The Ragged Edge of Night(29)

“It’s hard to say. I’ve only been married for a day.”

“But even so.”

He shrugs. “I’m doing as well as can be expected of a man like me.” A man out of his depth, disoriented and, for the first time in his life, without a clue as to how he should proceed.

Emil laughs good-naturedly. Together they sit, as before, on the frontmost pew.

The priest says, “Do you know what I think? I believe being a father suits you. There’s a gladness about you I hadn’t noticed before, a certain lightness of the spirit. I can see it in you already.”

“I do enjoy the children—very much. They’re such good, earnest little people; Albert especially. Maria is contrary, but she doesn’t mean to be. She’s only young. She’ll mellow, with time. And Paul—he makes me smile every minute I’m with him.”

“I have always been quite fond of the Herter children. Or are we to call them the Starzmann children now?”

Anton says distractedly, “They can go by whichever name they please. I’ll care for them just the same, either way.” A pause, and then: “Yes, the children make me feel quite content. I only hope I’ll find the same joy in being a husband—but I fear it will be some time before I do.” Friars do not live by the same codes as other men, but even so, he knows it’s a shameful thing, for a husband and father to admit to such a failing. How can a man be so confounded by his wife?

“Elisabeth is… a complicated woman,” Emil says carefully. “She has her defenses. But don’t we all?”

But will she ever let me in, past the walls she’s built around her? And have I any right to expect it? He says only, “Times are hard, you know. I’m worried about the children, and Elisabeth.”

“Times are hard, indeed. But that is why God brought you here—to worry over this precious family.”

“I need to find some way to provide, Father. That much is clear already. The boys are growing too fast; Elisabeth needs to make new clothes for them both, but we haven’t enough money for cloth. You know how expensive it is these days. If we had ragpickers here, like in Munich, we might hope to find good cloth we can afford. But no ragpickers would bother trekking out here to Unterboihingen.”

“And Elisabeth has inquired, I suppose, of other mothers in the village?”

“Yes, but no one has clothing to spare—not that will fit the boys. We’re in a bad place, with winter coming. If I had a little income, I would go to the city and find whatever Elisabeth needs. But what are we to do? No one will accept eggs in trade for wool or canvas. It’s a job I need.”

Emil nods thoughtfully, eyes fixed on the altar. He strokes his chin, waiting for Anton to say more.

“I had initially thought I might take up with one of the local schools. But Albert and Elisabeth both set me straight; there are enough teachers already.”

“That’s so.”

“Then I thought I should offer music lessons—but as we agree, these days are difficult for everyone. Who can afford to pay a music tutor?”

Father Emil frowns at the cross, gilded yet small above the altar. His eyes are distant as he searches and sorts through a long corridor of thought. At length, he says, “I think you can expect to make some money by teaching music, Anton. You won’t earn a fortune, that’s certain—but I believe you will make enough to get by. Even a small income will help stretch the trades young Albert makes at the market—and that, I’m sure, will relieve some of Elisabeth’s fears. Tell me, can you play the organ?”

Anton brightens. “I can.”

“Well, then.” The priest stands, eager and energetic. He gestures to the rood screen behind the podium, to the shadowed space behind it. “Come along and show me.”

Together, they climb to the chancel and step behind the screen. There the organ stands, shrouded in shadow, almost as old as St. Kolumban itself. It is all gleam of polished oak casing and smoothness of ivory keys, a forest of slender pipes with angular black throats sharply incised, ready to sing.

Anton shakes his head in wonder. “I had no idea it was here, hiding behind the rood. It’s beautiful.”

“Beautiful,” Emil agrees, “but I haven’t heard it played for years. We had a woman who knew how to do it, but she moved away, and no one in this town has taken her place. I’m quite hopeless when it comes to music—it has never been my strength—but even if I did possess some modest skill, I couldn’t play while leading the service.”

“No, I suppose you couldn’t.” He can’t take his eyes off the instrument.

“Don’t be shy,” Emil says, giving him an encouraging tap on the shoulder, almost a push toward the bench.

Hesitant with awe, Anton approaches the organ. His pulse leaps, and in his chest, there is a telltale pressure, a poignant yearning, as if he draws near a sacred relic. He brushes the white keys with one hand. They are smooth and cool, worn by uncountable years. Then he touches the black keys, letting his fingers fall into the spaces between. He hardly dares to do more.

Long before he ever touched a cornet or a flute, Anton began by playing the organ. It was so long ago now that it seems more than a lifetime has passed—as if it had happened to another man who lived long before Anton. When he was only a boy, younger than Paul, he came to know the organ’s keys and foot pedals. His legs seemed to grow with the express purpose of playing, unlocking for him a greater range of those deep, dark, rumbling bass notes. He grew tall and thin, with arms long enough to rival a stork’s wingspan, just so he could reach farther to the left and the right, and find new scales and octaves waiting. Long before he realized he ought to be intimidated by the sheer size and complexity of the instrument, the organ became his friend. It was his first love, the door that opened for him—but how long has it been since he played anything with a keyboard? Months, if not a year. Or more than a year—and that was the old piano in the music room back at St. Josefsheim, the one that never managed to stay in tune.