The Ragged Edge of Night(28)

11

In daylight, there is no need to draw the curtains. Elisabeth has pulled the lengths of heavy wool aside and tied them back with strips of braided rag, and mellow afternoon light floods the cottage, warming every corner, gleaming on the smooth-worn wood of the ancient floor. The old furniture loses its austerity in the wash of sunshine. It looks comfortable and easy now, and even more so when Elisabeth settles on her chair and sorts through her sewing basket, one knee crossed over the other, her dark head bowed over pincushion and thread. The children have gone outside to play.

Anton lingers beside the window. It’s a simple pleasure, to bask in the sun; its warmth drives away the dark thoughts that plague him, that have followed him from St. Josefsheim. From the cottage’s height, he can see the tops of the apple trees, where a few golden fruits still cling to the uppermost boughs.

“Perhaps I ought to leave the sewing to you,” Elisabeth says comfortably. “Maria’s dress has held where you patched it. I never thought to find a husband who could sew.”

“I’m no tailor, but I learned enough in the order to keep my habit from falling to rags.”

“I could teach you to tailor, if you like.” She doesn’t look up at him, and there is no change to her tone, but Anton takes her meaning readily enough. What will you do for work?

“I had thought I might teach,” he says, “but Albert tells me there’s no need for teachers in Unterboihingen.”

“I believe he’s correct. The two schools are quite small.”

“Naturally. What are you working on?”

Elisabeth lifts her work from the basket—a pair of boy’s trousers in gray-brown tweed. “Albert’s,” she says. “I can let out the cuffs by a few more centimeters, but that’s it; I can do no more with these. And he’s growing so fast. Of course, Paul can make use of these trousers once Albert outgrows them, but I shall have to patch the knees and the seat by then. They’re getting quite worn. I’d rather not send Paul out of the house with patches all across his bottom, but we must make do, I suppose.” She sighs and returns to her work. “Patches will do for Paul, but I must make a whole new pair of trousers for Albert soon. I’ll need good, thick wool, so they’ll last through the next few winters.”

“Good wool isn’t easy to find just now. I don’t suppose the ragpickers find their way to Unterboihingen.” Anton tests one of the curtains between his fingers, feeling the weight and drape.

“We don’t get rag sellers here, no—and I won’t part with my curtains, so don’t even suggest it, Herr. Only a fool would leave their windows uncovered. The plain truth is, Anton—we need to buy new fabric.”

“It’s terribly expensive.”

She frowns over her stitches. “Of course it is, but there’s no getting around it. In a city, I might make do with rags, but there’s nothing I can hope to scavenge in this village. I’ve already begged and traded with the neighbors for their old clothing—anything I might alter to fit the children. But Unterboihingen exhausted its supply of secondhand goods years ago. If we don’t purchase a few yards of wool soon, I hate to think how we’ll fare next winter.”

Now, at last, she does look up, holding Anton’s eye with an expression that says, You’re my husband now. What are you going to do about it?

Sheepish, Anton says, “Albert gave me much the same lecture this morning. I should have thought more carefully about what I could do to support the family.”

“Have you anything to sell? Anything valuable?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid. Friars don’t live extravagant lives. You say the schools have plenty of teachers, but with my experience, perhaps I might tutor students in the evenings.”

“This isn’t Munich or Stuttgart. No one has money to spare now for something as frivolous as tutoring.”

“Frivolous?” He smiles.

Elisabeth is not smiling. “Tutoring is frivolity, in times like these. No parent would choose history or geometry over food for their child’s belly. Or clothes for their child’s back,” she adds pointedly.

He had hoped to tutor children in music, not geometry, but it’s likely that parents have even less use for private music lessons. Now it’s his turn to sigh. “You’re right. Perhaps I should go down to the church and speak with Father Emil.”

A consultation with their priest seems as good a use of his time as anything else Anton can devise. In any case, the father is likely to know best whether Unterboihingen can support a music tutor. It’s always the local clergyman who knows the intimate details of every family, every sheep in his fold.

At St. Kolumban, he lets himself into the narthex—the door is never locked—dips his hand in the holy water, and makes the sign of the cross. Emil enters from somewhere beyond the lectern, from an unseen passage behind the pierce-work screen. The priest halts, surprised by the sight of Anton with his fingers still dripping holy water. But Emil recovers quickly and smiles in welcome, his aging face all crags and lines. He is somewhere near the tail end of middle age—just on the brink of being old but still retaining a notable strength, the resolute, upright posture and square shoulders of a man undaunted. Certainly, Father Emil exhibits the enthusiasm of a much younger man.

“Herr Starzmann, my friend.” He stretches out his hand and takes Anton by the shoulder. “How do you find married life?”