The Speculative Short Stories of Barbara Paul, page 3
Syd smiled, understanding. "I know. It’s not easy, doing without music. Sometimes I want to play so badly I could cry."
They were both silent a moment. "Syd. Do you think we can get out of this?"
He shook his head I-don’t-know. "Let’s sleep on it," he said.
The morning was — bright and sparkling, and considerably warmer than the day before; the effect was to make Andrea feel tentatively hopeful. "Do you wake up every morning?" she asked Syd.
"Not every morning," he said. "Sometimes I just sort of become aware of myself, going someplace or doing something. I have no memory of anything immediately before."
Andrea nodded. "That’s the way it was for me yesterday. Have you tried to leave the village?"
"Innumerable times. I always end up back in the village square, with that dry fountain and its silly statue. No matter what road I follow, it always leads me right back to the square."
"Then that’s the first thing to try. Let’s see if Otto can stop the two of us together. I’d love to get out of here before we find out what that freak has in mind for Heidi Krause."
"Let’s go, then. Ready?"
"Before we start — Syd, do you have any money? Austrian money?"
"There’s some in the professor’s desk. Why? What do you need?"
"Shoes. Look at these stilts I’m wearing! I’m not going to get very far in these. I should never have bought them. I wore them only once, before, uh—"
Syd pressed his lips together. "The one time you wore them — was it to a rehearsal?"
"Ah … yes, it was."
"And Otto saw you in them and liked what he saw — and here you are."
Andrea stared at him. "I’m here because Otto What’s His Name liked my shoes?!"
"Otto Schräg. He liked the way you looked in them, Andrea. And in that skirt."
"Not my skirt. I don’t own anything this short."
"Well, the shoes just gave him the idea, then. Another good reason to get you another pair. There’s no shoe shop here, just a general clothing store that carries footwear along with everything else." He glanced at Andrea. "Don’t let it get to you."
"This is incredible," she said. "My life is interrupted, perhaps permanently changed — all because some man I barely know looks at my legs and decides he wants to see more? I’m jerked out of my own life and forced into this, this—"
"I know."
"Syd — go get the money. We’ve got to get out of here."
They left the professor’s house and made their way to the square, where they had to wait a few minutes until the clothing store opened. The one clerk was a birdlike woman, with nothing of the Valkyrian presence of Heidi Krause’s mother. The clerk greeted Syd as "professor" and cast a sly sideways glance at Andrea.
"Good morning," Syd answered without missing a beat, "Young Heidi here needs some new shoes, and Frau Krause has asked that I see she selects some, ah, sensible ones?"
The clerk gave him a knowing look and smirked in Andrea’s direction. Crazy Heidi Krause.
Ten minutes later they were back out in the square. Andrea was wearing hideous but comfortable new shoes, the high heels left with the clerk for disposal. Syd pointed out the road to Vienna. The day was pleasant; it occurred to Andrea that they had skipped a season, and they’d done so overnight. Yesterday was late fall, the beginning of winter; today there was a smell of spring in the air.
"How are the shoes?" Syd asked.
"Fine. Warm and comfortable. All I have to do is get used to the way they look." They were walking east from the square, nearing the area where the village stopped and the countryside proper began. Andrea felt her mouth go dry with excitement.
"Aw hell, no! Syd said unexpectedly.
"What’s the matter?" Then she felt it, too: that swimming feeling was back, slowing her down, limiting her movement. She grabbed Syd’s hand. "Hold on — don’t let go!"
Together they pushed around a bend in the road alongside an old building with potted plants in the windowsills. Andrea distractedly thought she heard someone singing Verdi. They came out of the bend to find a group of six men doing road repair work.
"Oh, not them again!" Syd sighed, as he and Andrea came to a stop.
"Who are they?"
"An Italian work crew. They’re brought in as cheap manual labor and then shipped back home when the job is finished. Prepare yourself to witness another exciting episode in the life of Otto Schräg."
"What’s going to happen?" Andrea asked.
"A stupid fight is going to happen. Otto is going to prove himself a man among men. See that fellow? Keep your eye on him."
That fellow was the obvious leader of the work crew — a big, swaggering, happy-seeming sort. Good-looking, and he knew it; he was quick to notice Andrea watching him. Even though the sun wasn’t yet halfway up the sky, he pretended to be hot as as excuse to take off his shirt. Smooth chest, swelling biceps.
"That was for your benefit," said Syd. "We’d better — Andrea!"
"Hold tight!" she cried at the very moment she felt her hand slip out of Syd’s. She was being forced across the road, straight toward the Italian workman. "Syd!"
"I can’t move! I’m stuck!" he bawled in frustration.
Andrea found herself standing so close to the workman they were almost touching. The smell of sweat and sex radiated from his body — a body of which Andrea was self-consciously aware. He started talking to her in Italian, softly, suggestively. Like most musicians, Andrea had picked up a little Italian, but it wasn’t enough to understand what he was saying. Not that it mattered; he made his meaning clear. He talked with his eyes as well as his mouth, and he started stroking her upper arm with the back of his hand. "Bella, bellissima," he crooned.
"I wish you wouldn’t do that," Andrea answered in German.
"Ascoltatemi — capite quel de ehe dico?"
Andrea tried walking away but couldn’t move. The other workmen were watching with interest. Across the road Syd was yelling her name, but nobody seemed to hear him except Andrea. She was wondering what to do when a burst of noisy laughter interrupted the scene.
The laughter was coming from the old building with the potted plants in the windowsills. The door flew open and out came Otto Schräg, wearing DiDi Moran on his arm and surrounded by his retinue of burghers. At the sound of Otto’s voice, the Italian’s hand instinctively tightened on Andrea’s arm.
"Lass’ mich," she said sharply. She hated being grabbed by the arm.
He grabbed her other arm and started to pull her off the road. Like a sack of potatoes, Andrea thought. She protested, loudly.
Otto Schräg was watching. "You!" he called out in German. "Let her go!"
The workman answered something in Italian that sounded faintly obscene.
Otto strode across the road. "I said let her go!"
"How about you letting go?" Andrea said to him.
He ignored her. "You. Laborer. Turn that woman loose this instant."
In answer, the Italian thrust Andrea behind him in a strong-man-protecting-his-woman gesture. "Wunderbar," Andrea muttered.
Otto’s eyes narrowed into what he seemed to think was a menacing look. "Am I going to have to knock some sense into that thick Italian skull of yours?"
"Misericordia! Povero me!" The Italian pretended to be afraid, drawing a laugh from the other road workers.
"All right, clown," Otto said with a world-weariness that looked as if it had been practiced in front of a mirror. "You were warned." He didn’t even bother taking off his jacket but suddenly launched a fist toward the workman’s face.
It was a sucker punch; the Italian staggered back a step, and then instantly went into a boxer’s crouch. One fist shot out and clipped Otto’s ear.
"Oh, bravo," Andrea said sarcastically. Meaning both of them.
The two men were obviously enjoying themselves, testing their strength in public. DiDi Moran gave an occasional squeal and once or twice cried out, "Be careful, Otto!" Andrea said nothing, figuring; one cheerleader was enough. How trite! The men contending, the women standing on the sidelines watching. Otto Schräg had no imagination at all. It wasn’t the first time a woman had been used to give men an excuse to fight, and it wouldn’t be the last. The local king of the hill driving off some outside virility figure threatening his little domain. Wow.
The brawl began to look like a stage fight performed by amateur actors: unimpressive Otto taking a wild swing at his opponent — and the big, muscular Italian staggering around as if mortally wounded. Then he would regain his balance but fail to take advantage of Otto’s wide-open stance, just waiting for Otto to swing again. It looked phonier than Saturday Night Wrestling, and it went on and on and on. Otto obviously liked this part.
But at last he was satisfied. The Italian sat slumped on the ground, blood streaming from his nose and a cut over his left eyebrow. DiDi Moran was cooing and fussing over Otto, and the village men were congratulating him. Andrea had hoped to slip away unnoticed, but Otto Schräg took her hand (much to DiDi Moran’s annoyance) and murmured, "You’re safe now, my dear. You don’t need to thank me."
"All right, I won’t."
Otto shot her a dirty look. But then he smiled quickly and said, "You look a little shaky — why don’t you come with us? Some coffee and brandy should settle you down."
He gestured with his hand, the fingertips lightly brushing one of her breasts.
Andrea slapped his hand away. "Keep your hands to yourself. And I’m not coming with you."
Otto smiled, unperturbed. "We’ll see."
Something between a snarl and a hiss split the air — and Andrea found herself under attack. A hitting, kicking, slapping DiDi Moran hurled herself at Andrea, her face wild with jealousy. Otto’s ultimate fantasy? Two women fighting over him like a couple of cats?
I refuse, Andrea thought. I simply refuse.
She held up her arms to fend off DiDi’s blows the best she could and didn’t hit back. She told the other woman to stop, several times, in both German and English — but DiDi was beyond hearing. Finally a laughing Otto slipped one arm around the television star’s waist and carried her away. The men from the village followed, also laughing. Good show this morning.
Andrea heaved a sigh of relief and saw Syd Grossinger trotting toward her, at last unstuck from his position at the side of the road. "Did she hurt you?" he asked. "I couldn’t move until now."
"I’m all right."
"Look at your shoes, Andrea."
She glanced down at her feet; she was wearing her high heels again.
What…? Her spurt of fear at this unnatural change immediately gave way to anger. "Oh, for crying out loud! Well, I guess we can forget about the two of us together overriding Otto’s ‘commands’ or whatever they are. Damn. Syd, you’ve seen this fight before? Is it always the same?"
"Not exactly. All the other times they fought over DiDi."
"But Otto always fights the same man? That guy over there?"
"Always the same one." Syd suddenly caught her meaning. "You think maybe he…?"
"One way to find out." They hurried over to the Italian laborer, who was still seated on the ground, dabbing at the cut over his eye with a bandanna. "That’s a nasty cut you’ve got there," Andrea said in English.
"It don’t hurt none," a Lower East Side accent told them. "Otto can’t hit worth a turkeyfuck." His head jerked up. "You spoke English!"
"All my true-blue American life," Andrea said cheerily. "Look, we’re prisoners here—"
She didn’t get to finish her sentence because the Italian let out a whoop that would have started an avalanche if the neighboring mountain had been a little closer. Andrea and Syd both found themselves swept up in a muscular embrace and swung round and around as their newfound ally laughed like a maniac.
"Shh!" Syd said in alarm. "Otto’s not out of earshot!"
"That’s O.K., that’s O.K.!" Andrea cried, thinking fast. "Smile and wave at him! Come on, do it!"
The Italian put them back on their feet, and the three of them stood there smiling and waving. A little way down the road Otto stopped and watched them. He hesitated, then turned and walked off toward the village. His entourage followed.
"Well," Syd said, bemused. "That’s the first time I’ve seen Otto unsure of himself."
"Christ, Professor, I didn’t know you’d been kidnapped, too," the Italian said. "I thought you belonged here."
"1 made the same mistake about you — that’s what Otto wanted us to think. By the way, I’m Syd Grossinger; she’s Andrea Caldwell."
"D’Amico, Joey D’Amico. Jesus, you don’t know how glad 1 am to see you!"
"You’ve stopped bleeding," Andrea said, surprised.
"Yeah, I heal fast," Joey D’Amico said. "Ten minutes, fifteen. So’s I’ll be in good shape the next time he wants to show off."
One of the Italian workmen called out something; Joey waved him off.
"What was that about?" Syd asked.
"Nothin’. They’re just knockin’ off for the day."
"Already? It’s only midmorning."
"No, it isn’t," Andrea said. "The sun’s over there now, in the west. It’s late afternoon."
"Time’s all screwed up here," Joey said. "He wants it to be night, it’s night. Nothin’ you can do about it."
"Maybe now there is," Syd said. "Otto clearly wasn’t counting on the three of us getting together. We need to talk — let’s go back to the professor’s house."
"Syd," Andrea said, "remember what we came here for? We were going to try that road to Vienna."
"Won’t do no good," Joey said. "It’ll just take you back to the square."
Syd threw the other man a wry look. "You’ve tried, too, have you?"
"Well, I haven’t," Andrea said stubbornly. "As long as we’re here I want to try."
"In those shoes?"
"Barefoot, if need be. On my hands and knees."
"It don’t matter none," Joey shrugged. "We follow this road either direction, we still end up back in the square. Might as well head toward Vienna."
They had to walk all of eight minutes before they arrived back in the village square. "Convinced?" Syd asked.
Andrea sighed. "Convinced."
"Sure, I knew Otto in New York," Joey said around mouthfuls of potato pancake. They were in the professor’s kitchen, eating a hasty meal prepared from their host’s well-stocked larder. Andrea wondered if anyone ever starved to death in a fantasy.
"And?" Syd prompted.
Joey swallowed. "Him and me had it out once back home." He laughed. "You can bet your sweet ass it ended different that time. Old Otto learned a thing or two, let me tell you. He never called me a wop bastard again after that."
Andrea and Syd exchanged a quick look. "That’s getting to be quite a list," Andrea said. "Russians and Jews and now Italians? And Otto brought Joey here to get even with him?"
"Could be," Syd nodded.
"He looked down his nose at me," Joey said in a tone of wonder. "At me, Joey D’Amico! Just because I’m Italian. And him no better’n a janitor. A college degree and he couldn’t do no better’n janitor!"
"What’s this?" Syd said. "Otto has a college degree?"
Joey made a noise of disgust. "From Columbia, he said. In German."
"Wait a minute." Andrea was puzzled. "Otto’s native tongue is German — but he went to an American university to get a degree in German?"
"That’s what he said," Joey shrugged. "He coulda been lyin’."
"Not necessarily," Syd commented. "A lot of Europeans go to American schools and use their language to get a degree. It’s easier than staying home and mastering a discipline like history or science."
Andrea was astonished. "American universities permit this?"
"All the time. Tuition money is tuition money. You know, it fits — Otto Schräg was no scholar. It’s the sort of thing he’d so. Is it really surprising he ended up as big a loser in New York as he was here? Joey, what was the fight about?"
The other man grinned. "I stole his girl."
A rapid knock sounded at the front door.
All three of them jumped. "Has anyone come visiting before?" Andrea asked Syd.
"No." He looked worried. "Could it be Otto?"
Joey stood up. "Let’s find out." He went to answer the door and returned almost immediately. "Just some kid lookin’ for his sister. I sent ‘im away." The knock repeated, louder this time. Joey grunted. "I thought I sent ‘im away."
"He’s looking for me," Andrea frowned. "I’d better talk to him."
They all three went to the door, where an angry Franzl Krause was waiting. "Heidi, Mother says if you don’t come home there’s going to be trouble! If Father finds out you were here alone in this house with two men, he’s going to kill you!"
"Why, you dirty-minded little kid," Joey said amiably. "Bet you can’t wait to tell the old man."
Franzl ignored Joey and spoke to Syd. "Professor, Mother says she’s going to call the constable if Heidi doesn’t come back with me. She says she knows what you’re up to. Buying Heidi shoes, keeping her out of school all day—"
Andrea interrupted. "Franzl, if she’s so concerned about me, why isn’t she here herself? Why did she send you?"
"She’s cooking supper," the boy muttered.
"And nothing must interfere with eating in the Krause household. Franzl, don’t you get tired of doing their dirty work for them? You’re always the one who has to come and find me. It seems to me you and I ought to be on the same side."
"I’m not the crazy one!" the boy exploded. "I don’t go messing around with dirty old men!"
"Hey," said Joey.
"I hate you! Everybody laughs at me because I’ve got a crazy sister! I hope they cut you up in little pieces and feed you to the dogs!"
"Franzl, I was trying to make friends," Andrea said in exasperation, "but you’re such a nasty little bugger I see it’s a waste of time. You go tell those ogres you call parents that I don’t belong in that household and I’m not coming back. You understand? I’m not coming back at all. Now scram."
