Tonio sprinted after him, saw him get into the car and drive away, saw the rear lights of the car gliding away into the darkness and being swallowed up by the distance. His hand gripped the cool case of his cell phone tightly. He thought of the photo of the registration number. He thought that it would now be easy to find out to whom the car belonged. He felt his heart racing.

  Later, back in the apartment, he began to shake. So you’re not so tough, he thought, not such a cool character. For some reason that pleased him.

  He lay down on the bed, but as soon as he closed his eyes, he saw Gertrud in front of him, lying in her own blood, with staring eyes and a new knowledge on her face.

  Eventually he slept, and dreamed of Kristin.

  80

  The morning had been sobering. Franza had found it a great effort to force herself out of bed. An old woman, she thought, that’s what I am. I can’t even handle two glasses of red wine and a few cigarettes.