“So Madame is a strict person?”
“Yes, strict is the word.”
“Are you from there yourself?”
“Excuse me?”
“Are you French?”
Flora giggled again. She said a name that sounded like Bertil.
By now the man had pushed his chair between Flora and Justine. He sat so close that Justine could smell his aftershave. It was so strong, stronger than perfume, that her nose began to itch and run.
“Shooo-stine,” said the man.
She did not dare to look at him, but looked at her plate, the surrounding flower design and the gooey mess in the middle.
“Haven’t you finished yet!”
Flora’s porcelain eyes, eyelashes long and painted in numerous layers. Every morning she stood in the bathroom and brushed on layer after layer with a short, strong brush. “I… can’t!”
It came out as a scream, though she didn’t mean to. She had meant to whisper, but the word came screeching out in spite of herself. Her tears burned against her hand; her mouth changed the scream into a howl.
Flora hit her. Right in the middle of the cafe, Flora gave her a hearty slap. The howl cut right off.
“Justine is a bit of a hysterical child,” she said. Her red lips had also left their mark on the coffee cup.
“Her French nerves?” the man said with a fake French accent.
Flora’s new little laugh, sultry and cooing.
They took a cab home. The backseat was filled with shopping bags. The driver joked about the bags: did you buy up all of Vallingby, ladies? Flora joked back. The perfume of the man followed them into the taxi.
Once they arrived home, Flora unpacked all the clothes and hung them on hangers in the bedroom. There were two dresses, a blouse and a skirt. Her movements were twitchy. She pulled down one dress and threw it on the bed.
“Why did I buy this one! In this light, I can see this color doesn’t fit my skin one bit! I’m sorry I bought it! This is all your fault, Justine! You’ve put me in this mess. You are spoiled rotten!”
She grabbed Justine’s ankles and spun her around, faster and faster, until her body was off the ground, the blood left her brain, and she felt like vomiting. Her leg hit the side of the bed, and Flora lost her balance and fell over. Justine ended up next to the wall with her knees tight against the molding.
Flora took her into the basement. She poured water into the wash tub. Justine sat on the edge of the counter in just her panties and a camisole.
“Do you know how we get the laundry clean? Have you watched me do the laundry? You’ve seen how I boil the water so that the clothes get completely clean. But first I set the clothes to soak.”
And she lifted Justine with her cold fingertips, and set her into the tub. The water came up to her stomach. She hugged her legs, holding them against her belly button.
Flora had gone. She had stomped her way up the stairs and Justine heard her turn the key two turns. When Justine carefully adjusted her position, the water splashed against the wash tub’s rough sides.
The water was cold now, but what if Flora came back and fired up underneath it? How much heat could she stand? Would she be like a frog lying on the serving tray with white eyes? Would her flesh get so tender it would fall off her bones when they lifted her up?
Flora wouldn’t dare.
Once when Pappa was gone, Flora locked her in the basement until late at night. She came down in her robe, waved matches around, but then put them aside. She drained the water and picked Justine up onto her knees. Justine’s feet were spongy and wrinkled and her toenails felt like they were going to fall off.
Flora had brought a towel and Justine’s pajamas. She had dried Justine off right there in the basement and put on her pajamas. Then she carried Justine up the stairs and laid her in her own bed and pulled the covers up over them both. Flora’s arm had lain across her chest and she had felt Flora’s angular pelvis against her back all night long.
Now she sat completely still. She thought she heard voices. She thought that Pappa had come home and now he was going to be really angry. But then the voices drifted away.
She could climb out of the wash tub, but she couldn’t get down off the counter. She would have to grow a bit more for that. She saw a spider crawling along the wall. She was afraid of spiders and stared at it until it turned around and went back to its hole. One of her shins hurt where it had hit the bed when Flora was whirling her about. Flora said that people who tended toward hysteria would be made better by twirling them about properly. Once she had taken hold of Justine’s ankles and spun her until she did not know up from down.
“This is what doctors did in the olden days for people who were sick in the head. Blood is forced to the brain so that they get more oxygen. If you throw up, that’s even better, because you get rid of the craziness that way. I’d spin you even more if I had the energy. But you’re getting much too heavy.”
Pappa came back from his trip. He gave her an instrument, shiny as gold and decorated with tassles.
“When you’re big, you can lead an entire orchestra.”
She had to be outside with her instrument, far away in the garden. She blew into it and a sound came out. Her father came down to listen to her. He called to Flora, and the two of them stood under the apple tree and listened to her blow into the golden horn.
“That’s not easy, I swear. Clearly she has a gift. Do you hear her? I should make sure she takes lessons.”
“Girls aren’t supposed to play the trumpet!”
“It’s not a trumpet, Flora, it’s a horn. An old mail horn from Lucerne.”
Neither he nor Flora could get a squeak from that horn. Justine took a deep breath. Her lips lost feeling.
Pappa was able to fasten a hook into the wall above her bed. He wasn’t very handy and he usually became angry when he had to screw things in or hammer a nail. But now the horn was hanging on the wall, held by its red silk ribbon.
He forgot about the lessons. Now and again, Justine reminded him of his promise, but he only said, Drat! I’ve forgotten that again. She would stand by the edge of the water and blow her horn. She imagined herself in a parade, wearing a jacket and pleated skirt. All the streets in town were closed. Justine went first, the other musicians following her like rats.
Chapter EIGHT
After working the night shift at the hotel, Hans Peter usually slept until ten-thirty the next morning. If things were light, he sometimes could take a catnap during the night on the cot behind the curtain at the reception desk. He often thought he was a wealthy man. He had an abundance of time.
He used his time to exercise and read. Once, on the back page of an American magazine, he found a list of the most important classics of literature throughout world history and he got the idea to read them all, from the
Even when he was a boy, he felt that taking out books was awkward. He picked out a great heap of books, but the librarian informed him that he could only take out three at a time. And so she held up each book: this one or this one? He got so confused that he did not go back for many years, and he had asked his mother to take the three books that he finally had chosen.
Right now he was reading
