The Taste of Apple Seeds (10 page)

Hurriedly, I put my bunch of red and purple flowers on Rosmarie’s grave. I couldn’t see Herr Lexow anymore. But I’d had enough of the old stories. I marched with long strides back to the gate. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed movement between the graves. Looking more closely I saw a man in a white shirt sitting in the shade of a purple-leafed plum tree a fair way from my family’s graves, his back against a tombstone. Beside the man was a bottle. He had a glass in his hand and his face was turned to the sun. I couldn’t make out much apart from the fact that he was wearing sunglasses, but somehow he didn’t come across as homeless, nor did he look like a mourning relative. Strange place, Bootshaven. Who would want to live here?

And who would want to be buried here?

I took a last look at the place where lay my great-grandmother, Great-Aunt Anna, Hinnerk and now Bertha Lünschen, as well as my cousin Rosmarie. My aunts had already bought their plots here. What would happen to my mother? Could her homesick spirit know peace only in this barren boggy earth? And me? Did the owner of the family house belong in the family grave, too?

I quickened my pace, closed the small gate. There was Hinnerk’s bike. I climbed on and rode back to the house. Then I fetched a large glass of water and sat on the front steps where I had sat two days earlier with my parents and aunts.

Rosmarie, Mira, and I used to sit here often. When we were little because of the secrets under the stones, later because of the evening sun. The outside steps were a wonderful place; they belonged as much to the house as to the garden. They were overgrown with climbing roses, but when the front door was open the stone smell of the hallway mingled with the fragrance of the flowers. The steps did not lead up or down, inside or out. Their job was to effect a gentle but definite transition between two worlds. Perhaps that’s why when we were teenagers we had to do so much huddling on steps like this, or leaning in doorways, sitting on low walls, hanging around bus stops, walking on railway ties, and gazing from bridges. Waiting to pass through, trapped in limbo.

Sometimes Bertha would sit on the steps with us. She was tense, for she seemed to be waiting, too, but she didn’t know exactly whom or what for. Mostly she waited for someone who was already dead: her father, then Hinnerk, and once or twice her sister, Anna.

Occasionally Rosmarie would bring out some glasses and a bottle of wine from Hinnerk’s supply in the cellar. Although he was a landlord’s son, he didn’t know much about wine. In the village pub they drank mainly beer. He bought wine whenever he thought he had found a particularly good bargain, preferring sweet to dry, and white to red. Mira drank only dark red, almost black wine. But the cellar was full of bottles and Rosmarie always found a dark one.

I didn’t drink with them. Alcohol made me stupid. Blacking out, shutting down, unconsciousness—I knew about all the terrible things that could happen when drinking. And I hated it when Rosmarie and Mira drank wine. When they became loud and laughed excessively, it was as if a huge television screen had appeared between us. Through the glass I could watch my cousin and her friend as though I were watching a nature documentary about giant spiders with the sound turned off. Without the sober commentary of the narrator these creatures were repulsive, alien and ugly.

Mira and Rosmarie never noticed anything; their spiders’ eyes glassed over and they seemed to find my fixed stare amusing. I always stayed a little longer than I could actually bear and then I would get up stiffly and go indoors. Never since had I felt as lonely as on those steps with the two spider girls.

When Bertha was with us she would drink, too. Rosmarie would pour the wine for her, and as Bertha always forgot whether she had drunk one or three glasses she always held out her glass for more. Or she helped herself. Her words would then get muddled, she would laugh, her cheeks would turn pink. Mira was restrained when Bertha was there, maybe out of respect, but perhaps also because of her mother. It was well known that Frau Ohmstedt liked her drink. Once Bertha had nodded to us and said what she always said: “The apple never falls far from the tree.” Mira turned pale, took the glass she was just about to sip from and emptied it into the roses.

Rosmarie encouraged Bertha to have a drink, perhaps because it gave her a better excuse to drink herself. But it was also true when she said, “Drink, Grandma, then you won’t have to cry so much.”

Bertha drank wine with us on the steps for only one summer. Soon afterward she became too restless to sit anywhere for long, and by the end of the following summer Rosmarie was dead.

The sun was lower, my glass was empty. Now that I was here I could visit Mira’s parents and ask after their daughter. I hadn’t found out much from her brother.

This time I didn’t turn into the village, but kept on going toward town. The doorbell still had the familiar minor-third ring from my childhood. The garden had become pretty wild, no longer the model of geometric topiary with its borders marked out in string. “Has your father been playing with your geometry set again?” Rosmarie would tease when Mira opened the door. Now the grass was tall, the hedges and trees hadn’t been pruned, not for a while.

I suppose I ought to have guessed, but I was stunned when it was Max who opened the door. He was also astonished, briefly, but before I could say anything he smiled, took a step toward me, and looked genuinely pleased.

“Iris, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to pop by and see you today, anyway.”

“Really?” Why was I shouting like that? Of course he had to come and see me, he was my lawyer after all.

Max glanced at me uncertainly. “I mean, what a coincidence. In fact, I hadn’t planned to come and see you at all!”

His smile narrowed.

“No, no,” I said, “I don’t mean it like that. All I wanted to say was that I didn’t know you lived here. But now that you are here, of course I’ll take . . . erm . . . you.”

Max raised his eyebrows. I cursed myself and felt my face turning red. Just as I was about to prepare my retreat with a witty remark, perhaps something along the lines of, “Erm, okay, I think I’ll leave,” Max said with a grin, “Really? You’ll take me? I’ve always wanted that. No, don’t be silly. Stay here! Iris! Come in now. Or let’s both go outside . . . Actually, come through. You remember the way to the terrace, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I mumbled.

As I walked in embarrassment through the house that had once been so familiar, I became even more bewildered. This was not the house I knew. All the doors seemed to have disappeared. And there was no wallpaper. No ceiling! It was all just one large space, painted white; my sandals squeaked on the bare floorboards. There was a gleaming white kitchen and a large, tatty blue sofa, one wall with books and one wall with a massive but very elegant hi-fi system.

“Where are your parents?” I called out.

“They live in the garage. I mean, these days I earn more than my father does with his pension.”

I turned around in surprise. I liked him!

“Hey, it was just a joke. My mother always wanted to get away from here, as you know. And my father was ill—very ill, actually. When he recovered, they decided to travel as much as possible. They’ve got a small flat in town. Sometimes they come and visit; it’s only then that they sleep in the garage. But my car’s not that big, and so—”

“Shut up, Max—Wimp. Now, where can I go swimming here without you creeping up on me? Just tell me where you’re going to be over the next few days so I know the places to avoid.”

“Calm down! I’m just doing what I always do. It’s not my fault that you’ve been studying my daily routine so you can appear under my nose without a thing on. And now you turn up at my front door and start haranguing me!”

Max shook his head, turned around, and went into the kitchen. He was wearing a white shirt and once again had marks on his shoulder; this time they were gray green, as if he had been leaning against an old tree. While he was busy sorting out bottles and glasses I could hear him muttering words like “cheeky cow,” “character flaw” and “obsessive.”

We drank white wine spritzers on the terrace. Of course, there was more water in my glass than wine. The terrace still looked the same as it had always done; it was only the garden that had become completely overgrown. The crickets were chirruping. And I was suddenly ravenous.

“I’ve got to go home.”

“Why? You’ve only just got here. I haven’t even asked you what you wanted from my parents. And, by the way, I haven’t asked you what you’ve been doing and where you’ve been living, because I know all this from my files already.”

“Really? Where does it all come from, then?”

“Lawyer’s secret. I’m afraid I can’t give you any information about my clients.”

“Right, but someone must have given
you
information about your clients?”

“Yes, I’ll admit that, but I’m not going to say who.”

“Which one of my aunts was it? Inga or Harriet?”

Max laughed but said nothing.

“Max, I’ve got to go. I still want to—I mean, I haven’t yet . . . In any case, I’ve got to go.”

“Right, I see. Those really are compelling reasons—why didn’t you say so right away? Perhaps you’d like to leave a message for my parents? And don’t you want to know where I’m going swimming tomorrow morning? And would you like to have dinner with me this evening?”

As he talked he unscrewed the cork from the corkscrew with great concentration, only looking at me when he murmured his final question.

I leaned back and took a deep breath. “Yes, yes, I’d love to, Max. I’d really, really, really love to have dinner with you. Thanks.”

Max looked at me without saying a word. His smile was slightly forced.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, surprised. “Did you only ask out of politeness?”

“No, but I’m waiting for the ‘but.’ ”

“What ‘but’?”

“You know, ‘Yes, yes, dear Max, I’d love to, I’d really, really, really love to, but . . .’ That’s the ‘but’ I’m talking about.”

“There’s no ‘but.’ ”

“No ‘but’?”

“For God’s sake, no. But if you keep on asking, well . . .”

“There you go, there was a ‘but.’ ”

“Yes, you’re right.”

“I knew it,” Max said with a sigh, sounding satisfied. Then he jumped up and said, “Right. Let’s go and see what we can find in the kitchen.”

We found plenty in the kitchen. I laughed a lot that evening, maybe inappropriately for someone who was here for a funeral. But Max and his polite audacity made me feel good. He had so much bread, olives, and dips in the fridge that I asked him if he had been or was still expecting someone. He paused for a second, pulled a rather odd face, and nodded. Then he gave in and admitted that he had planned to invite me over because he was a sensitive man and he had frightened me to death at the lock and because he couldn’t have guessed that I would suddenly turn up at his place. He smiled crookedly and spread leek puree onto some bread. I said nothing.

When I got up to go it was dark. Max walked me to my bike. And when I took hold of the handlebars, he placed his hand on mine and grazed the corner of my mouth with his lips. His kiss shot through me with a force that stunned me. Both of us took a step backward, me knocking over a flowerpot in the process. I hastily picked it up again and said, “I’m sorry. I always do that when I feel relaxed somewhere.”

Max replied that he had also felt relaxed that evening. And we both fell silent, standing out there in the dark. Before Max could do anything, or not do anything, I took my bike and rode back to the house.

I didn’t sleep well that night, either. I had to think things through.

Once again I woke up very early. The sun’s rays were still feeling their way uncertainly along the bedroom wall. I got up, threw on my mother’s golden ball gown, cycled to the lake, swam across and back; on the way home I bumped into the same dog owners as on the previous day, but not Max. Back at the farmhouse I made tea, laid some cheese between two slices of black bread, and put everything on a tray. I carried it through the barn and then out to the orchard behind the house. A few pieces of weather-beaten garden furniture stood there. I moved two white wooden folding chairs into the sun, putting the tray on one of them and sitting on the other. My bare feet were wet from the dew, as was the hem of my dress. The grass was starting to straggle, but it couldn’t have been mown more than four or five weeks ago. I drank my tea with a dash of Herr Lexow’s milk, gazed at the old apple trees, and thought of my grandmother Bertha.

After she had fallen from a tree while picking apples one autumn day nothing was the same again. Of course, nobody realized this at first, Bertha herself least of all. But from then on she often felt a dull ache in her hips and started forgetting whether she had taken her painkillers. She would be forever asking Hinnerk whether she had taken her tablets. Hinnerk would get impatient and give her a tetchy reply. Bertha got confused by this harshness because she really didn’t know, and could have sworn she hadn’t asked him before. As Hinnerk always rolled his eyes when she asked, she stopped asking but became uncertain about many things. She could no longer find her glasses or her handbag or the house key. She got muddled about appointments and all of a sudden couldn’t remember the name of Hinnerk’s secretary who had worked in the office for more than thirty years. All this made her uneasy to start with, then worried. In the end, when she noticed it getting worse and worse, and there was no one there to help her or talk to about it, when whole chunks of her life, not just the present, simply sank into nothingness, she became frightened. This fear meant that she often cried, lay in bed in the mornings, her heart pounding, not wanting to get up.

Hinnerk was now ashamed of his wife and started cursing her under his breath. The path from the kitchen to the dining room was a long one, and by the time she had got to one room she had forgotten what she had gone there to fetch. Hinnerk got used to pouring his own mug of milk every morning and buying a currant bun from the bakery opposite his office. Although he no longer needed to work he didn’t like spending all day with Bertha, listening to her uncertain footsteps echoing in the hallway. She would meander up and down the stairs, crash about in cupboards, rummage through old things, pile them into heaps and leave them lying there. Occasionally she would make her way into her bedroom and repeatedly change her clothes. If they were in the garden Bertha would accost strangers walking past the drive with a broken but effusive greeting, as if they had been close friends for years. “Oh, there’s that dear friend of mine,” she would call over the hawthorn hedge, and the passerby would turn around in alarm to see an elderly lady beaming at them. Hinnerk was embarrassed by Bertha’s confusion; it wasn’t a proper illness with aches, pains, and medicines. This illness filled him with anger and shame.