Deadly Communion

13

KRISTINA VOGL SAT AT her dressing table, looking through the day’s post. The letters were mostly expressions of gratitude from friends and associates whom she had invited to the grand opening of her salon. Halfway through the pile she came across an envelope made of cheap, thin paper which she set aside. After reading her correspondence, she tied it all together with a red ribbon and placed the bundle in the lowest of her dressing-table drawers. Picking up the envelope she had set aside, she studied the handwriting and after a lengthy pause began to tear the paper into thin strips. She then tore each strip into little pieces, and sprinkled the resulting confetti into a wicker basket.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror.

The cast of light had placed shadows under her eyes. She tested the skin — pulling it down to make sure that the discoloration was an illusion.

Journalists had been generous in the society pages. An attractive woman: that was how most people — she understood — would choose to describe her. Neverthless, she was acutely aware of the ravages of time. An ‘attractive’ woman could become virtually invisible to the opposite sex within the space of a few unkind years. She had already marked the first signs of her falling stock. Kristina was a keen student of human behaviour and had learned to read men’s minds by watching their eye movements. Even an immature girl like her secretary Wanda — with her bad posture and rounded features — could deprive her of the first admiring glances that she had formerly taken for granted.

Kristina looked into her basket and, on seeing the remains of the unread letter, screwed up some writing paper which she placed strategically over the waste for the purpose of concealment. It was an unnecessary precaution, but old habits were difficult to break. Diligence cost nothing.

Rising from her chair, Kristina crossed the room and got into bed. She reached out to turn off the electric lamp — the bulb of which was hidden by a floral shade — but her action was arrested by a gentle, deferential knock.

The soft percussion was coming from her husband’s bedroom that adjoined her own.

‘Come in,’ Kristina called out.

The door opened, revealing the figure of Doctor Heinz Vogl. He was a man in his late middle years, with significant amounts of grey in his well-trimmed beard and moustache. He had taken off his jacket but had not removed his waistcoat. His gold watch chain was conspicuously bright against the charcoal-grey fabric.

‘Ah, my darling,’ he said. ‘You are still awake.’

He entered and sat on the edge of the bed.

‘Was there an emergency?’

‘Yes, the old general. His breathing was terrible. I thought he was going to die. But he pulled through. I was delayed by his family. They had many questions — too many, if you ask me.’

‘Oh?’

‘His son was overly interested in the details of his father’s medical condition. I strongly suspect that he is already thinking about his inheritance.’

‘How dreadful.’

‘The old general deserves better.’ Vogl touched the collar of his wife’s nightdress. ‘Is this new?’

‘Yes. I got one of the seamstresses to run it off.’

‘Your design?’

Kristina nodded: ‘We had a new delivery of Chinese silk. I couldn’t resist it.’

Vogl smiled. ‘It’s very beautiful. You look exquisite.’

He placed his crooked knuckle under Kristina’s chin and lifted her lips to meet his own. His tenderness acquired urgency and his free hand found the warm, acquiescing curve of his wife’s breast beneath the slippery diaphanous silk. Kristina became tense.

‘What is it?’

‘I’m sorry, Heinz. I’m very tired.’

She felt a pang of guilt. Kristina had been unable to give her husband the children he had so dearly desired and she had come to regard it as her duty always to grant him his conjugal rights. On this occasion, however, the shredded letter in the basket was still on her mind: the cheap paper, the ugly handwriting.

‘You have been working hard too. How foolish of me to forget.’ Vogl showed no sign of irritation. He withdrew and, clasping Kristina’s hand in his own, added: ‘Any new customers?’

‘Yes. Countess Kézdi.’

‘How did she hear about you?’

‘She’s an acquaintance of Frau Schmollinger.’

‘I see.’

Vogl mentioned that the medical director, Professor Hipfl, had invited them to dinner, and that Frau Professor Hipfl had expressed an interest in visiting the salon. They spoke for a few minutes more about their respective days, until Kristina stifled a yawn. Vogl kissed his wife chastely on the forehead and reluctantly let go of her hand.

‘I’ll sleep next door. I want to read a little. Goodnight, my love.’

Kristina turned the light off. The nightdress felt good on her skin. The perfumes on her dressing table scented the air with rose and lavender. She had worked hard for this life of hers. No one was going to take it away.