She keeps her back to him as she regains her breath. Her chest feels like it is turning in on itself and the only visual she can produce is that of rolling dough.
Smooth, clench, turn. Smooth, clench, turn. Don't be afraid to go a little tighter now. Yes, just like that, a flat roll is never attractive.
There is a tingling in the base of her spine, slithering up her vertebrae. The sensation comes from the base of her neck and she can feel the warmth of another's breath misting the finely haired skin there. Her chin raises involuntarily, exposing her throat to nothingness. There is a chuckle close to her ear and then Hans Landa is facing her. She focuses her eyes over his shoulder and then back to his face. It is a habit that displays her discomfort and again she berates herself.
His face is blank and absorbent, as if he is waiting for the right verbal or physical cue from her to conduct his expression. He is speaking now but her peripheral vision has caught a movement, one that he is making with his own hand. He speaks at a polite volume, not loud like a drunkard nor quiet like a hermit, he speaks like he is very, very comfortable in this situation. Their situation.
"Your hair is the longest I have ever seen it." Is what he says. There is no following praise nor complaint, neither "It quite suits you", or even "I preferred it before."
It is then that she realizes what caught her attention. It is the movement of his right hand, the repeated smoothing of his thumb over his remaining fingers relates directly to the quaking in her back and chill at the base of her scalp. He has tugged (so faintly) at the bottom of her braid when he walks behind her, and now his hand still moves, still caresses, as if her hair, dry and dead as it is, is still in his grip. Rubbing, measuring, determining its value. When she sucks in oxygen through her teeth, her bottom lip goes with it and she knows her cheeks and forehead grow hot.
"I was never one for short hair." she replies but he is already turning away from her and there is no doubt that he expects her to follow him, and her voice is left unanswered, hanging in the space between them.
The floor in the foyer consists of a dull white tile with dark scuffing marks that will never disappear no matter how many buckets of bleach and damp chalk sponges taken to them. Someone else has lived here before her husband, perhaps a young family with little children with cherubic grins and strawberries between their fingers or an old American widow, cursing the socialist Krauts with her last stale breath.
There is a bench as she looks to her left and a framed mirror over that bench. Does Hans Landa straighten his hat and smooth the buttons of his coat in this mirror before he takes a brisk morning walk when the air is still damp and his limbs are still tingling as his blood revives them? Or does he take leisurely evening strolls with his belly full of a warm supper, carrying a book that preaches the ideals of a man that came before him? She does not know if her husband enjoys walking for pleasure like she does. She assesses her own reflection, eyes wide and mouth pinched and she notes the bench has a twin on the opposite side of the rectangular room and beside it, a coat stand.
The door a few steps ahead of her creaks and Hans is holding it open as he walks through it. He is holding it open for her but does not cue her for the gesture. When he feels her palm take the door he lets go, his fingers are much wider then hers, thick in their margins and without freckles or raised tissue. His finger nails are short and rounded like she remembers. He turns to walk left and her thighs are tight as she tries to tread lightly and inconspicuously behind him but the floors in this room are cherry wood and though they gleam they are not new and the panels creak and snap with certain steps they both make.
This new room is spacious. There is a bay window to the left, the grand structure of glass that she could see on the outside of the house. Following the left wall there is a fireplace, another large three part window with a cushioned seat. On the right there is a bookshelf and a few vases. The room has beige walls and she believes that this house must have been gifted to Hans with the furnishings included. Though she has never been completely certain just what kind of man Hans Landa is, she knows that the floral pottery that is placed strategically between the trivial paperbacks and dictionaries on this book shelf to be a womans touch. Possibly the decorative choice of the Kraut hating widow or the mother of the beautiful, sticky, American children.
There are two sets of matching, comfortable looking chairs with arm rests on either side of the large windows and two darker chesterfields in the center of the room spaced together in an 'L' shape closest to the fireplace. She does know that Hans enjoys the heat from a fireplace as opposed to a furnace. He told her that the second time she met him, when she was nineteen.
He does not speak to her as her eyes sweep along the room. He takes his time walking to the opposite end where there is another door, without a crystal knob like that of the foyer but with a curved metal handle. He is giving her time to take in every detail, as if she will be needing it and the thought irritates her. She follows his foot steps and her hand reaches out to graze the decently sized glass table behind the chesterfields. It is raised high on clawed feet and has six chairs around it, one at each end and two on either side. There is nothing on the table, just the light from the second large window, the one with the cushioned seat. This is the table that the widow or the young mother would serve important guests at for a fine dinner party or buffet brunch. She takes a deep breath, her own mother had possessed such a table. Her mother had possessed many things that were of importance.
Again Hans is holding open another door and again he does not look towards her, he looks forward into the next room. A kitchen, most probably. She feels a knot seed in her stomach. It does not fertilize and mature yet, but it is there, encased safely in its pod. Seedlings begin their lives in opaque pods that nourish the seedling until it is planted in fertile soil. She has studied Botany at University.
She wishes to end their marriage, she shouldn't care if he acknowledges her or not. She should not. She does not. She will not. But the pod bounces in her stomach and threatens her convictions.
She is right about the next room being a kitchen. But she is much more interested in the sliding glass doors straight ahead from the doorway behind the modestly round wood break feast table and she abandons her careful treading and unlocks the sliding door and pushes it open with no difficulty. She steps out onto the light wood floors and this time her back is to him and she cannot help but feel more at ease. She cannot see his movements and machinations and while this should cause her to feel trepidation (this does), she is delirious with recognition of the familiar.
The deck she stands on is roofed and well insulated for she does not feel as chilly as she did when she stood outside on stone steps and there are more windows that allow her to see the garden below. There are two iron benches and a small pond in the garden. She cannot see if the pond is home to fish, it is too far away but fish are not what interests her. Plants are what interests her, and there are plenty of them hanging from baskets supported by wire secured in the sunken beams of the ceiling and the daylight that splashes from the windows make the dew on the green stems and leaves and the light and dark colored petals look like they are sparkling.
Another chuckle grazes her shoulder and she feels his hot but dry hand push at her hip. His thumb is low enough to press into her tail bone.
"There is more." he smiles, his teeth small and and white. He waves his hand forward, nodding his head to her right. His hair is auburn indoors but shines like wheat in the fresh sunlight that envelopes them now and her eyes fall on the smattering of carefully trimmed gray that has started at his temples but goes no further. He did not have this fine, gray hair when they married. She was twenty-two then.
He walks her forward. There are two sets of stairs. One is of four that ascends and leads to another portion of the covered deck, the same windows and hanging plants but there is furniture. A rocking chair and a chesterfield with a blanket. There is a small table before the chesterfield and a single book is set on it. She pauses and bends forward to read the title.
The gold cursive on the forest green cover of the book reads An American Tragedy and a laugh catches and pushes past her dry throat, there is no moisture to swallow it. (When did she last have water?) She means that laugh to be bitter in emotion but it sounds like true amusement, like genuine hilarity. It sounds friendly and she does not wish to be friendly. She has no knowledge of this novels ideas, characters or moral dilemmas but it is the title itself that has her reeling. He does not acknowledge her reaction, merely gazes at her with his brows hitched but she does not try to explain herself. He already knows why she laughed like she did and his silence causes her to second guess herself.
He beckons her closer and she complies, following his line of vision. "That staircase leads to the garden terrace." he explains. He turns his face then, watching her with a quirk to his mouth. He is awaiting her approval and for a moment she considers joining his charade and exclaiming "Oh dearest, it is wonderful! The grass is so green and groomed and the benches are so picturesque. The bird feeders in the willow trees are an especially nice touch." And while she truly does enjoy the sight of birds and has not awoken to the sound of them singing in years, she will not say this.
Instead she nods without a word but his half smile and shining eyes do not falter however they do not advance either. She wants to turn to him and hit him. She wants to scratch her nails along his clean shaved cheek, curl her fingers on the edge of his pointed chin and twist. She wants to align her thumbs into the base of his throat, in the place that is half hidden by the crisp collar of his creme oxford and press down. And then while cutting off his oxygen she would demand he call out his damn masquerade and give her what she wanted and what she wanted was a divorce, not a beautiful garden on this breath taking island with its crisp air and shining sunlight.
She blinks rapidly and turns away from him, descending the four stepped stair case. She feels like a little girl by the overwhelming urge to kick her feet when her desires are not attended to and she allows her steps to fall hard on the stairs. It isn't much but it assuages her for the time being. Her thoughts shock her and her hand grips the banister so tightly it creaks but this is an old house. She is not a violent person and she surprises herself. She hasn't surprised herself since 1943.
When she is first to step back into the kitchen she supposes she is now leading her own 'tour'. She turns to her left and briefly assesses the hot stove and cooler, the double sinks and white cabinets that are ceiling high. There are two doors to her right, both of which she, not he, opens. The first is a storage cupboard, the second is a cellar. She reaches up and pulls the cheap chain cord and the uncovered bulb hums to life, illuminating the first half of the staircase. She does not walk down the steps of the cellar. She does not like closed spaces and she does not like the dark.
She can practically feel his smile as he stands behind her. His smile is more than likely one of triumph, for he has succeeded in turning her fluster into anger which she predictably showcases by hurrying through the rest of the house and handling its contents as if they were her own and not solely his. She pulls the chain again and the light ceases and she is turning back and closing the door behind her. Her loafers make soft padding shuffles with each of her steps and his shoes click steadily behind her. He advances one step for her every two.
She is pushing open the second swinging door that exits the kitchen and to the immediate left is a lavatory. She hovers in the door jam and her eyes catch the porcelain sink and mirror, the raised bath tub matches the white modesty curtain held up by a horse shoe shaped slide in the ceiling. There is a small stain glass window. Quickly though, she veers from stepping into such a small confinement and her back brushes her husbands chest. She ducks her head, her hand comes up to cover her mouth. Her throat is dry and her nose has leaked clear and thick since her transportation from Berlin. She coughs and starts to hurry down the corridor. She can see the door to the foyer again, left halfway ajar by herself.
Her hand is encased by flat, smooth flesh and she stops in her tracks. She is not pulled back, there is no jerking of her arm. The touch itself is enough to pivot her body and turn it towards Hans.
"Ah ah, you are forgetting the master bedroom." he purrs. She raises her eyebrows, as if to say, "Did I?" He puts no pressure on her hand to tug her forward but releases it as he steps back and gestures her forward, his now free hand making a sweeping gesture, blunt fingertips directing her to the door on her right. He is saying please, after you madam, and he is mocking her hurried demeanor.
He is watching her unfold before him and betray her mantra of self control and she has been in the house for nay under ten minutes.
The woman he married would have combed her ruffled feathers, squawked her dislike for him.
This woman is different, she has to be different. Or else she will never survive Hans Landa.
The master bedroom is spacious enough. It has a closed off entrance, creating a blind spot on her right side until she walks further enough to escape the panels of wall and only then is the entire bedroom revealed. This alone unnerves her. This would be the bedroom that her husband sleeps in, a bedroom with structural advantages. Around the corner of that wall is a bookshelf that lines the other side of the blind spot. There is a small desk beside the bookshelf, the size one would use for personal correspondence. Behind her, further towards the wall with the window (again with a cushioned seat) is a large enough bed with an iron frame.
It is not a four poster monstrosity like the house in Berlin, but it is theoretically spacious enough for two people to sleep comfortably, husband and wife with arms wrapped around each other and knees aligned with the backs of the others thighs, pressing hotly. There is no adorning cushions or beaded throws decorating the bed, just a simple coverlet pulled over the swell of two pillows and tucked in tightly and precisely at the sides. A trunk at the foot of the bed she assumes holds extra linens and thicker blankets for the winter months. There is little frivolity in this room but she eyes the bed, a luxury she has not enjoyed this past week.
She turns around and he has stayed in the doorway with his hands in his pockets. She meets his eyes steadily and he, not she, is the first to break the contact. He bows his head, his lashes long (and they are blond and can rarely be seen but they can be felt) and grazing his slight cheek bones and he removes his left hand smoothly from his pocket and gestures again for her to continue out of the bedroom and down the corridor.
It is then that she chokes and makes a small sound and watches in embarrassment as his mouth curves. This time she is paying attention to his hand gestures, because this time she is not envisioning herself asphyxiating the man or similar.
On the fourth finger of his sweeping left hand is a gold ring. A gold band. A gold wedding band.
He wore his wedding ring for one day, and that one day if her memory serves, was the day that she married him and he married her.
Son of a bitch.
She forces herself not to play directly into his ploy and does not say a word regarding his no doubt unfamiliar accessory. A thought strikes her as she passes him in the doorway and begins to walk back down the corridor, this time much more calmly, her gaze focused on the foyer door. Did he wear the same wedding band that she put on his finger with barely steady fingertips in January of '38? Probably not. His departure to this island was a hasty one and she knows this to be true. It could be the band of the man who used to live in this house, maybe the husband to the young wife and the father of the beautiful cherubic children or the husband of the old hag..widow..whatever she was.
She shakes her head slightly, for she knows her reasoning to be unlikely. These fabricated people whom she has fantasized to have once lived in this non-fabricated but in fact very tangible house are just that, fantasy. She is no different from when she was nineteen in many ways, her wild imagination being the forerunner.
They are back to where they started at the front of the house by the foyer. To her right is now the family and dining room and to her left is a study or office. She does not go inside the study or office, she is tired of touring this house already and she already saw the large desk and full book shelves as she walked past. She turns to face her husband and has her address to him prepared but catches sight of another door and looks thrown off. It is a door directly across from the foyer and she is embarrassed to admit that she did not notice it before.
"Up there are two more bedrooms. But they are not in use. It would be pointless to air them when there is only two people here." he says with a knowing laugh, chastising even.
There is no question that they are to sleep in the same bed then, in the strategical master bedroom.
Silly girl. Such a silly, stupid girl.
She is struggling for an answer, for a refusal but her belly growls loud enough for both to hear.
"I couldn't agree more. I am quite peckish myself and I promised to fatten you up, didn't I?" he teases her and her face is hot once more.
They sit at the modest round table in the kitchen and she thankfully sips the cold water and slowly eats the cold chicken sandwich he has provided for her. She hasn't had real bread in months and she wonders as she digests if her stomach will take kindly to it or not.
"I am sorry to provide you with such culinary ennui, but I am a man used to restaurants." he chuckles and chews his own sandwich heartily but his eyes remain thoughtful. Deducting.
She raises her head and stares at him hard then, her brow furrowing.
"I haven't exactly been dining at The Ritz, Hans. Your culinary 'boredom' will suffice." her tone is icy and annoyed. He knows damn well that she has been starving for six months.
It would be like him to laugh, at least so she thinks. That is what he has done in the past when she could no longer be a silent additive to his every musing and provided him with a quick, nerve sore response.
But he does not laugh, he continues to chew with his hand posed around his water glass and his gaze does not stray. He does not speak, so she does.
Her heart is hammering. She hasn't envisioned this conversation to be happening with both of them sharing a table, taking a fresh and delicious meal. Preferably a few stilted, to the point letters at the very lest. Actually, she hasn't envisioned any sort of conversation happening between them at all. She has envisioned Herr Goeren sending word to her that her trans-Atlantic divorce documents are signed by Oberst Hans Landa and then she would sell her gold wedding band for the highest price (hopefully more than double franks) and leave Germany.
Well, she has already left Germany now hasn't she?
"I do not wish to impose on you any longer then necessary Hans, I only wish to collect the divorce papers." she says firmly. Her voice does not waver once and her mouth quirks.
His brows knot together but his eyes are still dancing with mirth. He swallows once, twice, and then brings his water glass to his lips. He drains it in three long sips and his eyes remain open. He sets the glass down with a light thud on the wood table and she watches as his throat moves and works the sustenance through.
"Why would you ever believe yourself to be imposing on me, mein liebe?" his voice is amused and his hands rest on the table. He is deftly rubbing his thumb over his fingers again and she swallows. The same hand that tugged on her hair earlier.
She takes the chance to look away from his hands, from that hand by sipping her water. But her glass is empty, she drained the fluid from it on her last sip and she sets it down, more then flustered now. She squirms in her seat and crosses her legs under the table, facing her body towards him. He has mirrored her same position at the same time she has posed herself in it and she finds herself watching his trouser clad knee. His trousers are chocolate brown and it is a flattering shade for a man of his coloring.
She reaches up and fiddles with the end of her braid, the long coil danging over her shoulder and grazing the top of her clothed breast.
"As I said, I only wish for the divorce papers. P-" she stops. She was going to say 'please' but reconsiders a moment too late. She shuts her mouth and her tongue swipes over her teeth.
The laughter that comes forth from his diaphragm is so sudden and startling that she physically jumps in her seat and her crossed knee hits the underside of the table. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut in mirth and every one of his teeth are exposed by his wide mouthed expression. She could see his tonsils if she dared lean forward.
When he straightens, his chin once again faces forward and the fine tendons in his throat no longer shaking with effort and his expression is decidedly sober.
Hers is livid. She opens her mouth, the high sound of anger bubbling in her throat-
His voice is hot steel as he interrupts her before she even begins. "If you truly believe that I intend to divorce you, the remainder of our marriage is going to be very bleak indeed."
Her nostrils flare. She tilts her head in incredulity and opens her mouth again-
His hand is quick as it reaches forward and covers hers, fingers closing over her wrist. Hard. The hot air leaves her as she strains to pull her body away but her wrist is pinned to the table and her struggling is nearing on comical.
"This is a new life for you and I, mein liebe. I am a war hero and you are the wife of a war hero. We are Americans now." his tone is jovial, excited even. His eyes remain narrowed.
She does not respond and he does not expect her to for he stands from his seat and takes her empty dishes. She is hesitant to move her wrist from the table even though his hand has since softened and released her. He places the dishes and the sink and she is surveying the red indents on either side of her joint. Her fingertips are white from where they gripped the wood as he gripped her.
"Might I interest you in a walk around the block? Our neighbors have been asking after you." He winks then and rubs his hands together and she wishes to be sick.
She stands from her seat, holding the table as she does and carefully pushes in her chair.
She follows him out of the kitchen, down the corridor and to the foyer.
It is enough time to blink the tears out of her eyes before she braves the neighborhood.
…...
Thanks so much for those who reviewed and those who didn't but still read etc. It makes me smile. :)
Special shout out to CaliforniaStop.
