The Road and the Rain by Wolfgang Dios (Excerpts) by pierre_ouellet

THE ROAD AND THE RAIN v

sr/oLFGANG

(

srussl) ntos

'Y DEDICATION For my brothers and sisters, who have made this journey with me: Rudolf Stussi, Felix Stussi, Christine Stussi (Passer), Pam Dios, Kim Dios

Andwalkthe groundwhere only dreamers d0... A Midsummer Night's Dream, Shakespeare

Cover photograph: Wedding Day at the Gubel Estate, October )7,t944 inJona, Schwyz. From left to right: Anita Bebie (holding floral bouquet) and her two bridesmaids, sisters Ilse (the tallest) and Olga ('Mutz', the eldest).

Unknown photographer.

THE FOEHN (TheSouthWind)

To stay up long in a lonely and inor.v! night,

while the flames go too high in the

fireplace; and one knows it is the sourh wind. and the lights go out, and the fire is put out, all over the village So a son comes down with a candlelight,

and stays with you, to watch in silence the wildness and beauty of this night.

That nothing happens, please not to the sleeping children in this house: nor to *r"rri""ar *Jih. uill"n. nor ro anybody else,

please

By Irma Anita Bebie Stussi/ Dios

v CONTENTS

prologue

BOOKONE LETIING GO THE STOCK D(CHANGE

BOOKTWO THE MORMNG GHOST SOUPAND CRACKERS LIKE SNOIOTFLAKES INTHE NIGFil THEREISAROSE FLOATING IN A CLOUD OF BLOOMING TREES THE ROAD TO SPAIN OLD LIVES IN OLD ROOMS DARK CORRIDORS OF THE NIGHT

ADREAMOFFLIGHT

iNTHETIMEOFE)(ILE BOOKTHREE !7E COULD HAVE A LEMONADE RED EARTH AND BLACK STORMS KEEPING THINGS HIDDEN THEPASSING SKY

BLMNGTHEBUICK THlrf GREAIAND qUARRXLSOME

BEAST

TOO BIG,TOO LOUD,TOO FASTAND TOO MUCHTROUBLE

SUMMERTIME, SUMMERTIME

BOOKFOUR MANNEDORF

DREAMS ARE THE SUBTLE HARBINGERS/ THE GUIDING ANGELS OF EXISTENCE LIKE INSECTS ON FLOTTERS IN THE GREY ZONE (KEEP YOUR HEAD DO]JrN)

CHOOSINGMOMENTS END OFTHENIGFilMUSIC

THEGREYPATH

BOOKFruE SEPARATE GEOGRAPHIES ANITA'S CHILDREN

INTERLUDE

AI]TERI\HIH SO IT GOES THELOSTSISTER

REVELATIONS OVER COLD TEA AMUSEYOURSELF

VIENNA

BLACK \)NNGS, BLACK BEAK, BLACK FEAIHERS ALL ROADS LEAD TO THE HUTLI

ITEDDING DRESS REALLY GOOD REASONS FOR LEAVING OTTAITA

BABABARAN DREAMSONG

BOOKSIX

v TRANSITIONS

ADAMANDE\IE THE HOUSE ON BALFOURSTREET FINE\TINES MAKE FOR FABULOUS DREAMS REALITY IS IN THE DETAILS THAI MOST HOPEFUL OF ALL GESTURES JARFULL OF!/ASPS YOU CAN M\ERKNOIT THE GATES ARE CLOSING APILGRIMAGE THE HIDDEN GEOMETRY OF EXPERIENCE AIN'T NOTHIN' XTRONG \)TITH MONDAY TFIA T TUESDAY

MORNIN'CAN'T FIx MIRAGES OF THE NIGHT

epilogue THESEARETHE GESTURES OF OLD MEN THE RESURRECTION OF ZOTI

Y ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE

Switzerland, ry89 Itwas pouringrain. TheAlpswereblack, the roads slick and myfatherdrove with the abandon of forgedulness, of someone who has forgotten he is old yet mired in it, hoping that the next gray-curtained comerwould lead somewhere beyond the present, beyond now. He drove quickly, carelessly along the sinuous, curving roads, clouds rolling past and shrubbery erupting from the mountainside, then invisibly veiled in dark, like a Spanish bride. He was careless, this father of mine, brilliant with adventure, challenging the encroaching darkness. Yet he was a cautious man, always fitting the umbrella in its stand carefr.rlly, appreciative and unbending, immeasurably grateftrl for lifet small blessings. He habitually rose at seven, a pale hour yet he seemed unfazed, unburdened by the habits of a lifetime, proceeding one day after another, uncomplaining. He setded. It had seemed enough at the time, thouglr it had not altogether been his choice, marrying the Brazilian-raised Dorly after my mother divorced him when I was six, and to whom he fled for emotional sanctuary. That was his great flaw, this acceptance of life as it came, his strange adaptability that was both rigid and malleable, having abandoned the dreams thatlurched unbidden in his soul. On that particular journey, through narow valleys between high cliffs and plunging, engorged waterfalls, he was aged, my father, having just tumed 7o.l glanced at him furtively, a moment stolen yet forever remembered, the sffong hard thrust ofhis jaw, the narrow and perfecdy straight nose as ifborrowed from atextbookon the Greek Gods, the recedinghairline above aprominentforehead urd the distracted kindness in his eyes. It was a kindness that has followed me all my li[e, as many girlfriends would say to me: 'but you're so nice' and leave me for someone more adventurous. His face, then, was mine, as was his history. Now there was only us, and the road and the rain. He drove with a reckless abandon I had never known him to possess, as if the lines ofhis life those con-

necting him to his own past - had Ieft him carelessly adrift. Passing a casde in the shadowy, sluouded darkness on a black hill, our car was buffeted by sudden gusts ofwind, past the thundering monstrosities of container ffucks, sides emblazonedwith commercial messages rendered indecipherable by the driving rain. Finally we arrived at the lake, tires squelching, the wipers now silent, water cascading across the windshield and down the shuttered windows of the house. S(hich was dark, emulating the outside. Yet one could see the broad expanse of the lake, patterned like pointillism, gray dots that flew and scattered and disappeared yet remained imprinted on the retina.

\r7 PROLOGIJ-E g

His face close to mine, Father exhaled loudly, puffing his cheeks, uncertain what to do with me, my presence, his disassociated song. This was the only road to my father and to myself, and to the history that had brought us here.

Those moments had a silent, unobtrusive intimacy I would not recognize until much later. This house, which he dearly loved and often visited, was a refuge for him, away from where he lived with Dorly in Zurich, away from relatives

and her importuning friends where he could, perhaps more than anywhere else, be himself. It was a modest yet immaculately kept attached bungalow on a steep hill above the small village of Magadino, adjacent to Lago Maggiore, whose shores usually glittered with light. It was almost direcdy across the lake from the city of Locarno. Indeed, the Locamo ferry departed from a dock at the base of the hill. 'Wewere notfarfrom the Italianborder. There were palm ffees and even apitted statue of a nymph on the front lawn. Often,loud freight trains screeched and rumbled past just behind the house on a set of tracks hidden behind a small stone wall overflowing with hydrangeas in mauve and violet and blues, as if to silence the noise that bauered the night, all night, at odd intervals, vanishing almost as quicldy

it arose, suggesting unknowable distances and mysterious destinations.

That night we were alone together. He sat across from me, the windows behind him shut against the storm, pouring out a glass ofwine, perfecdy measured. A great wine, a Margaux. He poured neither too little nor too much, yet not really enough and I resented his instinctive parsimony even as I drank, imagining myselfa hundred, no, several thousand miles away in Canada, where I lived. Iwas 43, an enteftafulment ioumalist for magazines, doing critical reviews and interviews, covering theaffe, rock music and cinema I remember that night largely because I had somehow managed to disinter fragments of his personal life. He belonged to a generation which spoke of itself only on the rarest of occasions, a generation partially forged in war and conflict that preferred to live privately, quiedy, masters of a stoic resilience that did not bear, nor require, self-examination. Mostly, he spoke of his brief military career as a cavalry officer during l0ilorld !flar II, patrolling the border of Switzerland in theJura morurtains adjacent to France. Nostalgically, he reminisced of those compatriots with whom he had remained in touch, a loose assemblage offriends that often seemed more than family, and whom ultimately had helped define his life. There were many memorable remnants. A beautifi.rlly forged, intricately embossed dress saber of blue steel that hung over the fireplace of his house in Ztxtch.Orthe small, butnonetheless intimidating, fi.rllyfunctional cannon squat' ting i, his garage. An array of metal toy military vehicles carefully ordered on basement shelves which had given my brother Rudy and I such delight as children, though we were supposed to admire, not play, with them. Our conversation had lapsed into a comfortable silence. I briefly placed a hand on his shoulder, an acknowledgement of our bond, yet tempering my display of emotion against his natural reticence, a physical contact that resonated precisely because ofits rarity.

BOOK ONE

LETTINGGO

India,fi98 Olga approached the funeral pyre and gazed into the faces of her tvo brothers and sister, all still. All silent. Her dress made a rushing noise like an invisible wind. Herheadwas filledwithvoices, theirs, though they couldno longer speak, neither in anger nor in sorrow. There was a sudden and intense blast ofheat across her face that dried her tears. She would notwatch. She closed her eyes.

Three dayslnter

Olga was a thin, willowy 1o-year old child with delicate features and pale skin, dark brown hair cropped close to her head, a terse acknowledgement of the ever' present heat, though she often dreamt of long tresses ruffied by the wind. Already servants were packing her things. Far beneath, she could see her father sitting in the garden. Strange to see him so still and motionless. She reached out her hand, as if to touch him. She was close to tears. Again. !7ould there be no end to this, the crying, the sadness that welled in her throat. A servant looked on, waving a palm frond above Olga's head to keep her cool. Olga absendy raised her hand. The servant departed. Grief took such a different shape in India. Death was even a different colour, white, not black - an illumination, not an emptiness. This had been a sulruner

of mortality throughout Bombay, her siblings only a few victims among the many. Of the Cholera epidemic that had decimated the city. Corpses lay piled along the stagnant river. The servant returned. "Miss? Miss. It's time. Your father, he. .." "I know In the garden."

"l7aiting for you." "Yes."

On the way down the polished wooden stairs, she slowed but did not look into the now-empty room that had been shared by her two elder brothers, rzyear old Fritz and fl-year old Basil. AII *ree of them, the eldest, had been onlv I y."r h ,g., forming a natural triumvirate. Pauline, the sister, had been barely "prrt three when she perished, a late child, and Olga somew'hat ambivalent 10

v BOOK

ONE

towards her, miredinavaguely jealous admirationforherolderbrothers. Yetshe remembered her sister's gende, trusting touch on her arms. Maria, their mother, had died of tuberculosis while attempting to care for her stricken children. She had been cremated and laid to rest in the British expaffiate cemeteryabove the city, an ostentatiouslylushgardenwithfaux-Greek statuary and intricateh carved headstones. Where her brothers and sister would

also be interred.

Olga's fatheq Friedrich, was one of the leading textile merchants in Bombay for the Bridsh East India Company, a formidable businessman, strict but with a deep and abiding love for his family. And now, Olga knew, he needed her. -Avagrantbieeze swept the halls, awhispered soughing. The unbearablyhot

sun struck the muslin curtained windows with a solid weight, banishing all shadows so necessary for perspective and memory.

Herfathersatin solitarysilence on the stone gardenbench, encasedbythe sunlike a fly in amber, rigid, unmoving. Only his eyes moved, sliding despon{endy and resfrng on her without, his daughter felq seeing her, then stumbling offinto some mysterious, far distance thatshe tried to imagine and tied to imagineherpresence

in,butcouldn'r Itwasbeyondher. Shewashere,now,barelyadecade old, clutdring to what remained ofher childhood. The courtyard was empty of moumers. Her father regarded her, and smiled. She gathered the folds of her skirt

her fist, the light tndian cotton with its curls and whorls and block'printed pattern. Olga ran to him, burying her head ir,lrit lrp, his moustache tickling her forehead. "\X/ell," her father said. "Well..." He stroked her hair, his rough fingers so ttlt's now unlike the smooth strokes of her mother endlessly brushing her hair. justyou and I."

Olga remembered her mother sitting on her bed, speaking of her own first days inlndia. Born and raised in Switzerland, Maria Heusi had met Friedrich

*rough family friends several months prior to his joumey to lndia. Her family was also involved in the textile industry, and he had come to ask their advice regarding the responsibilities with which he would soon be confronted, advice which was readily and generously proferred. For the Heusi's part, they were quite taken by this ambitious young man, none more than ivtaria. He was a Hurst (the Munich branch of the subsequently notorious English Hearss ) and had briefly and successfully worked in the textile industry in Antruerp until family connections made himaware ofthe oppornrnity in Indd. Though ybung, not only had he become a skilled businessman but was fluent in both Geiman and gnglish, since his family had maintained their strong English familial ties. Maria was also something of a linguist. They had this and apparendy so much else in common, despite the ffierence in their ages. She was barely twenty. He was thirty-one. So it was natural that they would gravitate towards one another. He proposed before retuming briefly to MunicJr. He did not want an answer. Not then. But he would visit again on his way to lndia. Maria knew there would be no opposition from her family.

-, 12

BOOK ONE

iltg.,

And, to be frank, she was eager to leave the confines of the small Muhlehorn on the shores of the deep and darkWallensee, embraced on two sides by precipitous mountain ranges, and sealed offfrom so much. Now the hopeful magic of this voyage into the unknown. However, in accordance with his wishes, she did not immediately give him her answer. Merely a swift, fleeting kiss, but her eyes said it all. For their part, Friedrich's own relations were delighted at this fornritous conjunction of powerfrrl industrial families. Their son was stolid and steadfast but hadpreviouslyshownlitde inclination towards assuming theburdens of afamily.

october

zf , fi85

They were married in Swieerland but there was no time for a honeyrnoon. Friedrich's employers were impatient for him to assume his duties. There was a shortage ofpromising young menwith abackground in textiles, particularly from such a prominent family as the Hursts, and those willing to relocate to a distant conti-

nent. Two months later, the Hursts arrived at their new home in Bombay during the midst of the rainy season. Rain fell ceaselessly on the roof, rain as if it would never end. Nothing could be seen beyond that grey veil. Yet Maria's heart rose with an ine4pressible, incandescent joy. A pale moon shone diffrse through the jacaranda trees, a distant murmur from natives gathered solemnly around cook' ing fires, humidity heavy in the air. On that first night, Mariawondered what her children's children would think of her, standing now in the rain, her new husband emerging from the darkness, smiling, touching her elbow, her heart calm, her gaze placid, o.pectant yet not asking for anything, not precisely. Merely hrppy to be there, folded into his embrace, this folding into another and, ultimately, oneself. This happiness. Mercifully, she did not know that eleven years later, she would die there.

When Cholerafirstlaid its dusty cloak over the city, Friedrichhad begged Maria to leave, to retum to Europe with their children, but she had laughed and resisted. There hadbeen arguments in thenight, flercewords amongthewhapping ofthe wooden blades of the ceiling fans that punctuated what should have been a luxurious abandonment of the senses to the season, but instead was fiery and britde and hard with contentious words. So many dead in the narrow streets, the funeral pyres lit the night sky in a swirl of smoke and aperfecdyawful smell. Maria, withhergreat delicacy ofhands and nose and face, was adamant, steadfast in her refusal, resolved not to face a long journey back to Europe without Friedrich. She would make her stand there with her children and husband and their many friends. Really. Ti.ust me, she said to Friedrich, gendy touching his worried, greying face In the end, she did not perish from Cholera which, for a remarkably long time, seemed to leave them alone, contained within the dusry lower levels of the city. It was, unexpectedly, tuberculosis. For the first time, Maria grew angry and strangely still, but oniy because she

OliE

was secredy terrified. Any noise now, any creaking ofthe wooden floorboards

BOOK

the slam of a shutter against awindow, even the whisper of drapes in the hot, sweltering dry wind, made her skin crawl. At first she adamantly refused to leave the house for the hospital and when, at last, Friederich ultimately persuaded her, itwas too late. Then Basil became ill, followed by Pauline and, finally the eldest, Fritz. Only Olga and Friederich remained untouched. Her father had immediately sought passage for olga on a boat, any boat, headingto safety, andwas able to bookone ofthe fewpassengercabins on acommercial steamer embarking for Genoa. The mouming period for her brothers and sisters, due to the intense heat, lasted only two days. Cooked dishes appeared as if by magic on the vera:rda, left by acquainances from the English compound. Visiting cards gathered dust in a bowl on the hallway table. Too late, Friedrich realized Olga's sister and brothers had never been photographed. Following the deaths ofher siblings, Friedrich arranged a session at the studio of a photographer who specialized in portraits for the British aristocracy. He was not inexpensive. A middle-aged, pordy and rather impatient man with an explosion ofunrulygreyhairand fatbutagile fingers. The photographer carefully posed Olga sitting rigidly on an ornate gilded wooden throne which dwarfed her diminutive stature, holding a sceptre that lay upon her lap. Above her, hungabrocade awning. To eitherside ofthe chair stoodnvo immense Great Danes with huge, pendulous jaws, as if guarding this barely pubescent symbol of

Empire.

Olga loved it, being the rapt focus ofthe photographer's attention, in a dress bought specially for the occasion whose gold and white folds billowed around her pale,ikinny legs. Yet the thought came turbidden, from the dark corners of the room. Why was she, Olga, still alive? She pictured her brothers and sister bending over the fountain, their faces reflected in the cool and deadly liquid promising so much relief, rickling along her tongue and down her chin in cool, welcome rivulets. She too had drunk gratefully of the water. \iZhen Basil had become ill, the closest to Olga in age, he had joked about it, kidded, teased, his eyes bright with fever, unable to halt the tremor in his hands, barely able to breath.

Now Olga sat on her bed, waiting. The baggage had been packed carefully in a variety of gaily decorated valises and boxes. There was a smell of incense and camphor, so odd together, the starched fabric ofher dress crisp againsther skin. She wanted to go sit by the window, a padded red velvet seat in the alcove, but did not trust herself to do that. Waiting for her father. Wondering if she had time for anything. To leave home. Joumeying to a place to which she had never been and was now even afraid to imagine, as ifimagining would give it a conffete and inescapable form. S7hat were her cousins like, these trvo elderly cousins she had never met? And Switzerland. It was cold there. Her father had told her on many occasions

how beautifi.rl it all was, but it was not the familiar beauty of India's warm

:, 14

BOOK ONE

embrace, of the sublime benificence here that broke her heart. To leave her father...how was that even possible? Disconsolate, she rose and moved to the cenffe of the room, standing irresolutely, then tumed, throwing her arms out to give her body motion, to dance, she stumbled, then faltered, then recovered, her breath coming in quick litde gasps as she bent over. He would arrive any moment now. She swung faster, pivoting, the single large gilt mirror opposite the window seat flashing n dizzy per' mutations, reflecting ahundred broken images ofher small figure as she danced. \tlilling her father to come. I can bear the moment now, she thought. But not later. I will be safe in the future as I am now helpless in my grief and loss. Now, she commanded silendy, coming to an abrupt standstill. Come now. Almostbeforeher motionhad ceased, shewas lifted up inherfather's arms. And she thought to herself, yes, it's true, in this life sometimes wishes are granted, if they come from the heart. She nuzzled his short, grizzled red beard. She liked its abrasion, the beads of sweat above the cool linen shirt, the lime aftershave he ordered from London and splashed on too heavily, his sense of smell never as precise as her own. She breathed him in deeply, with every fibre of her being, wondering if she would ever see him again. A thought she wished she could take back, but itwas

too late. Too late.

Friedrich held his daughter, the fragile bones, the sheer lightness of her. 'Have I done enough?'he wondered, for the thousandth time. But could anything have been enough? He could not have prevented this. Yet theywould always be his, these children of memory those pale faces of the sons and daughter and awife

he had lost. a carriage down into Bombay, towards the port. Olga looked around greedily, entranced, though she had seen it many times before, yet would never, she felt, see again, or never in the same way. Loving the limidess horizon with its lack of boundaries, like a suture on a wound to hold back the bleeding sun, to hold back time itself. The flat endless plains of India that had the odd effect of forcing you to concentr?te on your immediate surroundings, on what was within your reach and grasp, not to concem yourself with the impenetrable and unresponsive vastness ofdeath and love and loss. Those unbidden but inescapable

They took

thoughts.

Abrupdy the world rolled in, crowded together in jumbled fragments, Of

bols of fabric on tresde tables, barkingvoices and the clop of donkey's hooves. of fingerless, leprous beggars gesticulating. Quenrlous voices fading, all of it disjointed. passing carts with wooden wheels carrying chickens to market, of

For now, she hid within herself, making herself small and emptying her a pleasant disassociation, dizzy with heat, then anchoring her thoughts to the palatial houses they passed, houses of friends and acquaintances, children she had played with. Indeed, the solidity of these dwellings, their solemn presence, impressed her and it was a solidity she tried to emulate deep within herself. A small calm that would remain undisturbed. Unwilling, for now, to picture the immensity of the ocean she must cross.

mind,

:--.

v BOOK

ONE 1i

THE STOCKEXCHANGE

Swiaerland.,ryoo

India had been so much larger. Switzerland was somehow small with carefrtl streets that always lead somewhere. A fountain, a house, always a solidity to be found at the end of the road, inevitably a destination. In India the streets were haphazard, an afterthought, a colourful, turbulent kaleidoscopic chaos ofdrgressions. Sffeets the colour of saffron, houses in shades of funeral ashes and baked

earth. Here, the now empty Sunday streets were jarring and silent, puqposefi.rl yet disturbing in their rigidity, lacking the open spontaneity of the life OIga had known only afewmonths ago. Where vagaries and ine4plicable events held court like beggars, importuningandunassailable, and somehowimpenetrable. Yetthe only home she had known. Until now. Mutrlehorn, where her two aunts lived, was a small Swiss village, completely

unprepossessing along a narow strip of land bordered on one side by an immense and darkly magnificent lake and, on the other, shadowed by stark, steeply plunging mounains. The lake was rumoured to be bottomless and the deep currents were much too strong, too dangerous and cold, even in summer, to swim in. Olga was staying with her two elderly aunts in a relatively modest house while she completed her schooling. She would often stand by the lakeshore, leather school bag slung over her shoulders, dreaming. She was learning Swiss German, the local language, with which she already had a vague familiarity thanks to her mother, yet still more comfortable with the Engiish spoken athome inBombay. Sunday. It was quiet. Olga was not used to rising so early, yet relished the forgiving solitude. This, she realized, had been her mother's town, where Maria had grown up. \07here she had met her father, Friedrich. She still found it thorougtrly disorienting, the cool breeze on her skin, the mild tingle of a pine scent borne on the breeze. oddest, perhaps, was the silence. None of the cacophonous, stentorian tones of the importuning water sellers. Here, the silence was beneficence, an awareness of oneself as an individual, both frightening and exhilarating. The prosaic resumed its welcome shape in the form of a bakery the only shop open this early, appearing suddenly before her like an hallucination, a harbingerbf this new land. A bakery. Of course. She had come to buy &esh bread. She entered the store and there was one man there, his bad< to her,

buthe turned

and they regarded one another. She nodded to the man somewhat curdy, politely. He smiled absendy, almost as if he hadrt't noticed her, then tumed back to the counter where he wrapped the loaf she had indicated, in paper. Olga had tumed rwelve a few days earlier. There had been cake, candles, a loving letter from her father, how he missed her, how he adored her, how he

15 BooK

oNE

hoped theywould soon see one another. The Cholerahad gone, vanished, as if it had never been, except for the death and pain and loneliness left in its wake. She felt the ache of her father's isolation. She too ached, often at night, sanding by her window and peering into the ambivalent darkness. Her aunts, Claire and Rosa, were far from worldly. They hovered around her, not quite certain how to proceed with this exotic creature suddenly deposited in their midst. Sundays were church days. One went. One obeyed. One followed the mles, eventhe placewhere one satin the smallstone church. Therewere rigid social protocols, faithfully observed Secretly, she sometimes laughed at her aunt's domestic preoccupations but theywere also invariablykind, thouglr the sisters rather resembled apair ofravens whose gestures closely mirrored one another, with their dark plumage of the high-necked black dresses they wore. And, unlike their more adventurous and lovelier younger sister, her mother, her aunts never sffayed far from the village in which they had been born, bounded by habit and the few friends that remained from the school they had all too briefly attended. They lived alone, their own parene long dead. And they did not speak of their absent sister, merely a lone framed photograph on the living room mantelplace. In which Maria held a mountain flower, an edelweiss, against her pale cheek whose colouring Olga had inherited. As she had also inherited the tendenryofhermother'shair to curl

inunrulyclumps.

7907

Almost nineteen. At the bakery again, which was adjacent to the train station that lay near the waterfront. Olga wondered how often she had come here, the small brass bell ringing behind he5 announcing her. The baker had died and his wife now ran the store. Seven years. Had it been so long? So many birrhdays. Her father had visited once from India for a few weeks, then returned and, even on his own, was largely content, though he obviously missed her, and missed Maria

in her. Lost in thought, she was somewhat taken aback to find someone standing quiedy justbehindher. "Oh, I've seen you before. .." he said calmly. Starded, she tumed. He had a newspaper under his arm and the hint of a smile. How very buttoned up he is, she thought, all the way to his neck. The pearl tie clasp an oyster colour. IJThat lovely grey eyes. The suit cut with almost miftary rigo*, but it was his shoes she noticed and couldn't help staring at them, they were shiny black patent leather, huge and gleaming. The man had immense feet and that somehow endeared him to her. She absently wondered if a woman had polished them, and then what sort of woman, a servant, or perhaps even a wife. Was he manied? Suddenly ashamed at this unbidden thougtit, though not cerain why, after all, she should be ashamed, she raised her headhigher to counter her instinct to lower it, not to look down, not to admit to a rush of unruly feeling. It was an unusuallycold dayand she tightened the woolwrap aroundhershoulder. "Hardly surprising. I come here every dayj' Olga said rather prirnly, blush-

v BOOK ONE 17

ing. "I don't suppose you're going to school," she added mischeviously, baiting him. He was much older than she was, in his late zos, perhaps even early 3os. "Not in years, alasj'he said. She noticed he did not smile with his mouth, only with his eyes, the heavy, dark eyebrows fi.rrowed together in amusement. Years later, she would look back upon this moment and realize how unusual it was for him, he seemed so utterly relaxed. So thorougtrly himself. She was both exasperated and flattered by his attention He paused, looking straight into her eyes and she returned his gaze, unflinching. "I am Albert Bebie," he allowed, extending his hand, which was broad and flat with exceptionally strong fingers. Yet his handshake was sqprisingly gende. He wore only a single piece ofjewellery a signet ring ofheavy orange gold, emblazoned with a crest. So he was not married. Olga had never presumed to think ofherself as beautifi;I, or even particularly attractive. As a child, she had been used to the attention of men, but this, she was frrlly aware, had been due solely to the status of her father and his friends. Yet she was beautif,il, a perfectly oval face whose loveliness was due less to the delicate individual features but their expressive and youthfi.rl, mercurial fluidity. She found she could not speak. She had nothing to say. "I came by train," Albert said amiably, regarding her. "I should take it more often." He spoke with a grand effi-rsiveness that, she would subsequently discover as he became betterknown to her, would graduallyintenveave itselfwith a certain inevitable pomposity that she could tease from him with a burst of humour, or unexpected activity. He was bad at surprises, they were fine for children, he felt and enjoyed providing them for others. Buthe valued order and knowledge and certainty. "My car is in repair," he offered. " Car?" Having a car was unusual. She had never met a man with a car. Then again, she hadn't met many men with the exception of the compatriots of her

father.

"Itwill be fixed by tomorrow." "Whatkind of car?" she countered. "Do you know cars?" "No," she admitted. He did not elaborate. But she wasn't willing to let him off the hook that easily. "My father has a carriage. It has leather seats. Does yours?" "My car does j'Albert said. He was getting bored, he looked elsewhere now. "Do you live in the areal" "I'm staying with my aunts. My father is in India with the British East India Company." "May I ask for your address?"

"Ifyoulike." He pulled out a small leather book. "You have very beautiful hair," he said, looking at her with ur uncompromising directness. "You should let it grow." "You think it's too short?" The criticism had caught her offbalance, but she was too intelligent not to realize that had been the point. Albert inclined his head, then presented her with his card. She cleared her throat as he r,lrote down her address. "I'11 call if I may."

BOOK ONE She nodded, looking up, then down at his gleaming shoes' Not a speck

dust, and for some reasdn ihe found this irritating. Life wasn't that neat, that proper, it had lots of dust and as if to prove her point, she dugher o-wn shoes into theiockv sand andwas gratified to sei thememerge completelysoiled. The sharp bite of the blustery wind had increased and she wrapped her shawl more tighdy

around her shoulders. She shivered. "Are vou coldi" he asked. "I'm'always coldi' she admitted, whichwasn't altogether true, butyouth was an age of absoiutes. When she looked up, {bert was departing, already halfi,vay to tlie nearby train station. Her pulse was beating ,aprd!. She raise{ a hand to her chest. She watched him pustr-past the few others on the station pladorm and disappear.

Apparently,

it happened, Albert Bebie had been charmed, inasmuch

co,rld evei said to be charmed, not only by the fortuitous nafi,re of their accidental encounter, but by her ability to play the piano. It was, Olga had been taught, an essential accouffement io every well brought-up young girl's life, a sotice of secret pride, the subde grace with which her fingers first teased-out the intricate melodii patterns and tlien, absorbed, more or less forgotherselfin the familiar emotional resonance, a rare freedom she deeply cherished. Neither did she restrict herself to the merely classical, not hesitating to intersperse Chopin with more popular current songs. e weet after their initial mieting on the lakeshore, just at the point Olga had more or less abandoned the thought that Albert might contact her, a messenger

had arrived at the house to deliver an invitation for her and her aunts to join him for tea on awednesday afternoon. The house was in Linthal at zz Lindenstrasse, a beautifi'rl and very large pink house of five stories trimmed in white in the sensual, survaceous Art Nouveau

style.AlberthadpurdraseditfromanltalianPrince,Colonna, afewyearsearlier, complete with atitne furnisfringswhidr,he admitted,were abittoobaroque and exuavagant for his own taste. If abutted the road at the bottom of along, sloping hill, nei the centre of what was litde more than a village. Now Albert was comfortably ensconced in a deep armchair in the drawing room, regarding her quiz' zicallv but thouehdullv. 'iYo., play s6-ewhatbetter than mywifei'Albert offered. Her two-aunts, Claire and Rosa, sat offto the side, balefully regarding the fine china tea cups before them and the crumbling remnants of Linzertorte they had eaten with obvious, ill-disguised relish. At Albert's words, they perked up, desperately trying to restrain their curiosity. There was a silence. "I have been maked," fre cbnfrnued, still staring at olga,while managingto ignore the aunts. "She had aflne voice."

Olgawas not accustomed to someone so taciturn, momenEril-y uneasl'. - "A;na died just over a year ago from diabetes' I also have a thre*year old daughter, Alice." -It was not a confession, a mere confirmation of reality. The aunts sighed. Olga calrnly placed both hands in her lap, folding them into one another, not altogether iertain whag if anything, she should say. She was only eighteen, a mere

v BOOK

ONE

girl. He was thirty, a man. Her father had been thirty-one when he had married her mother, Maria, who had been twenty at the time. Yet the fact that Albert had previously been maried, and had a daughter besides, did not disturb her. Perhaps because he had spoken of them, if somewhat tersely, with genuine affection. Olga's aunts had been ecstatic atAlbert Bebie's invitation, trying desperately not to show it and failing miserably. They, of course, knew exacdy who this strange man wz$ urd the family to which he belonged. Albert, they had duly informed their young cousin with barely restrained delight, was the youngest of three brothers. There were also two sisters, one older, and one younger. The Bebies were among Switzerland's most prominent industrialists, having established themselves in the Turgi area between Zurich and Basel in the r8zos, with several factories, one of which, by 1858, was the largest in the country. !7hen Albert had reached the age of zo, his father Edmund had sent him to Linthal to take charge of a mill he had purchased with the intention if allowing his son to prove himself. Albert had done so. And Linthal was barely an hour away from Mutrleberg by train. "I'm also building a railwayi'Albert announced abrupdy. "It rather seems to run in the family. I had an uncle who spent a small fortune on them, never successfully, anditwas onlymyfatherwho managed to keep him outofjail. That particular uncle was careless with his money and easily distracted, occasionally by gambling, but often by the fairer sex." He paused, then smiled. "Do you like the outdoors?" he asked Olga. "I love the outdoors. I go for long walks in the forest whenever I can." "Alone?" "$7hen I can." OIga smiled enigmatically. "sometimes with a female friend. I'm quite a good shot." "Do you enjoy hunting?" "Not particularly. My father does. He hunts often."

"!7hat does he hunt?" "!7i1d boar, mosdy. From the back of an elephant. Once he even bagged a tiger. The native beaters were in the deep bush. There weren't supposed to be any tigers in that area. You don't really see them all that often." "I envy your father. I have to make do with deer. I should very much like to

meethimone day'' Albert, suddenly restless, stood. "I own a hunting cabin in Braunwald, not far from here. It's up in the mountains, a rather steep hike of four or five hours. The town, I'm afraid, is small, barely a village. A few farms, some cows and one or two stores. Perhaps we could go sometime. Suitably chaperoned. Ifyour aunts agree, ofcourse." He inclined his head towards the aunts,who seemedintenton the remnants of their pasry and nodded without looking up. Albert looked at Olga. "I'd like that," she said simply. "That last piece you played. What was it?" "The Sperl Polka byJohann Sffauss,"

"Would you play it again?" Albert remained standing as she played. Listening.

BOOK ONE

And it was, in the end, the music itself that gave voice to her heart. Once home, the aunts, flustered and flurried, surrounded OIga in her bedroom as she changed into a nightgown, like bees around a hive. Once she had

undressed and lay in bed, the oil lamp flickering, the younger aunt, Rosa, departed, but Claire paused by the door, tuming back towards Olga. "You have your mother's spirit," she said at last, with a melancholy sigh. "She had the courage to leave. We have remained here. Not thatwe mind, it is in our nature. \il7as she happy, our Maria)"

"Ibelieve

she was,"

"I know you

Olgamurmured.

miss her. We all do. Do we seem harsh to you?"

"Sometimes." Claire ventured back across the room, standing above her, then reached down and gendy caressed Olgas'hair. "You're so like her." She leant down and kissed Olga's forehead, then quicldy, silendy departed. Olga lay awake, listening to the wind, a branch tapping against the window, as if to say 'remember,

remembermel Yet OIga yearned to say, 'I'm not like my mother. I don't have her courage. I would not have gone to lndia'. Or would she? Perhaps. She would never know. t07hat she did know, what she became aware of, was that she needed a home. She could not stay with her aunts forever, much as she loved them. But where was freedom, whatwas freedom? And what, really, were her choices) Her eyes were wide open. Sleep, that night, did not come readily.

Their courtship did not last long. Dinners, trips to the Zurich opera - one of the few art forms Albert regarded with a genuine and unquestioning passion - a stroll along the lake, sitting in an open air caf6 on a brilliant summer evening under star-filled heavens while an orchestra played popular melodies. There were nurnerous social occasions. Even ahunting expedition into the mountains. OIga delighted Albert by cooking the rack of venison to perfection, for him and several business associates. Albert, she discovered, was an inveterate hunter, loving to lose himself in the loden abandon offorest canopies, of thick brush and cold, stark winds thathoned the edges of body and mind. Her aunts, initially horrifled, ultimately found it hilarious as she returned from these excursions smudged with dirt, scratches on her face from raspberry bushes and welts on her arms from black flies. Albert never touched her, however. Yet she would often look up and find him gazngat her, something she at first found disconcerting, then, as she came to knowhim,

comforting. And though Olga had initially worried about his three-year old daughter Alice's reaction, Alice accepted her with a warm equanimity, though with a lack of curiosity, she found somewhat puzzling. Perhaps it had to do with the maids, nurses and servants that were constandy in attendance, buffering Alice, even from herself. Death, for the three-year old, was barely a concept and while she occasionally sought her mother, Anna Hefti, in those childhood songs or stories she and Anna had shared, A1ice was easily disffacted, grateful for Olgds maner. of-fact acceptance of het at first tentatively and then, as Olga and Albert's rela-

BOOK

ONE

tionship developed,withmore assurance. Alice also had areadysense ofhumour, laughing at the strange language Olga sometimes used, English, as if those mysterious, delicious sounds led direcdy to a land of fairy tales called India. Alice would call out'sayitagain, sayitagain', then collapse ingiggles, running clumsily to bury herself in the pillows on a couch, peeking out.

After eight months of intermittent courtship, one Saturday in July, Albert arranged to meet Olga in the heart ofZurich, at a small but renowned restaurant he frequented, usually with his business compatriots since it was close to the Zurich Stock Exchange. On the train to Zurich, along the beautiful lakeshore of verdant apple trees and high hedges, riding stables and stately homes, Olga was acutely aware that a bond had developed between her and Albert transcending mere passion and desire. ln fact, Olga did not altogether trust passion. She was aware that Albert, despite his often impenetrable exterior, had been deeply shaken by Anna's premature death. His wife had only been 27. lnd Olg", in the deepest part of her soul, still mourned her own mother, brothers and sister. "I know deathj'Albert o'I feel you do too." No reply had been had once said simply, stating it as a fact. necessary.

The train arrivedin the cavemousZurich ffain stationwithits butterflyiron arches and roof of curved glass. A light rain was falling. Olga disembarked, shook out her parasol and was soon walking up the narrow cobbled street lined with shops rising towards a small hill at the cente of Zv(ch. Just beneath the crest of the hill was the restaurant she sought, The Widder. The Ram. A bay window jutted out above the entrance, beneath which was an ebony

door with a higtrly polished brass knocker. Olga shook out her parasol and entered the door, noddingto the formallydressedmaitre d'who steppedforward to greet her ard whom wordlessly escorted her upstairs to the small dining room.

Albert was not there, not yet. A waiter pulled out a chair at a table set for trvo within an alcove by the bay window overJooking the sffeet. Waiters drifted at the edges of the room. There was utter silence except for the rich notes of cutlery being placed, then adjusted, the smell of linen overlain with the odour of rich cream sauces, a candle lit by the waiter with a practiced flick of his wrist. Albert was late, of course, and though he detested being late, was invariably'delayed', though never overtly apologetic. Downstairs she heard adooropen and close, thenwhisperedwords and the clack ofbanging wooden hangers. Albert appeared at the door elegantly attired in a grey pinstripe suit with a high collar, apparendy having left his leather briefcase downstairs, and was greeted reverentially by the maitre d', by name. "Herr

AlbertBebie." Olga wondered if the maitre d'would ever know her name, as they knew his. He guided Albert to their table. She noticed for the first time how large Albert's head was, like his feet. His body had a grounded, and slightly pordy, solidity. Despite his average height, he somehow loomed, rather than stood. Whenhe satitwaswith an effort, as ifitcosthim to make himselfsmaller. Albert picked up the glass of water and swallowed, not taking his eyes offher.

-7

v 22

BOOK ONE

We are here, she thought. Why are we here? Notreallydaringto gopasrthis immediacy. Her heartwas beating too rapidly. She smiled. Was that itl Uad a bargain of some kind been sruck? Love| It seemed too much to hope for. Yet one did hope, one just never knew the time or the shape of it. Albert ordered, waving away the proffered wine, then tumed towards her, tucking his large white linen napkin in his collar. "Alice likes you. Soon she'Il be

going away to school." ttSoon?"

"!7ell," Albert sighed, "soon enough." The shrimp coc.ktail arrived, abouquetof pink andwhite on shavedice and presented in a silver tulip glass. It dissolved deliciously on the tongue. "This..." Olga allowed herseH, "is wonderful."

"It

isn't it? 'o you come here often?" "I do. Butit's usually quite different." is, o'Do

"Inwhatway?" "Every way. Business. Mosdy the railway, right now. The financing is all in place, of course. Most ofit is mine but there are a few other partners whom I will probably buy out at some point. Though I haven't decided." "You must be very persuasive." "I like to t}ink so. And I should very much like..." otYes?"

"To persuade you to marry me.

Albert reached into a small pocket on his vest and retrieved

blue velvet box, placing it on the table. She hesitated. Sensing her reluctance, he opened the box, revealing a splendid engagement ring - trn o diamonds, not large, but flaw. less, glittering facets ofviolet and blue and rose that curled in upon one another, set in a silver band. Olga absently noted that the sun had emerged from the clouds outside, allowing apale, diffirse light to peneffate the room. - Albgrt _endyliftedherhand from the table and placed the ring onherfinger. It fit perfecdy. It was, itself, perfection. Olga found herself oddly cbmposed. a

o'I

have a request," she said at last. course." o'I have told you of the death of my mother, my two brothers and sister. I should like a family. A reasonably large one. Does that appeal to you?" "Nothing would please me more. Of course, I shall have to introduce you to _ mybrothers. I've already spoken to them aboutyou..." "I look forward to meeting them." _ "I shouldwarn you, however, that my business will often prevent me from taking part in family affairs. As long as you understand that. It re-ally is importanl Not so much a wish on my part, as a reality of the way I live. If I seem, on occasion, not to have time for you or to have forgotten you, keep this in mind. You are younger than I am. You are very beautifi.rl. I do love you. But a family, yes.. .there is," he emphasized, "nothing of greater importance. It must be the measure of o'Of

ourlives."

The meal arived. Fresh sole in white wine sauce, which they ate in a thought-

ful but companiable silence. As they were leaving,

serving girl draped Alberth

BOOK

ONE 2)

coat over his arm. Albert leant towards Olga and gave her a fleeting kiss, merely brushing her lips with his own. Yet it was not the pressure of his lips on her she remembered, but his hand on her elbow. "He will guide mej' she thought. "I will write my father," she said. "I know he will come. I also know," and she looked up at Albert, "that he will be very happy for me." The wedding, on August 1ofi , r9o8, was held on the day prior to Olga's zom birthday, in the immense medieval Grossmunster cathedral in the heart of Zrxrch. The very church upon which the reformist Zwndtihad rebelliously nailed his decree ofprotest against the Catholic Churdr. on the wedding day, its vast interior of immense stone columns and brilliandy coloured stained glass windows were bathed in incense, the aisles redolent with floral bouquets. And it was crowded. It was as if the entire city had chosen to attend, guests shifting in the wooden pews with an occasional sneeze or curt whispers of conversation. Oddly, the thing that olga remembered best and perhaps even teasured most about the event, was her stepchild, Alice. She was, as her father proved to be, eminently sensible and always amenable to reason, generally cheerftrl ifoccasionally a little lost, a litde vague, but with a genuine and generous affection for her new stepmother. There was no jealousy that Olga could discern. Alice always brightened in her presence, gladly and without question placing her hand in Olgat. As she herself had so often placed her hand trustingly in that of her father's, who now stood again beside her. The colours of the cathedral's stained glass windows washed across Alice's hopefi.il face and olga thought to herself: 'Light is kind to her, she is a child of light' softening Alice's aquiline face and the quiet melancholy, bereft ofher natural mother, which she held carefully in abeyance, butnever quite went away. At the conclusion of the ceremony, as the organ music held a deep note and crowds gathered around her, and still with her father at her side, Albert kissed Olga for only the second time. He traced her face with his fingers after the social storm of the wedding, with its clouds of guests and rain of good wishes. The simple goodness ofher beautifirl face as she looked up to him and took his arm. "I alwaysi' she would reminisce with some slight sadness, so many decades later, "thought I was so luclry.. J'

"He's much older than you," herfatherFriedrichhad commented blundyupon arriving at the pink horise in Linthal, even before his trunls had been stowed in his room. "And dear God, this fi.rniture!" Olga laughed, partly in the sheer happiness of seeing her father again. "Not Albert's fault." "Albert?" her father teased. "Isn't that a bit familiarf " Olga chose to ignore the jibe. "rVell, he didn't choose the fumiture. He just purchased it with the house and hasnlt had time to think about it." "But you will," her father observed wryly. Olga allowed herself a conspiratorial smile. "Look here, look what I brought you..." Two servants pried open a large wooden crate.

-7

v 24

BOOK ONE

'oFather...' she paused, stunned. "It's beautiful." "To get you started in your new home. I purchased it from an acquaintance in India who bought it in China. But he was leaving India and didn't want to go

to the touble of taking it with him." Her father paused. "His wife had left him." He paused again. "Perhaps I shouldn'thave said that..." The object was a strikingly lovely ebony table inlaid with opalescent sea shells and bordered with pearls depicting a rainbow filigree of small, humble houses against an immense flowing landscape, bordered by trees. It became Olga's favourite table, positioned carefully in a corner of the dark bedroom where the light through the window would touch it in the early moming. That was the one problem with Albert's house, as she discovered after movingin. Aside from its Spartan if overly ornate furnishings mostlypre-dating the Art Nouveau sryle, which both she and Albert adored, the rooms were dark, always in shadow, so large that the light was lost towards the centre. She had her own bedroom with Albert just across the hall. And he might or might not come to her in the evening. She learned to hope, but not to expect.

out and to Olga somewhat predictably, given the nature of the male sensibility insofar as she was capable ofdiscerning ir had gotten alongfamously. Albertwas immenselycurious aboutlndia, ie commercial possibilities, the e4pansion of empire, the co-mingling of colonialism and the native cultural habits of work and leisure. "It hasn't been easy," Friedrich observed. "Not after the Lucknow uprising of t857.IU0hat a mess that was. It's sorted now, of course. . .up to a point. But there's a lot of unrest. Frankly, I don't elpect it go away soon. May I tell you something in confidence?" "Of course." o'It may end badly. I have some sympathy for those who wish to govern themselves. After ail, it is a principal we ourselves value higlrly. But when we arrived, therewas no central govemmenl Merelyaloose organizationofseparate kingdoms constantly quarrelling and fighting one another. It's a dilemma." "Surely India is part of the larger British Empte and has to be governed as such?" "For the moment."

Albert and her father, it turned

"An Empire of which you are an important part, j.rdgrg by what your daughter says." "Well, she would. She says that out of love." Friedrich sighed. "I suppose in some cirdes, I am important. I am both proud of that and saddened by it. There's too much bureaucracy. One can often see what the right thing is to do, yet can't do it, or can't bring oneself to do it." "I don't agree with you j' A1bert admonished, "I can't imagine England withits Empire. But I'm familiar with that kind of a situation. There's a resdessness out even here, in Switzerland. IUThen my father first brought in the looms for our mills to Linthal, there was a small rebellion. No one wished to work in the factories. Previously, it was all handiwork, done entirely at home. Initially there was a great deal of unemployment. But while the older weavers found it difficult to change, the younger ones, their children, did not. Admittedly, there was resent-

ment."

-7

arert't easy timesi'Albert said with exasperated finality. "Economically or politically."

BOOK

ONE

"And now?" o'These

!7ith A1bert, Olga discovered that her qrpectations about her husband had not proven altogether false. He did possess a certain tigrdity, a disciplined decorum that occasionally made him distant and hard to reach. Albert was solid,like the stone houses of the wealthy districts ofZurich, windows hidden behind painted shutters. There was something sequestered about Albert. His grey eyes were intense but non-committal. His rough block of a face like a Rodin sculpture she had seen in a large book in Albert's entensive library, of writhing monoclrome couples, of Balzac in a hooded shroud, of form emerging from chaotic stone. It, like Albert, gave her a small thrill at his almost erotic vitality, his absolute certainty of whom he was and his position in life, largely unquestioned. Yet he had an accessibility to him she depended upon, though she had heard rumours, there were always rumours, that with others he could be vasdy different, cold, calculating and even unforgiving. She could only helplessly retort "IJ7ell, I never found him so, he was never so with me". !7hich did not mean the accusations were untrue or could easilybe dismissed. Her father happily stayed for several weeks following the wedding. Albert delayed their honeymoon in Spain so the three of them, accompanied only by a servant, could visit his hunting cabin in Braunwald. The two men, and often the servant as well, disappeared into the forest before daybreak. There were various blinds constructed th,roughoutthe roclcywildemess, simplewooden sffuctureshighup in trees, where the threewould sit and quiedywaitfor the appearance ofwhatever animal might venture their way. Retuming in the early or late afternoon, usuaily with a deei which Albert and Friedrich hung up, eviscerated and skinned, and which Olga e4pertly cut up and cooked. The rarefied air and sheer physical qxertion stoked their hunger. "You cook like you play piano," Albert observed appreciatively to Olga. -The cabin itself, termed'the Hudi'('the hut', due to its diminutive size) was small to the point of daustrophobia but intimate, its rougir wood and stone edges sheltering the newlywed couple like a candleholder its flame. Albert and Olga slept on a narrow Art Nouveau bed with a filigreed headboard of intertwined flowers and leaves, beautifi.rlly wrought, but the bed itself, given Albert's stolid girth, was somewhat inadequate. The room possessed only a sink. There was an outhouse and a sffeam that ran beneath the floorboards of the small bedroom. There, two windows opened wide on a vista of mountains past the mossy rock' strewn slopes. There was a leather book by the entry in which family and guests wrote notes or poems or drew pictures or wishes or comments, both heartfelt and occasionally satirical. Even Albert contributed, it had after all been his idea, writing in his sloping, hieroglyphical script, whose trained formality and beauty would render it almost illegible to future generations. Conditions were Spartan. Firewood had to be chopped for the small iron stove, the only source of heat. A few days after their arrival, larger bedding was broughtup to the cabinbyalocal farmer onhorse and cart, the newlywed couple

BooK oNE

poving up a steep.ladder to the

second floor, to the more spacious broad space beneath the sharply slanted roof, smelling of sawdust and mice. But given the profligary of the animal population of India, Olga never much mind'ed mere mice. Cobras were another matter entirely and there were thanJdrlly no such mordant and sinuous surprises in the Swisi meadows Olga loved the cabin almost as much as Aiberr. It suited them. And there was additional reason forexcitement. Work on the single-track funiculaxrailway hadbegun andwould be completed in *ree years. Nolongerwould the joumey to Praunwald require an arduous trek along i steep mounain path up 6om thi valley, an excursion Olgawould occasionally catchherselfree#dinq*ith asense of nosmlgic longrng, mingled wirh a memory of how inteniinablE the joumey could seem if one were tired. Yet once the first ofAlbert and Olgr! rry children arrived a year later, Olga rarelyh3d thgoppornrnitytovisitthe Hudi, thoughAlbert continled to frequent it, usually with several male companions from the business or political worids, a club from which Olga was often,-but not always, excluded. She now had a family

to raise. Perhaps, lo.o|<i"g back, what Olga had been least,prgpared for after the long sojourn with her aunts, was the sheer magnitude ofAlbert's social calendar. Shi hadmethis two elderbrothers, EdmundI and Gustag bomayearaparr. Albert was some seven and eight years younger, respectively. The biotheri met infrequently- , thoygh they were close emotionally and it was always a boisterous occasion when they did so, though most of Albert's social events were carefrrlly orchestrated. There were S"r49, t9o, big men like him, primarily other magnates. Some jovial, some habitually dour. Businessmen, lawyers, politiciurs. Even the Prince of Liechtenstein from the neighbouring prinapatry, at whose castle, once or twice a year, the Bebies were invited to dine with the royal couple and their children, particularly once they had children of their own, and the cirildren would all play together in the courtyard. - Those eyenings, OIga would rimember as especially mdcal, caressed by soft summerbreezeswhilepromenadingalong the [orch.litcasdewa]ls, thevalley far beneath, bordered by the dense, almost impenetrable forest towards the rear of the the wilderness held at bay. yet so close, so tangible,

_casde,

Albert also hosted legendarylriday lunches at the Saioy Grill, around the corner from the Zurich Stock Exchange, where anyone from the extended clan who was in town visiting or hungqr, or both, couid loin him at the table for a lavish^meal and some good-will. Initialy, Olga accompanied him, agracious hostess. Afterwards she would perhaps shop, though she was relatively Spartan in her purchqsing habits. Shopping had not played i large role in her life-and she had some difficulty in_adjusting to the effortless and livish e4penditures her household now demanded. For herself, she was prudent and did not, with the exception of the occasional bout of enrhusiasm, inddge. Leaving lunch and the predominandy male enclave at the Savo% she would wander overto the Hauptbahnhofstrasse, that suetch ofprime roadwayleading from the main square, the Paradeplaz(farade Ground), to the Zurich"train stal tion, alongwhichwere the city's mostexclusive andresplendentshops. The shop

v BOOK

ONE

keepers soon came to recognize her and, much less than a year later,she could no lbnger poke around the various racks and tables with anoccasional glance at the salesgirls. Upon her entry, she would be offered a comfortable over'stuffed chair anii provided with endless tea and biscuits while the employees privately displayed the best and newest products for her pleasure and discernment. The e4perience reminded her vaguely of the throne she had sat on as a child forherpholographic portraitas the memsahib inlndia,with two huge attendant dogs to eitheiside, rigid and ensconced like an Egyptian icon. Ultimately, Olga was obliged to admit io herseHthat she rather enjoyed the quiet and unobffusive attentiveness, a rest from the boisterous bonhomie of the Savoy. Albert sometimes, though less often than she had anticipated, e4pected her to host lavish dinners for guests at his house, usually business acquaintances,and she undertook to gain the confidence and respect, and even friendship, of the women and daughters who accompanied these men of substantial and some' times ostentatious refinement. She was anatural hostess and took great delight and organzing these formai gatherings. in planning Glazed bone cfuna dishes depicted intricate landscapes of fields and castles in blue on an off-white background. Silverware rested on polished sterling silver foxes, while small silverbowls with ahint oflavender oilwere provided inwhich to dip and refresh the fingers both before and after dining.- Olga aimed for domestic perfection and invariably, with some considerable effort, achieved it' Gradually the house itself, with its high ceilings and labyrinthian rooms, began to assume her character, much ofthe furniture graduallyvanishing as ifit had evaporated, replaced by the more current and less ornate Art Nouveau with its beguiling and softened lines, like a dress caught by the wind or rain, adhering as if sculpted to the body. Sometimes in those firstfewyears, usuallyonher own due to herhusbandt hectic schedule, shewouldvisit the nvoTtrgifactories, those monumentalbuild-

ings of the industrial revolution with their immense red brick walls and high arihed ceilings, filledwithoverahundredpounding, deafeninglooms, awelter' ins noise that stunned the senses. Irrrtirr.tir.ly, olga would place her hands over her ears. At the looms sat the weavers, mostly women interspersed with a few men, faces pale and intent, hands dartingswiftlyio maintain order, feetpumpingpedals as the combs shifted from side to side with such rapidity that they were almost invisible. Threads spooled and shuttles descended, clattering. Occasionally an overseer would wurder down the aisles, the workers largely oblivious, immured in a shell of noise and dust. Dreaming, perhaps, of the walk home, housed in large sprawling wooden buildings that creaked in the wind, whose corridors were redblent ofcabbages and sausage, of clamouring children and silent husbands. A shift lasted from t4 to 15 hours with half an hour to eat lunch. Aftenvards, the weavers would be temporarily deaf, with an incessant buzzing in their ears. Everythingwould become awhisper, the shouting, impoftunate world ransformedinto quietisolation. Awelcome respite atfirst. Then the panic ofnothavingunderstood, offailing to have heard something athome, anythin_g. IJ(atching your husband with his mouth open but no sound coming out, shrink'

BooK oNE

ing from his anger, unable to hear your children's cries for attention or food. Sometimes there would be beatings, and the wives would appear at the factory on the next day with bruises and sad, aching eyes, mortified b-y guilt in a situation over wtich they ha! no control and were unible to escape. There were affairs, though strictly prohibited, since the factories employed

prettymuch anyonewillingto workthe long, arduous hours even children^, those over the age of 13. It was regular though poorh paid work and while rhe vast Inaig+ty of the employees were women, during times of particular economic hardship, men occasionally displaced the womin, whom^were left to fend for themselves, leaving the faaory down the dusty road. Albert rarely came onto the factory floor. He had a suite of offices and a conference room on an upper level. u7hen he did emerge, it was a small evenr, a break in the routine, but not altogether welcome. Albert favoured the ,Manchester' model ofmanagement. Having purchased the looms in Manchester, Plgl*d, he had_also briefly remained in that city where, at the request of his father Edmund, he had undergone several weeki of training. Labourers were expected to keep their eyes strictly on the machines or on-the ground when Albert passed. Any-e_ye contactwas interpreted as insubordinatlon and punished by shortened hours, docked pay, or even, in rare and extreme cases, dismissal. But, as in most patemalistic business empires in the early zofi century, Albert could also be unexpectedlygenerous,hostinglavish companypicnics duringthe summer, providingfunds for someone on the verge of deititutionoradocto-rfo. an iU gmr1.ree. He had built large complexes to Eouse his workers and a school for the younger children. Older workers, those who had been faithfully employed for many years, sometimes_went permanently deaf from the noisq buinoihing could 6e done about that beside a one-time payment to_ease rhe financial burdln urd perhaps the offer of a job to ahusband, awife, a child, or a relative.

Olga was aware that the texriles produced by her husband and his brothers were regarded as among the best in-the world, intended for generations and which could, and often were, passed on as part of an inheriancJ. hdeed, they were far superior to the tortiles procured and exported by Olga's father in the far gast, which were intended foi poorer more w&kaday puqpJses, but also substantially cheaper.

When he visited, Friedrich would often goad Albert by hinting at the rapidly improving quality of Indian manufacturinglwhich might, rU tfri""gr considlred, someday come into direct competition wiih the clothJproduced6y the Bebies. Somewhat to.Olga's sqprise, Albert took this seriously, though when directly confronted, disingenuously claimed'to be merely jesting'or,irell, it,s cerainly something_ to think about, but not to worry1 Olga knEw better. Albert tooi< lothing relating to.his business lighdy and in bed.one night, even though he knew it pained her, he gruffiy aiticized her father for what-he saw as Friedlich,s undue levity in regard to business. "But then, he doesn't make cloth, he just sells

it..."