The Last Days by Laurent Seksik Page B

boudoirs where suitors whispered words of love while mazurkas played in the background, small salons and great excitement, palaces in Switzerland and trips in first class, private theatre boxes that were both peaceful and curtained off by dusky red curtains, the hours of great successes, the immortal moment of the initialthrills, the magic cast by the first laurels. Friderike was the one who’d savoured the honours, the sweet words of praise, seen the future throw open its doors, the marble palaces, the proud palominos galloping through the cool evening breeze. Lotte instead had been dealt the bottomless pits of despair, the terror-stricken visions, the path of exile, third-class compartments, the shabby bungalows and the rattling carriages pulled by donkeys. She had teetered between indifference on the one hand and despair on the other. The worst had been saved for last: five years after Stefan and Friderike had divorced, here he was running after her again. Reliving what they’d already experienced.
    Would that one of those adolescents stole that manuscript of his! Lotte’s name hadn’t appeared even once throughout the book’s four hundred pages. There had only been a single entry in his journal:
    Wednesday, 6th September 1939: We had a quick breakfast, I shaved, then came the wedding, officiated with least amount of fuss, only a simple vow: I hereby take L.A. as my lawful wedded wife.
     
    Thursday, 7th September: A whole host of small affairs to put in order.
    She stared at him as he clutched the manuscript to his chest. He was still holding Friderike in his arms. A metallic rattle on the other side of the platform. A whistle blow resounded. A swirl of black smoke. The train came to a stop. They climbed into the second carriage. She sat down in front of him and saw him cast his gaze about, no doubt to reassure himself that the adolescents hadn’t followed him. The train left the platform. He placed the precious package on his knees, then he held his hand out to his wife. His grip effaced the memory of Friderike Maria von Winternitz.
    She stood up and went to stand by the window. The suburbs of the Imperial City had a desolate splendour to them thanks to those large mansions, which were utterly deserted at this time of year. Farther on, they passed by a few villas overrun by tropical vegetation, then some huts where half-naked children were busy playing. They entered a forest. Lotte shut her eyes and took a deep breath of the air coming in through the window. It was impregnated with the perfume of bananas, mangoes and rosebay. She opened her eyes on a vast plain, in the middle of which was a lake bathed in light. They pressed on, cradled by the hacking cough of the machines. A ruined church rose above the rugged boulders. The train descended into a valley. Struck by vertigo, Lotte sat back down.
    He hadn’t even flinched. His face, as well as his body, seemed frozen exactly as it had been when she had left him a few moments earlier. His eyes were fixed on the compartment door, while his hands were still holding the folder on top of his knees. Slowly, his head began to nod and his eyelids started to shut. His parted lips partially revealed a toothless mouth. All that travelling had ravaged his teeth. That was the other reason for their trip to Rio. The man who had once been a Viennese dandy would soon be fitted with a steel jaw. He hadn’t wanted her to accompany him to the dentist’s. He had said he didn’t need her to hold his hand when the drill sank into his jaw. He still had his pride after all, despite being an old man. “You’re not even sixty yet,” she had retorted. “I’ll come! I’ve followed you to the ends of the earth, I might as well go with you to the dentist’s.” He had given in in the end. She had whispered in his ear:
    “I would follow you to the depths of hell.”
    The movement of the train tipped his head against the window. Lotte was scared that the contact with the glass might wake