sisters behind the coffin. Our eyes met briefly. There was no flicker of recognition as he set his features in an expressionof dramatic grief. His mother must have got her way in the end, for he had had a haircut. His jet-black hair was much shorter now, although still long enough for him to toss it out of his eyes.
*
“Sad, very sad” was the only thing the grandmother said all the way home. Her handbag bulged with the papers Cyriel had given her. I had seen them when Wieland took the photograph: a thick wad of envelopes, yellowed and frowsty-looking, slit along the top.
Arriving home the grandmother left her handbag on the chest in the hall as usual. She took her coat off, helped the grandfather out of his, hung both coats on a hanger and disappeared into the parlour.
“He’s had it,” I heard the grandfather say, before the door shut behind them.
The grandmother went to the kitchen to make supper. I could hear her banging cupboard doors.
The handbag stood on top of the chest. All I needed to do was reach out my hand – one of the envelopes was sticking out. I drew it out between thumb and forefinger.
The beams of the house stretched and settled plaintively in the heat of the summer afternoon. She, who otherwise heard everything, heard nothing now. She rattled the pans and filled the kettle.
I undid a few buttons and slipped the envelope inside my shirt.
Upstairs, in the attic, I spread the letter out flat. The pencil had faded with the years, and the spidery handwritingwas hard to read. It said something about tomatoes being “wonderful here. Four, five kilograms per plant, and as sweet as apples.”
What fascinated me most of all was the great bird on the outside, with its curved beak, strong talons, spreading tail feathers. Miss Veegaete would love it.
CHAPTER 5
THE DRESS WAS ALMOST READY. THE BUTTONS STILL needed to be sewn on and it had not been pressed yet, but it hung grandly on its hanger against the wardrobe door. In the gathering gloom of the sewing room it was like a deserted fortress looming up out of the clutter of fashion magazines, bolts of material and dress patterns. Putting my head under the skirt and just standing there in the purple sheen was enough to make me feel as if I were Miss Veegaete herself, large and bloated, bosoms and all.
Evening rolled down the attic stairs, percolated into the corners of the rooms, trickled imperceptibly down the walls, robbing the furniture of its colours, its distinctive features, and eventually its contours. Miss Veegaete’s dress became a capacious, floating shadow pressing up against its alter ego in the wardrobe mirror. Dress and mirror image seemed to hug one another in the night, two wavering silhouettes in search of a body.
The grandmother had sent me off to bed early as usual, and as usual I had crept out from the covers within the hour. The evening freshness cooled the roof, which gave out asurprisingly loud salvo of clicks. As the night wore on a soughing sound ran through the rafters, as if the house were sagging into a leisurely pose. Stella would be doing the same at this hour. After supper she hung her apron among the dishcloths in the kitchen and withdrew to listen to her radio: a soft male voice burbling genteelly from her room.
At the end of the corridor the door to the parlour was ajar: a dark slab with light around the edges. Tiptoeing into the beam, I was able to see the grandmother sitting at one end of the table. All I could see of the grandfather through the crack was his elbow resting on the tabletop.
I moved closer. The grandmother was wearing her reading glasses. She was holding one of the letters Cyriel had given her. The others lay in a pile between her and the grandfather.
I saw her lips move, but could not hear what she was saying. She must have been speaking in a low whisper. They always kept their voices down after I had been sent to bed. She was reading aloud, and as she read I saw her nod her head. Her eyebrows
*
“Sad, very sad” was the only thing the grandmother said all the way home. Her handbag bulged with the papers Cyriel had given her. I had seen them when Wieland took the photograph: a thick wad of envelopes, yellowed and frowsty-looking, slit along the top.
Arriving home the grandmother left her handbag on the chest in the hall as usual. She took her coat off, helped the grandfather out of his, hung both coats on a hanger and disappeared into the parlour.
“He’s had it,” I heard the grandfather say, before the door shut behind them.
The grandmother went to the kitchen to make supper. I could hear her banging cupboard doors.
The handbag stood on top of the chest. All I needed to do was reach out my hand – one of the envelopes was sticking out. I drew it out between thumb and forefinger.
The beams of the house stretched and settled plaintively in the heat of the summer afternoon. She, who otherwise heard everything, heard nothing now. She rattled the pans and filled the kettle.
I undid a few buttons and slipped the envelope inside my shirt.
Upstairs, in the attic, I spread the letter out flat. The pencil had faded with the years, and the spidery handwritingwas hard to read. It said something about tomatoes being “wonderful here. Four, five kilograms per plant, and as sweet as apples.”
What fascinated me most of all was the great bird on the outside, with its curved beak, strong talons, spreading tail feathers. Miss Veegaete would love it.
CHAPTER 5
THE DRESS WAS ALMOST READY. THE BUTTONS STILL needed to be sewn on and it had not been pressed yet, but it hung grandly on its hanger against the wardrobe door. In the gathering gloom of the sewing room it was like a deserted fortress looming up out of the clutter of fashion magazines, bolts of material and dress patterns. Putting my head under the skirt and just standing there in the purple sheen was enough to make me feel as if I were Miss Veegaete herself, large and bloated, bosoms and all.
Evening rolled down the attic stairs, percolated into the corners of the rooms, trickled imperceptibly down the walls, robbing the furniture of its colours, its distinctive features, and eventually its contours. Miss Veegaete’s dress became a capacious, floating shadow pressing up against its alter ego in the wardrobe mirror. Dress and mirror image seemed to hug one another in the night, two wavering silhouettes in search of a body.
The grandmother had sent me off to bed early as usual, and as usual I had crept out from the covers within the hour. The evening freshness cooled the roof, which gave out asurprisingly loud salvo of clicks. As the night wore on a soughing sound ran through the rafters, as if the house were sagging into a leisurely pose. Stella would be doing the same at this hour. After supper she hung her apron among the dishcloths in the kitchen and withdrew to listen to her radio: a soft male voice burbling genteelly from her room.
At the end of the corridor the door to the parlour was ajar: a dark slab with light around the edges. Tiptoeing into the beam, I was able to see the grandmother sitting at one end of the table. All I could see of the grandfather through the crack was his elbow resting on the tabletop.
I moved closer. The grandmother was wearing her reading glasses. She was holding one of the letters Cyriel had given her. The others lay in a pile between her and the grandfather.
I saw her lips move, but could not hear what she was saying. She must have been speaking in a low whisper. They always kept their voices down after I had been sent to bed. She was reading aloud, and as she read I saw her nod her head. Her eyebrows
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