The Traitor's Emblem (6 page)

“Hey, hey . . . that looks big!”

“I’ve never seen one before!”

“A present of the most personal kind, eh, Jürgen?”

“Is that some kind of proposal?”

For a few moments Jürgen felt he was losing control over them, that they had suddenly begun to laugh at him. It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all, and I won’t allow it. He felt the rage growing inside him, and turned to the one who’d made the last comment. He put the sole of his right foot on top of the other’s left and leaned his full weight on it. His victim turned white but gritted his teeth.

“I’m sure you’d like to apologize for that unfortunate joke?”

“Of course, Jürgen . . . I’m sorry . . . I wouldn’t think of questioning your manhood.”

“Just as I thought,” Jürgen said, slowly lifting his foot. The huddle of boys had fallen quiet, a silence accentuated by the noise of the party. “Well, I don’t want you to think I have no sense of humor. Actually, this . . . thing will be extremely useful to me,” he said with a wink. “With her, for example.”

He was pointing at a tall, dark-haired girl with dreamy eyes who was holding a glass of punch in the middle of the crowd.

“Nice tits,” whispered one of his acolytes.

“Any of you want to bet I can premiere this thing and get back in time for the toasts?”

“I’ll bet fifty marks on Jürgen,” the one with the trodden foot felt compelled to say.

“I’ll take the bet,” said another behind him.

“Well, gents, you just wait here and watch; you might learn something.”

Jürgen swallowed softly, hoping the others wouldn’t notice. He hated talking to girls, as they always made him feel awkward and inferior. Although he was good-looking, his only contact with the opposite sex had been in a brothel in Schwabing, where he’d experienced more shame than excitement. He’d been taken there by his father a few months before, dressed in a discreet black overcoat and hat. While he did his business, his father waited downstairs, drinking cognac. When it was over, he gave his son a slap on the back and told him that he was now a man. This was the beginning and the end of Jürgen von Schroeder’s education on the subject of women and love.

I’ll show them how a real man behaves, the boy thought, feeling his companions’ eyes on the back of his neck.

“Hello, Fräulein. Are you enjoying yourself?”

She turned her head but didn’t smile.

“Not really. Do we know each other?”

“I can see why you’re not enjoying yourself. My name’s Jürgen von Schroeder.”

“Alys Tannenbaum,” she said, holding out her hand without much enthusiasm.

“Do you want to dance, Alys?”

“No.”

The girl’s brusque response startled Jürgen.

“You know I’m hosting this party? It’s my birthday today.”

“Congratulations,” she said sarcastically. “No doubt there are plenty of girls in this room desperate for you to ask them to dance. I wouldn’t want to take up too much of your time.”

“But you have to dance with me at least once.”

“Oh, really? And why is that?”

“Good breeding dictates it. When a gentleman asks a lady . . .”

“You know what annoys me most about arrogant people, Jürgen? The number of things you take for granted. Well, you should know this: the world isn’t the way you see it. By the way, your friends are giggling and they can’t seem to take their eyes off you.”

Jürgen glanced around. He couldn’t fail, couldn’t allow this ill-mannered girl to humiliate him.

She’s playing hard to get because really she likes me. She must be one of those girls who thinks the best way to excite a man is to push him away until he goes crazy. Well, I know how to deal with her sort, he thought.

Jürgen took a step forward, taking the girl by the waist and drawing her toward him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she gasped.

“Teaching you to dance.”

“If you don’t let me go right now, I’ll scream.”

“You wouldn’t want to make a scene, now, would you, Alys?”

The young woman tried to force her arms between her body and Jürgen’s, but she was no match for his strength. The baron’s son squeezed her to him even more closely, feeling her breasts through her dress. He began to move to the rhythm of the music, a smile on his lips, knowing that Alys would not scream. Creating a fuss at a party like this would only harm her reputation and that of her family. He saw the young woman’s eyes crystallizing into a cold hatred, and suddenly toying with her seemed a lot of fun, much more satisfying than if she’d simply agreed to dance with him.

“Would you like a drink, miss?”

Jürgen stopped with a jolt. Paul was at his side, holding a tray with several glasses of champagne, his lips firmly pursed.

“Hey, it’s my cousin the waiter. Get lost, you cretin!” barked Jürgen.

“First I’d like to know if the young lady is thirsty,” said Paul, extending the tray toward him.

“Yes,” Alys said hurriedly, “that champagne looks marvelous.”

Jürgen half closed his eyes, trying to work out what to do. If he let go of her right hand to allow her to take a glass from the tray, she would be able to detach herself completely. He slightly weakened the pressure on her back, allowing her to free her left arm, but squeezed the right even harder. The girl’s fingertips were turning purple.

“Come on, then, Alys, take a glass. They say it brings happiness,” he added, feigning good humor.

Alys leaned toward the tray, trying to free herself, but it was useless. There was nothing for it but to take the champagne with her left hand.

“Thank you,” she said weakly.

“Perhaps the young lady would like a napkin,” said Paul, raising his other hand, in which he held a saucer with small squares of fabric. He had moved around so that he was now on the other side of the couple.

“That would be marvelous,” said Alys, staring intently at the baron’s son.

For a few seconds, no one moved. Jürgen studied the situation. With the glass in her left hand, the only way she could take a napkin would be with her right. At last, boiling with rage, he had to give up the battle. He released Alys’s hand, and she stepped back, taking the napkin.

“I think I’ll get some air,” she said with remarkable poise.

Jürgen, as though spurning her, turned his back to return to his friends. Passing by Paul, he clenched his shoulder and whispered:

“You’ll pay for that.”

Somehow Paul managed to keep the champagne glasses balanced on the tray: they clinked but didn’t topple. His inner balance was another matter entirely, and at that precise moment he felt like a cat trapped in a barrel of nails.

How could I have been so stupid?

There was only one rule in life: stay as far away from Jürgen as possible. It wasn’t easy to do, since they both lived under the same roof; but it was simple, at least. There wouldn’t be much he could do if his cousin decided to make his life impossible, but he could certainly avoid crossing his path, much less humiliate him in public. This would cost him dearly.

“Thank you.”

Paul lifted his eyes and, for a few moments, he forgot absolutely everything: his fear of Jürgen, the heavy tray, the pain in the soles of his feet from having worked twelve hours straight in preparation for the party. Everything disappeared, because she was smiling at him.

Alys wasn’t the sort of woman who could take a man’s breath away at first sight. But were you to give her a second glance, it would probably be a long one. The sound of her voice was attractive. And if she smiled at you the way she smiled at Paul that moment . . .

There was no way that Paul could not fall in love with her.

“Ah . . . it was nothing.”

For the rest of his life Paul would curse that moment, that conversation, and the smile that would cause him so many problems. But back then he was oblivious, as was she. She was sincerely grateful to the skinny little boy with the intelligent blue eyes. Then, of course, Alys went back to being Alys.

“Don’t think I couldn’t have got rid of him on my own.”

“Of course,” said Paul, still reeling.

Alys blinked; she wasn’t used to such an easy victory, so she changed the subject.

“We can’t talk here. Wait for a minute, then meet me in the cloakroom.”

“With great pleasure, Fräulein.”

Paul did a circuit of the hall, trying to empty the tray as quickly as possible so he would have an excuse to disappear. At the start of the party he’d been eavesdropping on conversations and was surprised to discover how little attention people paid him. It really was as though he were invisible, which was why he found it strange when the last guest to take a glass smiled and said: “Well done, son.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He was an older man with white hair, a goatee, and prominent ears. He gave Paul a strange, meaningful look.

“‘Never has a gentleman saved a lady with such gallantry and discretion.’ That’s Chrétien de Troyes. Apologies. My name is Sebastian Keller, bookseller.”

“Delighted to meet you.”

The man gestured toward the door with his thumb.

“You’d better hurry. She’ll be waiting.”

Surprised, Paul tucked the tray under his arm and left the room. The cloakroom had been set up in the entrance, and consisted of a high table and two enormous hanging rails on wheels that held the hundreds of overcoats belonging to the guests. The girl had retrieved hers from one of the servants the baroness had hired for the party, and was waiting for him by the door. She didn’t hold out her hand when she introduced herself.

“Alys Tannenbaum.”

“Paul Reiner.”

“Is he really your cousin?”

“Unfortunately he is.”

“It’s just that you don’t seem like . . .”

“The nephew of a baron?” said Paul, pointing to his apron. “This is the latest fashion from Paris.”

“I mean, you don’t seem like him.”

“That’s because I’m not like him.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I just wanted to thank you again. Take care, Paul Reiner.”

“Of course.”

She put her hand on the door, but before opening it she turned quickly and kissed Paul on the cheek. Then she ran down the steps and disappeared. For a few moments he scanned the street anxiously, as though she would return, retracing her steps. Then finally he shut the door, rested his forehead on the frame, and sighed.

His heart and stomach felt heavy and strange. He couldn’t give the feeling a name, so for want of anything better he decided—correctly—that it was love, and he felt happy.

“So, the knight in shining armor has received his reward, isn’t that right, boys?”

On hearing the voice he knew so well, Paul turned as fast as he could.

The feeling changed instantly from happiness to fear.

5

There they were, seven of them.

They stood in a broad semicircle in the entrance, blocking the way in to the main room. Jürgen was at the center of the group, slightly to the fore, as though he couldn’t wait to get his hands on Paul.

“This time you’ve gone too far, Cousin. I don’t like people who don’t know their place in life.”

Paul didn’t reply, knowing that nothing he said would make any difference. If there was one thing Jürgen couldn’t abide, it was humiliation. That it should have happened in public, and in front of all his friends—and at the hands of his poor dumb cousin, the servant, the black sheep of the family—was inconceivable. Jürgen had resolved to cause Paul a lot of pain. The more—and the more visible—the better.

“After this, you’ll never want to play the knight again, you piece of shit.”

Paul looked around desperately. The woman in charge of the cloakroom had disappeared, no doubt on the orders of the birthday boy. Jürgen’s friends had spaced themselves out across the middle of the entrance hall, removing any escape route, and were advancing toward him slowly. If he turned and tried to open the door to the street, they’d grab him from behind and throw him to the ground.

“You’re trem-bling,” chanted Jürgen.

Paul ruled out the corridor that led to the servants’ quarters, which was practically a dead end, and the only route they’d left open to him. Although he’d never gone hunting in his life, Paul had heard all too often the story of how his uncle had bagged each of the specimens that hung on his study wall. Jürgen wanted to force him in that direction, because down there, no one would be able to hear his cries.

There was only one option.

Without another moment’s thought, he ran straight at them.

Jürgen was so surprised to see Paul speeding toward them that he simply turned his head as he passed. Krohn, who was two meters behind, had a little more time to react. He planted both feet firmly on the floor and prepared himself to thump the boy who was running toward him, but before Krohn could punch him in the face, Paul launched himself onto the floor. He fell on his left hip—which gave him a bruise he’d have for two weeks—but the momentum allowed him to slide across the polished marble tiles like hot butter on a mirror, finally coming to rest at the foot of the staircase.

“What are you waiting for, idiots? Get him!” shouted Jürgen, exasperated.

Without stopping to look back, Paul got to his feet and raced up the stairs. He’d run out of ideas, and it was only survival instinct that kept his legs moving. His feet, which had been bothering him all day, were beginning to hurt terribly. Halfway up the stairs to the second floor he almost tripped and rolled down, but managed to get his balance back just in time as the hands of one of Jürgen’s friends brushed his heels. Grabbing the bronze banister, he continued up and up until, on the last flight between the third and fourth floors, he slipped suddenly on one of the steps and fell, his arms flung out in front of him, almost knocking his teeth out on the edge of the staircase.

The first of his pursuers had caught up with him, but he in turn tripped at the crucial moment, and was only just able to grab hold of the edge of Paul’s apron.

“I’ve got him! Quick!” said his captor, gripping the banister with his other hand.

Paul tried to get to his feet, but the other boy pulled on the apron and Paul slid down a step, banging his head. He kicked out blindly, striking the boy, but he didn’t manage to free himself. Paul struggled for what seemed an eternity with the knot of his apron, hearing the others closing in on him.