Voice of Our Shadow (12 page)

The coffee tasted like cold acid in my mouth. She finished the story sitting at the other end of the couch, looking straight ahead at the wall.

“He had high blood pressure. A couple of years ago a doctor told him he should start exercising if he wanted to be safe.” She turned to me, a hard metal line of smile on her lips. “You know what? The last time he went to a doctor they said his blood pressure was way down.”

“India, did he tell you what happened at the Hilton that day?”

She nodded. “Little Boy?”

“Yes.”

“You think his finding out about us did this to him?”

“I don’t know, India.”

“Me neither, Joe.”

Paul was buried three days later in a small cemetery that fronted one of the vineyards in Heiligenstadt. He had discovered the place while on a Sunday walk and had made India promise that if he died in Vienna, she would try to have him buried there. He said he liked the view — ornate stone and cast-iron markers with a backdrop of hills and grapevines. Way at the top, Schloss Leopoldsberg and the green beginnings of the Wienerwald.

I knew some of the people at the service. A big bear of a man from Yugoslavia named Amir who loved to cook and who had the Tates over to dinner at least once a month. A few people from Paul’s office, and a handsome black teacher from one of the international schools who pulled up in a bright-orange Porsche convertible. But I was surprised there weren’t more. I kept looking at India to see if she was fully aware of the meager turnout. She wore no hat, and her hair blew light and free in the wind. Her face showed nothing but a kind of closed harmony. She later told me she was aware only of her grief and the last moments with her husband.

The weather was fine and sunny; for a few moments the sun cheerfully reflected off a polished gravestone nearby. Except for an occasional car and the crunch of gravel underfoot, it was quiet. A stillness you were hesitant to upset because, when you did, the glass around the moment might shatter and Paul Tate would truly and forever be gone, and we would soon be leaving him.

That’s what I’d thought the two previous times I’d been to funerals — how you leave and “they” stay. Like someone seeing you off at the train. As it’s pulling out of the station and you’re waving goodbye to them from the window, inevitably they seem to diminish in size. Not only because you’re moving and the physical distance is shrinking them, but because they’re still there. You’re bigger because you’re off and away to something new, while they’re shrinking because now they’ll go home to the same lunches, television shows, dog, ink, and view from the living room window.

I turned from thoughts of Paul to how India was taking it. She was holding her purse to her chest and looking up at the sky. What did she see there? I wondered if she was looking for heaven. Then she closed her eyes and lowered her head slowly. She hadn’t cried at all that day, but how long could she hold out? I took a step toward her; she must have heard my feet on the gravel, because she turned and looked at me. Simultaneously, two very strange things happened. First, instead of seeming on the verge of tears or some kind of violent emotion, she looked, well,
bored
. That in itself was disconcerting, but then, an instant later, her face broke into a glorious smile, the kind that comes only when something wonderful happens to you for no reason at all. It was good I didn’t have to say anything, because I would have been speechless.

The minister from the English church finished his “ashes-to-ashes” litany. I had no idea what connection he had to the Tates. He evidently hadn’t known Paul, because he spoke in a professionally sympathetic voice that had neither warmth nor sadness in it. The interesting thing to me was that he had the same name as the priest in my hometown — the man who’d delivered the funeral services for both Ross and my mother.

When everything was done, I waited while the people said their last words to India. She looked fine; once again I had to admire how strong and sure she was, notwithstanding the smile of a few minutes before. She was not the kind of woman who would self-indulgently fall into her sadness and never reemerge. Death was forever and horrible, but its force didn’t own her as it did so many others in the same situation. I knew the difference, too, because I had seen Ross’s death drown my mother in its undertow. Now, watching India walk toward me, I could see that would never happen to her.

“Take me home, Joe?” The wind gusted, and a drift of her hair blew across her face. Although I had expected her to ask, I still felt touched and honored that she wanted me with her then. I took her arm, and she pulled it tight to her side. For a moment I felt the curve and hardness of one of her ribs on the back of my hand.

“I thought it was an okay service. Didn’t you? At least it was harmless.”

“Yes, you’re right. I think those Diane Wakoski poems were lovely.”

“Yeah, well, she was Paul’s favorite.”

The Yugoslav passed and asked if we wanted a ride into town. India said thanks but she wanted to walk for a while, we’d catch the tram a few blocks away. I’d assumed she’d want to go by cab, but I said nothing. When he was gone, we were the only ones left in the cemetery.

“Do you know how they bury people in Vienna, Joe?” She stopped on the gravel path and turned so she was looking down one of the short, orderly rows of grave markers.

“How do you mean?”

“It’s not like in America, see? I’m a big expert on it now. Ask me anything. In the States you buy yourself a little plot of ground — your very own piece, right? — and it’s yours forevermore. Not here, baby. You know what happens in merry old Wien? You
rent
a place for ten years. That’s right, no kidding! You rent a plot in the cemetery for ten years, and then you have to pay on it again when the time’s up or else they’ll exhume you. Dig you right back up. One of the guys here told me some graveyards are so popular that even if you keep making your rent payments, they still dig you up after about forty years so someone
else
can rest in peace for a while. Oh, shit!”

I looked at her; she looked sick and tired of the world. I squeezed her arm and accidentally bumped into the softness of her breast. She didn’t seem to notice.

“I know what I’ll do, Joe.” She started crying and wouldn’t look at me. Staring straight ahead, she kept walking. “After ten years here, you and I will get Paul and we’ll move him to a brand-new graveyard! A new place in the sun. Maybe we’ll get a mobile home and have it fitted out for him. Move him around all the time. He’ll be the best-traveled body in town.” She shook her head; the tears flew away from her face. The only sounds in the world were her high heels hitting the pavement and the short gasps for breath.

All the way home on the tram she held my hand tightly and looked at the floor. The crying had flushed her face, but it had begun to pale again by the time we reached her stop. I tugged gently on her arm. For the first time she looked from the floor to me.

“Are we here? Would you mind sticking around, Joe? Do you mind coming home with me for a while?”

“
Selbstverständlich
.”

“Joey, I hate to tell you this, but you speak German like Colonel Klink on
Hogan’s Heroes
.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

The tram glided to a stop. We descended the steep metal steps to the street. I took her arm again, and she pulled it to her side. I remembered the time I’d watched the Tates walk away from me at the Café Landtmann. She had held Paul’s arm that way, too.

“How did you feel after your brother’s death?”

I swallowed and bit my lip. “Do you want to know the truth?”

She stopped and drilled me with one of her looks. “Will you tell me the truth?”

“Of course, India. How did I feel? Good and bad. Bad because he was gone and because he had been so much a part of my life up to that point. Big brothers really are important to you when you’re young.”

“I believe you. So where did you get off feeling good? Where did that come from?”

“Because kids are omnivorous in their greed. You said so yourself, remember? Yes, I was sorry he was gone, but now I could have his room and his desk, his football and the Albanian flag I’d always coveted.”

“Were you really like that? I don’t believe it. I thought you said you were such a good little kid.”

“India, I don’t think I was any different from most boys or girls that age. Ross had been bad for so long that he owned almost all of my parents’ attention. Now all of a sudden I was about to get that attention. It’s terrible to say, but you said you wanted to hear the truth.”

“Do you think it was bad to feel that way?”

We reached the door to her building, and she went digging around in her pocketbook for her keys. I ran my hand lightly down the row of plastic buzzers.

“Was I bad? Sure, I was a nasty little rat. But I think that’s the way most kids are. People are so indifferent to them so much of the time,
because
they’re kids, they just naturally grab for whatever they can get. People pay attention to children the way they do to dogs — once in a while they kiss and hug and smother them with a thousand presents, but it’s all over in two seconds, and then the grownups want them out of there.”

“Don’t you think parents love their kids?” She turned the key in the lock and pushed the heavy glass door open.

“If I were to generalize, I’d say they love them but wish they’d stay at a good distance. Once in a while they want them around so they can giggle and laugh and have fun with them, but never for very long.”

“Seems as if all you’re saying is kids are dull.”

“Yes, India, I’d agree to that.”

“Were you a dull kid?” She turned to me and dropped the keys into her purse in one movement.

“Compared to my brother I was. I was dull and good. Ross was interesting and bad. But really bad. Even evil sometimes.”

She reached over and took a thread off my coat. “Maybe that’s why your parents paid more attention to him than to you.”

“Because he was a bad boy?”

“No, because you were dull.”

The stairwell was damp and dark after our having been outside in the sun for so long. I decided to say nothing to India’s mean remark. She went ahead of me. I watched her legs climb the stairs. They were so nice.

The apartment was a mess. It was the first time I’d been back there since the day Paul died. Cardboard boxes on the floor, the couch, and the windowsill. Men’s clothes and shoes unceremoniously dumped into them; some were already brimming over with socks, ties, and underwear. Over in a corner three boxes were sealed with shiny brown tape and stacked out of the way. There was no writing on any of them.

“Are these Paul’s things?”

“Yes. Doesn’t it look as if we’re in the midst of a fire sale? I got so uncomfortable opening closets and drawers and seeing his things everywhere I decided to lump it all together and give it away.”

She walked into the bedroom and closed the door. I sat down on the edge of the couch and shyly peered into an open box on the floor near my foot. I recognized a green sport shirt Paul had often worn. It was ironed and, unlike the other clothes in there, folded neatly and placed on top of some brown tweed pants I’d never seen before. I reached into the box and, after a quick glance at their bedroom door, took the shirt out and ran my hands across it. I looked at the door again and brought the shirt up to my nose to smell. There was nothing — no Paul Tate left in it after its washing. I put it back and unthinkingly brushed my hands off on my pants.

“I’ll be out in a minute, Joe!”

“Take your time. I’m fine out here.”

I was about to get up and look in some of the other boxes when I heard the door open. She stuck her head out, and I caught a second’s flash of black underwear before I met her eyes.

“Joe, would you mind waiting a little longer? I feel all dirty and gritty from this morning and I’d like to take a quick shower. Is that okay?”

A picture of her standing naked in the shower, shining wet, made me hesitate before I answered. “Sure, of course. Go ahead.”

I thought of the film
Summer of ‘42
, where the beautiful young woman seduces the boy after she’s learned her husband has been killed in the war. I heard the first spit of the shower and felt a full erection growing thick and randy down the inside of my thigh. It made me feel perverse and guilty.

I stepped over to a smaller box filled with all sorts of letters and bills, an empty green checkbook, and a number of fountain pens. I picked up a handful. Paul would only use fountain pens, and holding them, I realized I wanted one as a keepsake — don’t ask me why. Then a strange thing happened: I was afraid if I asked India she would say no, so I decided to just take one and say nothing about it. I’m not really a thief by nature, but this time I did it without hesitation. There was a fat black and gold one. It looked old and sedate, and on the cap it said
Montblanc Meisterstück No. 149
. There were two others like it in the box, so I assumed that even if India was planning on keeping them she’d never miss this one. I slid it into my pocket and walked over to the window.

The shower stopped, and I listened carefully to the small distant sounds that followed. I tried to imagine what India was doing: toweling her hair dry or dusting powder onto her arms, her shoulders, her breasts.

A woman in a window across the courtyard saw me and waved. I waved back; she waved again. I wondered if she thought I was Paul. What a chilling, uneasy thought. She kept waving slowly like a sea fan under water. I didn’t know what to do, so I turned around and went back to the couch.

“Joe, I thought of what I want to do.”

“Okay.”

“You’re going to hate it.”

I looked at the closed door and wondered if she could do anything I would hate.

She came out of the bedroom a few minutes later wearing a hooded gray sweatshirt, old Levi’s, and a pair of sneakers. She wanted to go jogging down by the river. She said I didn’t have to go with her unless I wanted to — she felt better now. She wanted to “clean a few miles” out of her system. It made perfect sense, and I told her I’d go to keep her company. We walked from their place down to the path beside the Danube Canal, which was long and straight and perfect for running. I had a book with me, and I sat down on a wooden bench while she padded off. There were scattered mobs of seagulls diving and floating over the fast-flowing water. A few old men were fishing from the banks; once in a while a couple with a baby carriage walked slowly past. All of us were playing hooky from the day.