end. I couldn’t miss it. No need to worry, the master was in the very best of spirits. He had been out for a walk, shot a young hare and was making breakfast himself. Oh yes, and she was to let me know that he was looking forward to my company. I felt the blood rise to my cheeks. This gallant invitation had ushered Bolkonsky back on stage. I pinned up my hair, straightened my back and off I went to meet him, doing my best to sweep silently down the creaking stairs. As soon as I set foot in the kitchen my expectations were shattered. Instead of sitting at the head of a table decked with white linen, von Bötticher was standing with his back to me kneading a lump of minced meat over by the sink.
It seems to me now that I spent all my young life daydreaming. The dedication I devoted to my fantasies made this a tiring habit. There was never enough time to see them through and, picking up the thread when I next had a moment to myself, I was confronted with all manner of imperfections. Even castles in the air needed cleaning, and there was always the risk of some young wench stealing away your beloved or an old harpy ruining your picture-perfect romance with her interfering ways. Besides, what exactly did a prince do all day? It could easily take me a good hour to iron out the wrinkles. My daydreams kept me awake at night and I lived with some stories for years, layering detail upon detail, down to the trim of the sleeves of my bridal gown. Only girls daydream with such dogged determination, of that I am sure. All young souls idealize the future, but it takes a girl to idealize the present along with it.
There he stood, von Bötticher, not Bolkonsky, in a long shirt, his wide sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Without his homburg, I noticed his hair was already turning grey. He was only a few years younger than my father. How long would it take for that fact to sink in? Imagination is more stubborn than reality—ask any madman who experiences moments of clarity. An illusion will always steal back onto the scene as soon as the original is out of sight, like a lover stepping out of a wardrobe and every bit as alluring. Even though von Bötticher tarnished his ideal image time and again, I had dreamed up enough to keep me going for nights on end. He turned his good cheek toward me and nodded as if he knew what I was thinking. He did not ask me whether I had slept well. It was a matter of indifference to him.
‘Where’s Leni?’
‘Cleaning up pigeon mess in my room.’
Von Bötticher pretended not to hear. He took white plugs of ground bacon fat from the mincer, pushed them into the stuffing and added an immoderate glug of brandy. These were unfamiliar smells. My mother spiked her stews with vinegar, as tradition dictated. Wine wasn’t something to be poured into a pot but something we drank once a year. Spirits never made it past the front door. Our next-door neighbour had once slipped me a slug of bitters during a snowball fight in the street, passing it off as apple juice—his idea of a lark. That morning, the maître’s kitchen must have smelled of the ingredients for a pie: bacon fat, cognac, a hunk of marbled boar meat, calf’s liver, kidneys, pickled mushrooms, and the egg pastry rising under a tea towel on the windowsill. The scent of the countryside poured in through the open window: vegetables sprouting in the kitchen garden and the clover on which the cows were grazing. The same clover was in the stomach of the hare that had just been shot. It lay limp-eared on the table, ready to be hung by its hind legs, which had been bound together with twine. In a few days’ time, its innards would be rinsed out and the smells released would drive every animal in the house to distraction. For now, it smelled of the sand in its fur and the grass between its toes—as did Gustav, still alive and well and hopping around under the table. That overgrown specimen didn’t give a damn about anything, least of all what was going on above his head. Though well-mannered enough to deposit his droppings in a neat pile in the corner, he sank his teeth into every piece of furniture he came across, shook his head, balanced on his outsized feet and washed his ears with his front paws. It was one surprise after another. Von Bötticher gave Gustav a piece of bacon, which disappeared little by little between his grinding jaws.
‘There’s something you didn’t know, eh? Rabbits eat anything. Even meat,’ said von Bötticher. ‘Just like cows chew out dead animals in search of minerals. Ever seen a cow with a dead rabbit in its mouth? They’ll happily gnaw a bone or two for the sake of calcium. It’s eat and be eaten in the natural world, no waste. Every last morsel gets consumed. The insects are first on the scene when an animal dies. Flies and mites can smell a hare like this one from miles away. Then birds of prey arrive and tear loose the skin, exposing the guts to foxes and badgers. But the rotting process alone will ensure that a corpse bursts open within a few days.’
He stroked the hare’s fur and sniffed his hand. ‘This one needs to be taken down to the cellar immediately. What on earth is keeping Leni?’
‘Are you planning to eat Gustav, too?’
‘Absolutely! With cowberries. Or smothered in cream, braised in Riesling and served with parsnips. Or wrapped in bacon and roasted after a night soaking in buttermilk. I’ll be sure to give him the attention he deserves. Ah Leni, at last!’
Leni was barely through the door when the toe of her boot connected with Gustav’s backside, to no discernible effect. ‘That monster has chewed the fringes off every carpet in the house. And unless my eyes deceive me, it’s produced a fresh pile of droppings. Sir, I ask you, I beg you on my aching knees: for God’s sake leave those animals of yours to roam around outdoors for a week or so. It will spare me all kinds of mess. The nights are still warm enough.’
‘And where would that leave me? How is a lonely man like myself to find warmth and companionship?’
Leni spread her arms wide. ‘And lonely you’ll remain while you continue to lock away your lady guests in the pigeon loft!’
Irked, von Bötticher tossed the dead hare into her open arms. ‘Here, woman. Take this down to the cellar and quick.’
Heinz came into the kitchen and sat down to wait while von Bötticher cut thin slices of sausage. This was clearly a morning ritual. The lord of the manor boiled eggs, removed a young cheese from a bowl of water, served cream with a small basket of berries on the vine, and put a plaited loaf on the table. His manservant did not lift a finger, and when his wife returned he pulled back her chair and together they prayed in silence. Through half-closed eyes, I watched von Bötticher stare unashamedly at their knitted brows. I think he took pleasure in the fact that the first sight to greet them after their moment with God would be that mutilated mug of his. Once grace had been said, he made sure we filled our stomachs with the food from his table, as if we were stray dogs. He himself ate next to nothing. When the dishes were all but empty, he solemnly broke the silence to address a practical matter. ‘Well, Janna,’ he said on that first morning, ‘have you brought me anything? Something from your father perhaps?’
Leni’s eyes were ablaze in an instant, while her husband went on chewing steadily. He was all too familiar with the consequences of speaking out of turn. Besides, what was the harm in a letter? I put my knife down on my plate.
‘An envelope, maître. I’m sorry. I wanted to give it to you straight away but you didn’t want to be disturbed.’
‘An envelope, of course. Yet another letter. Well, let’s be having it.’
Von Bötticher dispatched me with a gesture an adult might make to a child who has been hesitantly holding up a drawing. I obeyed in a heartbeat. Back up the stairs I headed, in leaps and bounds, swinging around the pillars. I was childish, it’s true. Girls today are worldly-wise, independent, but in my youth we were simply passed from one sheltering wing to another. The only condition was that we in turn should have a caring disposition; it was not a condition I met. I much preferred being taken care of, so I could continue my playful, sheltered existence. Despite the inevitable physical transformation, I had no intention of becoming a woman. Not that I was a tomboy or a wild child or anything of the sort, it was more that I preferred things to stay as they were. It was an annoyance when I began to develop breasts
