The Kindly Ones

The iron key that Käthe had given me was large and heavy, but the lock, well oiled, opened easily. The hinges must also have been well oiled, for the door didn’t creak. I pushed open a few shutters to light the entry hall, then examined the handsome, intricately carved wooden staircase, the long bookcases, the parquet floor polished by time, the little sculptures and moldings where one could still make out traces of chipped gold leaf. I turned the switch: a chandelier in the middle of the room lit up. I turned it off and went upstairs, without bothering to close the door or take off my cap, coat, or gloves. Upstairs, a long hallway lined with windows traversed the house. I opened the windows one by one, threw open the shutters, and closed the windows. Then I opened the doors: next to the stairway there was a storeroom, a maid’s room, another hallway that led to a service staircase; opposite the windows, a bathroom and two cold little bedrooms. At the end of the hallway, a cloth-covered door opened onto a vast master bedroom that took up the entire rear of the floor. I turned on the light. There was a large four-poster bed with twirling posts, but no curtains or canopy, a cracked, polished old leather sofa, a wardrobe and a writing desk, a vanity with a tall mirror, another full-length mirror, facing the bed. Next to the wardrobe another door must have led to the bathroom. It was obviously my sister’s bedroom, cold and odorless. I contemplated it a while and then went out and closed the door, without opening the shutters. Downstairs, the hall led to a vast living room, with a piano and a long dining table made of old wood; then came the pantries and kitchen. There I opened everything, going out for a moment to gaze at the terrace, the woods. It was almost warm out, the sky was gray, the snow was melting, dripping from the roof with a pleasant little sound on the flagstones of the terrace and, farther away, hollowing out little wells in the snowy layer at the foot of the walls. In a few days, I thought, if the weather doesn’t get cold again, there will be mud, that will slow the Russians down. A crow took off heavily from the pines, cawed, then settled a little farther on. I closed the French windows and returned to the entry hall. The front door was still open: I brought in my bag and closed it. Behind the stairway was another double door, of varnished wood with round ornaments. That must have led to von Üxküll’s apartments. I hesitated, then went back to the living room, where I looked at the furniture, the rare, carefully chosen bibelots, the large stone fireplace, the grand piano. A full-length portrait hung behind the piano, in a corner: von Üxküll, still young, in three-quarter profile, with his gaze turned to the spectator, his head bare, in a uniform from the Great War. I examined it, noting the medals, the signet ring, the suede gloves held negligently in his hand. This portrait frightened me a little, I felt my stomach tighten, but I had to admit that he must have been a handsome man, once. I went over to the grand piano and raised the cover. My gaze went from the painting to the long line of ivory keys, then back to the painting. With a finger that was still gloved, I hit a key. I didn’t even know what the note was, I knew nothing, and in front of von Üxküll’s handsome portrait I was again filled with the old regret. I said to myself: I would so have liked to know how to play the piano, I would so like to hear Bach one more time, before I die. But such regrets were pointless, I replaced the cover and left the living room through the terrace. In a storage room by the side of the house I found the wood supply, and in several trips I carried some large logs to the fireplace, along with smaller pieces of wood, already cut, which I piled into a log holder made of thick leather. I also carried some wood upstairs and lit the stove in one of the small spare bedrooms, fuelling the fire with old issues of the VB

piled up in the bathroom. In the entry hall, I finally removed my outer clothes, trading my boots for some big slippers I found there; then I went back upstairs with my bag, which I unpacked on the narrow brass bed, putting my clothes away in the closet. The room was simple, with functional furniture, a ewer and a sink, discreet wallpaper. The ceramic stove heated up quickly. I went back downstairs with the bottle of Cognac and began making a fire in the fireplace. It was more trouble than the stove but it finally caught. I poured myself a glass of Cognac, found an ashtray, and settled into a comfortable armchair near the hearth, with my tunic unfastened. The daylight outside was gently waning, and I thought about nothing.