The House with Nine Locks, page 14
Father de Winter’s mouth was pressed into a line, as if it took an effort of will to keep silent. ‘I’m sorry, my child,’ he said finally, and the regret in his voice seemed almost genuine. He rose from his desk. ‘Write your mother a letter. Perhaps she’ll explain herself one day.’
Adelais did not waste any time. As soon as she got back to Schoolstraat she sat down at the kitchen table and began a letter. It turned out to be more difficult than she had thought. She did not dare to explain about her uncle’s legacy, but she wanted her mother to know that something important had happened. She wanted to persuade her mother to come home, but she didn’t want to sound angry or reproachful, even if that was how she felt. Nor did she want to cause her mother pain. If it was true what Father de Winter had said, that God was telling her to stay at Lourdes, how was she going to feel being begged to refuse? Adelais began the letter again and again, but no matter what words she used, they always sounded wrong: too cold, too distant, too imploring or too evasive. With every attempt, her mother seemed more and more beyond reach, a person she no longer knew. Having tears in her eyes didn’t make it any easier.
She had all but given up when her father came into the kitchen. He frowned at the sheets of paper screwed up on the table and put a hand on Adelais’s shoulder. It was nowhere near lunchtime, but already she could detect on him a smell of wine.
‘You miss your mama, don’t you, Ada?’
Adelais nodded. ‘Father de Winter says she’s staying in Lourdes until God says she can come back. What if that’s never?’
Lennart de Wolf stumbled slightly and lowered himself onto a chair. His eyes were bloodshot and it was almost as if he had been crying too. ‘I know how it looks, Ada. You think she’s abandoned us, but she hasn’t, not in her heart. She thinks she has no choice, you see, because of …’
‘Because of what? Because of God?’
Adelais’s father shook his head. ‘Because of Anderlecht, because she … Because sometimes, when we’ve done things that we—’
‘Anderlecht? That’s where you worked once, wasn’t it?’
Adelais’s father blinked. ‘That was a long time ago.’
‘I know. During the war.’
‘Yes, but this was later, much later.’
‘What did she do in Anderlecht, Papa?’
Adelais’s father picked up one of the scraps of paper and began to smooth it out. He seemed out of breath, in pain. ‘I shouldn’t have said … I swore I wouldn’t.’ He got up suddenly, steadying himself against the tabletop. ‘You don’t need to know about this, Adelais. You only need to know that none of this is your fault, none of it.’
Before Adelais could ask him any more questions, he had left the kitchen. A moment later she heard the door of his workshop slam shut.
That night, Adelais sat behind the till at Aux Quatre Vents. The place was busy and the jukebox was on. Hendryck was hard at work pouring drinks. Mrs Claes and one of the other girls were in the kitchen. Adelais took money and wrote out chits, and stared at the strangers as they shuffled in and out. Nobody spoke to her, except to give her their orders, and she didn’t say anything in reply. Loneliness felt like a chasm at her feet. One more step and it would swallow her. The thought of the dance at the opera house, of waltzing with Sebastian, was the only happy thing she could think of.
She wished Uncle Cornelis was still alive. She didn’t care if he had broken the law. She wanted to see him smile again, the twinkle in his eye. She wanted to hear him call her his little wolf. Why had he made her a beneficiary, perhaps his only one? It could only be because he had loved her. But there was more to it than that. He had made no request, left her no instructions. She was free to do what she wanted, or to do nothing. All the same, the machines, the plates, he had meant for her to have them. He had wanted her to share his secrets, as they had shared smaller ones in the past. But if so, what did he expect her to do with them?
TWENTY-TWO
Adelais took a tram to Heileg-Hart on Saturday morning. It was a fine, windy day, fragments of light cloud twisting in the sky above her head. She could already feel the tension in her stomach.
She had settled on the dress two weeks earlier. Saskia’s sister Mariëtte had once worn it to a wedding. Now she was too fat for it, Saskia said. It was green, with a velvet bodice, cap sleeves and a long tulle skirt. It fitted Adelais well, and all that had been needed was to take up the skirt a little. The first thing she did when she arrived at Saskia’s house was to try it on again, just to be sure.
‘Those shoes won’t do,’ Saskia said. Adelais was wearing a pair of brown lace-ups. They were her best pair and polished to a shine. ‘They make you look like a typist.’
Adelais was panic-stricken. She didn’t have time to buy new shoes, even if she could find the money.
‘Calm down,’ Saskia said. ‘I’ll find you something.’
She disappeared for a few minutes and returned with an armful of pumps, court shoes and dancing slippers, together with a couple of pairs with long straps and high heels, which Adelais knew she would never be able to wear without falling over.
‘They’re not for you. They’re for me,’ Saskia said. ‘I need to be taller tonight.’
‘Aren’t you tall enough?’
Saskia might have been small for her age, but she could not be mistaken for a child. In the past few years she had developed the kind of figure that Adelais might have envied, if she had wanted men to notice her on the street.
‘I don’t want to dance with my nose in a man’s armpit.’ She shuddered. ‘It’s either stick to the short ones or wear heels. And short men are all terrible, like Napoleon.’
Saskia’s sisters had bigger feet than Adelais. She tried on pair after pair, but they were all too broad. They would fall off or give her blisters. Fortunately, a pair of black slingbacks turned out to be a decent fit once they had stuffed tissue paper into the points.
‘You see?’ Saskia said. ‘I said I’d take care of it. Now let’s go in for the kill.’
‘The kill?’
‘Nails, locks and lashes. It’s what Mariëtte used to say before she got married. But we’d better have a bath first.’
‘I’ve already washed,’ Adelais said.
‘In a perfumed bubble bath?’
Adelais hesitated. She had never taken a bath at Saskia’s house before. She did not even have physiotherapy there any more. Her sessions with Dr Helsen had concluded when she was thirteen.
‘Of course, if you want to smell like an onion,’ Saskia said, ‘be my guest.’
The bubble bath was French and gave off an expensive floral smell. Saskia sat on the bath stool, painting her toenails while Adelais undressed in the corner, wrapping herself in towels for the sake of decency. She was glad to see that the bubbles covered the surface of the bathwater, because Saskia showed no sign of leaving the bathroom. She had grown up in a house full of sisters, Adelais reminded herself, and unlike the de Wolfs, her family had always been rather modern when it came to social convention.
‘I can get in on my own,’ Adelais said. She had strong arms, thanks to the handcycle.
Saskia did not look up from her toenails. ‘Go on then.’
When Adelais had finished soaping herself, Saskia moved the bath stool behind the bath and washed Adelais’s hair with a shampoo that was scented with lavender. Adelais tried to relax and enjoy the feel of Saskia’s fingers on her scalp, but almost at once, a clock sounded on the landing.
‘What time is it? How much time do we have?’
‘Plenty,’ Saskia said. ‘Why are you so nervous? It’s just a dance.’
‘I don’t want to be late.’
‘We should be late, fashionably late. That’s at least half an hour.’
‘That’s too much.’
Saskia dumped a cup of water over Adelais’s head. ‘What’s the matter? Are you afraid someone’ll bag the boy before you can?’
‘Sebastian? No. No, it’s just …’ Adelais couldn’t think of any way to finish the sentence. She felt about the dance the way she used to feel about exams at school, only this was worse.
Saskia sighed. ‘Don’t let the water out. I’ll have yours,’ she said, and pulled her dress over her head.
Adelais could tell her friend was unhappy about something. For a moment, she was tempted to share the news about her uncle’s will. There was nothing Saskia liked more than to be let in on a secret.
‘Thanks for all this,’ she said. ‘I’d be stuck otherwise.’
Saskia shook her head. ‘Don’t be stupid. Only it’s supposed to be fun. If it isn’t fun, what’s the point?’
After they had bathed, they went into Saskia’s bedroom and started on their hair. When it came to using the hairdryer and rollers, they were guided by a magazine Saskia had borrowed from her mother. Dry from root to tip for a lustrous shine, read the article. Keep hair in motion to avoid singeing. When the curlers were out, they darkened their eyelashes with mascara, and put on the lipstick Adelais had taken from the weaver’s house.
‘This is nice,’ Saskia said, admiring her lips in the mirror. ‘Where’d you get it?’
Something had been written on the lid of the box: the name of a town. All the boxes had one, and every name was different. ‘Lokeren,’ Adelais said.
‘Lokeren? What were you doing there?’
‘I wasn’t there. It was a present, from my uncle.’
‘The one that died?’
Adelais nodded.
Saskia squeezed her lips together and released them with a pop. ‘He had good taste.’
She helped Adelais into her dress and led her into her parents’ bedroom, where there were full-length mirrors on the back of the wardrobe doors. Adelais hardly recognised herself. She seemed to have twice as much hair as usual. It fell in loose curls down to her shoulders, like Anita Ekberg in War and Peace. The green dress made her seem taller, like a prima ballerina. Even the little touches of make-up lent her an allure that was alien.
Saskia came and stood next to her. Her dress was dark blue with white piping, like a sailor suit, and shorter. She straightened one of Adelais’s sleeves and prodded at her hair. ‘Well, if someone doesn’t fall in love with you tonight, they never will,’ she said.
They took a taxi to the opera house and arrived half an hour late. A queue of cars was waiting to disgorge its passengers. They made their way into the foyer, which was flanked with urns full of flowers. Most of the guests were young, and well dressed. In spite of all her preparations, Adelais felt like an imposter. Handing over the entrance ticket, she half expected the usher to refuse it and send her away. As they approached the ballroom, something else struck her as wrong: the music wasn’t like any of the music on the jukebox at Aux Quatre Vents. It was faster, wilder, and with a beat that would never fit the steps she knew.
Saskia didn’t seem to notice. She accepted a glass of sparkling wine from a waiter and took another for Adelais. ‘Drink up,’ she said.
The ballroom was even grander than Adelais had expected, but she hardly noticed the plaster cherubs, the frescos or the ornate bas-relief. Under three massive chandeliers, couples were dancing – not facing each other, holding each other, but swinging each other around by the arms. It was a kind of dancing she didn’t know, a kind she couldn’t do. A band was playing at the far end of the room: musicians with slicked-back hair and burgundy jackets.
Saskia drained her glass. ‘That’s rock’n’roll. Everyone’s doing it now.’ She hiccupped. ‘Looks exhausting, doesn’t it?’
Adelais had seen the jive before, but she had assumed it was something reserved for Americans, and then only for films. This dance was not as fast, but it made no difference. She couldn’t join in. What was Sebastian going to think of her, coming to the Red Cross Charity Dance just to watch?
She spotted him standing to one side of the room, talking to a group of people his age. The men were in dinner jackets. The women wore dresses with flared skirts that stopped below their knees – perfect for the new kind of dancing. A tall, elegant-looking brunette laughed at something Sebastian said and squeezed his forearm affectionately. ‘This was a mistake,’ Adelais said, but Saskia had gone to get another drink.
Sebastian’s group were making their way onto the floor. Sebastian looked reluctant, but the brunette grabbed his hand and dragged him along behind her. A moment later they were dancing – making mistakes, losing their way occasionally, but laughing and grinning even as they did. The brunette had a long, graceful neck and high cheekbones. Her legs were slender and straight. Her earrings sparkled.
Adelais tried to get away, but Saskia had spotted her cousin Paulina, who had just returned from her honeymoon in Italy. The country had clearly made a great impression on her, because she described in some detail every museum and basilica on her extensive itinerary. Adelais kept her back to the dance floor. That way, between the gown and Saskia’s hairdressing, Sebastian might not recognise her. She hadn’t counted on the mirrors that were hung around the walls.
‘Adelais?’ She turned. Sebastian was standing in front of her. ‘What are you …? I didn’t know you were—’
‘I can waltz, and foxtrot, and polka.’ The words tumbled out. Blood flooded into her cheeks, like a hot tap going on. ‘I’m quite good.’
‘Are you? I’d no idea.’ Sebastian almost had to shout over the noise of the band. ‘You never said—’
‘Anyway, I thought I’d …’ Adelais gestured at the room. ‘You know, why not?’ She laughed, but it wasn’t the kind of laugh that followed something funny.
‘Right. Why not?’ Sebastian nodded a couple of times and looked out across the dance floor. ‘They’ll be playing a waltz or two later on. If you like, we could—’
‘Yes, all right. The next waltz.’
‘Great. Good. Should be fun.’ He smiled, and the warmth of it made her happy. ‘By the way, you look absolutely—’
‘Fine gentleman you are.’ The tall brunette was at his side, holding two glasses of wine. She pouted. ‘I got tired of waiting.’ She handed one of the glasses to Sebastian. Her skin was flawless, her teeth white. ‘Who’s the bridesmaid?’
‘I’m sorry, this is Adelais. Adelais, this is Marie-Astrid, from my dance class.’
‘Astrid?’
‘Marie-Astrid.’
Adelais nodded. It was like a poke in the guts. Why did the girl have to be called Astrid? Astrid was the countess’s name, the name of the hotel they were going to run one day, together. It was their name.
Sebastian seemed oblivious to the theft. ‘I’ve known Adelais for years. Ever since—’
‘I saved his life.’
Sebastian laughed and stuck a finger under his shirt collar. It seemed to be bothering him. ‘That’s right. True story.’
‘You must tell me,’ Marie-Astrid took Sebastian’s arm. ‘Right after this dance. It’s my absolute favourite. Excuse us.’
The band was playing a slower number: a lilting melody in common time. Adelais watched Sebastian and Astrid take to the floor and vanish into the swelling crowd. When she saw them again, Astrid’s eyes were fixed on Sebastian’s and she was smiling. Sebastian spun her around. He was smiling too. Adelais felt something close to panic.
‘Do you think he likes her?’
Saskia had just returned from the cloakroom. On the trip she had acquired two more glasses of wine. ‘She may be trying too hard. My sister Madeleen always says you mustn’t try too hard. She must really like him, though.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s the prettiest girl in the room.’
‘He promised me the next waltz. We’re going to waltz together.’
Saskia handed Adelais one of the glasses. She seemed to think it was essential to avoid staying sober. ‘The waltz is the most romantic dance. You’re supposed to waltz with the one you love, like at a wedding.’
‘A wedding?’ Adelais could feel her heart pounding against her ribs. Marie-Astrid was laughing now, flashing her perfect white teeth. ‘She is trying too hard, isn’t she?’
Between the foyer and the ballroom was another room, ringed with columns. There was a bar on one side and steps going up to a gallery. It was quieter and cooler than the ballroom, and the guests who stood around talking there were older. While Saskia was dancing with Paulina’s husband, Adelais went and sat down on the steps. Her face was burning and her head was starting to swim. Her glass was not empty, but she already felt drunk.
Nothing at the dance was how she had expected it. It was noisy and crowded and complicated, and not romantic the way it was supposed to be. And Sebastian did not seem that impressed with the way she looked. He had been going to say something, but then … Adelais’s eyes clouded over. Beneath her feet was a pool of black water, like the water going by the old weaver’s house. She let go of her stick and grabbed hold of the banisters. She wanted very badly not to fall in.
She took a deep breath, then another. Her vision cleared. A couple squeezed past her. ‘Sorry,’ she said, but they didn’t reply. The man had a cigar in his mouth. He handed Adelais her stick and carried on up the steps without a word.
A smattering of applause came from the ballroom. After a few moments, the music struck up again: a saxophone and drums. Adelais measured the beats in her head: it was a slow three/four time, a waltz. She even knew the melody from the jukebox: ‘The Tennessee Waltz’. She got up, and walked towards the sound.
The dance floor was even busier than before. The couples were travelling around the room in a circle. Adelais searched for Sebastian. There was no sign of him, or of Marie-Astrid. She glimpsed Saskia, dancing with a boy who wore spectacles. Watching the couples spin and sway, Adelais felt unsteady again. What had been in her glass? Was it something stronger than wine?
She felt a hand on her arm. ‘So how do we do this then?’ There was a grin on Sebastian’s face, and sweat on his brow.
