like a mother staying clear of her infant’s clawing little mitts, before dipping under his shoulder, parking him against her hip and dragging him off to their den behind the kitchen. Poor thing, before she could crawl into bed beside him she had a least two hours’ work ahead of her.
Up in my room, the first thing I did was look out of the window and, sure enough, there they were still out in the field, the sabreur brothers. They were taking a stroll, talking earnestly, arms around each other’s shoulders. Alone at last. The adults had all gone inside, the front door had been locked with a bang, a glass had shattered on the paving stones, there had been the sound of crying or laughter, and insistent whispering that had carried all the way up to the attic, but no one had paid the twins any heed. They did not seem to mind in the slightest. They had ignored me completely. I was growing accustomed to such treatment from the maître, and the attentions of their mother left me cold, but these boys were my fellow students. We were almost the same age.
A few hours later I woke with a start. The hard, metallic light of the moon was shining through the curtains. I got out of bed to push them aside and was just in time to see the cabriolet driving off. Leni, in her dressing gown, closed the gate and trudged back toward the house. I was about to turn away and crawl back between the sheets when I saw them lying there. Was I dreaming or had the grass around their bodies grown taller? They lay beside each other, looking so inert in the nickel-grey light that it was easy to take them for dead.
-
7
Raeren made a spy of me. Closed curtains, strange letters, muffled exchanges—I was drawn to them like a thief to a safe. Hunting for clues is a glorious game, sweeter than the discovery itself. This was more than just the whim of a naughty girl. On the fourth morning I woke to the realization that I was being excluded. I was an unwelcome guest. There was plenty to see within Raeren’s walls, yet none of it was intended for my eyes. Some voyeurs revel in exclusive viewing rights, seeking out images even their victim cannot see, observing them when they are asleep or alone in a mirrorless room. Others persuade themselves they are sharing something with the person they are spying on, convinced their victim wants to be watched because he has neglected to slide the key into the keyhole. I was the angry voyeur, in search of evidence. While the rest of Raeren slept, only I saw the twins playing at musketeers in the fencing hall. The doors to the terrace had been flung open and the flapping net curtains provided alternate glimpses of the two halves of a fencing bout. From the fragments tossed in my direction, I concluded that the sabreurs were more beautiful than the Nadi brothers and identical as two drops of blood. They fenced without masks or tunics. Their night on the grassy field had left no trace on their faces, even their bare chests were immaculate. Cause for concern, or then again perhaps not, since the best fencers are battle-scarred. I never thought my bruises ugly, as long as they were outside the target area. Once I paraded around for a week showing off a dramatic bruise on my upper arm till a girl I knew told me I would catch cold in that sleeveless blouse of mine. But the sabreurs’ bodies were pure and waxen, as if they had been moulded especially for this demonstration. Suddenly they went in for the attack, swinging wildly. This was swordsmanship at its crudest. The parquet creaked under the thud of their footsteps. A chandelier took a hit and shed a candle. This could not end well. Their blades scraped through the air, the clang of steel against steel was far too frequent. That is not how it should be done, a good fencing match has moments of stillness, and the one who breaks them has to strike in a headlong rush, like a spider homing in on its prey. Without stillness, a duel descends into a blind scuffle that ends in slaughter. How long can a spectator look on before becoming an accessory? Yet there was something odd about this scene, something that stopped me from intervening. Every thrust was met with a riposte; the twins never once hit each other, though there were enough opportunities for the taking. In the end, one of the sabreurs swivelled his torso 90 degrees and his attacker tumbled across the piste with a loud cry. The two of them erupted into laughter. It was a routine they had learned off by heart. Pure theatrics. I cleared my throat. They were not surprised to see me—they even took a bow.
‘What did you think?’ asked the brother who had taken a dive. ‘Mama taught us. The full act involves a chair. That’s Siegbert’s speciality. He leaps onto the seat and then onto the back, so the chair tips over, and then he jumps clear—do you want us to show you?’
‘Is your mother a fencer too?’
‘She’s an actress. But now she’s gone. And the maître is ill. We went to fetch him. His door was open but when we stood at the foot of his bed he rose up like the Golem. You know, from the film? In slow motion, with his arms stretched out in front of him. Scared us half to death.’ His eyes grew wide as he took hold of a chair and lifted it above his head. ‘Der Golemmm!’
I burst out laughing, but his brother remained deadly serious. ‘I wasn’t scared, Friedrich,’ he said. ‘Speak for yourself.’
For the first time I became aware of a genuine difference between the two. It was how they spoke. When Siegbert said something, his face froze into an icy mask. It aged him somehow, whereas even Friedrich’s nose joined in when he chattered. ‘Come on, Siegbert, show her your trick.’
‘Not on your life. Before you know it I’ll have broken a chair and the Golem will be after us. Let’s put our kit back on and do some fencing. I’m sure Janna can keep score.’
It wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that Siegbert had taken the lead when they were born as well. He had exerted himself during their bout, his chest was still heaving as he laced up his waistband. Sweat trickled down into the hollow of his back.
‘Come here, Fritz, I’ll help you into your jacket.’
They fell silent and became identical again. Siegbert’s fingers glided over Friedrich’s back from button to button. He blew his brother’s hair aside to fasten the collar, then grabbed him by the neck and turned him around to face me: ‘Isn’t my little brother astonishingly handsome?’
When they had been excluding me, I had been unable to take my eyes off the sabreurs. But now I looked away in the hope that they might abandon this show of childish affectation.
‘Fritz is better-looking,’ said Siegbert. ‘Everybody says so.’
Friedrich pulled himself away. ‘That’s a lie! Siegbert is bigger than I am. And stronger.’
‘Am not.’
‘Are so.’
They chased after each other, panting like schoolgirls. But when they skidded to a halt, Siegbert dragged his brother over to the mirror and thrust him in front of it. ‘See for yourself, Fritz. Look how beautiful you are.’
‘Let go of me,’ squeaked Friedrich. ‘Please, dear Sieg. Don’t be so cruel.’
‘Tell him, Janna,’ Siegbert insisted.
My cheeks were flushed with shame. ‘Leave me out of it!’ I blurted. ‘We came here to fence. Now put on your masks!’
Remarkably, they obeyed. Everything went according to the rulebook. I knew the rules that governed sabre-fencing, all the same it was a terribly fast-moving sport to preside on your own. Yet they never questioned my authority. As I expected, they were evenly matched, hopping back and forth across the piste like Punch and Judy. After Friedrich’s first thrust on target, Siegbert equalized with a slash to the shoulder. Four hits for each brother followed until Siegbert suddenly lowered his sabre.
‘Wait!’ He held a finger up to his mask. ‘Quiet, I can hear something!’
We pricked up our ears. All I could hear was a songbird showing off
