“Especially not in Friedl’s case.”
“
“It was a joke, Jan. Not a very good one, though. Are you sure you don’t remember her? She used to have brown hair—braids—”
“Oh, yes,” Jan said indifferently. “She is the one who was Dieter’s friend.”
“Not yours?”
“I prefer tall blond ladies,” said Jan, looking at me sentimentally.
I never know what to say to remarks like that; fortunately, they don’t come my way very often. After a moment, Jan said in quite a different voice, “Surely he would confide in his wife.”
Dieter caught the remark. “He would be a fool if he confided in that one. She hasn’t a brain in her head.”
“Oh? And how do you know?” Jan demanded.
“Don’t be such a self-righteous little puritan,” Dieter said without rancor. “We all had a try for Friedl, including you; if you want to have another try, go ahead. But I can tell you, she would not be running this crummy little hotel in this dull little town if she knew where there was something of value to be sold. She would sell her mother…. Ah, Frau Hoffman! Please, won’t you join us for a liquor? We are enjoying ourselves so much.”
He liberated a chair from a nearby table and Friedl accepted the invitation with a gracious inclination of the head. Dieter, his round face now as lugubrious as an undertaker’s, offered his condolences on her husband’s death. A mildly embarrassed and wholly unconvincing murmur from the rest of us seconded the sentiment, which Friedl acknowledged with proper sobriety. Accepting a glass of brandy from Dieter, she said, “I remember all of you were here last year at this time. I hope you find everything satisfactory?”
We murmured at her again. “I am glad,” she said. “It has been difficult for a woman alone. It is hard to get good help.”
“But surely,” Jan said, “many of the former employees are still here. In such a small place, it is almost like a family, yes?”
I could see what he was thinking, the foxy devil. He was trying to find someone in whom Hoffman might have confided. It was the sort of thing a good thorough private investigator would do, but I had already considered the idea, and dismissed it. If Hoffman had not divulged the secret to his best friend, he was not likely to have confided in his cook or his driver.
Friedl answered him with a long string of complaints. Several of the older employees had left, the cook was threatening to quit, the younger ones preferred to work in Garmisch, where wages were higher and there was more excitement. Dieter patted her on the back in an avuncular fashion. “You are still young, Frau Hoffman. It is too soon to be thinking of such things, but believe me, time will heal your wounds. A woman of your attractions will not always be alone.”
Friedl simpered. “You are very kind to say so, Herr Professor.”
“But it is true. A little more brandy?”
He caught my disapproving eye and winked openly. His hand was still on Friedl’s shoulder, squeezing and squirming in Dieteresque fashion. Friedl didn’t object. She giggled and nodded.
“Humph!” said Schmidt, staring.
He wasn’t the only one to find their behavior unbecoming. Elise said loudly, “We should leave if we want seats for the performance.”
“There is plenty of time,” Dieter said easily. “The seats are only for the town dignitaries; the rest of us commoners will mill around in a friendly confusion.”
He handed Friedl her glass. Reaching for it, she was a little too eager—or perhaps her hand was a little too unsteady. Only a few drops of the liquid spilled, but one of Friedl’s fake fingernails popped off and flew across the table, landing with a splash in Schmidt’s coffee. His expression of disgust as he stared at his cup would have been funny if the whole performance had not been so repellent.
The incident put Schmidt off his food, and shortly thereafter, we left. Friedl tried to keep her hand out of sight, but I caught a glimpse of the denuded finger. The nail was bitten to the quick.
After the overheated, stale confines of the restaurant, the night air felt like wine. Clouds hid the winter stars, but the Marktplatz was as brilliant as a stage, and the dark slopes of the Hexenhut twinkled with lights like a giant Christmas tree. Even Elise forgot her ill humor. “Oh, look,” she cried, “what is it?”
“Torches,” Tony said. “The young men carry them in procession through the forest and end up on top of the mountain where there is a huge bonfire.”
“It is in essence a pagan festival,” Jan explained. “The old pre-Christian commemoration of the winter solstice. On the longest night of the year, the fires were lit to welcome the returning Sun, who was the god of these heathens. The demons of darkness are most dangerous at this time, you understand, so the ignorant villagers make loud noises to frighten them away. No doubt there was once a pagan sanctuary on that very hill; the name Witches’ Hat—”
“We’ve all studied folklore, Jan,” I said.
“Yes, don’t lecture to us,” Dieter added. “This is supposed to be fun. Come, let us find a good place. Where does the parade go?”
“Down from the mountain, I think,” Tony said. “It ends up at the church.”
From pushcarts and stalls draped in greenery, people were buying trinkets and refreshments—mundane modern offerings like cotton candy and popcorn along with fragrant, freshly baked gingerbread and twisted canes of red-and-white sugar. Schmidt bought an enormous candy cane and a pocketful of gingerbread, which he munched as we made our way through the crowd. People filled the Marktplatz and the surrounding streets, whose steep slopes made an informal viewing stand. It was a cheerful, well-mannered crowd, but beer was flowing freely and I suspected there would be a few fights before the night was over. Ropes strung from wooden horses outlined a path through the Marktplatz and around the fountain; it ended, as Tony had said, at the church.
Christian theology had converted the spirits of forest and field into demons, to be expelled and exorcised. The hunters on the hillsides would drive them from their refuge and into the church, where the priest would cast them into outer darkness. Poor little harmless nymphs and satyrs, stumbling and squealing as they fled the hunters, cowering under the ceremonial lash of the priestly voice. Since the ceremony had to be repeated every year, one might reasonably assume that the demons weren’t annihilated, only temporarily inconvenienced. I was glad of that.
I realized I had taken a little too much to drink. Contrary to popular belief, fresh air doesn’t clear one’s head; in fact, it concentrates the fumes. The others were feeling no pain, either; Jan’s face was flushed and he had an arm around Elise, under her coat.
Alternately pushing and wheedling, Dieter forced a path through the milling bodies. His methods were deplorable—I heard him tell one large woman who was reluctant to give up her place that his poor old father was suffering from leprosy and wished to watch the festival once more before he died. He was referring to Schmidt, whose face did suggest some loathsome disease; the crumbs of the gingerbread had stuck to the patches of sugar from the candy cane and he looked absolutely disgusting. The woman backed away, whether from compassion or fear of catching the disease I would hesitate to say. Dieter’s technique was effective; we ended up right against the ropes.
The twinkling torches twisted in snakelike symmetry, converging on the mountaintop. Then a great tongue of fire rose heavenward, and a roar of delight rose from the watchers. It was paganism, pure and simple, and it was very contagious; I realized I was yelling, too. As the voices died away, a spatter of firecrackers echoed across the valley. Like sparks from a spreading fire, or burning lava from the heart of a volcano, the torches reappeared and expanded out and down, faster now, as the runners took the downhill slope at perilous speed. The sounds of explosions accompanied them, growing louder as they approached the village—firecrackers, horns, and an occasional blast from one of the old-fashioned blunderbusses resurrected for the occasion. There were special organizations, called Christmas Shooters, in some Alpine villages; the members practiced all year with the old black-powder, ramrod weapons.
The crowd swayed back and forth, laughing and cheering. Children broke away from their parents and capered madly in the open space; they were promptly snatched away by an adult, but some of the younger men remained, daring the headlong rush that would soon be upon them. The priest came out onto the church steps, robed in scarlet and lace, holding the Book and surrounded by his entourage.
Then the head of the procession appeared. It wasn’t a parade, it was a rout; they came at a dead run, their
