Dirk wandered by the lake edge, hoping Hannelore might happen along. Sharpening the horizon to knife-edge, a moon was rising in a sky tinted Siberian iris, making of the water of Obersee a black restlessness.
The world was a set of alternations, resistance and persistence, writ up in lake and the distant Alpine peaks of eastern Switzerland. In fact, the world was no easier to understand than Bach.
It seemed that the world was no more wonderful than Bach.
It was no less wonderful, either.
Magnificent imperturbability, exactly sized, one to the other.
What did that mean about Bach, about the world?
21.
He lay down with music in his mind, but not many thoughts about it. If there were words with which to consider music, he didn’t know them. He thought of Felix bending over the ’cello and coaxing from it such testimonies of longing. Or perhaps there was no such thing as meaning to be found in those lines—not aspiration, not any human feeling. Perhaps the suites were just congeries of certain notes shaped by different keys and modalities. Nothing more than that.
But how could nothing masquerade as longing?
Dirk knew a little about longing. The man four beds down from him was a lesson in carnal appetite, and the woman who came to his bed with him answered it, like another instrument. She was a seamstress from Meersburg, and she showed up every fourth or fifth night. Despite all the other men in the room, who like Dirk turned their backs to the couple in the farthest bed, the junior plowman and the seamstress conducted their exertions with no sentimental comment but a lot of commitment to the cause. She fled before dawn. No one ever mentioned her existence to the field hand, but when he left to see her to the back gate of the estate, the others in the dormitory graded the performance and made snickery character assault.
By this Dirk knew that, should Hannelore ever indicate interest, he couldn’t bring her to his own bed.
This week Dirk had been set to fastening loose roof tiles on the barns before the winds of winter could fling them away. There were only so many tiles that needed tending. When he’d completed his task, he avoided the overseer’s office, to which he usually reported, and went skulking about the kitchen yard. He hoped to find Hannelore at a task, and there she was, shelling beans.
“The idiot from upslope,” she commented. “What do you want?”
He wanted her to lower her dress off her shoulders and lift it above her knees so it was only a bolster of fabric around her middle; he wanted to look at her front and back and all around, and to stroke her up and down. “Nothing,” he said.
“Good, because nothing is what you are going to get.” She kept to her work, though Dirk noticed that she slowed down a little. “Where are you going when this is over?”
“When what is over?”
“The family doesn’t live here in ?berlingen the year round. The winds off the lake are too cold. They do have chambers in Meersburg, but primarily they root themselves in Munich. Will they take you with them?”
“I haven’t thought to ask.”
“Well, don’t. Why are you looking at me like that, squinty?”
“You are a pleasure to look at.”
She scowled more fiercely than ever. “I’ve both my eyes on the miller’s son. Don’t get notions. I find you scrappy and impertinent.”
“Will you come walking with me?”
“And leave the beans to shell themselves?”
“If I help you it will go faster, and then we can walk.”
“I don’t want a stroll, but I’m tired of doing these beans. And this is my last chore before a break.” She shifted on the bench, which Dirk took as an invitation to join her. He learned quickly. They worked in tandem like a four-armed automaton. She smelled of sweat and late strawberries, sweet to the point of stinging.
Returning from the kitchen where she’d delivered the shelled beans and discarded her apron, she shrugged at him and scratched her hip and pointed a thumb out the kitchen-yard gate. They left and walked together in the dozy mid-afternoon heat. All the guests and the family were napping or otherwise being quiet. A few children ran about on the lawns with a puppy, but they paid no mind to the servants, and Dirk and Hannelore returned the favor.
Dirk tried to put his hand in Hannelore’s, but she would have none of it. “So public here on the road, anyone could see, and tell the miller’s son.” She snorted.
So at the abandoned chapel Dirk said, “Wait,” and he got the key from its hiding place and opened up the door. He closed it behind him but didn’t lock it, for he didn’t want her to feel she was being imprisoned against her will. “This is private enough,” he said.
“No one comes here.” She sniffed at the wood rot and the mold and perhaps the ornamentation. “Who would?”
He put his hands on her shoulders. “My name is Dirk.”
“Of course I know that, I asked. Dirk Dummkopf, I know all about it.”
“I’m not slow.”
“Well, you’re not hasty,” she replied, and took one of his hands off her shoulder and put it against her bosom. He marveled at the size of her breast, at the feeling of mobility of cloth riding over the skin riding over firm yet tender mass. Then she sighed and undid the top two ties of her shift. “Your hand belongs inside the clothing. I see you’ve had no experience.”
“I’ve watched you for a month now.”
“And you haven’t noticed I have another one of those on the other side? Pity about the gruesome eye. This is like teaching children how to roll on their stockings.” She guided his other hand. He wasn’t sure if he should be tender or testing, but he so loved his hand upon the curves—they were exactly the right size for a man’s hands. She put her own hands on her hips and whistled while he closed his eye and let his palms float like swan’s down upon the waters. The sides of his thumbs brushed against her nipples, which went hard. He wasn’t sure this was welcoming to her and he withdrew his hands.
“Are you worried about consequences? I’ve been down to the dock before, you know; I’m readied.” Her voice was still hard but her words seemed chosen by kindness. He thought he knew what she meant. “Are you going to kiss me?”
He kissed below her ear, on the edge of her chin; he kissed her nose, the knuckles on her clenched hands, which now were nearly tucked inside of her elbows. She seemed open and closed at the same time. He was confused, but he expected this is what was meant to happen.
“You fool, kiss my mouth,” she said. He didn’t want to approach that bitter mouth. He dove toward her neck and put his arms around her waist, but that seemed to lead nowhere particularly.
“You’re abashed by the open space in front of the old altar,” she said at last. “I suppose I can understand. Come, we’ll climb to where the choristers used to sing. We can disrobe there and lie down.”
She found the door to the choir loft and led him by the hand. His heart was racing. The stair-hall was dark, the steps dotted with mouse turds. The thick dust made him sneeze.
In the loft she spread out some moth-eaten vestments on a pew and sat down. She lowered her blouse just as he had hoped she would. She took off her wooden shoes; her bare, callused feet looked like swedes. Hannelore’s face seemed bright and sad in the gloom. “Well, come on, I have just so long,” she said, and lay back upon the pew with an arm over her eyes.