With her pilot’s cap on her head, Käthe was standing at the long table with a stack of post in front of her: letters, newspapers, flat packages. Hello there, Käthe sang out in her high voice; she had heard Thomas coming into the room, but her eyes were on a newspaper as she hastily leafed through it. When she came home from a visit of any length to the stone quarry, even when she came up to the house after hours in the studio, she could suddenly break into song in mid-sentence. Cheeks slightly flushed, she licked her lips as, with the dog’s leash over her arm, she opened a small envelope. She skimmed the lines inside it, uttering a sound like a little whinny. An invitation from the Artists’ Association! Proudly, she propped it against the vase of flowers. She couldn’t help sighing. She had been waiting a long time for that invitation. Impatiently she opened the next letter.
Ella sat down in one of the two deep armchairs at the table, watching Käthe in her pilot’s cap looking through her post.
Thomas would have liked to hug Käthe; he was realising how much he had missed her. He liked her cheerful whinny, there was desire in it, a sense of rejoicing. When Käthe was out of earshot, Thomas and Ella would sometimes imitate her little whinny all of a sudden, on their way to school or going shopping. Thomas wondered whether to take her pilot’s cap and the dog’s leash from her, the way you take visitors’ hats and umbrellas when they come into your house. At the wrong moment, she might find such a gesture intrusive, for the cap and leash were a part of Käthe herself, and you don’t just take such things away and hang them up on a hook. He liked Käthe’s smell of leather and dog. But Käthe avoided hugging, it was as if she froze in physical proximity to anyone, she would press her arms close to her sides, stiffen her back, shake herself. There must be something she disliked about a hug; Thomas thought that was possible. She often used to tell the children: Don’t cling like that — when they were only close to her. There were never any hugs. Nor had Thomas ever seen her hug Eduard or any other man. Maybe, as Käthe saw it, hugging was simply civility, doing a favour, showing affection that she simply did not feel. So Thomas stayed where he was, hoping she might put out her hand or at least look at him.
Käthe slit open a large envelope with her silver letter opener, produced a magazine and a letter and began to read. Without looking up, she reached her hand out to one side, searching for something in the air. Maybe Thomas was meant to take her hand?
Come on, then, she said, come here. Her hand flapped as her eyes gazed at the letter. Thomas took a step towards her, wondering whether she meant him, whether he should take her hand, or shake it; he took another step her way — but the dog got there first. Agotto licked Käthe’s fingers, nipping her outstretched hand, rubbing his ears against her to make her pat his head.
Are you hungry, Käthe? I cooked something. Thomas put his head on one side. She must be able to smell the lentils.
Käthe nodded, briefly looked up and then turned back to her post. She nodded again, as if she had forgotten why first time. Thoughtfully, she put the letter away and picked up the next envelope. Ella-ella-ella, you’d better ask the good Lord to make you a pair of legs. The table isn’t laid yet.
Ella stayed where she was in the huge armchair, sinking into it like a doll draped in fabric. She had put on her best dress, the check one, and her lace collar. She hadn’t often worn the dress since her grandmother brought it back from London two years ago, and now the sleeves were a little short, showing her wrists. Ella’s hair was brushed smooth, she had even cleaned her shoes until they shone — and not just hers, but all the shoes she had found on the shoe rack in the bedroom. Ella rubbed her finger silently over the green velour covering the arm of the chair. She was reluctant to stand up. The carefully arranged flowers stood between herself and Käthe, who hadn’t opened the last envelope yet and shook her head now and then as she read, or made a sound of approval or disapproval. Ella was hoping for a glance, for a remark, however tiny.
What is it? Now Käthe did raise her head and looked challengingly at Ella. Do hurry up.
Taking no notice of her dress, no notice of her hair. Ella elaborately got to her feet; her left leg had gone to sleep, so she limped as she followed Thomas to the kitchen. Once in the kitchen, Thomas and she had only to exchange glances; their eyes expressed their growing suspense, their impatient waiting, it could be any moment now. Käthe’s eyes didn’t necessarily have to fall on the flowers, or the best dress and the shining clean windowpanes, but surely the smell of the polished floor would tickle her nose, Käthe would notice the rearranged bookshelves. And then she would have the taste of the celeriac and bacon and lentils in her mouth. How surprised she would be! Ella carried a carafe of tap water and three glasses into the smoking room.
Oh, for goodness’ sake open a window, Ella, it’s unbearable in here. Are you two aiming to make this house into a sauna? What a waste of money. We don’t go heating the garden in October, understand?
Käthe cast one brief, reproachful glance at Ella. She poured herself a glass of water and emptied it in a single draught. Käthe’s cheeks were flushed, she passed the back of her hand over her forehead, now she was studying the sender’s address on a letter with close attention. Indecisively, Ella shook her head. Maybe she’d overdone the heating.
Back in the kitchen, Ella rolled up the napkins, which were already folded in half, and put them in silver rings. She drew a heart on a piece of paper in red crayon, and then two smaller, intertwined hearts inside it. She wrapped the message in the green-and-white napkin that Käthe liked to use.
There was still some parsley in the garden. Thomas showed Ella the blue bowl. Ella cut several slices from the loaf of bread, as straight and as neatly as she could, put them in a basket and covered them with a cloth. They poured the soup into a festive tureen. Thomas carried the steaming tureen in, Ella brought the tray with the plates and spoons, the bread and the napkins.
Oh, this is too much! We’re not mixing with every Tom, Dick and Harry!
Käthe was talking on the telephone as Ella pushed the door to the smoking room open with her elbow, holding the tray steady in her hands. They laid the table. Thomas ladled the soup into the plates. They waited. The phone conversation went on for quite a long time. Through the big double doors, they could see Käthe standing by the chest of drawers, gesticulating wildly; it was probably about some decision that her group had taken. While whoever was at the other end of the line tried explaining something to her, Käthe did a charcoal sketch on the back of a large envelope. No, Käthe did not agree — she waved her stick of charcoal in the air — I’ve said so already, not in any circumstances. An idea like that needs to make sense. After a while Käthe hung up and came to the table. Has Eduard shown up?
Thomas and Ella shook their heads. Eduard didn’t tell the children when he was coming or going. He seldom said hello to them, and if he did it was like a greeting to strangers; then, just to be awkward, he expected those strangers to reply politely. If they were all in the house at the same time, he regarded the children as part of the fixtures and fittings, like furniture or household pets: sometimes he noticed them, sometimes he didn’t. There were times when he admired Ella’s shoes, there were times when he admired her dress. It was perfectly possible that he had in fact been here during the last two weeks, maybe in the morning, but they hadn’t seen him.
Not once? Käthe sat down and unrolled her napkin. The heart message, unnoticed, sailed to the floor. She tucked the napkin into the neck of her sweater, like a bib, and dug her spoon into the plate. Can’t you even heat the soup properly?