The Children's Book - A. S. Byatt [223]
“And you are how old?”
“Seventeen. Nearly eighteen.”
“And why have you come here? What do you want?”
Dorothy found it hard to breathe. “I want to know who I am.”
It was wildly absurd to be saying all this through Griselda’s deliberately expressionless, gentle voice.
“And do you expect me to tell you?” asked Anselm Stern.
“I thought,” said Dorothy with spirit, “that if I knew who you were, I should know more about who I really am.”
“Indeed,” said Anselm Stern. The sharp mouth smiled a wry smile. “And in your place, Fräulein Dorothy, I should have had the same thought, I think—so maybe, vielleicht, that tells us a little of who we both are.”
He was silent, for some time, thinking. He said “When were you born?”
“On November 23rd, 1884.”
He counted months on his precise fingers. He smiled. He said
“What does your mother think about the fact that you are here?”
Dorothy looked to Griselda for help. Griselda looked blank. Dorothy began to speak fast, in her normal voice, not the unnaturally formal one she had been using.
“She doesn’t exactly know, that is, it hasn’t been openly discussed. But I think my father—I think that he—has told her what he said to me, because she seems—perhaps angry, with him or with me—she didn’t try to stop me coming here, but we didn’t talk about why—I think there was an unspoken—understanding. I don’t think she meant me to know. I don’t think she knew what to say to me.” She paused. “It was a great shock to me. And difficult for her.”
She listened to Griselda’s soft German, following the rhythms of her English, half a sentence behind.
“So,” said Anselm Stern. “Ich verstehe.”
“I understand,” said Griselda.
“You are an unusually determined and outspoken young woman,” said the two voices, the German one both amused and judging, the English one hesitant.
“I like to understand things. To know,” said Dorothy.
“So I see. Had you thought what this—this knowledge—would mean to me? I have a wife and two sons. What did you expect me to do, when you had told me?”
“I didn’t know what you would do. That is up to you. You can tell me to go away. I think you believe what I say.”
“I think I do believe you. You were born nine months after Fasching. There are many Fasching cuckoos in Munich.”
“Fasching cuckoos?”
Griselda and Anselm Stern began to explain simultaneously. “Fasching is Karneval. All is permitted,” said Anselm Stern. “Fasching is a great mad Shrove Tuesday feast, with dancing in the street,” said Griselda, and broke off to translate Stern’s explanation. Griselda said, translating nothing,
“We have met your sons, Herr Stern. In the Pension Susskind where we are staying. They brought us to the performance yesterday. But we said nothing to them, and did not wait to see you, because of what Dorothy had to say.”
“Translate, please,” said Dorothy, excluded.
Stern said to Griselda
“And you, who are you?”
“I am Dorothy’s cousin, Griselda Wellwood. That is, I am not Dorothy’s cousin, but we have always been closer than sisters. My mother was born Katharina Wildvogel. You may remember—you were kind enough to explain the Aschenputtel story, at Todefright, when you performed it.”
“I remember. Your German is better than it was at that time.” He was silent for a few moments. He picked up the marionette he had been stitching, shook out her skirts, and looked into her painted eyes. He fingered the silky hair, which looked as though it was real human hair, tucking it into shape.
“I have always wanted a daughter. My sons are good sons, but I always wanted a daughter. What to do now?”
“I didn’t want to embarrass you, or make your life difficult.”
“This is Munich, this is Wahnmoching, this is the home of doctrinaire Free Love, where it is laid upon us to greet cuckoos as golden eggs. This is the city where you may say openly what you have just said to me, here in this inner room, and no one will think worse of you—no one that matters that is, of course, for the heavy burghers and beer-drinkers are only Matter, inessential, what they think is heavier than air. But you may not wish to say anything,