Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2) (35 page)

. . .
Then come,
he wrote straight back
. . . just come. Come to me, and stay . . .
That was the last e-mail.

I didn’t write back.

Neither did he.

I told Jonas nothing of that incident at the airport, nothing of the fact that my body remembered many other evenings, nothing of the e-mail, nothing of question:
Are you an enchantress?

Then Tonio’s letter arrived. And I set off immediately.

Sometimes I’m a stranger in my own life, a hub of unrest, a wanderer between worlds.

94

He didn’t resist, and he didn’t deny anything. He admitted everything. The case was suddenly as clear as freshly polished glass.

The detectives had knocked at his door, after Franza turned up quickly and she and Herz had exchanged their latest information on their way over to the hotel.

The door to his room had been open, and Jonas Belitz lay on the bed, exhausted and at the end of his strength. They’d called an ambulance.

“She wanted to tell her,” he had said in response to the detectives’ questions while they waited for the ambulance. “She wanted to tell Hanna that I knew everything, right from the start. That I’d concealed everything, taken money. I couldn’t let that happen. Hanna couldn’t ever find that out.”

They watched the vehicle take Belitz to the hospital. Arthur had gone with it. He would see to everything and make the arrangements that were required when a self-confessed murderer needed hospital care.

Bonnie and Clyde had also been collected by police officers and taken into custody.

Franza and Felix remained on the square in front of the hotel. Beneath the bright sky. And Hanna remained. Lilli remained. Wherever they were.

95

My little girl. Suddenly, she was standing there. My Lilli. Her despair was visible. Her helplessness, her bewilderment. Suddenly, she was standing there and wanted to know
. . .
and all I could do was nod.

“Did you
. . 
. ?” she asked later.

“No,” I said. “No. Don’t worry about that.”

“Whatever happened, she was my mother, for all my life. How am I supposed to
. . 
. ?”

“I know,” I said, “I know.” I took her in my arms, cautiously, slowly, drew her to me, feeling all the long years that lay between us. I drew her to me and warmth trickled softly
. . .
slowly, cautiously
. . .

Lilli allowed me to. I know the road will be long.

96

“Hanna’s mother,” Hansen said.

“Hanna’s mother?” Franza asked.

They were back at police headquarters, drinking coffee, succumbing to the weariness of the long day.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Hansen said, “I mean, her mother!”

Herz shook his head. “But isn’t she—?”

“No,” Hansen said. “No, she isn’t—”

“She’s not dead?” Franza asked, holding her breath. “Hanna’s mother isn’t dead?”

“No,” Hansen said. “She isn’t. We all assumed she was for some reason.”

“Yes,” Franza said, a little surprised. “We did. Although no one ever confirmed it.”

“So,” Hansen said, beaming a little, “I’ve done some more research, since everything with Belitz was, you know
. . .
a kind of success.”

“And?”

There was a sudden tension in the air; suddenly all weariness had vanished.

“There’s a rehab clinic a ways out of town, attached to a convent. St. Anna’s. I happen to know it. My mother spent a few weeks there after her stroke. A very peaceful place, very good for contemplation. You can also stay at the convent. The rooms are very Spartan, but, as I said, also very good for contemplation. Maybe—”

“Maybe you could get to the point, my dear Hansen,” Franza interrupted.

Hansen grinned. “Oh, Franza,” he said. “Give yourself a break. Things are coming together.”

She punched his shoulder, and he laughed.

“So,” he said, “I won’t keep you on tenterhooks any longer. A woman by the name of Rosemarie Umlauf has been in the care of this clinic for some thirty-seven years. She needs twenty-four-hour care, but she’s alive. And she’s currently got visitors. And she’ll soon be getting some more. I’ve already arranged for you to go.”

“Wow,” Herz said, and stood. “Hansen, you’re a genius!”

“You are,” Franza said as she hurried to the door behind Herz. “I can only second that! Thank you! Thank you-thank you-thank you!”

Hansen laughed and called after them. “Glad to be of service. It’ll cost you a beer!”

“No,” Herz called from the top of the stairs. “It’ll cost us two. Or even three. A whole night out, even.”

Then they were on their way.

97

Lilli is doing well. I brought her into my mother’s room and said, “This is Lilli. My daughter, Lilli. Your granddaughter.”

Now Lilli is sitting on the bed, feeding her grandmother, who’s like a little child. She has to be fed, washed, changed. She looks at us, but I don’t know if she sees us. I read to her from old books that I found in the convent. As I read, I can feel Lilli’s eyes on me, and I sense her thoughtfulness like a cool cloth. I know that one day she’ll ask me why I didn’t come sooner, why I didn’t sense her doubt through space and time and the wind, why . . . why . . . why . . .

I don’t know what I’ll say; it makes me shudder. But it will work out, somehow. We’re not alone anymore.

98

“Yes, we have a woman by that name here,” the sister at the gate said. “Yes, she had visitors show up a few days ago. More than she had for all those years. First her daughter, then her granddaughter.”

She smiled a little. “They’re getting along fine.”

Silence reigned in the corridor, a strange harmony, an aura of
. . .
Franza felt it in the air, an aura of
. . .
peace
. . .

Maybe it would do me good to unwind here for a few days,
she thought.
No, a few days on the Adriatic might be better. Although one needn’t exclude the other.
And then she stopped thinking because they were outside the door behind which, in all probability, the remaining loose ends of the case could be tied up.

Lilli and a woman in her midforties looked up when they opened the door. They were sitting next to one another on two chairs by a bed. In it lay another woman—a small, skinny woman beneath a white sheet. Her gray hair and face suggested age, old before her time. Ancient, a face that looked as though it had borne a lot, endured a lot. But Hanna’s features could still clearly be seen in it.

“Lilli,” Franza said with a feeling of great relief. “Frau Umlauf! At last! At last we’ve found you.”

“Yes,” Hanna said. Nothing else.

99

Yes,
Franza thought,
nothing else.
A feeling of moving on, of not standing still, of heading wherever, you never know, you can’t know, ever. But you keep going and going, even if it’s only as far as the water meadows or the Danube. Then you stop and look down toward Vienna and beyond, to the B
lack Sea.

It can work. Yes, I have a good feeling,
she thought as she fought her way through the meadow, hop twigs getting tangled in her hair, dog rose thorns scratching her arms, and all around her the leaves of the bushes already beginning to dry up around the edges, a color between green and gray, between staying and forgetting. Through it all was the sun, a mild spectacle on the cusp of fall.

Three days ago she had closed the case, and two days ago she had booked her leave and bought a plane ticket. Yesterday she had set off toward Munich, heading for the airport.

About halfway there she had turned off the autobahn, looking for the little lake where she and Port had spent a weekend the previous year. Leaning against the car, she had smoked a cigarette. It was around four in the afternoon. The trees were resplendent in red and yellow, a flaming canvas against the clarity of the fall sky. A light breeze had risen, wrinkling the surface of the lake, glints of sunlight and the reflections of the trees in the water. Only the occasional fish jumping and splashing back into the waves disturbed the September stillness.

Then another cigarette before she took her plane ticket from her bag, looked at it, set it down in front of her on the car roof, took out her cell phone, and sent a text. She picked up the ticket, looked at it again, smiled sadly—and tore it up.

She ripped it into tiny pieces, threw them into the air over the water, and watched the scraps land randomly. The ones in the air were carried away by the wind, those in the water by the current. Franza imagined them washing up in Vienna, floating in the current of the Danube, or coming to rest by the R
ochusmarkt in the Third District, where Port now lived. She imagined him bending to retrieve one of the scraps, lifting it up and wondering what it had been when it was still part of something whole.

Franza had to smile as she imagined the scene. She ran both hands over her face, wiping away the wetness, and breathed deeply. A sudden shudder escaped her, and she shook her head, got back into the car, and drove to see Herz. He asked nothing. He gave her a hug, and then the twins came bounding up and Angelika served coffee and cakes: delicious, moist, rich cakes full of explosive calories. Franza ate two pieces and knew she would be angry with herself tomorrow, as she always was, but tomorrow was tomorrow and today was today, and today it felt good.

They said nothing for a while, watching the children playing and fighting, fighting and playing, and nothing was right, but it was, really—a little. At some stage in the evening Franza went home, armed with good intentions—no more cigarettes, healthy eating, lots of exercise.

Nothing was over; she knew that. There was unfinished business that, if she looked too closely, would reveal pain—but it would be bearable, all of it, always, somehow. None of them was seventeen anymore. They were there, in the middle of their lives, constantly asking themselves, what happened? What’s left?

At last she called him.

“What’s up?” he asked. “Why?”

She closed her eyes, listening to his voice. It had sounded a little hurt, a little upset, a little sad.
Yes,
she thought,
that’s OK.

“You’re my favorite actor ever,” she said with a small smile, “and you always will be.” She felt a sense of longing tug in her breast and didn’t know how to continue.

“Why?” he repeated. “Tell me. I don’t understand.”

“You’re there,” she said, “and I’m here.”

“So?”

She said nothing. He hung up.

She stood there for a while, the cell phone in her hand, and thought of the scraps of paper, wondering whether one had found its way to Vienna and whether Port had found it. She thought that was garbage, but it was nevertheless a nice thing to imagine.

Then she went to the computer, wrote Port an e-mail.
. . .
Sometimes in the night the first snow winds have begun to blow . . .

His reply was there the next morning.
. . .
And you feel the damn cold in your bones . . .

She smiled through her tears.
We’re writing each other in farewell,
she thought.
Yes, that’s what we’re doing.
And she found it lovely. A little morbid, maybe, but lovely.

It suits Vienna,
she thought.
Suits me, suits him.
She thought how it would be lost. They both sensed it. Even though they still gave in to one another, even though they still asked each other questions, gave answers, lost themselves in discussions, in long-winded explanations, in gentle controversies.

It was getting lost. They were losing it.

“Why do you cut everything off?” Sonja asked that night, when she’d dropped by Franza’s. “You shouldn’t, you know. I mean, it’s only Vienna! So?”

“I cut everything off?” Franza retorted, and thought of
alien two.
She
felt a distant gripping in her stomach. She looked at Sonja and
. . .

“I’m not cutting anything off,” she said. “I’m starting over.”

“Why?”

She considered. “I don’t know. Isn’t it something you have to do sometimes? Start fresh?”

“You’re so brave,” Sonja said wistfully. “I wish I could be like that.”

“No,” Franza said softly, “I’m not brave. I’m crazy. I risk way too much.”

She looked at Sonja, trying to convey how important she was to her. But Sonja didn’t register it and hadn’t been listening. Sonja was thinking of her husband, how he’d protested his innocence. What she was accusing him of was absurd. He would never, ever cheat on her. He wasn’t an asshole. He’d been in that bar with a student friend, and OK, it may have gotten late but she could call him if she wanted. With all due respect, he found her mistrust disgusting!

“Oh, Franzi, my dear Franzi,” Sonja said, throwing her arms around Franza.

Franzi! She had to laugh. Sonja was the only one who was allowed to call her that, and only every now and then at that. Franzi. A leftover from childhood.

“I’ve forgiven him,” Sonja sighed. “Whatever happened, I’ve forgiven him. And now let’s be naughty and smoke and drink!”

“And I’m getting a divorce,” Franza said.

“Yes, I heard.”

“He’s been to see you?”

“Yes. He thought the two of you might
. . .
He was hoping
. . .
”

“I know,” Franza said. “I know. But I have to make the break. Set myself free. I need clarity. Everything open. Not only for me, but for Max, too. And maybe
. . .
We’ll see
. . .
I don’t know
. . .
Maybe
. . .
”

Amazing,
she thought.
So much moves on, so little remains. At some stage I’ll notice that freedom can be cold.

The doorbell rang. Lilli. “Can we cook something?” she said, a little embarrassed. “Do you want to?”

“Of course I want to,” Franza said. “Sonja, come on, we’re going to cook!”

They cooked. They cooked for hours. Roast beef with carrots, celeriac, and mashed potatoes, and as if that weren’t enough, they added Franza’s famous gingerbread cookies.

“You just have to be able to make this, Lilli,” Franza said. “It’s a hard life without this gingerbread.”

They laughed, three women in the kitchen. They laughed.

Unfinished business everywhere,
Franza thought,
but sometimes we have to spread our wings.

Unfinished business everywhere,
Sonja thought,
but sometimes we have to spread our wings.

“Hanna can’t cook,” Lilli said. “Gertrud could cook.”

“I know,” Franza said, stroking Lilli’s back, “I know.”

“I’m going to train for the police,” Lilli said.

Franza smiled. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Lilli said. “Positive. As positive as it’s possible to be.”

“Let’s eat,” Sonja said, carrying the roast out onto the terrace. “Let’s eat until we burst.”

They sat beneath the evening sky, a yellow moon to their left among towering castles of clouds. They listened to Tracy Chapman, music from back then, music from their village days.

To be on the move,
Franza thought, once she was alone, once the dishwasher was running and the fridge was heaving with food for three days,
to be on the move in life, me in my life, never quite arriving, full of longing and with no idea of where the search—the longing—will lead.

Yes,
she thought,
I’m still the same, still me, Franza Oberwieser, forty-five, detective, soon to be divorced, with a son. Fingers burned by life, but still hot and thirsty. Still prepared to believe in the only constant—change. Still prepared to rush out into the harsh depths of life, sometimes sweet, so sweet that you hope you won’t choke on the sweetness.

Me, then,
she thought.
Still, and yet again. This is how happiness feels. Like this. Sometimes. A small piece of happiness.

She would spread her wings. Unfinished business everywhere, but from time to time she would keep spreading her wings. That’s how it should be. Like that.