limb – but watching Sieglinde coughing up dark clots of blood and writhing in agony had been intolerable.
Throughout the winter months, even when it had been snowing, Juno had journeyed from Hietzing to the Zentralfriedhof to lay flowers on her sister's grave. Then, one bleak December morning while leaving the cemetery, she had fallen into conversation with another mourner, a handsome young man by the name of Otto Braun. He had explained how, after the loss of his own dear mother, the desolation of his grief had been relieved by a talented medium in Leopoldstadt. Juno begged Heinrich to accompany her. The woman, Fräulein Löwenstein, held meetings every Thursday evening and Juno did not want to venture into Leopoldstadt on her own. After only one sitting, Juno was convinced that the woman was no charlatan. Heinrich had been sceptical at first – but even he was forced to change his mind when his father 'came through'.
Yes, Fräulein Löwenstein had been special .
'Do you think the Inspector will call today?'
'I have no idea.'
'What was his name? I've forgotten it.'
'Rheinhardt – Inspector Rheinhardt.'
'He said that he would, didn't he?'
Hölderlin looked at his wife. The rate of her blinking had increased.
'He said that he would like to interview us again, yes,' said Hölderlin, 'But I don't think he said that it would be today, specifically.' He raised the newspaper. 'Well, that wasn't my impression, anyway.'
'Why does he want to ask us more questions?'
'I don't know.'
'Surely . . . surely he doesn't suspect us. Surely he doesn't think that we—'
'Of course not!' said Hölderlin, raising his voice. 'Don't be so ridiculous! Of course he knows it's got nothing to do with us!' He turned the page angrily.
Juno lifted the coffee cup to her lips but did not drink. 'I do hope so,' she said more calmly. 'He seemed a sensible man.'
'Yes,' Hölderlin replied gruffly. 'Very sensible.'
Juno took a minute sip of coffee. 'The little locksmith,' she said. 'He was so upset. Devastated.'
From behind the paper Hölderlin replied: 'Herr Uberhorst is a very sensitive fellow.'
'Yes, he is,' said Juno. 'I believe he still has one of my books. I lent him my Madame Blavatsky. Perhaps you could get it back from him, my dear – if you're passing?'
'Yes . . . yes.'
'He is a sensitive fellow. But there was more to it, don't you think?'
Hölderlin did not reply.
'The way he used to look at her . . .'
Hölderlin lowered his paper with evident impatience.
'What?'
'Didn't you ever notice?'
'Notice what?' Hölderlin asked irritably.
Juno blinked at her husband.
'The way Herr Uberhorst used to look at Fräulein Löwenstein. The way he would hang on her every word.'
Hölderlin shook his shiny head and continued reading.
'He was like a schoolboy,' Juno continued. 'Mind, he wasn't the only one, of course. She seemed to have, how can one put it, an influence over men. Wouldn't you say? If you ask me, the Count was besotted too – as was that young fellow Braun. There's no denying her gift, of course. She was very talented. Blessed, one might say. Strange, isn't it? That such a – would it be fair to say this, I don't know – that such a vain woman who was so very particular in matters of appearance should possess such a gift. Still, who am I to question the Lord's will? Such a gift is God-given – of that I'm sure.'
When she had finished speaking, the silence was crushing.
'Heinrich?'
Her husband said nothing.
Juno allowed her coffee cup to drop loudly into its saucer.
'Heinrich?' she said again, somewhat louder. 'You're not listening, are you?'
Behind the protective cover of his newspaper, Heinrich Hölderlin was sitting with eyes wide, staring blankly at an advert for Kalodont toothpaste: Indispensable . He had heard every word, and his mouth had gone wholly dry – as though packed with sawdust. Hölderlin swallowed to relieve the uncomfortable sensation, but to no effect.
9
H ER HAIR WAS pulled back tightly from her face and the cast of her
Throughout the winter months, even when it had been snowing, Juno had journeyed from Hietzing to the Zentralfriedhof to lay flowers on her sister's grave. Then, one bleak December morning while leaving the cemetery, she had fallen into conversation with another mourner, a handsome young man by the name of Otto Braun. He had explained how, after the loss of his own dear mother, the desolation of his grief had been relieved by a talented medium in Leopoldstadt. Juno begged Heinrich to accompany her. The woman, Fräulein Löwenstein, held meetings every Thursday evening and Juno did not want to venture into Leopoldstadt on her own. After only one sitting, Juno was convinced that the woman was no charlatan. Heinrich had been sceptical at first – but even he was forced to change his mind when his father 'came through'.
Yes, Fräulein Löwenstein had been special .
'Do you think the Inspector will call today?'
'I have no idea.'
'What was his name? I've forgotten it.'
'Rheinhardt – Inspector Rheinhardt.'
'He said that he would, didn't he?'
Hölderlin looked at his wife. The rate of her blinking had increased.
'He said that he would like to interview us again, yes,' said Hölderlin, 'But I don't think he said that it would be today, specifically.' He raised the newspaper. 'Well, that wasn't my impression, anyway.'
'Why does he want to ask us more questions?'
'I don't know.'
'Surely . . . surely he doesn't suspect us. Surely he doesn't think that we—'
'Of course not!' said Hölderlin, raising his voice. 'Don't be so ridiculous! Of course he knows it's got nothing to do with us!' He turned the page angrily.
Juno lifted the coffee cup to her lips but did not drink. 'I do hope so,' she said more calmly. 'He seemed a sensible man.'
'Yes,' Hölderlin replied gruffly. 'Very sensible.'
Juno took a minute sip of coffee. 'The little locksmith,' she said. 'He was so upset. Devastated.'
From behind the paper Hölderlin replied: 'Herr Uberhorst is a very sensitive fellow.'
'Yes, he is,' said Juno. 'I believe he still has one of my books. I lent him my Madame Blavatsky. Perhaps you could get it back from him, my dear – if you're passing?'
'Yes . . . yes.'
'He is a sensitive fellow. But there was more to it, don't you think?'
Hölderlin did not reply.
'The way he used to look at her . . .'
Hölderlin lowered his paper with evident impatience.
'What?'
'Didn't you ever notice?'
'Notice what?' Hölderlin asked irritably.
Juno blinked at her husband.
'The way Herr Uberhorst used to look at Fräulein Löwenstein. The way he would hang on her every word.'
Hölderlin shook his shiny head and continued reading.
'He was like a schoolboy,' Juno continued. 'Mind, he wasn't the only one, of course. She seemed to have, how can one put it, an influence over men. Wouldn't you say? If you ask me, the Count was besotted too – as was that young fellow Braun. There's no denying her gift, of course. She was very talented. Blessed, one might say. Strange, isn't it? That such a – would it be fair to say this, I don't know – that such a vain woman who was so very particular in matters of appearance should possess such a gift. Still, who am I to question the Lord's will? Such a gift is God-given – of that I'm sure.'
When she had finished speaking, the silence was crushing.
'Heinrich?'
Her husband said nothing.
Juno allowed her coffee cup to drop loudly into its saucer.
'Heinrich?' she said again, somewhat louder. 'You're not listening, are you?'
Behind the protective cover of his newspaper, Heinrich Hölderlin was sitting with eyes wide, staring blankly at an advert for Kalodont toothpaste: Indispensable . He had heard every word, and his mouth had gone wholly dry – as though packed with sawdust. Hölderlin swallowed to relieve the uncomfortable sensation, but to no effect.
9
H ER HAIR WAS pulled back tightly from her face and the cast of her
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