by John Wray
Table of Contents
Title Page
Epigraph
Praise
NIESSEN
THE FUTURE
THE VALLEY
THE ILLEGALS
About the Author
Copyright Page
Acclaim for John Wray’s
THE RIGHT HAND OF SLEEP
“A breakthrough. . . . If the talent revealed in The Right Hand of Sleep has any staying power, Wray won’t be leaving any time soon.” —Interview
“Striking. . . . Wray writes with incredible precision and concentration . . . [and] with a light and graceful touch.”
—Harvard Book Review
“A spare, elegant novel . . . an exploration of tribalism and its discontents. The Right Hand of Sleep is a tremendously accomplished debut.” —Bookforum
“Assured and astonishingly mature. . . . Wray’s first novel displays psychological acuity, a mastery of dialogue and an unfailing historical empathy, and should garner deserved raves.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“The dislocations of people’s lives at the end of the Austro-Hungarian empire, and between the [world] wars, form an interesting territory. . . . The Right Hand of Sleep successfully conjures a feeling of menace.” — The Times Literary Supplement
“Moving. . . . The rhythmic alternation between past and present is handled adroitly, and the soberly realistic scenes are enlivened by precise, evocative descriptive writing.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
John Wray
THE RIGHT HAND OF SLEEP
John Wray was born in Washington, D.C., in 1971, the son of an Austrian mother and an American father. His childhood was divided between the United States and Austria and he is a citizen of both countries. He was educated at Oberlin College and Columbia University, and has since lived in Texas, Santiago de Chile, and Alaska. A selection of his poems, “The Hat I Wore When I Was Alive,” won the Academy of American Poets Prize from New York University in 1997. A passionate fisher, record collector and mountaineer, Mr. Wray lives and writes in Brooklyn, where he is currently at work on a novel based on the life of the notorious antebellum outlaw John A. Murrell. The Right Hand of Sleep is his first novel.
A message was taken ahead for me By the right hand of sleep: “Blue ruined hills, Right-handed sky, Coming home to you fills me With a vast sickness.”
—P. Lederer
. . . and in the matter of the as-yet-unresolved murder case in Niessen bei Villach, the direction of inquiry will come as no surprise to keen followers of history . . .
—Villacher Tageblatt, September 8, 1938
NIESSEN
OCTOBER 12, 1917
A boy came out of the house first, the crumbling, sun-yellowed house with the dark tiles and ivied sides, the peaked roof and sandstone steps down which he went stiffly, nervously, adjusting the plaid schoolboy’s backpack on his shoulders. A tall stooping boy in his middle teens, smiling to himself as he waited by the gate, breathing quickly. It was a bright fall day and he closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the sunlight through his eyelids there at the garden’s edge.
Soon the others came, a man and a woman, the parents of the boy. The man moved slowly, his cream-colored suit well ironed but billowy, as though cut for someone larger. His features like his clothes seemed oversized or borrowed, a loose cluster of tics behind which his eyes hung uncertainly, moving from the boy to the trellises to the old house behind them. The woman walked half a pace behind the man, guiding him by the elbow down the steps. She was still young. She carried herself proudly and severely. Hearing them the boy opened his eyes. He was still smiling slightly, and looking at them as he smiled, but the smile was not meant for them and when he realized this he drew his lips together. He stood at the gate for what seemed a very long time, watching them coming. Finally they reached him and the three of them went out onto the street.
Linking arms they walked toward the mortared gray wall of the canal and the brightly colored rooftops behind it. A smell of woodsmoke was in the air. At the canal they left the road and turned onto a narrow lane. The woman was watching the boy silently, her left arm braced against her husband. He and the boy were talking to each other in low, even tones, but she was not listening to them. The man’s eyes as he spoke were not on the boy or on the ground ahead of them but instead on some far-off thing, as they always were. The boy talked on, not listening to the talk itself but talking only to fill the minutes, eyes rarely leaving his father’s face. From time to time he let out an embarrassed laugh.
After some minutes they came to a wide gravel avenue curling out from town over a mortared bridge. They stayed there awhile looking down into the water. Before long a young, doughy-faced man came up the avenue on a bicycle. The woman waved to him and he pulled up in front of them.
—Well, Oskar, said the man, grinning down at the boy. —Your number’s come up at last, has it?
—Yes, Uncle.
—Yes. Well, we’re damn proud, all of us. Hopping proud.
—We’re not proud at all, Gustl, said the woman.
The man on the bicycle grinned again. —Mothers take these things hard, old man, he said, tapping the boy’s shoulder. —“We have all of us our burthens,” as the ditty goes.
—Why aren’t you in Italy yet, Uncle? said the boy.
—Palpitations, Oskar. You know very well. Palpitations, damn them. He sighed. —Still. There’s need of good men on the home front as well, as the Kaiser says. Eh, Karl?
The boy’s father made a low sound, possibly of assent, looking down the avenue through the lines of whitewashed willow trunks toward the station.
—We’d best be going on, Gustl, said the woman quietly. —You’ll be round tonight for supper?
—Yes, yes, Dora. He drew in a breath, looked down at the boy and gave a wink. —Well, Oskar: do your duty by those greasy olive-pickers. Stack ‘em straight for your nearest and dearest.
—That’s enough, now, Gustl, said the woman. —God in heaven.
—Good-bye, Uncle. I’ll do my best.
—Damn right you will.
—The train, Dora, said his father, stepping forward.
Walking down the Bahnhofstrasse with his parents on either side of him, hurrying to the station, the boy was struck for the first time by the significance of what was happening to him and looked back often over his shoulder. Framed by the cut-back willow rows, encircled and held toward the sun by the mountain behind it, the town looked like nothing so much as an antique jeweler’s miniature, sliding away with a clicking of wheels and cogs into the pines. He realized that it was beautiful and at the same time that it was vanishing from his life. His mother was talking to him now, rapidly, urgently; his father was walking as quickly as he was able, wheezing and opening his eyes wide with every breath. It occurred to the boy that he hadn’t looked at his mother since they’d left the house and he knew this must hurt her but still he could not do it. I know what she looks like, he thought. I know what she looks like right now. I don’t need to see her.
—Have you taken enough warm things, Oskar? she was saying. —Have you taken enough winter clothes?
—Maman, he said, laughing a little. —I can’t wear just whatever I like, you know. They’ll be wanting me in a uniform. He looked over at his father, who nodded gravely.
His mother’s voice resumed immediately, tight with worry, humorless. —Do you find this so very funny, Karl?
—A little funny, Dora. Not so much.
—I was thinking more about your underclothes, Oskar, his mother said, pulling him forward. His father let out a quiet laugh behind them.
At the station the boy presented his conscription card and was issu
ed a ticket. There were a number of other families on the platform but he stood with his parents a small distance away, looking in the direction from which the train would come. One of the women was sobbing noisily and clutching at her two sons, twins with thick shoulders and flattened reddish hair who muttered and made faces at each other.
—Who are these people? the boy’s mother said. —Who is that woman, Karl, with those two boys? She frowned. —I swear I don’t know one single person here at all.
—You do know them, Maman, the boy said, looking at his father and rolling his eyes. —Franz and Christian Rindt. Their brother, Willi, runs the new gasthaus across the square from Ryslavy’s. And you know the Hoffenreichs behind them. Erich, Maria and Peter.
—Well, his mother said, straightening herself. —For me there will always be one gasthaus in Niessen: the Niessener Hof. She looked over at her husband, who stared resolutely up the tracks. Her lips were tightly drawn and she looked prim and comical. As though she’s just eaten a piece of wax-dipped fruit, the boy said to himself. Everything she is is joyless, and not just because of Père. She was like that before, too, when he was better. Your finest country lady. He thought again that if the war hadn’t called him he’d have found another way to leave, with or without their blessing, before very long.
—We’re all cut from the same cloth in times of war, Maman, said the boy. —Our Kaiser tells us so.
His father raised a hand to cover his mouth. —Go on, his mother said. —Go on, Karl. Laugh at that. But she was smiling now as well.
At that moment someone pointed and the three of them turned to see the first jet of steam coiling over the trees. —Well, Oskar, said his mother calmly. She had taken hold of him by his shoulders and was looking him over exactingly and slowly, studying him, her eyes wide and determined. In case I don’t come back, the boy thought, turning the thought back and forth in his mind to get the feeling of it. He looked past her at his father who was watching the train approaching, motionless and enraptured, as if this were the inescapable thing he’d been awaiting. It isn’t this, all the same, the boy thought. It isn’t this. But this reminds him of it.
For the space of a minute none of them said a word. Behind them Frau Rindt was still weeping and shouting in her heavy hill-town drawl against the war.
—Keep a journal, Oskar, his father said when the train was almost to the station. —Will you do that for me? All the inane details, les temps absurdités . . . yes? I’m sure there’ll be plenty. Send it to me in installments, with your letters. I did that for my own Père, when I had my time in Dalmazien. He was smiling now. —Will you? His voice was very mild, almost beseeching.
The boy glanced at his mother. —Would that help you, Père? he said slowly.
His father nodded. —I’d consider it a kindness. It saved your old grandfather, in his day, from expiring of boredom. He raised his shoulders slowly, doggedly, as though resisting a pull upward. —You’ll spare me that, won’t you, Oskar? Wasting slowly away in this pretty backwater, decaying into dust?
—Now, Karl, said the boy’s mother, suddenly severe again.
—I’m sorry, Dora. A little joke.
—We can’t have this, Karl. Not now. Are you listening?
—It’s all right, Maman, for Christ’s sake, said the boy. —Let it alone, he said, already hearing the noise of the train behind him.
—I’m sorry, Dora, said his father. —A little joke with the boy, that’s all. We’ll never see him again, you know.
—Karl! she said now, beginning to tremble.
—Please, Maman. Let him be. Please.
—Oskar, she said, laying hold of his arm. Then the train was beside them.
THE FUTURE
MARCH 4, 1938
There were two in the compartment: the smoking man and Voxlauer. The nub of a cigarette leapt and hovered in the pane and glimmered there over the reddening pastures and towns. The man smoked carefully, tapping lightly with his shoe heels. The smoke rose in a coil from his lips to a vent in the ozone-stained glass. Outside, to each side of them, dark fields were passing and glittering in places with the last rays of daylight. Lights were coming on in the houses and men and wagons were moving toward them across the turned fields. As on any other day.
Heaving a pack down onto the floor Voxlauer took out the last of the food he’d brought with him, a scrap of bacon wrapped in cabbage and a loaf’s-end of pumpernickel. He was grateful now to have taken the canteen he’d found a few weeks earlier at the bottom of a drawer, wrapped in army drabs. —Was this Andrei’s? he’d asked Anna. He’d been standing at the foot of the bed. She had nodded, raising her head tiredly and letting it fall. A few days later she’d reminded him of it, saying he might need it if he were to travel soon. And in fact he’d needed it sooner than either had thought and it had been a great comfort, that last week of traveling, filled with light sweet brown tea or fresh water with a dried wedge of lemon.
Finding the canteen he unstopped it and poured the last dregs of tea into a cup with the word “plenty” stamped along its rim in edged Cyrillic script. The smoking man stubbed out his cigarette and proceeded to roll another in the fold of a newspaper. Every so often the train wound closer to the river, rising along its bank through stands of willows lit in passing by the compartment lights.
At the border they waited a long time in silence. Two Hungarian officers inspected the crates in the passageway, making jots in thick vellum notebooks. They handed the conductor a receipt and stamped the train’s crumbling freight log and moved on. After another, briefer wait the Pass-Kontrolle came on board. The Austrian officials were better dressed, less capable and more friendly than the Hungarians had been. The head of the station came to visit the passengers personally. He was a little drunk and before he asked to see their passports he sat down in the compartment and retied his shoes. —The good of winter boots that let in the damp is a puzzle, he said, smiling. The young guard behind him remained standing. —A puzzle for the ages, said the inspector, shaking his head sadly. When the boots were tied to his satisfaction he straightened himself and in a more formal tone of voice inquired after their papers.
Voxlauer looked out at the rails and the crossties beneath them, counting the pins and seams. The smoking man’s passport was examined and found to be in order. He was a lighting-fixtures manufacturer and salesman from Vienna. He slid the passport back into his briefcase and offered the inspector rolling paper and tobacco. —No thank you, Herr Silbermann, said the inspector, still smiling, and the tobacco in turn was offered to the guard, who accepted enthusiastically and set about rolling a cigarrette against the greasy wooden door of the compartment. Strands of tobacco spilled onto his coat and clung there among the epaulets and folds. The inspector turned to Voxlauer and eyeing his threadbare overcoat asked again after his papers.
Voxlauer dug into a pocket and handed the little book, unscuffed and green, to the inspector. Although the inspector was a younger man than Voxlauer, and younger too than the salesman, he already bore the slight stoop of a life spent on trains. As he flipped through the passport, his face clouded slightly. —There’s not one of our stamps in this booklet, he said.
—I know that, said Voxlauer. —I applied for it while living abroad.
—What became of your previous passport?
—It was taken from me.
—When?
—In the war.
A brief silence followed. —You are a veteran? asked the inspector.
—Yes.
—Place of residence?
—Niessen bei Villach.
—Where were you living, while abroad?
—In the Ukraine.
Another silence. Voxlauer looked up at the inspector. The salesman shifted uneasily in his seat. After a moment more the passport was handed to the guard, who had finished with the rolling of his cigarette, to be stamped. Then it was returned to Voxlauer and the two men made to exit the compartment. —Good-bye, Eli, said the inspector. —We’ll be seeing
you again at Easter?
—With a butterlamb under each arm, said the salesman. —And Mark’esh for your dyspepsia.
—I beg of you, Herr Silbermann, laughed the inspector. —This state of affairs cannot possibly continue. The salesman laughed also. The two men standing regarded affably the two seated men before turning to go. The inspector paused a moment at the door.
—Welcome home, Herr Voxlauer. Give the south a great warm kiss from me.
—I’m so surprised you’re not Russian! said the salesman as the train began moving. —You look the part, if I may say so.
—Well. I’m sorry to disappoint you.
—Are you a nihilist?
—What?
—A nihilist. You’ve been in Russia for some time. He paused. —That’s a fair enough question, isn’t it?
Voxlauer smiled. —Call me a sympathizer.
The salesman nodded. —Are you from the Steyrmark?
—Near enough. Kärnten.
—I thought either Kärnten or the Steyrmark. Elias Silbermann, from Vienna.
—Oskar Voxlauer. He shook the hand offered him.
—Any relation to Karl?
—Who?
—Come now, Herr Voxlauer! The composer.
Voxlauer looked at him. —Karl the composer, he repeated.
—Operettas. Sentimental airs. All the rage when we were little. Surely you must remember! The salesman began to hum a waltz.
—Yes, I remember now. I’ve been away for some time. No relation, I’m afraid.
—What sort of name is that, “Voxlauer”? I’d always wondered. Is that Bavarian?
—Austrian, I think, said Voxlauer.
—Oh. I’m not sure of that, the salesman said.
—What did you say your name was, Herr . . . ? Voxlauer said tonelessly.
The salesman didn’t answer. They rode awhile in silence. —I served, myself, he said after a few minutes, almost apologetically. —In the Tyrol. He leaned forward and raised a trouser leg to disclose a mottled blue scar. —The last great time. He smiled.
