Hiddensee: A Tale of the Once and Future Nutcracker(20)
“You can let me off here, I would like to make a visit,” said Dirk.
“Not to bother with all that. Pilgrims stopped coming a few years back when the Cistercians were chased out. The place is boarded up. The canopy of heaven will still be aloft, but you can’t get in the door to see it.”
The things that could be seen versus the ones that could only be imagined. Dirk still felt he didn’t have a grasp on what divided the two armies. Was it a function of God’s revelation, or of personal talent at seeing? Things invisible to see, they were still there, weren’t they? Birds maybe could see them. Gnarly schwarzkopfs hiding maliciously in the underbrush could spy on cold transparent truths. Old farm-dames with second sight, maybe. But Dirk couldn’t see the invisible, not yet. He couldn’t even see plain old what-not.
“And so, here we part. I’m headed out the road toward Daisendorf, and must be there before dusk turns to night. Meersburg starts up beyond those fields. Can you make that out?”
“That much, yes.”
The farmer bit his moustache. “I am obliged for the company, young man.”
“It was no bother to me.”
Dirk dismounted. He heard the farmer chuckle and mutter to himself something like, “No bother to you! Well, that puts my mind at rest.”
The vineyards gave way to a medieval gate. Meersburg mounted from the lakeshore in switchback lanes and stepped alleys. Overhanging half-timbered buildings loomed in a rangy, busybody manner—or that is how it seemed to Dirk. (He was beginning to pay attention to how things seemed.) Citizens were disinclined to give directions, but eventually Dirk found his way to an alley off a cul-de-sac road above the lake, on the far end of town. It was almost too late to knock, but he had no other ideas for lodging, so knock he did.
The burgher answered his own door. He took the proffered note and read it in the falling light. “I’m not the governor of the poorhouse nor do I host a reformatory for lounge-abouts, but come in,” he grumped. He was untucked in his dress—he’d gotten up from table. A nearly visible fug of sauerbraten and wet dog hung agreeably in the passage. The home beyond its severe fa?ade seemed comfortable enough. Mitteleuropean bourgeoiserie. Dirk was brought round through some pantries to a kitchen, empty but for a few prowling cats. A desiccated fowl from an earlier meal sat in a covered pot. “I’m at table with the little lords,” said Herr Pfeiffer. “The Frau is indisposed and seconded to her chamber. Help yourself to some supper and find a blanket in the chest. The morning will be time enough to sort out your particulars.”
Dirk ate and then he stretched out among shadows and the drying pots some kitchen maid had already seen to. How many times in a life, he thought, will I lie down in a darkness whose character I cannot imagine, to see what daybreak reveals of my new circumstances? Or is that every day of my life?
He itemized what he could tell of this establishment by stretching out on a stone floor. A smell of char and of some oily polish, perhaps for leather or laundry. The distant sound of young boys laughing and thumping up a staircase. A sense of guardedness here, bolts thrown at the kitchen door as well as the street door. But the upper part of the window remained unshuttered, so the moon traced three angled crosses upon the slate floor.
In the morning his life might change again. There was something new to learn as long as he felt recurringly off the mark, belated, distracted. Walking with an invisible stone in his shoe, or speaking with a stone in his mouth and mistaking it for his tongue.
25.
He met the boys in the morning. They proved to be little garlic scapes. That Franz, that Moritz. Overly beloved, poorly handled, noisy as Romany brats, catapulting shots of black cherry conserve at the cats. Dirk feared he had been let into the house in order to become their tutor. A grave mistake if so, as he had nothing to teach them.
“What’s this?” said Moritz the Visigoth, rampaging through Dirk’s small satchel and discovering Dirk’s knife.
“Give it me,” said Franz, the Mongol Horde. He was eight years old, the big brother. His columnar head sported a froth of perfect curls that grew straight up but didn’t spread. He looked like the top inches of a stein of foamy beer. He snatched at Moritz.
“Mine,” said Dirk, lunging. “Leave my things be.”
“It has a face, a nasty imp head. What’s it got between its knees, eh?” asked Franz, peering.
“More than you have between yours,” said Moritz, who was only five.
“He’ll slice you of his own accord if you test him,” said Dirk. “Hand it here.” He folded the leather wrap around it again.
“Are you Papi’s new run-around?” asked Franz. “You’ll have thighs like Eastertide hams, going up and down these streets. No one lasts more than a few months. We can show you where Papi hides the key to the wine cellar.”
“This is my room now,” said Dirk. “It’s been given me while I’m here, and you aren’t allowed. Stay out.”
“It’s our house, we can go anywhere.” Moritz climbed up on the windowsill and Dirk pulled him off lest he fall three flights.
Franz said, “We can come with you to pick up the bleaching compound today if you want company. I can show you how to find your way. Moritz can show you how to get lost.” Moritz was poking the rest of Dirk’s deflated satchel with his foot.