Dissonance (32 page)

Erwin sat next to her. ‘It's not that simple.'

She wasn't so sure it was a cramp this time. The pain was concentrated towards the bottom of her lump; it stayed, and went from warm to hot, slowly tightening as she bit into her bottom lip.

‘What is it?' Erwin asked.

‘Nothing.'

He looked down at his boots, up at a church spire, a tele­graph pole and the walls and windows of buildings that defined his damp, brown existence; he could see his own grey legs, and his wife's dress, and fingers, supporting her bulge. ‘What is it?' he repeated.

‘It won't go away.'

He stood up. ‘I'll get Mum.'

‘No, you won't!' she screamed.

Two small boys, carrying drums that came up past their shoulders, looked at them as they passed by. Erwin shooed them and one of them let out a baby's cry.

‘Go away,' Luise yelled, as she was gripped by another contraction.

‘Mum will know what to do.'

‘It's nothing.'

She stood up, almost stumbling, and he took her arm. They walked a few steps but then sat down on a bench. ‘We should go to the hospital,' he said.

‘No,' she replied, as she sucked in her lips, pressing them together, letting them out with a gasp. ‘How?'

Erwin stood up. He looked down the street: bikes, cars and an old Clydesdale pulling a flattray. An old man emerged from a bakery with his arms full of fruit crates. He looked at Luise and stopped and asked, ‘Are you alone?'

Erwin turned to him. ‘I'm her husband.'

The old man shrugged. ‘You know what happens next?' he said.

‘I have a fair idea,' Luise managed.

The baker stopped to think. He looked up at Erwin. ‘Come on then.'

They each took an arm and led Luise towards the baker's van. They tried to fit her in the passenger's seat but she wouldn't fit. So they took her around to the back doors, propped open, venting the smell of pipe loaves and honey cakes into the mid-afternoon air. They helped her up, and Erwin got in, taking her under the arms and dragging her towards a pile of bread rolls.

The baker slammed the doors shut. It was pitch black inside the van. Luise rested her head and shoulders in Erwin's lap and laughed. ‘I'm hungry,' she said, and he handed her a roll.

The engine started and they could feel themselves moving. They heard the indicator clunk and the brakes squeal. Luise arced from pain to laughter, from excitement to dread. Then her muscles relaxed as she imagined her baby – a bright, golden, burnt-around-the-edges face sprinkled with poppy seeds and a thousand consolations; enough to make up for Madge, shitty bathroom floors and her mother's leg emerging from the rubble.

The baker took a corner too quickly and they rolled, still laughing, holding each other as they crushed bread. Erwin could smell cinnamon and taste icing sugar. Then he was standing in the Tanunda bakery, admiring custard tarts and finger buns through polished windows, grinning as pastors' wives felt the strudel for freshness. Flour on the baker's fingers and hands, aprons, benches, everywhere – even now, a sack of flour in his back as he saw his boy's face in the darkness: his curly locks, his deep-blue eyes, his warm breath on the back of his hand. For a moment he forgot everything: music and Madge, ohm-pah bands polluting jasmine-scented mornings, the sound of boots on marble stairs, scales, essays, the smell of boiling rabbit and coal smoke in the streets.

They stopped. The engine died with a few epileptic chugs and Erwin tried to open the door. ‘There's no handle,' he said.

Luise stretched out, kicking her foot against the side of the van. ‘Where is he?' she said.

Erwin knocked on the back door. ‘Hello?'

Light smelling of antiseptic; white, diffused with cold, damp, iodine air. The baker and an orderly manoeuvred a wheelchair between the doors. Erwin took his wife under the arms and tried to move her.

‘Stop,' she said, slapping him, laughing, but then turning serious. ‘I can get out … I'm not a cripple.'

Erwin let her go and the other men grinned at him. Then she moved, inch by inch, pushing herself forward with her hands placed behind her body. The three of them got her into the wheelchair and then Erwin put his hand on the baker's shoulder. ‘Come in,' he said, but the baker only laughed, wiping his nose on his forearm and saying, ‘No, thanks, I've got six of my own.'

‘Can I give you some money?'

‘No, you best go with her,' and he indicated Luise, disappearing inside the hospital.

They took the lift to the third floor, and a small examination room, where a midwife helped her onto a table and lifted her dress. ‘Is it raining?' she asked.

Erwin wondered if this was some sort of code. ‘No.'

‘Well, your water's broken, dear.'

‘When did that happen?' she asked.

Erwin looked down at his wet pants. ‘The baker's van,' he smiled, and the midwife said, ‘Remind me not to buy my bread there.'

Chapter Six

Erwin sat in a torn leather seat. It was 3 am and the room, and the whole maternity ward, was quiet. He, his wife, and child, were bathed in yellow light from a nearby office that had been empty for hours.

Erwin lifted his head and opened his eyes. He looked at the baby, lying in a crib with glass sides. He went to touch it, to move hair from its forehead, but stopped, wondering how easily it would wake. He looked at his wife, sleeping deeply, holding a sheet under her chin with clenched fists. Her face looked old and fat in the dim light. Her mouth was open, but sometimes it would close and then pop open again, leaving a delicate strand of saliva between her lips.

Erwin took the clipboard containing his wife's notes and laid it across his lap. He found a clean page and a pen and stopped to think. Then he wrote:

Dear Grandma and Grandpa,

Well, it (he) is here. Frans. Padded but not fat. He has brown hair (which Mum's yet to discover) and blue eyes. He has a square face and solid chin, and red, blushing cheeks. I must say, it was a bit of a surprise. You know what to expect (a real little person with eyes, ears, the lot) but when it (he) actually comes out … Now, I know why everyone likes kids. All the work's done for you. A Beethoven sonata takes a lot of work but this (he) is just as perfect without the years of practise.

He looked up at a clock with a slow second hand. He watched it pass a minute, seeing how long he could resist looking at his son.

I don't know where Mum is. I've rung her several times. I've also rung Professor Schaedel and he's here, somewhere. He arrived in time to have a hold. After I'd bathed him, and Luise had fed him.

Meanwhile, in the waiting room at the far end of the ward, Madge sat on a hard wooden chair trying to read a pamphlet about colic. Every ten or fifteen seconds she would look up in search of a nurse or orderly; if she saw one she'd stand and take a few steps towards them. ‘I am Luise Hergert's mother-in-law,' but they would be gone, having already told her she couldn't go in until the mother was awake.

She was furious, kept waiting again, just because Luise wanted a sleep!
Her
labour had taken the best part of two nights; pushing, sweating and groaning, and even then, when the damn thing had eventually come out, she'd had to feed it, bath it and hold onto it so that Jo couldn't get too close.

She sat down and continued reading. Her hand started shaking and she clenched it into a fist. She looked up and saw Professor Schaedel further down the hallway, talking to a nurse, holding her arm and laughing. She stood up. ‘Hello, Professor,' she called, waving at him.

He looked up and squinted to recognise her. He seemed surprised. He made his apologies to the nurse and walked towards her.

‘Madge.'

‘Professor.'

‘Ivan, please.'

He took her hands and they sat down together.

‘Congratulations,' he said.

‘How did you know?' she asked.

‘Erwin phoned me.'

She was taken back. ‘Well …' She looked towards the nurses' station and snarled. ‘They won't let me in … until she's awake.'

‘It shouldn't be long. She's been up a couple of times already.'

She let go of his hands, and stared straight into his eyes. ‘She has?'

‘Yes. I think she's very uncomfortable.'

‘How long have you been here?'

Then he reclaimed her hand. ‘Not long.'

She stared at the ground. Then her head popped up and she tried to smile. ‘Is it beautiful?' she asked.

‘He is,' he glowed.

‘A boy.' She stared up at the ceiling, smiling, dreaming of the possibilities. ‘Well?' she harped, squeezing his hand.

‘He's a good looker: chocolate brown hair, a fair old mop.'

She was taken back. ‘Chocolate?'

‘Yes.'

‘Dark or light?'

He stopped to think. ‘Well …'

‘And is Erwin happy?'

‘Yes.'

‘Has he been holding it? Frans. Frans, is that what they've called it?'

‘Yes. He's been holding it.'

‘His eyes?'

‘Blue.'

‘Aqua-blue, or green-blue?'

‘I'm not sure.'

She took his arm and dragged him from his seat. He followed her down the hallway, towards the nurses' station, calling, ‘They won't let you in.'

‘Nonsense.'

They stopped in front of the station, a long desk covered in folders of case notes and vases of half-dead flowers. Madge knocked on the desk but there was no reply. ‘Shop,' she ­hollered, but there was no one to be seen.

‘Very well,' she said, turning to the professor. ‘Which way?'

He pointed. ‘Last room on the right.'

A few moments later Madge glided into the room. She approached her son, took his head in her hands and kissed him on the lips. Then she looked at the baby. ‘Frans,' she whispered.

Erwin put his letter down. ‘Don't pick him up,' he said.

She glared at him, but then smiled. ‘What, do you think I'm stupid?'

‘No.'

‘I've done this before, remember?'

Luise stirred but then turned over, facing away from them.

‘Quiet!' Erwin urged. ‘The midwife said she needs to sleep between feeds.'

Madge was staring at Frans. ‘That's your grandfather there,' she said. ‘That's his jaw, and chin.' She returned to her son, held his hands and squeezed them. ‘Are you happy?' she asked.

‘Yes,' he managed. ‘He seems to be … in order.'

‘In order!' She squeezed his cheek. ‘You don't seem very excited.'

‘I am.'

Schaedel took him by the elbow. ‘It takes a while to sink in. It was the same with my first.'

Madge acknowledged him, but then decided she didn't care. She looked at Erwin again. ‘You were there for the whole thing?'

‘Yes.'

‘And?'

‘It didn't take that long. Half-an-hour after we arrived it was all over.'

She looked at Schaedel. ‘Erwin's arrival was very different,' she teased.

Strange, Schaedel thought, looking at Luise, tired, deflated, pale, recovering in a pile of messed-up sheets a few yards away. ‘I thought Luise was in shock,' he said. ‘Didn't you, Erwin?'

‘Yes.'

‘How do you think I felt?' Madge grinned. ‘Sixty-two hours!' She held up five fingers, as if they somehow added up to the total of her suffering.

Schaedel stared at her. ‘It must have been terrible,' he said.

‘It was, but look what you get,' she explained, posing her son, glancing between him and Frans as she tried to find similarities.

‘His nose,' she said, but then changed her mind. ‘No, no.' She hovered over the baby. ‘He has less of an arch … I think.'

Then she sniffed the air. ‘Bread?' she asked.

‘That's how we got here,' Erwin explained.

Madge looked confused.

‘In a bread van,' he said.

‘You didn't?'

‘We did,' he said, going on to explain their movements since they left the apartment. When he was finished, Madge sat down. ‘What I don't understand,' she said, ‘is why you didn't call me.'

‘I did,' Erwin replied. ‘Four or five times.'

‘He did,' Schaedel repeated. ‘I was with him.'

Madge shook her head. ‘I was up. I was very worried.'

Erwin sat on the end of his wife's bed. ‘I couldn't have dialed a wrong number that many times,' he said.

Both of them looked at Madge.

‘I was cursing you,' she said, as though repeating a fiction often enough might make it real. ‘I thought you might have had an accident.'

They stared at her. Her eyes were fixed, and defiant.

‘I don't know what happened,' Erwin said.

Schaedel looked at him. He looked back at Madge. He could guess what had happened. He could see her, standing in her sitting room at ten to twelve, her arms crossed, her face set hard, refusing to answer the telephone.

He could hear her thoughts.

Nasty little girl. Nothing but rudeness. Well, you choose, Erwin, you choose.

The baby started to stir. Madge moved towards it. ‘It's waking,' she said.

‘He's waking,' Erwin corrected.

‘Frans,' she smiled.

Luise stirred, and turned, and saw her there.

‘Frans,' Madge said to her.

‘That's what Erwin wants,' she managed.

‘Of course,' Madge continued, ignoring the girl, picking up the baby and cradling it in her arms. ‘Hello,' she said, looking straight into his eyes. ‘Do you know who I am?'

You soon will, Schaedel thought.

‘You say
Grandma
,
Grandma
,' she droned.

‘He can't talk quite yet,' Erwin said, taking the boy and handing him to Luise.

Luise sat up. The baby started to cry for its feed. Schaedel took his cue and said, ‘I'll wait outside.'

He shuffled out of the room.

Madge sat down in Erwin's chair. She stared at the mother and baby and smiled. ‘Which breast did you finish on?' she asked.

‘Mum,' Erwin groaned.

‘What?'

‘Please.'

‘If she's going to live in the same house …'

Luise looked at Erwin angrily. The baby was getting louder, turning red, wriggling in his sheets until they came loose.

‘Mum,' Erwin repeated, but she wouldn't move.

So Luise tried to turn away from them. She undid the top buttons of her hospital nightdress and uncomfortably lifted Frans to her breast.

‘No, no,' Madge said, standing up, adjusting the baby in the girl's arms and undoing a few more buttons. ‘Let it have a good suck,' she said. ‘It's hungry.'

She stood back as Frans finally attached, and quietened. Then she looked at her son, reached over and lifted Frans's left hand. ‘See,' she said, ‘piano fingers. Perfect for Rachmaninov.'

Erwin just sighed, closing his eyes as he tried to avoid his wife's stare.

A week later, Erwin was asleep beside his mother in her single bed. He was dreaming – smiling, moving his lips without speaking. He turned on his side, facing away from her, gathering the bed sheets and pulling them off her. She tugged them back without waking, pulling them up under her chin and smiling.

It was quiet.

Once, earlier in the evening, the air raid siren had started but then stopped after a few seconds. Neighbours had gathered in the hallway, looking at each other, shrugging, before eventually returning to white sausage and sardines. But now there was just the sound of a tarpaulin flapping in the wind where it had come loose from the scaffold around apartment 2E.

Frans started to stir in what had been Erwin's but was now Madge's room.

The morning before Erwin and Madge had gone to fetch her from the hospital, Madge had moved all of Luise's clothes, books and photos from the double room to the single. And then she'd replaced them with hers.

Erwin had come home while she was doing it. ‘Mum?'

‘What?'

‘What are you doing?'

‘What's it look like?'

‘When was this decided?'

‘It's the only practical way.' She barged past him with a box full of boots. ‘Otherwise, you'll be good for nothing.'

‘But I was going to … I
want
to help Frans.'

She stopped and looked at him. ‘Just like your father: a dreamer. There's no point having two tired bodies.'

When Luise came home that afternoon, Madge was no more agreeable.

‘That was our room, Madge, you said we could have it,' Luise pleaded.

‘You can. This is a temporary arrangement, until Frans sleeps through,' Madge replied.

Luise's eyes flashed. ‘That could take years.'

Madge took Frans from her and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Nonsense, a few months … you'll see. I'll be with you the whole time.'

Although she wasn't – as Frans got louder and louder, and Luise sat up in bed, mumbling, ‘Not again,' switching on her bedside lamp, opening the door, dropping her slippers on the floorboards, picking up Frans and wrapping him in rugs and going to sit in the old armchair beside the piano.

As Erwin woke, rolled onto his back and sighed. ‘Coming.'

‘Stay,' Madge said.

Erwin sat up on the edge of the bed and dropped his feet into his slippers. Madge turned and looked at him, squinting. ‘She can deal with it,' she said.

‘It's not fair.'

‘Go back to sleep … unless you can do anything.'

And so he lay down, and covered himself again, as Luise sat with the baby on her breast, staring at the door to her old room, coughing a few times to see what would happen.

‘Luise,' Madge called.

‘Yes?'

‘I thought we'd agreed that you'd feed in your room?'

Luise tried to calm her voice. ‘I'm settled here.'

‘Erwin has a morning lesson.'

‘So?'

Erwin was almost asleep again. ‘I'm coming.'

‘Stay,' Madge barked.

Eventually Frans fell asleep and Luise settled him in his wicker basket beside her bed. He was up again at four, and this time she stayed in her room. He was hungry again at five-thirty and she got up, cursing him, shoving him onto her tit, shaking him until he attached, raising her voice in little spasmodic fits. ‘When you're good and ready … come on. If you think you're going to sleep all day.'

This time he wouldn't resettle. She got up, changed his nappy and put him in a woollen suit.

She turned on every light in the house, searched through drawers for the frypan, filled the kettle (accidentally dropping it in the sink) and put it on the stove, set the table for breakfast by dropping the plates, scattered a handful of cutlery beside them and finally switched on the radio.

She made herself a cup of tea and poached eggs on toast. Then she dragged the chair out from the table, sat down and scraped it back into position across the floorboards. She coughed, and even managed to dry-retch, but there was no response from Madge's room. She looked at Frans and he yawned and rubbed his eyes. ‘Another bloody Hergert,' she whispered, sipping cold tea.