The Fig Eater Page 5

  Two days later, she unpacks her little enamel pans of paint, fills a jar with water, sets the vial with the fig inside on the kitchen table.

  With the end of her paintbrush, she nudges the vial forward, moving it into a stripe of sunlight from the window. The clumsy brown fruit bobs in the liquid. It has a narrow, arched neck, swollen at the stalk end, and a bulbous, rounded body. The loose seeds spill like snow, as if the inside of the jar were free of gravity.

  Her brush strokes brown paint inside the outline of the fig on the paper, as if her finger touched it through the glass. She transforms the fig’s skin into velvet with a violet paint made from phosphates of cobalt. The dark place under the crook of the stalk is a richer shade, purple of Cassius, compounded from oxides of tin and gold.

  Some watercolors have a fugitive character and fade or change when exposed to natural or artificial light, or even another color. Tools can also strangely alter colors. If cobalt violet is touched with a steel palette knife, it will be discolored. Even dark colors can be unreliable. Vandyke brown is made from earth, rotted organic and bituminous materials. If this paint doesn’t dry quickly on the paper, it’s an indication that it will lighten later.

  Her painting instructor told her about a French artist, M. Drolling, who stole a number of royal funeral urns from the Abbey St. Denis in Paris in 1793. He softened the embalmed hearts of Marie Thérèse, the duchess of Burgundy, and Henriette d’Angleterre in oil and then mashed them into paint. Curiously, all of the women’s hearts produced the same shade, a dark reddish brown.

  She waits impatiently for her watercolor to dry, listening for her husband’s returning footsteps. Her painting is a small white rectangle of paper stretched and glued to a board. It gleams with water, like saliva on skin, turned luminous by the reflected light.

  In secret, Erszébet makes the fig her object of study. She discovers that the edible fig, Ficus carica, is deciduous, growing fifteen to thirty feet high. Its rough, heart-shaped leaves are easily recognizable, deeply curved into three to five lobes. Locksmiths and armorers soak small pieces of the fig tree’s spongy wood in oil and use it to polish metal.

  The skin of the fruit itself ripens into a spectrum of colors, yellow white, dark yellow, green, green brown, purple brown, violet, and a dark purple that is indistinguishable from black. Off colors.

  The tree bears three distinct crops of fruit. First, figues fleurs, or florones, which mature in May in warmer countries and in June in colder climates. Figues ordinaires are the second and largest crop, harvested in late August. Figues automnales remain on the tree over winter and are picked in spring. Dora had eaten figues ordinaires, a souvenir of summer’s end.

  The fig tree grows its flowers strangely inside out, concealed within the soft interior of the fruit. Erszébet imagines the fig’s hidden fairy weight of seeds, grown in a sweetness that is also a darkness. Like a treasure in a cave. A tumor.

  A midwife once told Erszébet of the üszögös gyermek, the stunted child, a premature fetus born alive, a scurrying, spectral thing with a rat’s feet and ears. Unless the stunted child is immediately destroyed, it will return to its mother’s womb. It is something monstrous, grown in secret.

  As Erszébet reads by candlelight in the library, it seems that every wavering shadow could curdle into a blot, shape itself into one of these monstrosities and seek its unimaginable shelter.

  CHAPTER 3

  Dora’s father, Philipp, refused to meet with the Inspector at the police station. His letter explained he had a business conflict. The Inspector immediately sent a messenger with a second curt letter demanding an interview with Philipp and his son.

  The next day, Dora’s father waits for the Inspector in the vestibule of his house. They shake hands, two cold palms. He invites the Inspector into the Herrenzimmer, the study, and offers him a chair in front of his desk.

  When he interviews someone for the first time, the Inspector uses as few words as possible, making his questions and observations brief. He’ll deliberately let the conversation lag and fall into silence. He’s found this often forces the other person into hasty speech, filling the quiet between them with nervous, disjointed words, as if they were throwing rocks in a pool. Toss, then wait.

  Philipp doesn’t disturb the Inspector’s calculated silence. He offers him a cigar, an expensive Regalitas. Then he silently watches the Inspector, toying with his cigar. The light from the tall windows strikes the smoke suspended over his desk, turning it into a lazy, opaque drift. It is late in the afternoon.

  Perhaps conscious of his duties as the host, Philipp finally speaks.

  “My wife has discussed your questions with me, and I’m afraid I can’t answer them. I don’t know who Dora would have met in the park or why she would have been there. It’s not a place she’d go, not at night. It’s a complete mystery to me and my family.”

  The Inspector makes him wait while he leisurely prepares his cigar. His voice is mild, his manner easy. “Thank you for taking the time to meet me. When I work on a case, it’s my method to learn all I can about everyone involved. Especially the victim. Please describe your daughter, Dora.”

  He knows men have difficulty depicting someone in a personal way. He intentionally asks this question first to make him uneasy, hoping he’ll answer quickly to relieve his discomfort. He watches for any signs of emotion. Philipp frowns, and the Inspector notices there is something wrong with one of his eyes; it’s slightly slower.

  “Describe my daughter?” A long pause. “She was quiet. She never enjoyed good health.”

  “What did she enjoy? Did she have any interests?”

  “What should a girl of that age enjoy? It’s her duty to help her mother.” After a moment he speaks more softly. “Dora liked to read. She wanted to attend the Mädchenlyzeum, but I decided it was better she stayed at home.”

  Another stretch of silence.

  The Inspector takes a small notebook from his pocket and holds a pencil upright over its pages, putting Philipp on notice that he’s waiting for him to speak. He continues to wait.

  “Dora wasn’t able to do much because of her ill health. She suffered from a chronic cough and shortness of breath. I remember when we walked in the woods near the sanatorium in Merano, she had to stop and sit down on the path.”

  “With her poor health, I imagine it was difficult for Dora to leave the house unescorted?”

  “No. She sometimes went out without Rosza, her promeneuse, to accompany her. She argued with her mother about it. She was headstrong.”

  “And did you also argue with your wife about Dora?”

  “Her mother and I discussed her behavior, yes. Dora could take care of herself. Or so I thought.”

  He touches his nose, his gesture unconscious. He suddenly leans forward over the desk.

  “How much responsibility does a parent have? Is this my answer, the terrible thing that happened to her? Is it my fault she died?” His voice is angry.

  The Inspector knows better than to express sympathy. Social formalities always change the atmosphere. He notes that Philipp slips and becomes emotional only when he speaks about himself. He’s certain this will be the most revealing exchange they’ll have. The man is too self-conscious and controlled to show him such honesty a second time.

  Philipp stares at a fountain pen in its stand.

  “Where were you the evening of Dora’s death?”

  “At home. I had dinner with the family.”

  “What is your memory of the dinner? Did Dora seem distracted, uneasy in any way?”

  Philipp rests his hand on a stack of papers, as if he were swearing on a Bible. “Dora wasn’t feeling well that night, nothing unusual. She had a cough. She left the table early.”

  “Did you stay in the house after dinner that night?”

  Dora’s father carries his cigar across his desk and taps it in an ashtray. “That night? Yes. I was at home the entire evening.”

  The Inspector makes note of the timing of his gestu
re. “You’re quite certain?”

  Philipp nods and then looks out the windows into the garden. Avoids my eyes, the Inspector writes. The light has dimmed outside, and the window gives back a reflection of the room, the carpet a dull red square next to the bulky desk, the Inspector’s face expressionless and slightly distorted behind Philipp’s silhouette.

  “I have the impression Dora’s health kept her from any kind of pleasure. Even friendship, perhaps?”

  “She wasn’t without friends. She was close to Frau Zellenka and her husband. And she was fond of their children, almost like a mother to them. She spent time with her promeneuse.”

  “I believe her name is Rosza?”

  Philipp says yes, and obligingly spells out her last name. When the Inspector asks if he knows Fräulein Rosza’s whereabouts, he hesitates before shaking his head. No, he has no idea where she is. None at all.

  “Did Dora have a beau?”

  “There was no one. I knew everything that concerned her.”

  When the Inspector asks if Dora was happy, the man appears perplexed.

  “We took her to doctors constantly. Sometimes they found a reason for her illnesses, sometimes not. Now I feel as if I wasn’t sympathetic enough.” He laughs, but without amusement.

  The Inspector can tell he’s dismissed the reasons Dora might have had for being unhappy, although the girl obviously made a relentless show of her ailments. It’s interesting that he emphasizes her frail health but has never asked for specific information about her death, if she suffered.

  Philipp clasps his hands together and takes a deep breath. “Once Dora threatened to kill herself. But she left the suicide letter where I would find it, so you see she wasn’t serious.”

  “Why did she want to kill herself?”

  “I don’t know. Her health problems weren’t serious. Nothing pleased her. Her letter said she couldn’t endure her life as it was. As if I didn’t give her anything. Believe me, I make certain my children have a comfortable life. Better than I had.”

  He shrugs and straightens a stack of papers on his desk.

  Although he can tell this is the signal he’s been dismissed, the Inspector pursues his questioning.

  “Do you still have her suicide letter?”

  “Of course not. I threw it away.”

  “When?”

  “When? As soon as I found it.”

  “How long ago did she threaten suicide?”

  “I believe it was early last spring. I’ll ask my wife.”

  Writing during an interview sharpens his perceptions. He uses the pages in his notebook to hear the voice without the face. Philipp’s responses have become so curt he knows there’s nothing more to gain from their conversation. The man is a formidable opponent.

  “I’d like to interview Otto in another room now.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible. Otto has tuberculosis. He’s in a sanatorium for the time being.”

  The Inspector notes the sanatorium’s name and address. Philipp isn’t sure when his son was admitted. He rubs his nose. “You don’t think I had anything to do with Dora’s death, do you?”

  “I couldn’t answer your question at this point.”

  “A stranger killed her. It couldn’t have been anyone else. I’m certain some Gypsy kidnapped her. Dora wouldn’t have gone to the Volksgarten alone. She was taken there. You waste your time talking to me and my family.”

  “Everyone connected with this tragedy will be thoroughly investigated. It’s police procedure.” The Inspector slips the notebook into his pocket.

  Dora’s father abruptly stands up, crosses the room, and opens the door.

  “If there’s anything else I can do for you, please let me know.” He doesn’t hide the expression of relief that relaxes his mouth.

  “Thank you. Good evening.”

  As he walks away, the Inspector identifies Philipp’s nervous gesture. His nose is slightly indented in the middle, a sign of tertiary syphilis. Eventually the bridge of his nose will collapse, the cartilage gone, rotted in his face. He waves ash off the end of the cigar he’s still smoking, the scent reminding him of Philipp’s study.

  At the beginning of his career, the Inspector searched for a framework for his cases. How an action provoked an untimely death. The pivotal moment. A man swindles another man, and his sin is repaid with violence. A woman betrays her husband, and he strikes her, sometimes kills her. Although he was confident this straightforward analysis would solve a crime, Professor Gross taught him that the deciphering of motivation was a more subtle art.

  Now he regards the event of the murder, the manner of death, the victim’s relationships, the situation of his or her life, as equally important.

  When he starts a case, he imagines each fact as an identically bright point of light, stars against a night sky. He does this to see a new pattern, to create a sense of incomprehension for himself. This state of unknowingness is the way he avoids organizing his information prematurely, or giving any fact the wrong importance. It is the most difficult task — living with this disorder — that he imposes on himself.

  Sometimes he fantasizes that this state must be what a poet endures.

  He senses that Erszébet exists in a state much like this, although he could never discuss it with her. He fears and admires her.

  For the briefest moment when he enters a room where there has been an act of violence, he is overwhelmed by the incoherence of the objects around him, their hidden significance. Everything waits. An ordinary drinking glass could be marked with fingerprints, a stool may have supported the suicide’s feet, a hair might be tangled around the knitting wool in a basket. Mirrors frustrate him, since the image of the event they’ve witnessed leaves no trace.

  His wife treats objects with the same reverence, but she is motivated by superstition. She has a profound respect for bad luck and its prevention. A charmed object or a correct action can waylay devils and malevolent spirits, or stop a malignant event from unfolding. Resting a broom beside the door can avert a spell. Willow twigs can ward off szemmelverés, the evil eye. When there’s been a death in the family, lighting a fire in the house or leaving a mirror uncovered will bring misfortune. Erszébet refuses to look into a mirror in the evening, for she believes this will bring the devil to her dreams. She constantly refers to an Egyptian book of dream interpretation, A legrégibb és legnagyobb Egyiptomi Álmoskonyv, which is kept on the nightstand next to their bed.

  If she dreams of someone close to her who has died, she prepares their favorite foods the next day. This offering of a meal appeases malefic spirits, eases the dead. Still, he is always surprised when she serves these unannounced dishes, as if there’s an unseen guest at the table. Her late mother’s favorite dishes, Fischbeuschelsuppe and Gänseljunges, made with the offal of geese, are set on their dinner table at least twenty times a year. Once during a crisis in their marriage, she served it every day for a week. He sensed she was reproaching him with her mother’s presence, but he couldn’t confront her.

  She once told him about the mysterious trampled-down places found in fields, which the peasants superstitiously call werewolves’ nests. Coming across one of these sites, she fell to her knees and buried her face in the flattened yellow grasses, hoping to inhale the odor of a werewolf, a csordásfarkas. As if his scent was a charm. She smelled nothing but hay burned by the afternoon sun.

  He seeks her opinion and has never considered it a weakness to confide in her. She can calculate and make the assumptions that he forbids himself. She can say what he struggles not to think.

  Occasionally when his sense of separateness from her is too strong, he secretly studies the objects connected with her. The shoes she’s worn tell him which market she’s visited, her choice of hat reveals the importance of an errand, the angle of her comb and brush and the thin frost of talcum powder on the bureau indicate whether she hurriedly left the house, or even left the house at all.

  Vienna is paved with cubes of gray granite, tw
enty centimeters square. Between midnight and four A.M., the streets are washed by a procession of quiet men who unroll hoses from huge wheels connected to water tanks. The Inspector is one of the few residents to witness this ritual, since he is out during these irregular hours. Most public events, even the theater and concerts, are over by nine P.M., so everyone can be home an hour later, when the Hausmeisters lock the front doors. After ten o’clock the city is as still as water.

  When there’s a full moon, its light pales the cobblestones and inserts dark cracks between them, so they appear to float in bottomless blackness. On nights when he comes in very late, the Inspector sleeps in a separate room. Silently passing his wife’s bedroom, it seems the black shadow under her door is as deep and unfathomable as the space around the cobblestones outside, square lines infinitely repeated across the city.

  In Hungarian, the word wife is a proper noun, which means “my halfness,” Erszébet has explained to him. She rarely says the word, and allows him to use it only during the moments of their deepest intimacy.

  Once she whispered the three loveliest words in her language to him: csillag, szüz, vér. Star, virgin, blood.

  Walking to work, he suddenly thought of the mirage they’d seen together on their honeymoon. The experience was one of the touchstones of their relationship. An illusory event.

  A week after they were married, the Inspector hired a motor cab and a driver, and they traveled east from Buda Pest. In the Alföld, the region of the Great Plains, he witnessed his first mirage, the délibáb. Erszébet was aware of it before he was.

  She suddenly told the astonished driver to stop, then pulled her husband out of the vehicle. Look over there, she said, and pointed in front of them. He saw nothing but grass, as flat and silvery as the horizon of a great sea. Erszébet took his face between her hands and gently directed it. There now, do you see it? she whispered. He did.

  First a small blue lake appeared in the distance, just above the horizon. As he watched in disbelief, it spread rapidly, faster and more fluid than any earthly river. Then the pointed roof of a house floated upside down in the air above it, and cattle slowly made their way to the lake. A rounded shape was a well, which seemed nonsensical, as if it should absurdly spill its contents onto the ground below it. Suddenly, all of these liquid figures were broken by a shimmer of heat, as the shapes of their colors tilted and bled into each other, then vanished.