Dissonance (19 page)

When the cloud moved over the river was black, reflecting light in a photographic negative jammed with passenger ships and tugs. In some spots it looked like there was only a few spare feet of water between them. The air was heavy with grey smoke laden with soot, creating the Elbe's own climate. The docks sounded of seagulls and ships' horns, and trains getting up steam, and smelt of spilled oil lapping on embankments.

‘This is a land of opportunity,' Luise said, unaware that she was sounding like a brochure, remounting her bike and heading off towards Rödingsmarkt, watched by the boy with his hands in his pockets.

‘That's what they say about Australia,' Erwin replied, catching up with her.

But Luise didn't hear him. ‘Everyone has a job here.'

‘Really?'

‘I remember a few years back, Grandpa standing in his suit and polished shoes out front of the St Paul's landing stages, selling boxes of matches. Until Hitler. He built the highways. Dams and factories and ships, cars, all these buildings here.' She pointed to a row of new warehouses on the Alte Wandrahm.

‘They're buildings,' Erwin argued. ‘You're a singer.'

‘So? Now we have more orchestras.'

‘Bands.'

‘Orchestras, like the ones that play in the factories.'

Erwin wanted to argue, but there was no point.

‘Could you imagine Australia having the Olympics?' Luise asked, shooting ahead of him, her head lifted as the breeze cleared hair from her broad, olive forehead. She nodded her head in the direction of a group of Hitler Youth, walking along the street with buckets full of glue and brushes, wetting street lamps, noticeboards and hoardings and putting up posters.

‘I went and saw Alfred's group the other night,' Erwin said.

‘His group? He's not much of a leader.'

‘No, the boys adore him, he was teaching them boxing.'

‘Boxing?' And then she raised her face to the blue sky, smiling. ‘But he's a weasel.'

‘Perhaps.'

For a moment Erwin thought he could hear his mother speaking. He looked at Luise and then asked, ‘And what about me?'

‘What about you?'

‘Am I a weasel?'

She smiled at him, her big, blue eyes attaching and holding his gaze. ‘No, you're okay, Chips.' She took a moment to think. ‘Did anyone knock him out?'

‘Why do you hate him so much?'

‘I don't hate him. I barely know him.'

‘No, no one knocked him out.'

Erwin noticed another group of boys with buckets of glue and brushes; he noticed their rolled-up sleeves, branded with S-runes, freshly ironed by devoted mothers; he noticed their neck scarves and toggles and polished belt buckles. He could see them putting down their buckets and pulling on boxing gloves, jumping about in the middle of a circle of their seated friends. He could see one of them punching another in the head, and the boy falling, lying on the ground, stunned, while his circle of friends applauded. Then he could see the victor helping the other boy up, holding him around the shoulder and raising his gloved hand in the air.

‘And then, when the boys were finished,' Erwin explained to Luise, ‘Alfred took on one of the other leaders.'

Chanting, foot-stamping, as Alfred ran about like a rabbit, taking a swipe and retreating, launching himself at his opponent's legs and felling him, standing victoriously with his hands in the air as his boys gathered around and lifted him.

They stopped for another rest. Three young girls passed them pulling a small, four-wheeled cart that had been lined with fir branches. And in the cart they'd laid a large, bronze bust of Hitler – cold and reflective, proud and defiant, his moustache neatly trimmed and his hair oiled down. Luise asked, ‘Where are you taking that?'

‘To school,' one of the girls replied, struggling with a long handle as the wheels slipped in and out of alignment on the cobblestone path.

Luise looked at Erwin. ‘Where should we stop for lunch?' she asked.

‘You choose.'

They rode on, away from the river, towards the distant spire of St Peter's church.

‘Serves them right,' she said, following the trail of posters that the boys had left behind – some showing hook-nosed Jewish men, others their rat-like children.

Erwin could see her naked, lying on his bed, as Madge's Jewish students conjugated verbs beside her. He felt her pulling him down, and kissing and undressing him, as Madge looked on, oblivious, pointing to words on the half-size blackboard. He could see himself standing naked as his mother handed him his whip and smiled; as he unfurled it and started whipping Luise across the back and buttocks – as the students continued reciting.

They had enough money for a bowl of spaghetti at a café on the Alster Pavilion. They took turns eating it, sharing the same fork, wiping tomato sauce from each other's chins and laughing as they slurped and eventually resorted to fingers to get the spaghetti into their mouths. They finished off a bottle of mineral water, a bread roll and two boiled potatoes in melted butter that someone had left at their table.

Then they found a tree in a small, shady park. They spread out, head-to-head, on soft, green lawn and Erwin took a book from his backpack.

‘Should I read to you?' he asked.

‘What is it?'

‘
Grettir's Saga
.'

‘Who's it by?'

‘No one knows … it's very old.'

She lifted her head to look at him. ‘What about a detective story?'

But this time he ignored her. ‘“Chapter One,”' he read, crossing his legs and smelling the perfume from a row of jonquils. ‘“The Family and Early Wars of Onund the son of Ofeig.”'

‘Onund, Ofeig?' she laughed.

‘They're Vikings,' he defended.

She lay back down and closed her eyes. ‘Go on then.'

‘“There was a man named Onund, the son of Ofeig Clumsyfoot, who was the son of Ivar Horsetail.”'

‘Hold on,' she said. ‘They're their real names?'

‘Yes.'

‘Ivar Clumsyfoot?'

‘Ivar Horsetail.'

‘You don't have anything else?'

‘No, give it a chance. The Icelandic sagas are wonderful.'

‘Go on.'

‘“Onund was the brother of Gudbjorg, the mother of Gudbrand Knob.”'

‘How am I meant to remember all of these people?' she asked.

The same thing he'd asked his father, ten years before, sitting beside him on his bed in the shed (Madge had gone into town for groceries) as the spring sun warmed the galvanised iron, falling across the earthen floor in stripes, squares and abstract shapes.

‘Just keep listening,' his father had replied, ‘and you'll soon catch on.'

So he'd just sat there taking it all in, trying to remember if Orm the Wealthy was a sailor or a merchant, if Thorir Long-Chin or Geirmund Swarthyskin was the leader of the Hordland army – if the Vikings had five or six ships and who the Wolfskins were.

His dad was right. After a while he'd started to work it out. And anyway, the names weren't all that important. He could hear his dad proclaiming: ‘“… at that moment a man on the forecastle of the King's ship struck at him and took off his leg below the knee …”'

He could remember his dad putting his arm around him and holding him close and telling him about Grettir. ‘There was a man named Ofeig, nicknamed Grettir.'

And now
he
was the exile, raping and pillaging his way across Hamburg. He looked at Luise, lying flat and motionless in the shade; he looked at her chest, gently rising and falling, and felt happy with thoughts of the future.

He started reading about Bjorn, who'd had to leave Gautland because he'd burnt Sigfast in his house. Then he said, ‘See, this is just like real life.'

‘How?' she asked, swatting a fly.

‘Murdering, stealing, burning down houses.'

‘I wish I had a sword like that one,' the five-year-old had said, pointing to a picture of a nine-foot, red-bearded Teutonic giant decapitating an Irish monk.

‘You have,' his dad replied.

‘No, I don't.'

Back in the park, Erwin was still thinking. Luise opened her eyes and looked at him, ‘What is it?' she asked.

‘Grettir the Strong,' he whispered.

‘What?'

‘It's what my dad used to call me.'

She sat up.

‘This is what he'd read me,' he said, eventually, ‘in his shed, when Mum wasn't around. Then he'd give me the book back, and I'd take it in and Mum would read it to me again. Once she found a greasy thumb print on it and said, How did this get here? And I said, I was working on my bike. Clean your hands, she says. Books aren't cheap.'

‘He was always out in the shed?' she asked.

‘Yes.'

‘She'd never let him in?'

‘Never … until he got the cancer.'

Luise took his hand and held it lightly. She touched each of his fingers and then kissed him on the palm. Then she squeezed his hand. ‘Aren't you … angry?'

‘No.'

‘Why?'

‘Mum's given up everything for me.'

‘So what? That's what parents do. Why did she lock him in the shed?'

‘She didn't!'

There was a long pause. He could see birds, small, black birds, passing through the canopy of trees.

‘He read to you.'

But Erwin didn't answer.

It was getting dark when they arrived home. They locked their bikes in a metal cage under the stairs and went up.

‘What time?' Erwin asked Luise, as they arrived on their floor.

‘I don't need any more practice,' she replied.

‘You do,' he whispered, into a silence that was broken only by the clang of distant scaffold.

‘Why don't we arrive early and practise at the hall?' she suggested. Then she took his hand and moved towards him. She kissed him, and lingered, feeling his breath on her face.

Madge watched them through the peephole in their door. They were distant and stretched, disfigured and blurry, but she could see what they were up to. She felt the doorknob in her hand and wanted to turn it, but then they separated and the girl spoke and smiled and waved at him.

Erwin opened the front door, came inside and closed it quietly. It was almost dark in the sitting room and he searched for the light. But before he could find it something struck his face. He stepped back and squinted to see. ‘Mum?' he asked.

She was in a long, black frock and her face was indistinct and grainy. The room was cold, full of echo, silent apart from the hard, metallic pulse of their clock.

‘Look at the time,' she said, but he couldn't see it.

His fingers found the light and he switched it on. ‘Why are you in the dark?' he asked his mother.

‘Look at the time!'

He looked at the clock. It was nearly six thirty.

‘Why did you hit me?'

Slowly she asked, ‘What is the time?'

‘It's half past six.'

The time Jo would be at the back door, scraping off his dishes, whistling, peering down the hallway to catch sight of his son.

‘We had to wait for a ferry,' Erwin said.

‘And what about your practice?'

‘I'll practise now.'

He walked towards the piano but she held the lid closed. ‘It's not a proper practice.'

‘It'll do.'

‘It won't. Why?'

‘We were having fun.'

‘We didn't come here for fun. If you practise for two hours you'll end up an amateur. Why did we come all this way – '

‘I'll practise now,' Erwin insisted.

‘It's too late.'

‘It's not.'

He tried to lift the piano lid but she held it closed. ‘Just stop and think what you're doing,' she said. ‘Think of the money, and the fare, think of the rent and all the things I go without … for you.'

‘Mum. It … was … one … time.'

‘It's never one time.'

‘It is.'

And then, without thinking, Madge said, ‘It's her.'

He started playing his scales. There was a red mark on the side of his face where she had slapped him. He could feel it but played on regardless. Then there was a knock on the door; Madge opened it to find Luise smiling at her with her arms crossed.

‘Hello, Mrs Hergert,' she said, but Madge didn't reply.

Erwin stopped playing and Madge clapped her hands. ‘Come on, you've lost too much time,' she scolded.

Luise looked at Erwin and tried to smile but he was already playing again. Madge was still staring at her. ‘What do you want?' she asked, abruptly.

Erwin's C sharp minor scale slowed and almost stopped but he thought better of it. Luise looked at him. ‘Erwin,' she said, but he ignored her.

‘Erwin has a lot of work to make up.'

Luise couldn't believe it. She looked at him and saw a child, of seven or eight, and wondered if she hadn't made a mistake.

‘What do you want?' Madge repeated.

‘My songs,' she replied.

Madge marched over to the piano, picked up the volume of Schubert and returned it to her. Then she said, ‘This is because he wasted time.'

‘Today?' Luise asked.

‘F sharp minor,' she barked, closing the door.

Luise stood in the dark hallway. She touched the door and felt the vibration of the notes.

Erwin started his technical studies. Czerny. A fugue. He knew it so well he could look up at his mother.

‘The music,' she warned, waving her finger about.

‘Listen how you talked to her.'

‘So?' Madge snapped, taking his hands and squeezing them together. ‘I saw you out there. If that's what you want, go on … go and kiss her.'

‘This is nonsense.' He shook his hands free and started again.

Then there was another knock. Madge stormed to the door and opened it with a jolt. The landlord's wife, a fat, pasty-faced woman with three chins, stood staring at her. ‘It's nearly seven,' she said, in German.