White Apples (34 page)

As soon as they were gone, a small blond head appeared over the edge of the roof five stories up. Isabelle was not surprised. Nor was she surprised when another stone came flying down from there. It fell far away and rolled.

Putting a hand to either side of her mouth as her grandmother had done earlier, Isabelle shouted up to the figure on the roof, "Come down here. I want to talk to you."

A pair of arms hurled another stone at her. This one hit closer. When it landed, Isabelle walked over to have a look. It was black, striated, and looked quite heavy. But when she put both hands be•neath to try and lift it, she discovered to her very great astonishment that the stone weighed almost nothing: as much as a tennis ball, balsa wood, or an empty cardboard box.

She looked up just as another stone hit the street with a loud
plock.
A passing car could not avoid it and ran over the stone. It did not move. The car went bumpity-bump as its tire passed over the unbudging rock. Seeing this, Isabelle thought that one must be different—it must weigh a lot. Without a moment's hesitation she dropped the first and walked quickly into the street to this new one.

Nudging it with her foot, at the first second of physical contact she felt a substantial weight there. But then, almost as if it
realized
who was touching it, the heaviness of this second stone disappeared. It suddenly weighed as little as the other.

She picked it up with one hand and walked back to the sidewalk. She looked up at the roof. There was that blond head again, watch•ing her from on high. What was she supposed to do now? What
could
she do? Thinking about this, she instinctively brought the stone up to her nose and sniffed it.

Right away she smelled more than thirty years of her fear, lies, and deception. Those things do have an odor. It is common, me•tallic, and not unlike the smell of fresh blood. It is fresh but it is also old, ancient even. Everyone knows the aroma but does not admit it because we have smelled it on ourselves too many times. It is ugly and deeply embarrassing. Good intentions, good love, good hope. We were so sure it would work this time. We were so sure
this
was the right person, or the ideal situation, the thing we had been waiting for our whole lives. But we were wrong. And as our fear, lies, and other deceptions moved in to those new situations, the odor began again.

All of that was in Isabelle's head now because she recognized it was her odor emanating from the stone she held. This wasn't a cobblestone—it was one of the weapons she had used to destroy herself. At the same time she also realized it had become harmless the instant she touched it. She guessed that was because she'd gotten out of the car and deliberately returned to face the woman on the roof, the stone thrower.

The whole thing made her angry. Furious. It made her furious; she made herself furious, the woman on the roof who was the Isabelle in London who had run away from Vincent when she hadn't heard exactly what she wanted to hear... All of it made her want to—

The stone was the size of a grapefruit but weighed only as much as a tennis ball. Isabelle could think of nothing else to do to vent her anger but throw it with all her might back at the stupid woman on the roof. And that's what she did. When you are as angry as she was, it is not difficult to throw a tennis ball five stories in the air. It will even go higher if you are as angry as Isabelle Neukor was.

It sailed over the roof of the building not far from that damned little blond head up there. In fact, although the stone went wide, the head ducked fast out of sight, clearly afraid that it would be hit.

One stone wasn't enough. Still enraged, Isabelle went over to the other ones that had been lined up on the sidewalk. One after the other she threw them all back up there. She didn't think about aiming or anything else. She just flung the fuckers as hard as she could. When they were gone she narrowed her eyes and scanned the rooftop looking for that head but it was gone.

An old fat woman carrying two plastic bags full of cheap cab•bages from the
Naschmarkt
had stopped to watch.

She'd never seen anything like this. When the young woman was finished with her astonishing athletic feat, she asked

her how she had done it. The old woman was not interested in why someone would be standing in the middle of the sidewalk in the middle of an afternoon throwing large octagonal stones onto a roof. She just wanted to know how it was done.

The young woman rubbed her nose as if it itched mightily. For a moment the cabbage shopper thought she was preparing to do something else violent. But Isabelle was only trying to frame what she wanted to say. When she had it, she pointed at the shopper and shook her finger at her.

"You can't change the past, but the past is always coming back to change
you;
both your present and your future." The shopper thought that was sort of interesting. But all she really wanted to hear was how this skinny,

ethereal-looking woman had thrown heavy rocks onto a roof.

"The past is fixed, it's permanent." Isabelle was on a roll now, thinking out loud, not about to stop. Her voice got louder, her words faster. Soon the shopper could barely follow what she was saying. "It's dead, but it keeps coming back and stops us from mov•ing forward. It gets in the way of our present... and our future." She pointed up to the roof but kept looking at the old woman. "All those things she threw at me were
old
—stuff from my past. But it always stopped me before."

There was a pause while she caught her breath, the words sank in, and cars moved by. "But how did you lift those big rocks?"

Isabelle looked at the other woman as if she had just spoken in Urdu. "What?" "Those rocks—how did you throw them up there?"

"I'm sorry—I have to go now." Isabelle started away.

"Was it a trick? Are we on television?" The shopper suddenly brightened up, thinking they were on
Candid Camera.
She looked around expectantly but no cameras emerged from hiding.

Walking backward in the direction of Chivas's car, Isabelle pointed her finger again at the woman. "Don't let your past scare you out of doing anything now." Still backpedaling, she put her hands together at the wrists as if they were bound. She shook them. "It always wants to tie your hands or trip you, but don't let it." She turned and walked quickly away.

The shopper gave a last look around, her last small hope fading that perhaps the cameras would show themselves now, but no luck. Sighing, she got a better grip on her bags and started again toward home and the cabbage soup she would prepare this evening.

Because this interaction was going on between the two women, neither of them looked up at the roof and saw the blond figure throw another stone at them. But as soon as it left her hands, this stone was wafted high in the air like a tissue or an empty candy wrapper. Then it was whipped away in the opposite direction by a strong breeze that was searching for something to play with.

Chivas was feeding a spicy
Debreziner
sausage to Hietzl when Isabelle tapped on his window again with the back of her hand. He pressed a button that unlocked her door. She heard it and walked around to the passenger's side.

"Wow, you're back already? That was fast."

She took the sausage and cardboard plate that it had come on away from him. Hietzl sat patiently in the back seat watching its meal change hands. Isabelle broke off a small jagged piece and fed it to the dog. It chewed slowly and savored the taste. Before offering it another chunk, she looked at what was left of the bumpy red sausage on the paper plate. "Maybe I should have told her instead, 'Never let your past salt your meat for you.'"

Chivas didn't know what she was talking about but he liked the sentiment. "That's true. Your sense of taste was different in the past. As a kid I loved cottage cheese. Now I can't even see the stuff without thinking it looks like white vomit."

She fed the dog the last morsels while Chivas turned on the engine and drove away. At the Ringstrasse he turned left rather than going straight into town.

"Why are you going this way? I thought we were going to the café." "There's been a change of plans. You're going to the airport."

"Why the airport? Is Vincent out there?"

"No, he's in America. You're flying there to meet him." "I just
flew
to America."

"I know, but this is the only way to get you there now. When we crossed the Gürtel, we were back in today. I have no magic now except this last piece." He took an airplane ticket and a passport out of his pocket—her passport, the one she had left in Vincent's apartment.

She took them from him, inwardly groaning at the thought of having to get on another airplane for twelve hours. "How did you get my passport?"

"Hietzl did. He just got back. That's why he was so hungry."

She twisted the rearview mirror around so that she could see the dog. It was busy licking its balls. "How did you know I'd come back, Chivas? How did you know—

"My only experience with you, albeit short, is that you have just become a fighter. You rose to this occasion and went back to face what scared you."

It was so good hearing that. She was sure she was blushing but didn't care. "Thank you. But why isn't Vincent at the café now?"

"Because he was in a serious car accident. He's in a coma and they don't know if he will survive."

Ettrich was up on stage, rocking the house. The audience was laugh•ing so much that he had to pause longer than usual between jokes. In the middle of the bit about Satan and padded mailing envelopes, he knew by their reaction that he was home free. You can tell quickly whether an audience is with you or not. It's like putting the first moves on a new woman: If you win their smile right away and it stays, you're off and running. Or if their head is pushed forward a little so they can more carefully hear everything you're saying because they
want
to hear everything you're saying. Their arms aren't crossed because they're not blocking you out... signs like these were what you looked for. Yes, it was very similar to when a new woman opened up to you.

This was one of his favorite dreams of all. Whenever he had it he would wake up the next morning happy and full of energy. Awake, he knew damned well he had no talent to be a stand-up comedian. Asleep he was as good as any of them and better than most.

"Have you ever noticed that fat women like patent leather? Why is that?" Now he was moving into the sweet spot, the chocolate center of his routine. The best jokes, the nuttiest insights came now. Even when the first part of his act bombed sometimes, he knew he'd have an audience in his pocket from here on out.

Stepping away from the microphone, he rubbed his palms to•gether. He took a deep breath because the next bit was long and he had to hit the lines boom-boom-boom if it was going to sound perfect. When he took the mike again someone in the audience stood up. Ettrich wanted to yell Sit down! You're going to love this next part, I swear to you. Hold off taking that piss for five minutes. Just listen to this—

A man had stood up, a tall man. Ettrich could not see him very well because the room was dark and the stage lights pointed directly at him. But he could make out a tall man at a table up front, stepping sideways.

A comedian has two ways of dealing with this situation—ignores it, or addresses it. Ettrich felt so good about this audience and the energy in the room that he decided to go after the guy.

"Look at this man leaving in the middle of my act. Now that means either—" Before Ettrich had a chance to finish what he was saying, the fashionably dressed black man stepped close to the stage. With a start, Ettrich recognized him—Tillman Reeves, his room•mate in the hospital before he died.

"Hello, Vincent."

"Till! What are you doing here?"

Someone far back in the room shouted out, "Louder! We can't hear you back here," "Can we talk, Vincent?"

"Here?
Now?"
Ettrich looked at the audience, amazed that Till would make such a ridiculous request in the middle of his act.

"This is only a dream, Vincent. You can do whatever you want in a dream." "I know, but I'm doing a
show
here, Till—

"You're also dying, friend, which is more important. Don't you think we should talk about that now?" "Louder up there! We can't hear you."

Tillman put out his hand, gesturing for Vincent to go ahead of him. Right in the middle of his act! Resigned, Ettrich stepped down and walked to Reeves's table. He felt like a kid being called out of class and made to go to the principal's office. The audience didn't mind. The emcee jumped up on stage and called for a round of applause for Victor Ettrich. They gave him a halfhearted one. Ettrich knew that if he'd been able to finish his routine they would have clapped for him big time.

Since it was a dream, the guy who immediately followed him on stage was Richard Kroslak, Ettrich's archenemy in fifth grade. This Kroslak was an adult but he began telling the same fart and sex jokes that no one liked even in fifth grade. But this audience loved them. They were howling at everything he said. To Ettrich's great chagrin, judging by the intensity of their laughter it sounded as if they liked Richard's routine much more than they had liked his.

"Do you know what happened to you, Vincent?"

Although he was sitting at the table with Tillman, Ettrich couldn't stop looking and listening to that dumbbell Kroslak.

"Vincent?"

He blinked once then turned both his head and attention to his friend. "Yes, Till?" "Do you remember what happened to you?"

"You mean the accident?"

Reeves's face relaxed. "Yes. Do you remember it?"

Ettrich thought a bit and eventually said, "I was driving through an intersection and another car blindsided me." "Good! You remember that."

"Why wouldn't I? They were trying to kill me."

Till shook his head. "No, they wanted exactly this to happen. They wanted you either seriously injured or in a coma."

Ettrich showed no emotion. He laced his fingers over a knee. "I don't care that it happened. It's not bad here." When he was alive he had always heard that when people died and looked back at life, they realized how empty and unfulfilling it was. I fought so hard to stay
there?
Now he knew it was true—living was a silly, worthless thing. A pretty waitress came by and, without having been told, brought the men their favorite drinks. Taking the glasses from her, they raised them in a toast to each other and had a first sip— perfect.