by John Brady
He looked to Felix for corroboration that his meaning was clear.
“You don’t get it, do you? I’m saying he didn’t pick up the, the . . . I can’t say it. No.”
“Bitterness?”
“A hard word, Felix. Especially for your own flesh and blood.”
“We avoid too many words, I think sometimes.”
“Well gossip is bad, Felix. Me, I am rough with my words. But I try to follow what Our Saviour has taught us.”
Felix thought back to the anniversary and how he had caught a glimpse of his grandfather, eyes closed tight in prayer, or straining to fight off distractions, or weak thoughts. The old marterls and taferls, those roadside shrines that still dotted the mountain roads here, had been built and kept up by people like Walter Nagl. So too were many graves tended, and churches fixed. A wave of affection broke over Felix. Now wasn’t the time to ask his opa how a mischievous nonconformist could still be so pious too. Maybe it was just a reflex, not a belief at all. He winked at his grandfather.
“You wink, you little noodle? You were pulling my leg after all!”
“No. I would like to know more about things like that.”
His grandfather’s face turned serious again.
“Well maybe you’re right. It’ll draw out the pus, whatever there is now after all this time.”
They turned to the sound of a woman’s voice from inside the house. Berndt went by then, half sideways, his stub of a tail wiggling feebly.
“You old goat,” his grandmother called out. “You’ve got the boy drinking beer already.”
“We talked,” his grandfather retorted. “And that cost us nothing, eh, Felix?”
“Come,” said Felix’s grandmother, and he made his way to her outstretched arms, trying not to notice again how she seemed to be sinking a little into herself, or rather stooping more.
“There’s something about getting a proper hug from a tall and handsome policeman,” she said. “Not like that old bandit I am married to.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
THEY WATCHED ZIET IM BILD AT 10. THE HEADLINES WERE about Israel again.
Felix was beyond sleepy. Berndt was dreaming still, and twitched and made little yelps. Felix was sure the dog was farting away all the while too.
“Poor Berndt,” his grandfather said several times, letting his arm hang down to stroke the dog. “You’re haunted, aren’t you.”
Oma Nagl’s face was flushed from the glass of wine. She had strayed away from asking Felix questions about marriage, his or Lisi’s plans. There were enough anecdotes old and new about the kids become men in the village, what they were doing now, what they were not doing.
Opa Nagl’s reading glasses made him look like something in a painting of centuries past. He held out the city newspaper to read it, and cast the odd glance at the television when he picked up on something interesting.
“Look,” he said, when the ads finished, and a piece about Schwarzenegger and the US presidency came on. “His old man was a cop in Graz. Look what can happen.”
“He is a fool,” said Oma Nagl, unraveling the sweater she had half done before realizing the needles had been wrong. “Only in America can he get this far.”
“We have heard this speech before.”
“If he gets anywhere near the White House, I’m going to march in the streets,” she said.“He hasn’t a clue. He cheats on his wife. He doesn’t know acting from reality. Not that he can act.”
A snort from his grandfather told Felix that the dispute would not be taken up seriously. He turned the page quickly, snapping it almost, and then dropped it on the floor.
“Wouldn’t you know it,” he said. “The minute Arnold turns up on the screen there, old Berndt lets a big one go.”
“You’re glad to blame the poor creature,” said Felix’s grandmother.
Felix sat forward and put his elbows on his knees, and he rubbed at his face.
“Poor boy,” said his grandmother. “You should go to bed. Sleep cures.”
. . . the heavy heart, went the rest of the expression, he knew.
His opa must have mentioned his troubles with Giuliana.
His grandfather got up with a soft grunt, and called for the dog.
“He’ll do his business and we can call it a day.”
Felix watched him persuade the dog to get up and head for the door into the yard.
“Sure, he’s an old goat,” said his grandmother after he left.
“But that stuff, that talk, is just a cover. Don’t forget that.”
Felix smiled.
“He never raised a hand to me, that man. Nor our children.You know that?”
“Yes, Oma.”
“When old Berndt goes, well I don’t know. It’ll be hard. But enough about that. Can’t I get you to phone your mother?”
“I will phone her tomorrow. Really.”
“She was wondering why, well, why you’re not on the holiday.”
“You talked to her?”
“Of course I did. My daughter? After you phoned us to see about staying a while. I told her not to worry. That you had to ‘get away from things’ for a few days.”
Annoyance flared up in Felix, but he smothered it.
“And I know there are things you’re not telling your oma too.
We’re not dodels up here in the mountains, now.”
Felix looked at the night sky on the windows behind the sofa.
“I’ll phone her tomorrow, Oma.”
“No secrets, not between a mother and her boy.”
Felix eyed the Great Arnold waving at some fat Americans with a beach in the background.
“Oma, what went wrong between Mom’s side and Dad’s?”
“Wrong? What do you mean wrong?”
He gave her a wry smile.
“‘No secrets’? Come on now. These are things no one talks about.”
“Why are you asking me? Ask, I don’t know, your mother or him, out there.”
“I tried to but he would only go so far.”
She stopped pulling at the yarn and rested her hands.
“Go to bed,” she said.
“After you tell me.”
“You scamp! You mean your Opa Kimmel, don’t you?”
He nodded.
“Well they used to say ‘Kimmel a little goes with everything.’
But they only said that about your father. It’s because he was so different.”
She leaned forward.
“My theory is that your dad reacted to him and decided he would be different.”
“But did you have a falling-out with them?”
She sat back abruptly, as though she had received a shock.
“Felix, your opa grew up near your Opa Kimmel. I knew him growing up, too. St. Kristoff is a small place. We were polite but kept a distance. It was your dad who broke the ice. We saw him growing up and what a fine boy it was his mother, I know it, your Oma Kimmel. She made up her mind that her boy would be different from her husband. Oh, yes. I always wish I’d known her more, or better.”
Her eyes moved about the room.
“Why didn’t you?”
“She didn’t grow up here at all. She was from the south.”
For a moment Felix imagined Italy.
“Her family was one of the ones they moved out. The Danube Germans.”
“Refugees?”
“After the war, yes. Her mother and her family were in a camp for years.You know about this, don’t you?”
“A little.”
“A little, indeed. There were thousands, tens of thousands.
Camps all over the place here, and over in Carinthia too. But her father, and a lot of her family, they didn’t make it. A crime to speak German then, of course. It’s winner take all, isn’t it? It seemed the whole world was on the move, I remember. The Tommies on the road with their strange talk they were friendly, but the Russians?
Better not to remember some things.”
“I didn’t kn
ow any of that part,” he said. “I knew she had relatives, or we did.”
“Oh, a hard life she had. And that’s the kind of wife he wantedss”
She stopped suddenly and grasped Felix’s arm.
“I should not say these things, much less think them! I meant ‘hard’ when she was a refugee.”
Felix met her stare and nodded.
“But then, the cancer! Mein Gött – a few months, it was.When she was gone there was no one to care for him really.”
“Political stuff between you and them, or Opa and their family at least?”
“Well natürlich. That generation, you know. Oh, everything went to hell.”
“The Russians, the war, all that?”
“My God, Felix, but you bring up the strangest things. Are you going through some stress?”
“It was on my mind. The anniversary, you know.”
She nodded and reached out, and squeezed his forearm again.
“It’s sleep you need,” she murmured. “Just like your mother.
Her head would fill up with notions.”
Felix’s grandfather opened the door and waited for the dog.
“The poor bastard. I should give him something for it.”
“Never mind,” said his grandmother. “Let nature do what it can.”
“He’s constipated, my dear,” said Felix’s grandfather with a genial sarcasm. “He’ll need to go outside or he’ll destroy the house during the night. I’ll put him in the shed then.”
“So you should.”
Felix’s grandmother got up. It took her a moment to straighten up.
“He’ll be out there tonight,” she said, but smiled. “I know he will. If that dog doesn’t perform, he’ll get out of bed at two or three, and he’ll be out there. Wait and see in the morning.”
Felix brought the plates and cups to the sink. His grandmother stood by the window.
“There they go,” she said. “The two old hounds.”
She turned.
“I’ll tell you something hard now, Felix. It’s your other side, your Opa Kimmel. May God forgive me if this is not true but your dad’s dad would do away with an old crippled dog.That is their way.
If they cannot use it, out it goes. The old way, you could say: ‘The hill farmer must do what he must do.’ But not these days. That’s all gone. Or I hope it is.”
The tiredness began to roll back over Felix now. His shoulders ached.
“Yes,” his grandmother murmured. “We even have stuff here I’m sure, stuff that was being thrown out. From years ago. If I knew where your dad had put it.”
“My dad?”
“Oh yes, he kept some things over the years. Your mother and I went through it after, well, after . . . you know. But your grand211 JOHN BRADY father turned up things a while back. Out in the shed, I think, some stuff.”
“Is it still here?”
She sighed.
“Oh I don’t know. Ach, I should keep my trap shut. Tomorrow – ask your opa tomorrow.”
TWENTY-NINE
WITH BERNDT FOR COMPANY AND A BARE LIGHT BULB DRAPED by a half-dozen strands of old cobwebs to light his way, Felix was soon elbowing his way around the rafters of what had been the vegetable store.
There was still a faint glow over the hills, but the night had come on fast.The dog was doing a lot of grunting, settling, and licking at its paws. From time to time Felix could hear the sniffling and kicks from the pigs.
The coolness soaked into his clothes and became a chill on his skin. Dust stirred, some of it falling like powder between the old boards that formed the floor of the loft. Old bicycle parts had found their way there for Opa Nagl to reuse at some date in the future, a date that had not come around and probably never would. There were even old rat poison tins that had been cleaned out.
He came upon dozens of wooden coat hangers, and then several carburetors or so he believed they were and at least a dozen tins that had once held cakes, but were stained with rust.There were neatly stacked pieces of Formica that Opa had used on kitchen counters.They must be 40 years old, at least. Baling twine, and rolls of wire.
The “suitcase” as Opa had called it was in fact a cheap, plasticy soft-sided bag. There were still travel tags attached where the small belt at the top had been left unbuckled. Felix slid it over, dislodging grit and dust that rained down on the dog.
“Sorry,” he said as the dog laboured up and shook itself. “I appreciate the company and all that.”
The tags were airline, Austrian Airways both. ATH was Athens right: Felix’s mother still mentioned how beautiful the Greek islands were. The 70s?
The other tag Felix couldn’t guess, someplace ESP. Spain? The puny combination lock was set. Felix tried his mother’s birthday, then his dad’s, finally his and Lisi’s. He started to look around for something to cut the strap, or snap the metal casing. Pincers maybe.
It was light. He might as well haul it down below and work on it there. He considered just dropping it to the hardened earthen floor but carried it down the ladder instead. A few steps from the ground he ran into the smell and he stopped, and tried to wave it away.
Berndt’s tail shuddered and his ears went back at the sounds of his name. Not altogether deaf then, Felix thought, and looked into the mournful eyes as the dog let his muzzle down on his paws again.
There was nothing in the shed for the job. Felix took out his keys and levered open the Swiss penknife’s blade.
“Don’t tell,” he muttered. “And I’ll keep quiet about you and your farts, okay?”
The leatherette gave way to the blade easily when it was held tight, and Felix slid his hand into the slit. He stopped then, and tried to figure out the faint scent that was coming from the hole in the case. Musty, certainly, but there was a trace of lavender. There were papers held with rubber bands. No rats, he almost said aloud.
He worked the slash more with his hands and began taking out the contents.
There were maps tied with more rubber bands, big envelopes with things sliding around in them: photos? There were copies of Gendarmerie reports too, old photostat copies that felt gritty under his fingertips.
Felix shook the case and tried again. He inserted his arm, and groped about for pockets inside. When he was sure he had all the stuff out he began to gather it. He hesitated then. He’d be here a couple of days. It was better to put the stuff back up, and then sneak the carry-all into his car and take them back to the apartment to read them again, if there was anything worth taking away.
He opened several of the maps in turn. The light bulb was almost useless. What was the point of keeping two old, identical tourist maps of Styria? They were actually from the 60s, not the 70s, he saw. There was another one of Austria: 1964? Maybe they were antiques someone was holding for some future windfall. The models on the front were worth a laugh anyway, if nothing else. The blonde hair on the girl had been lacquered into a helmet shape. Her Mann had a hairdo that aged better, a brush cut, and they seemed overjoyed with their map more than the Karmann Ghia parked conveniently in front of the mountains and the picturesque reflecting lake.
“There you go, Berndt,” he whispered. “Even before your time.
‘The Green Heart of Austria,’ our very own Steiermark.”
The dog’s eyes moved but that was it. The rubber bands on the second bundle gave way when Felix lifted them, and one map fell.
In the milky, dim light he saw it was different from the other. There was no colour to it, but it was well used, and strangely thick and robust, almost like a sheet.
This made no sense, he realized: it wasn’t in German. It wasn’t Austria. It wasn’t readable. He held it up close and moved around, trying to get the light to reveal more. Serbo-Croatian, he decided, and no tourist map. He left it open and picked up some others. Of the other three, two were local district maps, Austrian ones, and Felix saw names he knew: Leibnitz, Bad Radkersburg.The language changed at the yellow stripe, the border with Slovenia. Someone had tr
aced the course of the Mur down from Graz, to where it entered Slovenia. It was exactly at the border, where the motorway booths were. Used to be: Felix looked up from the paper when he remembered. The frontier posts had been removed when Slovenia had gotten its junior ticket into the EU.
It took effort to see more detail. Darker spots became apparent, each made with the same black marker, Felix decided. It had been fine-tipped and the lines it made showed no signs of the careless tracing of someone in a hurry. It had been used to draw small circles and symbols too, most of them were within a finger’s length of the border. That was “15 km,” Felix guessed. Nearly all were Ts with a stroke across the bottom, a mirrored T of some kind.
He rubbed at his eyes, and realized too late that his hands had been covered in dust. He got up from his knee and held his left eye shut. Patience, he knew; “don’t rub it it makes it worse.”
“No,” he said, seeing Berndt beginning to rise. “Not much longer though.”
The dog’s ears went up and then dropped as he bent down to pat its head. It gave a contented sigh, half snuffle, half moan.
Felix kept his watery eye shut and went back to the maps, squinting and holding it up toward the light bulb. The paper yellowed with the light behind it, but now he saw the faint marks left by a ballpoint pen higher up on the map.They had a tiny liquid glint to them even now, like a snail’s track. The paper there had held the impressions left by the pen too.
It was annoying now: he just had to rub his eye. He let the map down on the ground and put the heel of his hand right on the eye, gently twisting it. He wondered but didn’t care what vile germs were in the dust now scratching through his eye.
The dog gave a half-hearted yelp. Felix opened his good eye a little, and watched it raise its head and bob it slowly side to side a few times.Then it shrugged itself up to standing, and Felix watched the ears stirring. Soon its body went from the arthritic slump into something closer to the taut posture Felix remembered from a decade ago.
“What is it, Berndt? Ghosts again, you old bat?”
The dog looked up at the mention of his name, before padding with liquid-sounding, wheezy breaths to the doorway. Felix followed him, and undid the hook.
