Stardust(19)

“Nonsense,” Liesl said, moving over to a vase of flowers.

“No, the doctor said, head injuries—we don’t know. What really happens.” He looked over at Ben, his voice reassuring. “The first two days were the critical ones. So perhaps—”

“But he’s no better,” Liesl said, bluntly pragmatic, facing it. “Why do people send flowers when he can’t see them.”

The room, Ben noticed now, was full of them, covering side tables and window sills.

“It’s a sign of concern,” Ostermann said. “A gesture.”

“For you,” Liesl said. “They send them for you.”

“You’re tired,” Ostermann said, as close, Ben saw, as he would come to a reprimand.

Liesl was reading one of the cards attached to a vase. “From Alma,” she said. “So she’s forgiven you.”

“For now,” Ostermann said, a weak smile.

Ben looked at the bruised face. When you’re unconscious, where does the mind go? Functioning somewhere beyond pain, or simply floating in white? Now that he was here, what was there to do? The usual business of a hospital visit seemed beside the point—fetching nurses, chatting idly to keep up spirits, plumping pillows.

Instead they waited, Ostermann returning to his book, Ben sitting at the bedside gazing at Danny’s damaged face, Liesl pacing, making lists of the flower cards for thank-you notes, glancing over at the bed as if she were still deciding how to feel, wearing herself out with it.

By lunch, in the cafeteria, she was visibly exhausted.

“Go home and rest,” Ostermann said. “You were here all night.”

“How can I leave? What if I’m not here if— What would people say?”

“That the family was here. Get Ben settled in. I’ll stay.”

“How can I sleep?” she said, putting things on her tray, standing up.

Ostermann looked at her fondly. “Then have a swim.” He turned to Ben as she left the table. “It’s no good, being here day and night. Look at her, all nerves. Take her home. He’ll be here later, you know.”

“What if he isn’t?”

“I know how you feel. When Anna was dying, in Paris, I never left. Nuns. I didn’t want to leave her with nuns. Leave her alone. But it was for me, not her. When she died, I was there and it didn’t matter. She was alone. I didn’t know it until then. We die alone.” He looked up. “I’ll call if there’s a change.”


THEY DROVE up into the hills, the narrow road twisting upward in a series of blind curves past tall bushes and steep, hidden driveways. With each turn the houses seemed to get bigger, villas and a few white boxes that once must have been daring and modernist, softened now by middle-aged gardens. The trees were bigger, too, mature oaks and tall needle pines, as if the cooler air above the flats made it easier for them to grow. The new cars parked along the side of the road were buffed and shiny, like children after a bath.

“Here we are.”

The house, just visible through the driveway shrubs, was Mediterranean, fronted with a row of French windows. They pulled up next to a Dodge coupe.

“Oh, good, Iris is here. I asked her to come in an extra day.” A maid with a car. In Germany, bicycles were traded for food.

The house inside was light and open, filled with books and contemporary furniture, a piano covered with framed photographs in the corner. Iris, a wiry, pale woman in a dress, not a uniform, was in the dining room polishing silver.

“I put the messages by the phone. You better call the caterer again. I told him no ham but he wants to talk to you.”

Ben looked at Liesl, surprised.

“I thought I’d better start arranging things,” she said, flushing, “just in case. So we won’t have to at the last minute. Iris, this is Mr. Kohler’s brother, Benjamin.”

“Reuben. Anyway, Ben,” he said, distracted, noticing her feet in pink bedroom slippers.

Iris nodded. “I’m sorry about Mr. Kohler,” she said, formal but genuine, then cocked her head to one side, appraising him. “You don’t look alike.”

“No, he took after my father.”

Liesl started toward the hall. “You’re down this way. You’ll have your own bath, so it’s private.”

Through an open door on their left he could see a big desk and more shelves. Danny’s real workroom, not rented by the month. A club chair in the corner and, next to it, a day bed made up as a couch.

“I’m here. Daniel’s dressing room opens from the hall, too, so you won’t be bothering me. If you use it. That door.” She pointed, still moving.