The Flames, page 34
‘And?’ He smooths the page in front of him.
‘It contains bad news. The worst. Could you read it to me?’ Edith says. ‘I couldn’t bear to look past the first line.’
Egon runs his eyes from left to right. He puts a hand over his mouth.
‘Oh, Edith. I am so sorry. You really don’t know?’ He lowers himself to her.
She buries her head in her arms. This feeling of being on the brink of world-collapsing news, irreversible tragedy, is unbearable. But it can’t be worse than anything she has already imagined in the hours alone in the hills.
‘You need to hear this,’ Egon says gently. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’
‘Adele?’ It has finally happened. She has lost her sister for ever.
Egon waits a moment, unsteady. ‘It’s your father.’
Edith feels the air leave her lungs, everything slipping around her.
‘It says there was nothing that could be done.’
‘Papa!’ Edith shudders violently, her body racked with sobs as she absorbs the news.
‘Your mother says it happened on Friday. He was taken ill, unexpectedly.’
‘How? Why?’
‘It was his heart.’
Edith feels as if she has plunged into a bottomless hole.
‘I know what it’s like to lose a father,’ Egon tries to soothe her. ‘But he’ll always be with you. Your mother says the funeral will take place this week. In Vienna.’
Edith is sinking, sinking, sinking. ‘My papa …’
Her husband wraps his arms around her, rocking her. ‘We’ll both go. I’ll take compassionate leave. There are no two ways about it. We must pay our respects.’
8
November 1917
‘We should order a bottle of something special,’ Adele announces to the table.
‘I’m not sure that’s appropriate, darling,’ Mutti says. A waiter stands to one side, ready to take their order. Edith and Egon exchange a look.
‘It’s what Papa would have wanted,’ Adele replies, her voice rising above the noise of the other diners. ‘Here we are, together, after all. It’s been such a long time, more than two years since we could last say that. The war doesn’t have to ruin everything.’ She looks at each of them, her eyes resting on Egon for a fraction longer than her mother or sister. ‘Besides, it’s a celebration of sorts, is it not?’
The low lights flicker. The piano that once would have played slow, soulful notes is dusty and dormant, and the stool’s legs don’t look as if they could support a grown man’s weight any more.
Mutti pats Adele’s hand. ‘We’ll start with water.’ The waiter makes a note.
‘Champagne!’ Adele calls after him. ‘Your most expensive bottle! We’re at a restaurant, are we not? This was your decision,’ she says, addressing her mother. ‘We’re burying Papa in the morning! Are we not expected to let loose a little? How else can we drown our sorrows? With this endless war and all these reports about the damned influenza, we’re lucky to be out at all.’
‘It’s impossible to source champagne these days, I’m afraid, Fräulein,’ the waiter says. ‘We can offer you a sparkling Chardonnay?’
Egon shuffles in his chair while Edith rummages in her handbag for a tissue. Her nerves are frayed, but she’s determined to put on a brave face. Returning to Vienna has been an ordeal, not in any way helped by the fact that Adele has been acting strangely – breezy one moment then bullying the next. There’s nothing about her that Edith recognizes.
The waiter returns with a bottle. He presents it to Adele, who reads the label. With deft movements, he untwists the wiring around the cork. Adele watches his every muscle, intently. He grips the neck of the bottle firmly in his left hand, then twists the body of it, slowly, with his right. There’s an almost imperceptible pop, which prompts an audible murmur of pleasure from her sister. The waiter leans forward to pour the fizzing liquid into Adele’s outstretched glass.
‘Precisely what I need,’ she says. Mutti holds her hand over the glass that has been placed in front of her. Egon accepts some and holds Edith’s glass out, too, even though she has no intention of drinking it. Adele takes a long sip, her head tipped, the tender white skin of her neck revealed. ‘Delicious.’ She swallows. Her eyes rest on Egon again. ‘So, the artist-turned-soldier returns. How have you been? Fighting the great fight?’
Egon smiles. ‘I’ve been lucky, as it happens, been kept from the horrors of the front. I’ve been stationed in a small town, in a menial role, which suits me perfectly. In Prague, I oversaw prisoners of war. Russian men, the strong, silent types. We couldn’t communicate much, but they let me draw them.’
Adele examines the rising bubbles in her glass. ‘Fascinating.’
The waiter returns. He addresses Mutti. ‘Madame?’
‘I can’t say I’m feeling hungry. Good job, as there’s hardly a thing on the menu.’
‘I want the veal cutlet,’ Adele interrupts.
‘Wiener schnitzel for me too, please,’ Egon adds.
‘No veal, I’m afraid,’ the waiter says apologetically. ‘The meat rations … We have a little horse meat, if that’s of interest?’
‘Fine,’ Egon and Adele say in unison.
‘Broth, please, however it comes,’ Edith says.
‘Make that two.’ Mutti sighs. The four sit in silence while the waiter rearranges their cutlery.
‘And you, Edith?’ Adele asks. ‘Not pregnant yet?’
‘Adele! What a question.’ Edith catches her mother’s eye.
‘You’ve been a wife for two and a half years now. Why the delay?’
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘There’s clearly a problem. And Egon isn’t the issue, I hear?’
‘Adele! I’ll leave if you’re planning to continue like this.’ The tips of Edith’s ears burn with humiliation. ‘I’ve come all this way for Papa’s funeral. I am beside myself with grief and I don’t appreciate being harassed and insulted by my own sister.’
Adele takes another sip and looks over her glass.
‘Or perhaps you’re barren?’ she mutters.
Egon grasps Edith’s hand under the table.
‘That’s quite enough of that! Show some respect,’ Mutti instructs.
‘I just feel as if you’re hiding something,’ Adele says. Her eyes have that snake-like quality Edith remembers from the days after her wedding – cold but all-seeing. Adele puts her glass on the table, but not before Edith experiences the notion that she might throw it at her again. ‘You know what it’s like to have a secret, don’t you, Edith?’
‘Enough!’ Mutti interjects. ‘No more squabbles. As well as my heartbreak, I was about to say that your father’s passing makes things difficult for me. Financially.’
‘Oh, Mutti, please don’t start this again!’ Adele interjects, a warning in her eyes.
‘Adele will get a job in the new year,’ Mutti says decisively.
‘You know I’ve set my heart on being on the stage, once the theatres open again. I’m no Isadora Duncan, but I’ve been told I have potential,’ Adele says defensively.
‘Nothing too strenuous,’ Mutti continues.
‘You expect me to become a chimney sweep or street cleaner?’ Adele says, rolling her eyes at her mother. ‘Or how about a tram driver or a postwoman? Is that what you want?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! A little light endeavour in a department store will do you good.’
‘You know how I feel about that!’
‘And you know how I feel. You may think such work is beneath you, but needs must. We’re one step away from pawning the family heirlooms.’
Adele looks thoroughly chastised.
‘We have news too, actually,’ Egon says and everyone turns expectantly. ‘It seems the army has finally had enough of me. I’ve annoyed all the right people. Edith and I are all set to return to Vienna fully in the new year.’
‘Finally!’ Adele mutters as the waiter positions the plates on the table.
‘I’ll still be enlisted,’ Egon continues, ‘but I’ll be around more, back on the scene. We’ll find another apartment in Hietzing. My superior, Oberleutnant Grünwald, has taken a shine to me. Before the war, he was an arts and textiles dealer in Vienna. He recognized my talent and keeps me away from all the danger. Unofficially, I’m a war artist.’
‘Wonderful!’ Mutti erupts. ‘I can’t wait to have you around again. There’s plenty you can help me with, Edith, there won’t be a dull moment.’
Adele raises her eyebrows at Edith a fraction, and her lips twitch. For less than a second, there’s some sisterly warmth there, a shared frustration.
‘Maybe, just maybe,’ Mutti says, ‘after all this turmoil with your dear father, God rest his soul, we might still anticipate brighter things in nineteen eighteen.’
9
January 1918
‘And this …’ Egon announces, ‘is our new home.’ He walks behind Edith into the apartment, a hand over her eyes. She can see enough to put one foot in front of the other without tripping. He pulls his hand away and spins her in the middle of the room so she can take it all in. It’s a large open space, the walls painted white, the floors polished cement. The windows let in a huge expanse of light. ‘A few of your colourful rugs, and it won’t feel so damp,’ he admits. ‘And at last, we have the money to heat it.’
Edith weighs up the feeling of this new space. She tries to imagine where their possessions will go, and how she’ll decorate it. They’re on the ground floor, with views on to a small garden.
‘You can plant the seeds you’ve been collecting there.’ He points. ‘They’ll thrive, there’s so much sunlight. We can finally put down our roots, too. And look! The last tenant left us some window boxes.’
For the last three summers, since she married, Edith has planted small black and white sunflower seeds wherever they’ve been. She admires each stage as they grow – the emerging stem, the promising balance of small double leaves, then the tight knot of the head, which unfurls and expands into brightness, the broad faces angled towards the roaming sun.
‘And we’re not far from Klimt’s studio. It has been wonderful to see him again; he’s as strong and significant as ever – even if my talent is on the brink of overtaking his. Never repeat that to his face!’ Egon adds hastily. ‘He put in a good word to help us secure this place.’
Edith strokes the plaster by the door, and some falls away at her touch.
‘How strange to think we’ll have a place to call our own, after so long away,’ she comments warily.
‘You don’t want to live here?’ he asks.
‘Of course I do, but so much has changed, it doesn’t even feel like the same city we left. Papa and Hanna, the wave of new faces, rationing, strikes …’
‘It’s time for us to celebrate. Even caged birds sing from time to time. We can’t let this dreadful war bring us down. Here, we can entertain, invite family and friends. I’ll send word to Gerti. I’d like to see little Anton Junior. And Anton Senior, the old devil, can bring whatever wine he can get his hands on now that he’s back! It’ll be good to raise a glass, remember the dead, see some familiar faces,’ Egon says.
‘You’re right,’ Edith says. ‘We’re back at the centre of things, together.’
‘We’re here, we’re alive and I want people to know it. Let’s be happy. Everything has been so out of kilter. We must find our feet again.’
‘Sometimes I feel as if I barely know anyone in the city any more. I know it won’t be that way for ever.’
‘Why not soften the feud with Adele? You’re bound to bump into her; it’s only a matter of time. You don’t want to be looking over your shoulder the whole time, worrying yourself to death …’
‘Do you hear what you’re saying?’ she teases. ‘And you know I tried, back in December, but this is Adele we’re talking about.’
‘You’re right to be wary. She was unbearable that evening at the restaurant! It was a disaster, but all our nerves were shot that night before your poor father’s funeral. And she was better behaved the next day, so there’s hope, isn’t there?’
‘She’s had long enough to get over her infatuation with you, I suppose.’
‘Ah, but once you’ve fallen for Egon Schiele, do you ever recover?’ he replies, grinning.
Edith pushes him, gently. ‘She’ll have found other distractions by now, I’m sure. Mutti says there have been plenty of suitors.’
‘Call on her,’ he suggests. ‘It’ll be good for you.’
‘I’ll consider it.’
Egon dances a few steps with her across the wide-open space, waltzing her towards the window. ‘This,’ he says when they stop, ‘is our new beginning. Vienna might be battered by the war, but we’re about to launch. I’ll have more time for my art and you can model for me again. And perhaps we might even be blessed with the baby you’ve been longing for?’
Edith laughs but feels a pang at his words. ‘That would be a miracle. What kind of world would we be bringing it into, anyway?’
She would like a baby. Something of her own to love. And with a child, there would always be a part of Egon that she’d have access to, something they would always share. She’d never feel alone. She’d have purpose, direction – something of which to be proud.
‘There’s death, destruction, uncertainty and upheaval,’ Egon reels off. ‘Not to mention insanity. But there’s also love, tenderness, talent and hope. I know the last few years have been painful, but maybe now that we’re home, you’ll be able to relax more.’
‘But what if Adele is right?’ she whispers, flinching at the memory. ‘What if I’m barren?’
‘It will happen. I’m sure of it. These things take time.’
‘There’s no harm in continuing to try, I suppose,’ she says, smiling.
10
January 1918
‘I’ll take it to my deathbed,’ Egon says. ‘Now open them wider. The longer you complain, the longer this will take.’ Edith is in the most undignified, uncomfortable position, sprawled on the makeshift bed in the front room. At Egon’s behest, she has removed all her undergarments and hitched her skirts above her waist. Her boots and stockings remain on.
Edith has been very careful to position herself so she cannot be seen from the window. At first, she’d pulled the curtains, but Egon tore them open again, complaining about the light. She worries about what the neighbours might think at the best of times, let alone if they caught sight of her now.
‘I wish you’d warned me that this was what you had in mind.’ Edith has a headache from gritting her teeth.
To add insult to injury, Egon says she must touch herself.
‘Try to enjoy yourself,’ he instructs.
‘Enjoy myself? I don’t want people to think I’m on the brink of hysteria,’ she says.
‘Come on, don’t be a prude. Bring your hand around. There should be a place that feels very satisfying. Do you need me to show you?’
‘I doubt you’d have a clue,’ she mocks. The index finger of Edith’s hand pushes between her legs. Never in her wildest dreams did Edith imagine Egon could put her in a position as degrading as this. ‘Don’t you dare show my face!’ she says. ‘Promise me.’
She doesn’t want the world to think she spends her afternoons with her hands down her undergarments, cavorting with the devil, as Mutti would say.
‘I’ve already told you, I’ll take it to my grave. Nobody will ever know it’s you.’
‘At least change the date and let people assume it’s Vally. They’d expect this of her.’
‘You know I can’t do that,’ he says. Edith removes her hand and raises her head to stare at him. ‘Now please, put it back,’ Egon instructs and carries on sketching, a glint in his eyes.
Edith returns her gaze to the ceiling.
‘How much longer must I hold this ungodly pose?’ she says after a while.
‘You’re obviously enjoying yourself – I’ve been finished for ages,’ he says, grinning.
Instantly, Edith pulls herself into a sitting position, swinging her skirts into place. She shoots Egon a disgusted look, and goes to warm her hands at the stove.
Egon brings the sketch over to her. He’s rather pleased with himself.
‘Look,’ he says. ‘I’ve captured the very essence of you, my model: a tightness, an unwillingness to yield, but also a childish vulnerability. This woman can experience none of life’s pleasures, let alone her own. The brutal wound demands to be seen, above all else.’ He stops. ‘Don’t cry. I’m only teasing!’
‘It’s pornography. Women have been jailed and maimed for less!’
‘This is art. You have to see that. Klimt has drawn women in much the same way.’
‘But I could be mistaken for a common whore.’
‘This is what pays our bills. Pays for this space that you’ve made so homely.’
‘I don’t want to be seen in this way ever again. It doesn’t suit me,’ Edith says. ‘Your buyers don’t even value the art you make with me in it.’ Edith is very aware that Egon’s images of her don’t command the highest prices. She remembers that look she caught from Gertrude on her wedding day – the sense that she has been found lacking. The grand oil painting Egon made after they were married, in her striped dress, didn’t even sell when it was exhibited recently. Many of her portraits go unsold, while the ones of Vally are in great demand.
‘How can I work, create, if you won’t pose for me?’
‘There are other, far more willing women.’
‘You nearly tore down my canvas when you arrived and a model was here without her clothes on.’ Egon gives in to his bad temper. ‘My buyers, my patrons, they want my radical style, my nudes. If I can’t supply those, they’ll go elsewhere. Anyone can paint a nice woman in a dress. It doesn’t have the same impact.’
‘But I’m your wife! I deliver your paintings. I speak to your patrons. I shake their hands. I can’t hand over works of myself with my legs splayed apart for them to display on their wall.’
