The Hidden Letters of Velta B.

by Gina Ochsner

  I rang the bell and kept my gaze on the intricate hinges, metal tongues that curled to flames. Ancient and anciently familiar, I’d seen this door many times when Rudy and I crept around the property. But in those instances, the door was a portal to our own past, a fragile invitation. Now I felt like a voyeur, an interloper eavesdropping on a conversation that had at one time included me.

  A small shadow moved behind the glass pane. The door opened. Mrs. Zetsche stood there, no higher than my shoulders. She surveyed my shoes, my legs, my hand gripping the bucket and brushes. As she did, a veil of stale air, heavy with cigar smoke, hit me solidly as a slap. I blinked.

  Mrs. Zetsche grimaced. “My Mr. Zetsche loves to smoke. It’s not good for him, of course, but every man needs his vices.” She laughed, a high-pitched twittering that settled on my shoulder. She ushered me through the rooms: the billiard room, the kitchen, the pantry, the wine cellar, the downstairs lavatory, the dining room, Mr. Zetsche’s downstairs and upstairs smoking rooms, the upstairs lavatory, and her pride and joy: the indoor/outdoor conservatory where she kept Meyer lemon trees and even some pots of weedy looking bamboo. They’d renovated the interior so completely that, had I not trespassed so regularly as a girl, I would not have recognized it.

  “My Mr. Zetsche had only the best glass installed for the conservatory. He knows how I love my lemons.” More twittering.

  I could hear how terribly Mrs. Zetsche loved Mr. Zetsche, and this spoke volumes about the kind of man he was behind closed doors. And he did give Father the slightest of raises last year when so many people died in the same month and Father had to dig like a man possessed. But as the day wore on, I realized that the Zetsches were, at least in the domestic matters of housekeeping, more ordinary than mysterious. Even though Mr. Zetsche’s trousers were cut smaller than those of most men’s, his clothes and bedding needed the same amount of soap and bleach as ours did. And Mr. Zetsche’s bathrooms looked and smelled like any other bathroom. The only difference was where most people only had one toilet to dirty, Mr. and Mrs. Zetsche had two.

  And then there were those miniature iron stallions. As I cleaned the windows, I watched the birds—pigeons and crows in the main, but even a stork from time to time—swoop low over the drive. They let loose with green spatter, spotting the drive and back steps but more often than not smearing the proud horses.

  Mrs. Zetsche followed my gaze. “Every day, Inara, you must clean and polish the horses before Mr. Zetsche comes home. This”—Mrs. Zetsche held a forefinger in the air—“is why we had to let the last girl go; my Mr. Zetsche once rode a racehorse to the winner’s circle and now there is nothing Mr. Zetsche dislikes more than to see an unkempt horse.”

  I nodded solemnly. Mrs. Zetsche handed me a soft-wire curry brush and a yellow polishing chamois.

  All that week I washed sheets, sanitized bathroom sinks and commodes. I aired the gauzy sheers and heavy brocade draperies that hung floor to ceiling at the windows. I even polished Mr. Zetsche’s hunting medals: a row of discs the size of gold coins that he was awarded for superior marksmanship. On the first floor, envy assailed me at every turn. Oyster spears, nutcrackers, and even the ice bucket scooped out of lunar silver caught in the act of hardening. I wanted these sleek implements that exuded elegance. I wanted the sheers and the heavy brocade at the windows, the long rectangles of oil paintings on the walls. I wanted the fine leather-bound books, the sets of encyclopedias. I wanted Mr. Z.’s gardenias forced into blooms of cobalt and calamine. I wanted the vermillion and orange Kilim floor runners that softened my every footfall.

  But on the second floor, a strange unease crept over me. Despite Mr. Z.’s exhaustive renovations, from time to time I came across an old drawer pull, a door handle, or something as intangible as light streaming through a sheer that reminded me that Velta had lived here. And then there was that mirror. It was set within a cracked leather ox harness anchored to the wall. Who puts a mirror in a harness? I wondered, as I approached the glass, a bundle of laundry in my hands. A hush, a close stillness, descended as if I were in the presence of something hallowed. I put the laundry on a plush-backed chair. The mirror warped, wrinkled, bulged as if water had gathered behind it. Rivulets of silver upon silver ran down the glass. From behind that water a woman stared at me. Not Velta, I told myself. That is not Velta, her hair plaited round her head, her somber eyes gazing at me. Not her white hand, her white hand with the long white fingers beckoning me toward the glass. She is not reaching out to me from the other side; it is not her voice calling my name.

  One day I came home to find Father at the kitchen table, his head resting in his hands and the trumpet of the phone out of the cradle. I knew from the slump in Father’s shoulders that it was Mr. Zetsche on the line.

  “But, sir,” Father said, “Old General served in one major war and lived through two occupations. Such a grand animal deserves some dignity.”

  “Listen.” And we all did. For a small man, he had a big voice and it carried through the line and filled the room. “I have known many stubborn horses in my day. You have to take a firm hand with them—it’s the only thing they respect.”

  Father held the trumpet of the phone away from his ear and stared at it.

  After a long moment, we heard something like a whinny. “Just fill the dirt back in around the body a little. Maybe place a spray of carnations nearby. But first things first. I’ve set a stake to mark where I will stand and say a few words. Before everyone arrives, I want you to turn over a few shovelfuls of soil.”

  “Why?” Father could not contain his bewilderment.

  “I’ll be wearing my tall shoes,” Mr. Zetsche said. “I don’t want to fight with the shovel.”

  The rain fell all night and through the next morning, but by the time of the groundbreaking ceremony, the clouds stretched and lifted. The sky was still gray, but a lighter, brighter gray. Pearl gray Stanka called it, sniffing at the sky with suspicion. As we approached the emptied cemetery, now the future site of the Riviera, I had my eyes and thoughts trained on the soil. This ground had been broken many times, of course—during the wars, during the occupations—but history seemed of no consequence to Mr. Zetsche, a man with his eyes cast toward the future.

  On principle, half the town did not participate in the festivities. In those days, Mother still cleaned for Dr. Netsulis, who became famous for once engineering a cow with five stomachs instead of four. Now he spent most of his time making messes in his home laboratory. On principle, he did not attend community events. The Ilmyens stayed shut up inside their house, tighter than green walnuts. Even Babel wasn’t at the fence. As chief caretaker, Father had to at least make an appearance beneath the dark alders. But the rest of us couldn’t resist. We had nothing better to do. Girls wearing foil costumes greeted us all, handing out cigars to the men and sleek silver-wrapped Laima chocolates to the women. Mr. Zetsche, in his tall shoes, smiled benevolently. He gripped a gold-plated shovel in one hand and a microphone in the other. He held the shovel over a patch of freshly turned earth as if it were a talisman, a compass, a bit of enchantment. And then he talked. And talked. Father gazed wistfully at the gold-plated shovel, but I found myself unable to look anywhere else but at Mr. Zetsche’s neck, in particular his Italy-shaped birthmark that burned as brightly as red wine on his face. At one point, when he spoke again of the prosperity we’d all enjoy with the advent of the Zetsche Riviera, the toe portion of the birthmark knocked against his Adam’s apple.

  “Motivation is when dreams roll up their sleeves and get to work!” Mr. Zetsche pronounced, raising the shovel high and giving it a shake. That was the cue and the band struck a triumphant tune. Mr. Zetsche turned his back to the river, thrust the head of the shovel into the dirt Father had prepared for him, and tossed aside a shovelful of dirt. And another shovelful. And then another.

  “Well, he has a strong work ethic,” Mr. Gipsis observed.

  “But no sense of pacing,” said old Mr. Vehovskis, who in his youth was forced by the C
heka to dig a mass grave. “Look at him go!”

  Inspired by his own words, Mr. Zetsche seemed determined to single-handedly carve out of the ground his beautiful dream Riviera; he just wouldn’t stop shoveling. And shoveling. Busy digging and dreaming, Mr. Zetsche had not noticed how soft the ground was in places, how during his speech the water was carrying away his property chunk by chunk. Had Mr. Zetsche been aware of these things, perhaps he would have taken a break, perhaps he would not have kept digging so close to Old General. And with such vigor.

  We all saw it coming: a bad idea growing like an abscess, worse by the second. But we were collectively powerless, not a single one of us able to caution, to warn, to shout what we knew we should: “Stop! No more! Not another shovelful!”

  Finally, Mr. Zetsche leaned on the shovel and wiped his brow. At this precise moment, Old General, freed at last from the mud, swam away. From where we stood that’s how it looked: Old General’s head and neck bobbing in the water, the front half of his body remarkably buoyant.

  Father shook his head slowly from side to side. Mr. Arijisnikov whistled long and low. “No, no!” Mrs. Zetsche waved her arms as if instructing Old General to turn back to shore. The band struck up another tune, something that sounded like a military dirge.

  A smile slowly spread over Mr. Zetsche’s face, the kind one wears when one has discovered he’s just stepped in soft poop. He clapped his hands and the band stopped, all but the trumpeter whose final note wilted obscenely in the air.

  “Well, well.” Mr. Zetsche brushed imaginary dirt from his hands. “Let’s dance!”

  Hearing her cue, Mrs. Gepkars, dripping in magenta faux ostrich feathers, emerged from behind the band. She’d been hired to teach us a new dance, and in honor of this event, she’d dyed her hair an oily purple, the shade and luster of mussel shells. She had also wound her hair into tight curls, all held in place with a multitude of metal pins. As she glided over the makeshift dance floor, large squares of plywood set on the mud, the wan afternoon light made it seem as if she had pinned tiny purple sausages to her scalp. Even this might have passed without notice if not for the fact that Mrs. Gepkars, a woman of ample body, had upholstered herself in an evening gown two sizes too small. Squeezed by the whale-bone armor of her unforgiving corset, her bosom resembled two cantaloupes buttressed to the point of bursting. In vain Mrs. Gepkars crooked her finger and tried to convince one after another of the young men, and the older ones, too, to be her partner. “For educational purposes,” she said, again and again. Calculating the risks involved, the likelihood of bodily injury, they politely declined down to the man.

  The Merry Afflictions kept on with the tune and then started another. And still, except for Mrs. Gepkars, and Miss Dzelz, who had graciously assumed the male role of dance partner—for educational purposes—no one danced.

  Then, in small mincing movements, Mr. and Mrs. Zetsche took the floor. A baffled hush fell upon us as we watched them. It wasn’t that they were such great dancers; we simply had nowhere else to place our focus. And that, I suppose, was a part of the trouble; with nowhere else to look, we looked even more intently at the Zetsches, who danced as if this life were a waltz meant for them alone, this entire town their dance floor.

  From two of Rudy’s friends standing nearby came low grumblings. From behind us, the tensile murmurs of unrestrained resentment. “Hard to believe,” Mrs. Inkis whispered, “that Mrs. Zetsche’s had been a farming family, Latvian and poor.” Another female voice: “And who is he, to come back so long after the troubles? Who is he to tell us how to live?” The unguarded envy in those voices—unmistakable. The Merry Afflictions doubled their efforts, tried to make the tune livelier. Still, we could not stop staring at the Zetsches.

  Could the Zetsches discern our growing resentments? Did they regret the ignoble loss of Old General? It’s hard to say. But by the next morning, they had already left in their Mercedes. As they believed in taking continental vacations, they’d be gone a good six weeks, touring the Swedish islands, competing in shooting matches, Mrs. Zetsche explained in a note she’d left for me.

  You’ll be our chief housesitter. Therefore, with the exception of polishing the horses in the drive or taking meals with your family, we expect that you’ll spend most of your time inside the house. Please launder your own sheets. Also, limit your use of the downstairs bathroom. No more than two flushes per day. We are conserving.

  So it’s true; for a time I lived in the Zetsche manor. And it’s true; I have always been curious, perhaps to a fault. I wanted to know who those people were whose likenesses graced the walls in enormous portraits: our family or theirs? To whom did some of these items belong and what else might be hidden in the walls, up the chimneys?

  Without Mrs. Zetsche buzzing about the house, time moved like slow viscous water, one drop at a time. One spoon. A fork. A pass of the mop. I thought about David. I tried not to feel sorry for myself, told myself that because he was already gone I could never lose him.

  I had time to think about what kind of a person I wanted to be for my baby. I did not want to be the kind of mother who smothered her child and called it love. I wanted to believe that the kind of love I had for you could be limitless and that the more I loved, the more I would learn of love and be able to keep loving. But I wondered, as I rubbed that silver and caught slices of myself in the shiny metal, could this kind of love even exist? Was it possible for two people, a man and a woman, say, or a woman and her child, to love with this more perfect love? I looked at my stomach. Yes, I decided. It had to be possible.

  I sang to you in my belly as I cleaned. I cleaned the upstairs, avoiding the mirror in the corridor. I worked clockwise through the rooms, the way Mother had taught me. She’d also taught me to work top to bottom, dusting and polishing first, laundering second, disinfecting basins and showers third, and scrubbing and waxing floors last. This was good for the body, she believed, as it was natural to start the day upright and then, as gravity took its toll, finish on one’s hands and knees.

  One day, I made a minor discovery in the cellar: wedged between planking, pages and pages of musical scores. Imagine: a house built of song! Song springing out of every gap in the wall, floor, joists. Dark melodies rose and fell, penned in what I recognized as Velta’s hand, her script leaning hard to the left.

  It was wrong to do this; the house was no longer ours, nothing in it ours. But I rolled up those pages of scores, took them home. How Mother would have liked to see them, I knew. But I kept them to myself. It was a way to hurt her a little. I didn’t like that I had this meanness in me, but I did and I hadn’t quite forgiven her for that slap, for her words. Each letter of each word was a dark note, another bird flying, skipping, stuttering across the measures, those lines that look like telephone wires. By this time, I had learned to read music well enough to decipher that certain musical notes corresponded to certain letters of the alphabet. I made a chart. The first letter of the alphabet, a, corresponded to the middle a note above middle c. The letter b corresponded with the b note, and so on. The letter j corresponded with the high a note, k with the b note and so on until every letter of the alphabet had its partner on the musical scores. I congratulated myself; not every girl is so clever. But my triumph was short-lived when I read what I had decoded.

  We had wallpaper. So we boiled it and made a broth of glue and fiber. Our thoughts stuck together. We ate flecks of paint. Colors bloomed brightly in our dreams.

  We had pots. So we put our tears in them. We scooped up our sorrow, ladled it out, filled our children’s stomachs with our salt. To the hungry, every bitter thing is sweet.

  Those words were dark blots of ink against snow, darkness flung against light. What did I know of hunger? A chicken and an onion stretched over a week. Sure. But a gnawing in the gut that drove people to eat binding glue and the tongues of shoes? Never. And sorrow? I had only waded up to my hips in it. I was not the sojourner Velta was. Maybe this is why I couldn’t understand what I read. Perhaps certai
n experiences can only be articulated and known through hyperbole, euphemism. Maybe this was yet another code, a more difficult language of metaphor and emotion that I might never learn to crack.

  “The black snake,” she wrote, “burrows in the dark bed of the river.” Her first pregnancy she described as an ocean. She swallowed the tides and rocks bumped along the floor of her stomach. The goat at the neighbor’s farm had eaten rotten potatoes and had died. The post office had been repainted. A neighbor’s laundry line that used to hold all sizes of shirts and socks now hung limp. She seemed compelled to catalogue the world outside her back door, the world down the lane, what could be seen through her leaded bull’s-eye windowpanes: a man, a dog, a transport truck. Conjuring her world one small word at a time as if to say This exists, this, and this. To keep her words a private matter between husband and wife, she’d written these observations of the ordinary in musical code. But the significance that these quotidian observations held for the two of them eluded me. That was the second code she employed. Cloaking importance in the mundane. Wrapping a layer of ambiguity around the words so that no amount of scrutiny revealed a clear message.

  Old Widow Druviete had crossed the veil. We opened all the windows and doors so that her soul could come and go as it wanted. We placed her body in the washing chair, her feet in a tub of water. We washed her with three long cloths. Afterward, we buried her. We burned her clothes; we burned the washcloths. We pounded a nail into the floor where the chair had been and bathed it in brandy.

  I suppose she was re-creating a world for her husband, a quiet world he’d recognize, a world of old traditions and customs she did not want him to forget. And stories.

  A man who’d been turned by a witch into a wolf ran out onto the road. We could tell because of his eyes. He wept at his fate. He could not remember the blessing that would turn him back into a man. So we gave him a bit of bread, because it is the Christian thing to do. He ate all the bread. He bit our hands; he lunged for our necks. He howled and said ungodly things. But we kept feeding him and feeding him until his stomach burst.