In Times of Fading Light

that her door key was still around her neck, looked for her handbag, and finally said, once she had remembered that she hadn’t brought a handbag:

“Nu vsyo, poyedu.” I’m going.

“Going how?” inquired Charlotte. “Peshkom, on foot!”

“Nyet, poyedu,” insisted Nadyeshda Ivanovna. “Domoi!” Going home!

Probably, thought Charlotte, she wouldn’t want to walk home alone in the dark. She hurried into the salon and phoned Kurt to come and fetch her—but no one answered the phone. Incredible! Simply abandoning the old lady here! She thought for a moment, and called a taxi.

“Sadityes,” she told Nadyeshda Ivanovna. “Seytshas budyet taxi!” Sit down. The taxi will soon be here.

“Nyet, nye nada taxi,” said Nadyeshda Ivanovna. No, I don’t need any taxi.

“Nadyeshda Ivanovna,” said Charlotte. “Ya otsheny sanyata—I have a lot to do! Please sit down and wait for the taxi.”

But the old lady didn’t want a taxi. Didn’t want to walk, either. Such indecision infuriated Charlotte.

“Spasiba sa vsyo,” said Nadyeshda Ivanovna. Thank you for everything.

And before Charlotte knew it, the old lady had flung her scrawny monkey arms around her neck and was clutching her tightly. Charlotte tried in vain to keep her nose out of Nadyeshda Ivanovna’s scarf, with its odor of naphthalene and Russian perfume—a mixture reminiscent of an armaments laboratory.

Then Nadyeshda Ivanovna tripped out into the dark. Charlotte stood in the fresh air for a moment, watching the old lady, bent over, take tiny steps to the garden gate—and disappear. A leaf sailed silently through the beam of light from the streetlamp, and Charlotte hurried indoors again before she was overcome by the melancholy of fall.

She stood in the hall for a moment, undecided. There was any amount still to be done, she didn’t know where to begin. Everything seemed more or less straight in the hall, only the flowers had to be disposed of, but of course there was time for that. The annoying thing, however, was that yet again her plan to label the vases hadn’t worked, thought Charlotte at the sight of the labels that Irina—typical of her!—had found only at the very last place she tried, too late to write on them. Because once all the vases were here, it stood to reason that no one would know who was the owner of which vase—a fact that anyone could understand, except of course Lisbeth, who had stuck the labels on them regardless. There stood the vases, with labels innocent of any writing… although what was this?

One of the labels did have something written on it. Charlotte went closer. Red lettering, Wilhelm’s scrawl:

CHEV, it said. That was all, merely: CHEV.

Tangible evidence. Charlotte took the label off the vase so that she could put it in the metal box where, for a long time now, she had been keeping all important documents: Lisbeth was not to be trusted. She spied for Wilhelm. However, the metal box was forty-four stairs away. She couldn’t keep the sticky thing in her trouser pocket… so for now she parked it on her cardigan.

She went into the salon and phoned Weihe: did he have a camera?

“I do,” said Weihe.

“I’ll call again soon,” said Charlotte, hanging up.

At the same moment it occurred to her that she hadn’t asked about the flash. She called Weihe again and asked whether he had a flash.

“I do,” said Weihe.

“I’ll call again soon,” said Charlotte, hanging up.

He was a wonderful guy, Weihe. Both of them, Rosi too, although she was so sick. You could rely on them. Charlotte wondered whether she had thanked the Weihes for collecting the flower vases. To be on the safe side, she called again and thanked them for collecting the flower vases.

“But you thanked us already, Frau Powileit,” said Weihe.

“I’ll call again soon,” said Charlotte, hanging up.

Then she turned to her chores. There was still a lot to do, and now, as she gradually got into her stride, it made her nervous to see Lisbeth still under the extending table. Only her bottom was showing.

“What are you doing there?” asked Charlotte.

Without answering her question, Lisbeth said, “Listen, Lotti, don’t we have any more plastic containers in the kitchen?”

“Plastic containers? What for?” said Charlotte. “All this is going in the garbage.”

“On the garbage?”

“In the garbage,” said Charlotte. “We still speak correctly in this house.”

“Oh, but what a shame, Lotti! I’ll take it home with me if you don’t want it.”

“Yes, sure, take it home,” said Charlotte, and at the same moment it occurred to her that it might be a better idea to photograph the ruins of the buffet before Lisbeth cleared the evidence away.

However, now the doorbell rang. Who would be ringing the bell at this time of night? Annoying, thought Charlotte, how can I get anything done? Furiously, she marched through the hall and flung the front door open.

“Taxi,” said the man outside.

“Thank you, we don’t need one now,” said Charlotte, and she was about to close the door again, but the taxi driver insisted on a call-out fare.

Call-out fare, thought Charlotte. What nerve!

But she had more important things to do than quarrel with the taxi driver. She handed him ten marks, and before he could get out the change she lost patience and closed the front door.

She hurried back into the salon and told Lisbeth, “Stop that!”

There was still nothing to be seen of Lisbeth but her bottom. Charlotte began to feel that she was conducting a conversation with Lisbeth’s rear end.

“Lotti, that won’t do,” said Lisbeth. “We can’t simply leave it all lying here!”

“We really do have more important matters at hand,” said Charlotte. “There are all the dishes still to be done in the kitchen. And Wilhelm’s evening tea to be made, or he’ll be complaining that it’s too hot again.”

“I’ll do the dishes afterward,” said Lisbeth, “and you can make his tea quickly before I finish in here.”

“Of course,” said Charlotte. “Do forgive me! I was forgetting that you’re the mistress in this house!”

She marched furiously into the kitchen, closed the door. Turned the key in the lock to be on the safe side.

Her breath was wheezing.

She ought never, thought Charlotte, to have let that woman address her on such familiar terms. No respect, nothing. Playing her up. Doing as she liked… once Wilhelm is out of the house, she thought, I’m firing Lisbeth.

She clutched the little bottle in her trouser pocket firmly in her fist and counted to ten. Then she filled the whistling kettle and put it on the gas stove.

Oddly enough, the door to the former servants’ corridor was open again. And someone had forgotten to switch off the light on the cellar stairs. A faint light showed the contours of the bricks in the doorway that Wilhelm had bricked up thirty-five years ago… she quickly switched off the light on the cellar stairs and closed the door to the former servants’ corridor.

Once Wilhelm is out of the house, she thought, I’m having that doorway opened up. Ridiculous, all of it! The very first thing he did, back then, was to remove the bell for the domestic staff as well, because it offended his proletarian honor! But she could shout herself hoarse if Lisbeth was wandering around the house somewhere. That didn’t offend his proletarian honor. After all, she was eighty-six now! Didn’t that count for anything? She had also been a Party member for sixty-two years! She had been director of the institute, with four years in domestic science college behind her! Did none of that count for anything? Did nothing count but Wilhelm’s proletarian honor?

She dropped on the stool, and leaned the back of her head against the wall. The whistling kettle began to murmur.