by Adele B.
One look was enough for Petros to understand that she was not joking. Her voice was filled with determination, her face was totally transformed, nothing was left of the fragile, helpless young girl; she had become a fierce lioness, ready to fight and to die defending her body. If she had not been able to save her heart, she should at least be able to save her body- at least that!
Petros slowly retreated, closing the door after him.
In the too-large bed, in the too-large house, in this magnificent, snow-covered city, Livia burst into desperate, hot tears.
Chapter 10
“Good day, I have received the mission to bring you this calling card.
Mrs Von Hart is asking you to pay her a visit this afternoon” Helga said as she was extending the silvery tray on which a miniscule envelope was nested, towards Livia. Surprised, she took it from the tray, then slowly extracted the card from it. It was accompanied by an impeccably handwritten note, on quality paper, and impregnated with a strange scent; of old and dried flowers, of lavender and costly perfume, and underneath it all just a hint of mould.
On the house gate, above Petros’s name, Livia had seen the name Agatha Von Hart, traced in elegant Gothic lettering. But as no sound had ever been heard from the apartment below, she had assumed the person didn’t exist- perhaps she had died a long time ago, or moved house. For no one besides Petros, Helga, Ildiko or Lina had ever come in or out of the large pink house.
“Thank you, Helga, please wait a little. I wish to send this lady my calling card and a few words”. It was important for her to answer properly to this unexpected invitation from such a mysterious lady, whose name intrigued her.
Livia decided to visit this mysterious Von Hart lady; she needed her presence, she needed to see someone besides cold Ildiko or absent-minded Helga. In the permanently and absolutely silent house, where Ildiko’s soft steps and Helga’s heavy trot were muffled by the thick carpets, the days ambled on monotonously. Not even the music filtering from across the street during summer could come to her rescue now; heavy wooden blinds had closed that magical window. Nobody ever entered or left that house now; not even the hurried servant girl.
Livia seldom went out, and she never went into any room except her own and the living room. She never explored the kitchen, she never inquired about the myriad domestic chores, she never cared whether the larder was stocked with enough food, or whether the warehouses had enough wood for the winter. She had left all these problems for Helga; she felt no pleasure or satisfaction in domestic chores, as she felt more like a lonely house guest than like the mistress of the house.
The noise of the fire, burning steadily as it gave off a pleasant heat and the rhythmic sound of the grandfather clock on the wall were her only companions. This grandfather clock was fascinating and driving her crazy at the same time; looking at it and listening to its monotonous tick-tocking, she had the clear sensation of imperceptibly growing older, both her and the precious rugs, the drapes and the lacquered wood wardrobe.
She wished the damned clock would break down, but it was of good Swiss quality and thus would continue ticking until her face would become old and ruined, her skin drooping, her hair all white; the carpets moth-eaten, the wardrobe destroyed by woodworms. She sometimes felt like taking the heavy crystal vase, antique and precious, from the table and throwing it straight at the clock; she would have enjoyed seeing them both break into thousands of pieces. But rational thought prevailed, and she controlled her impulses. This Von Hart’s invitation was coming at just the right time. She felt desperation creep upon her every day, she was disheartened and feared for her sanity- losing her mind would have been a thing worse than death for her.
She sat at the elegant desk and wrote a carefully drafted note, thanking the lady for the invitation; then she handed it to Helga, who had patiently waited, gazing out the window.
“Helga, please take this answer to Mrs Von Hart” she said, giving her the note she had written on pink filigree paper.
After the wedding Helga had stocked the desk drawer with paper and calling cards, all marked with her new name; Livia Kostapoulus. Her husband had seen even to this; on fine French scented paper, between golden filigrees, her name was clearly written, as if he had wanted to remind his young wife once again that she now bore his name and therefore she belonged to him entirely.
At four o’clock Livia was before the imposing door on which a ceramic shield bore the name Agatha Von Hart in cold, severe Gothic lettering. She knocked and waited for someone to open but no movement was heard from behind the closed door, so she knocked again, this time a little louder. Not a sound was heard, the apartment appeared to be uninhabited and the invitation seemed just a bad joke now. She looked at the Swiss chocolate box she had found on a shelf in the living room and which she had so carefully wrapped up.
Slowly she pushed the door handle and the heavy door slid open.
“May I come in?” she asked in a weak voice.
Before her, in an enormous fireplace, a joyously burning fire glittered. In front of it, an armchair seemed to shelter a person. A shock of white hair, untroubled by her voice or her footsteps, could be seen over its top. Slowly, Livia drew near and beheld a little old woman, peacefully asleep, with her head bent and her chin resting on her chest. On her knees was an abandoned embroidery, half dragging on the floor. Unsettled, not knowing whether to stay or to leave, Livia looked around the apartment. It was so different from the one above, the one she lived in and which was so filled with precious objects with no connection to each other whatsoever. The furniture pieces here were few, seemingly Spartan, just wood, metal and stone. Black wooden blocks on the white ceiling, a massive wooden table surrounded by chairs, an imposing wall clock, the large stone fireplace, silver vases in the rustic showcase, whitewashed walls – all imbued the room with a severe and cold atmosphere. Here and there a hand-knitted embroidery softened the rigidity of the room.
And the old woman, with her white hair, black clothes and white lace collar, unmoving in her sleep seemed to be just another part of the scenery – as rigid and as severe as the rest, just lying there in the armchair which seemed too-large for her diminutive body.
Livia turned slowly, ready to go- but her ample dress gently touched the withered arm resting on the chair’s edge. The old woman’s faded blue eyes opened and with an ease which seemed uncanny for her age she sprang to her feet, heading towards her.
“Excuse me, I seem to have fallen asleep unwillingly. Well, it happens at my age, sleep seems to creep in more frequently, in spite of my will. Maybe something is not entirely right, or perhaps it’s just a dress rehearsal for the Big Sleep itself. I have returned from the Vienna Sanatorium just a week ago, and the doctor told me I’m in perfect good health, taking into account the ninety-five-odd years I number; but I have a feeling the Grim Reaper might wish to pay me a visit soon”
“I have seen you a few times from my window, and am quite satisfied this grumpy old house has finally come to shelter such a delicate and enchanting person as yourself” continued the old woman, looking with affection upon Livia.
“Take a seat” she went on, pointing towards a another armchair near the fireplace.
“Good day- I am honoured by the invitation you have extended to me” answered Livia, studying her .
With time-discoloured eyes, sunken cheeks, aquiline nose, thinning lips, white hair and diminutive stature, it was hard to say now whether she had ever been a beauty; but one could immediately perceive she was a good person. She had the kindest smile Livia had ever seen; honest, friendly, filled with affection even when she talked about death. The smile was still on her lips and she did not seem to fear this event at all.
“Please excuse me for not answering as I should have done- but besides these fits of sleep I have also lost my hearing. You can write your questions on this sheet of paper here. We can have a whole conversation like this!” the old lady continued. She might have lost her hearing, but her eyes were as keen and
sharp as in her youth. In these ninety-five years she had seen a lot and she didn’t need many words to understand the amount of pain hidden in the young woman’s soul. She had observed her from behind the curtains, when she had left the house for a stroll; she had also seen the lips, tightly drawn in a sad smile; the eyes, extinguished in a resigned look. She felt like holding this unhappy young woman in her arms, for lately the regrets of not having had a daughter had become stronger.
She was not afraid of death, but she could hardly bear the solitude – therefore she would have liked to make a friend of this delicate, well-educated and shy young woman.
Livia answered with a smile, she felt compassion when thinking about the old woman’s deafness, but she was also satisfied. There was no need to talk too much, but she could listen. She loved to listen, as much as she loved to read. She liked the sensation of peeking into other peoples’ lives, she was interested in following the path Destiny had set for them, perhaps trying to justify, by these explorations, the road her own life had taken.
“Good day, I am honoured by your invitation” she wrote in German the words she had said just a few moments ago. “I hope you’ll enjoy the chocolates I brought you” she went on, then handed the sheet of paper over to the old woman.
“What beautiful handwriting and what perfect command of German!” Agatha said, smiling while reading. As she was looking at Livia, she told herself the young woman was not only good-looking but also intelligent. So much the better! She had always appreciated the company of intelligent people, and she was now sure they would share a sincere friendship, despite the deafness handicap which had annoyed her so much lately. Certainly this friendship between a twenty-year-old girl and a ninety-five-year old woman would be a strange one, but all the more special. She had so much to share with this young woman!
“Thank you for your compliments, I studied in Arad, I finished the School for Young Ladies; I am fluent in four languages, I play the piano and the violin and would have liked to become a teacher- but Destiny has decided otherwise” Livia wrote. She would have wished to tell this old woman much more, she felt she could open her heart, but she stopped. If spoken words are lost forever once they leave your lips, leaving no proof, not the same can be said about written ones; she thought it unsafe to put on paper the thoughts troubling her.
“Petros was certainly lucky to find a wife such as yourself! Now I understand why he waited so long before getting married, although many a woman has been courting him! He was waiting for someone special. I made his acquaintance fifteen years ago, when I sold him the first floor apartment. I was already eighty and the house had started to become too big for me. My husband had just died, my friends had disappeared. I sold him the apartment and because he insisted so much I promised I would arrange for my apartment to be sold to him also, after I die. I even put it in my will” the old woman said. Agatha was watching Livia very carefully, and did not miss the almost imperceptible grimace twisting her face whenever her husband’s name was spoken. So she had been right. Petros had taken this woman against her will. The name of her husband elicited only disgust in this porcelain-faced young wife.
What strategy had he employed in order to get her? The old woman had not forgotten how he had managed to buy the apartment at a much lower price than its actual value.
“Yes, he is lucky” Livia wrote, thinking – maybe; but then again, maybe not. Ever since Petros had crept into her bedroom, she kept the door carefully locked. A silent war was being waged between them, and although he never returned to dinner now, staying in town until late and leaving a feminine perfume trail whenever he came home, she knew this was just a respite and his siege was going to get stronger, sooner or later.
Agatha had started to talk about her family, with a note of pride in her voice. She knew all the people who, during the seven hundred years in which they had lived in this house, had painstakingly built this jewel of a city- them and other Saxons, arriving from their native Rhenania at about the same time, trying to faithfully recreate the town they had left at home. United with their church, religiously keeping all the old customs and traditions, passing their artisan skills from father to son, they helped the city to survive, more prosperous than ever, after the Mongol and Tatar invasions. She heatedly recounted how they had all taken root in this far, unknown but bountiful land, which had become home for them.
“This table has been brought here from Germany, six hundred years ago” she said, proudly tapping the massive wood. “And the wooden chest, and the silver vases. This house was amongst the first to be built. Then the city slowly grew, fortified walls were added. Time passed, all kinds of people lived and died, until it was my grandparents’ and then my parents’ turn to contribute to the well-being of our city. As for me, I have seen almost a hundred years of history from this window!”
Livia tried to imagine her as a young girl with tresses watching from the window as the apprentices merrily went about their work, the peasants hurried to take their fresh vegetables to the market, the young people were innocently flirting with each other. She imagined them building houses and painting their walls, and dying to defend them from the invading Mongolian hordes who burned everything in their rush towards the West. The old woman was talking with passion, the fire had died and darkness slowly filled the Spartan room. A strange feeling came over Livia. It all seemed a dream, in which everybody else had long disappeared, Petros and Edward and all the others; the only persons left alive were her and the old woman- and seven hundred years of history.
She tried not to lose herself between so many Hermanns and Heinrichs, Frau Monikas and Frau Henriettas. In three hours she had found out everything about intrigues and romances belonging to the city’s history now, about cursed love stories trying to escape the conventions of their time, about the diseases and epidemics which had attacked the city, about bloodthirsty battles.
In semidarkness, eyes half-closed, she listened to the old woman’s voice - in turn mysterious, sad, angry, trying to put colour and substance upon all those Herrs and Fraus long lost in the mists of time.
“Oh dear, how the time has flown!” the old woman said, heading for the fireplace and teasing the dying fire which sprang into glittering life. Ildiko had crept in, unseen, and was lighting the candles in their silver holders. The sudden light, the weak fire and the cold which had taken over the room reminded her that the hour was late.
“Thank you for keeping me company, my dear”
“This has been a pleasant afternoon, I’ll return as soon as possible” Livia wrote.
“Wait, I’d like to give you a present- a scarf I made” answered the old woman as she was heading towards a rounded chest, probably another antique piece of furniture. Not used to idleness, she would knit scarves and send them to the church on Christmas eve. They would warm up some poor woman or orphan child.
Livia took the scarf with a smile, it was soft and of a warm brick colour, like autumn leaves. She saluted the old woman who, lost in the large armchair, had taken up her hand knitting again.
She closed the entrance door, thinking. Behind her, in the darkened room, the little old woman who had told her such interesting tales of Herrs and Fraus dead now for hundreds of years, was alone again. Now she would return to the comfortable apartment upstairs, filled with living people whose existence was of no interest to her whatsoever. Petros, Helga, Ildiko – how she would have liked to relegate all of them to the far past – possibly somewhere around the time of the Mongol invasions!
# # #
Helga came out of the kitchen at the end of the corridor. She was carrying a tray with hot tea and fresh biscuits and heading towards Lidia’s room.
She treaded softly on the rich corridor adorned with massive Italian chairs and wardrobes topped with flower-filled precious vases. She caressed a petal – it had probably cost a fortune now, in the middle of winter but Petros did not count the money when his purpose was to seduce and bewitch Livia.
Over the wardrobe a
large, gold-foil Venetian mirror, an antique piece, reflected the flowers and the corridor. Helga raised her eyes and beheld her image in its waters. She usually avoided mirrors, but this time she stopped to carefully study herself for a long time. She took in the severe face, the line on the forehead, the closely pursed lips, the cold eyes.
She was unhappy. Her mother and grandmother both had been unhappy before her. They had passed this unhappiness from one to the other as a family inheritance, as if it were a jewel or a preciously embroidered tablecloth. Helga was not surprised that her face had started to become more and more twisted, her eyes- so sad, filled with that all-too-familiar melancholy; even the hair, a luminous blond until a few months ago, had started to resemble her mother’s gray strands.
She took the tray from the wardrobe and headed towards Livia’s room, softly knocking on the door.
“Come in “Livia answered. She was seated on the settee, knitting socks and gloves for orphan children; she wished to enrich Agatha’s collection with a few pieces of her own. She had already finished a dozen scarves, and had planned to take them to the old woman that afternoon.
“Good evening – I have baked some biscuits and thought I’d bring you a few. And a cup of hot tea” Helga said. She watched the young wife at her knitting ; with her long hair gathered at the nape of the neck, with two rebel curls escaping from the sides, with her royal countenance and her rosy complexion, Livia was a mixture of beauty and sadness. Seeing her knit small socks one would have thought she was an expecting young mother; but her face had none of that light, that happiness which pregnant women wish to share with the whole world. And Helga knew why Livia’s face was so dark. Who knows how much time will pass until her face will become forever marked by ugliness, pain and despair too? she thought.
