The Taste of Apple Seeds by Katharina Hagena Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Katharina Hagena
and Mira the “revenge.”
I went to the gate that led to the copse and peered into the dark green. I was met with a resinous and chilly greeting. I froze, gripped the scissors more firmly, and returned to the parsley. No sooner had I cut a large bunch than I caught its smell of earth and cooking, even though the herb’s leaves were yellowing. Should I cut a bunch of lovage, too? Best not. I thought of that long-ago afternoon in the garden with Rosmarie and Mira. That was the last time I had spoken to Mira.
I straightened, walked through the barn door—the tamped-earth floor was ice-cold—bolted the door behind me, lifting the iron bars onto their hook, ran up the steps to the kitchen and almost became giddy at the smell of vegetable soup wafting through the room. I placed the bundle of parsley beside the steaming pan. Herr Lexow thanked me and glanced up. I had been away a long time for such a short errand.
“Almost there. I’ve set the table here in the kitchen.”
And indeed, there was a white bowl on the kitchen table, and next to it a large silver spoon.
“But you’ve got to have some, too! Please, Herr Lexow.”
“All right then, dear Iris. I’d love to.”
We sat at the table, the pan of soup in front of us, the finely chopped parsley on a board beside it. We ate the wonderful broth, which was swimming with thick pieces of carrot and chunks of potato, peas, diced green beans, and a huge number of translucent leek rings. Herr Lexow fidgeted. He wanted to say something but I didn’t realize this until I looked up to say something myself.
“HerrLexowdearIris,” we began together.
“You first,” I said.
“No, please, you.”
“Okay. I just wanted to thank you for this soup at just the right time—what must the time be now? Also for having kept an eye on the house and looking after the garden. Thank you so much. I don’t know how we can ever repay you, all the time and . . . love you’ve put in here, and . . .”
Herr Lexow interrupted me. “Stop. I want to tell you something, something that not many people know. To be precise, there are only two of us now; we buried the third yesterday, and I wonder if even she remembered. Now look, seeing as you were talking of love, well, when you opened the door wearing this dress, I—”
“I’m sorry, I can see just how tasteless it must have seemed to you, but I—”
“No, no, no. When you opened the door, I thought . . . You see, your aunt Inga—well, Inga and I . . .”
“You’re in love with her? She’s gorgeous.”
Herr Lexow frowned. “Yes. No, not what you’re thinking, maybe. I love her as a, as a . . . father.”
“Yes, of course. I understand.”
“No, I can see that you don’t. I love her as a father because that’s what I am.”
“A father.”
“Yes. No. Her father. I’m Inga’s father. I loved Bertha. Always, to the very end. For me it was an honor, an obligation, a duty to keep an eye on her house. Please, don’t thank me, I find it embarrassing, it was the very least I could do for her, I mean, after all . . .”
Beads of sweat were appearing on Herr Lexow’s forehead. He was almost in tears. I had stopped eating. Inga’s father. I hadn’t expected that. But actually, why not? Did Inga know?
“Inga does know, I wrote to tell her when Bertha went into the home. I offered to check that everything was in order until . . . well, for as long as Bertha stayed there.” Herr Lexow recovered his composure, his voice becoming steadier.
I got up, went into my grandparents’ bedroom, and fetched myself a pair of Hinnerk’s woolen socks and a gray-brown cardigan of Bertha’s from the oak wardrobe. I sat on the stool by the dressing table to put the socks on. Bertha an adulteress? I staggered back into the kitchen. The soup had been cleared away and two mugs were on the table. Herr Lexow—my aunt’s father, so my great-uncle of sorts—was stirring something in a small pan on the cooker. I sat on my
I went to the gate that led to the copse and peered into the dark green. I was met with a resinous and chilly greeting. I froze, gripped the scissors more firmly, and returned to the parsley. No sooner had I cut a large bunch than I caught its smell of earth and cooking, even though the herb’s leaves were yellowing. Should I cut a bunch of lovage, too? Best not. I thought of that long-ago afternoon in the garden with Rosmarie and Mira. That was the last time I had spoken to Mira.
I straightened, walked through the barn door—the tamped-earth floor was ice-cold—bolted the door behind me, lifting the iron bars onto their hook, ran up the steps to the kitchen and almost became giddy at the smell of vegetable soup wafting through the room. I placed the bundle of parsley beside the steaming pan. Herr Lexow thanked me and glanced up. I had been away a long time for such a short errand.
“Almost there. I’ve set the table here in the kitchen.”
And indeed, there was a white bowl on the kitchen table, and next to it a large silver spoon.
“But you’ve got to have some, too! Please, Herr Lexow.”
“All right then, dear Iris. I’d love to.”
We sat at the table, the pan of soup in front of us, the finely chopped parsley on a board beside it. We ate the wonderful broth, which was swimming with thick pieces of carrot and chunks of potato, peas, diced green beans, and a huge number of translucent leek rings. Herr Lexow fidgeted. He wanted to say something but I didn’t realize this until I looked up to say something myself.
“HerrLexowdearIris,” we began together.
“You first,” I said.
“No, please, you.”
“Okay. I just wanted to thank you for this soup at just the right time—what must the time be now? Also for having kept an eye on the house and looking after the garden. Thank you so much. I don’t know how we can ever repay you, all the time and . . . love you’ve put in here, and . . .”
Herr Lexow interrupted me. “Stop. I want to tell you something, something that not many people know. To be precise, there are only two of us now; we buried the third yesterday, and I wonder if even she remembered. Now look, seeing as you were talking of love, well, when you opened the door wearing this dress, I—”
“I’m sorry, I can see just how tasteless it must have seemed to you, but I—”
“No, no, no. When you opened the door, I thought . . . You see, your aunt Inga—well, Inga and I . . .”
“You’re in love with her? She’s gorgeous.”
Herr Lexow frowned. “Yes. No, not what you’re thinking, maybe. I love her as a, as a . . . father.”
“Yes, of course. I understand.”
“No, I can see that you don’t. I love her as a father because that’s what I am.”
“A father.”
“Yes. No. Her father. I’m Inga’s father. I loved Bertha. Always, to the very end. For me it was an honor, an obligation, a duty to keep an eye on her house. Please, don’t thank me, I find it embarrassing, it was the very least I could do for her, I mean, after all . . .”
Beads of sweat were appearing on Herr Lexow’s forehead. He was almost in tears. I had stopped eating. Inga’s father. I hadn’t expected that. But actually, why not? Did Inga know?
“Inga does know, I wrote to tell her when Bertha went into the home. I offered to check that everything was in order until . . . well, for as long as Bertha stayed there.” Herr Lexow recovered his composure, his voice becoming steadier.
I got up, went into my grandparents’ bedroom, and fetched myself a pair of Hinnerk’s woolen socks and a gray-brown cardigan of Bertha’s from the oak wardrobe. I sat on the stool by the dressing table to put the socks on. Bertha an adulteress? I staggered back into the kitchen. The soup had been cleared away and two mugs were on the table. Herr Lexow—my aunt’s father, so my great-uncle of sorts—was stirring something in a small pan on the cooker. I sat on my