12
When Max woke the following morning his head felt like a bowl of jelly. From what he could see out of the window the storm was gone and it promised to be a bright, sunny day. He sat up lazily and took his watch from the bedside table. The first thing he thought was that it wasn’t working properly. But when he put it next to his ear he realised that the mechanism was working fine; he was the one who’d lost his bearings. It was twelve noon.
He jumped out of bed and rushed downstairs. There was a note on the dining-room table. He picked it up and read his sister’s spidery writing:
Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,
By the time you read this I’ll be on the beach with Roland. I’ve borrowed your bicycle, hope you don’t mind. I see you went to the movies last night, so I didn’t want to wake you. Dad called first thing and says they still don’t know when they’ll be able to come home. There’s been no change in Irina, but the doctors say she’ll probably be out of the coma in a few days. I convinced Dad not to worry about us (it wasn’t easy).
By the way, there’s nothing for breakfast.
We’ll be on the beach. Sweet dreams…
Alicia
Max reread the note three times before leaving it on the table. He ran upstairs and hurriedly washed his face. Then he slipped on a pair of swimming shorts and a blue shirt and went out to the garden shed to find the other bicycle. By the time he got to the road that skirted the beach his stomach was already screaming for its morning rations, so when he reached the town he changed direction and headed for the bakery in the main square. The delicious aroma called to him from several metres away and the approving rumbles of his stomach confirmed that he’d made the right decision. Two sweet buns and two chocolate bars later he set off for the beach with a saintly smile stamped on his face.
*
Alicia’s bicycle was leaning on its stand by the path that led to the beach and Roland’s cabin. Max left his bicycle next to his sister’s. Still the city boy, it occurred to him that even if the town didn’t seem like a haven for thieves, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to buy a couple of padlocks. He stopped for a moment to look at the lighthouse on the cliff top and then began walking towards the beach. Shortly before he came to the end of the path that led between tall grasses to the bay, he stopped.
On the shore, about twenty metres from where Max was standing, Alicia was lying on the sand. Leaning over her was Roland, his fingertips slowly caressing the pale skin of her belly. He drew closer to Alicia and kissed her on the lips. Alicia rolled onto her side then climbed on top of Roland, her hands pinning his against the sand. On her lips was a smile Max had never seen before.
Max took a step or two back and hid among the grass, praying they hadn’t seen him. He remained there, not moving, wondering what he should do next. Turn up, smiling like an idiot, and wish them a good morning? Or go off for a walk?
Max didn’t consider himself a spy, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to peek once more through the tall grass at his sister and Roland. He could hear their laughter and see that Roland’s hands were moving shyly over Alicia’s body. Exploring. From the way his hands were shaking, Max deduced that this was, if not the first time, then at most the second time Roland had found himself in such a momentous situation. Max wondered whether it was also the first time for Alicia. He had to admit that he didn’t know the answer. Although they’d spent their whole life living under the same roof, Alicia had always been a mystery to him.
To see her lying there on the beach kissing Roland made him feel uneasy, and it wasn’t something he’d expected. From the beginning he’d realised that there was something between her and Roland, but it was one thing to imagine it and another, very different thing to see it with his own eyes. He peered out again but suddenly felt that he had no right to be there: the moment belonged only to his sister and Roland. Silently he retraced his steps as far as the bicycles and left the beach.
As he did so he wondered whether perhaps he was jealous. Maybe it was just that he’d spent years thinking of his sister as a child, older than he was but with no secrets, certainly someone who didn’t go around kissing people. For a moment he laughed at his own naivety and gradually he started to feel better about what he’d seen. He couldn’t predict what would happen the following week, or what the end of the summer would bring, but that day Max was sure that his sister was happy. And that was more than he’d been able to say about her for many years.
Max rode back to the town centre and left his bike by the library. Inside, he found an old glass counter displaying the library’s opening hours and other public notices, including the monthly programme for the only cinema in the region and a map of the town. Max concentrated on the map, studying it carefully. The layout looked very similar to the way he’d imagined it.
It was a detailed outline showing the port, the town centre, the north beach where the Carvers’ house was situated, the bay to the south with the Orpheus and the lighthouse, the sports grounds near the railway station, and the cemetery. A thought flashed through Max’s mind. The local cemetery. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He looked at his watch and saw that it was already ten past two. Grabbing his bicycle, he rode off up the main street, heading for the road that led away from the shore towards the small graveyard where he hoped to find the tomb of Jacob Fleischmann.
*
The cemetery was a large rectangular enclosure, reached via a long path that wound its way uphill between tall cypress trees. There was nothing particularly original about it, he supposed. The stone walls seemed quite old, though not ancient, and from the outside it looked like a typical small-town graveyard, where except for a couple of days a year – excluding local funerals – visitors were few and far between. The gates were open and a metal sign, covered in rust, announced that the opening hours were from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. in the summer, and from 8 to 4 in winter. If there was anyone guarding the place, Max couldn’t see them.
On his way there, he had prepared himself for a sombre, sinister landscape, but the bright early-summer sunshine made it look more like a cloister, quiet and only vaguely sad.
Max left his bicycle leaning against the outer wall and walked into the cemetery. It was dotted with modest tombs that probably belonged to some of the more established local families. Here and there he saw walls containing recesses for burial urns that appeared to be more recent.
Although it had crossed his mind that the Fleischmanns might have preferred to bury their little Jacob far from this place, something told Max that the remains of Dr Fleischmann’s heir would be resting in the town in which he was born. It took him almost half an hour to find the grave, at the far end of the cemetery, under the shade of two old cypress trees. It was a mausoleum to which time and rain had lent an air of abandon and neglect. The structure resembled a narrow marble hut, and it was blackened and dirty. Its wrought-iron gate was flanked by statues of two angels that looked towards heaven with imploring eyes. Jammed between the rusty bars of the gate was a bunch of dry flowers that must have been there since time immemorial.
An aura of sadness seemed to surround the tomb, and although it was obvious that it hadn’t been visited for some time, the echoes of pain and tragedy still felt recent. He followed the flagstone path leading up to the tomb and stopped at the entrance. The gate was half open and a strong smell of musty air came from within. All around there was complete silence. Max glanced one last time at the stone angels guarding Jacob Fleischmann’s tomb and entered, aware that, if he waited one more minute, he’d be tempted to run away from the place as fast as his legs could carry him.