Sophie Reyer: Zwei Königskinder.

Two Royal Children.
Novel.
Vienna: Czernin Verlag, 2020.

Excerpt

When first I met Johanna, the first thing I noticed was her crooked eyetooth. It must have been in the church choir, on one of those rainy days. My mother had moved out of the village, and my father was quiet most of the time. A kind of shadow followed the silence. Maybe he didn’t know what to do with me. So, he mostly just sent me off to the parish in the afternoons. There weren’t that many alternatives, the village was small, as if it had been spewed into the hilly landscape of vineyards where too much wind was always blowing. The eyetooth stayed lodged in my memory. I can still remember how I watched Johanna. She opened her narrow mouth wide when she sang, and looked like a fish. I kept catching glimpses of the tooth, which was a bit too big, protruded slightly and held in place by braces. I don’t know why, but I liked that tooth. (...)
That night, I knew I had to join forces with her. I watched as she sang, heard her high boyish voice rejoicing. My eyes widened. She looked down bashfully. Her eyelashes shimmered dark gold. I had to smile.

(P. 8-9)

The trees changed their appearance with the seasons, resembling the faces of people who sometimes cried, sometimes laughed, sometimes squinted in the sunlight. I kept going to the park, during the week with Birgit, on weekends with my father. There I picked up gravel and let it trickle through my fingers, eyed the sprightly squirrels scurrying towards me. In the course of this, all I could think of was Johanna. Sometimes I’d hold a cracked nut out to them, the squirrels would stretch their heads forward, in jerky motions. One of the animals might come so close I could catch it. But I was incapable of making a move. Just like with Johanna. Then I would crouch down. Gently place the walnut pieces on the ground. They were similar to chestnuts. Looked like little crinkly brains. The squirrel bobbed down nimbly, grabbed the nut in a swift flowing movement, its brown tail snaking away before my eyes. I liked the color of autumn, kites soaring above the treetops, fluttering in bright hues in the wind. Each leaf was a treasure island consisting of patterns, grooves, lines. I lost myself gazing into the branching veins, watched the leaves wilt, curling up more and more until they shriveled. The wind would blow my hood off my face, the branches of the bare trees groaned, sometimes shrouds of mist hung over the meadow behind the gravel path and it started to snow. As a kid, I had rolled the snow into balls, built a snow head, stuck pebble eyes into it.
"You can’t take that home," my mother had said.
"Why not?"
"It’ll melt."
"We can put it in the freezer!" I insisted, stubbornly.
"No."
"Why not?"
I started crying.
"Give it to me."
I lifted my arms up, showing my mother the round white head that felt cold between my fingertips. I wanted to give it to her. My mother was wearing leather gloves. She reached for the snow face, her hands coming up empty, the head falling, rolling to the ground. Crumbling apart.
"Sorry."
I knew my mother had done it on purpose. I think this over. Why do people lie to kids so much? A flock of crows flies across the piercingly bright sky. Scratchy squawks. Children in carriages are being pushed past me, staring at me with their dull eyes. I seemed to me like Johanna was perhaps the only person I had ever met.

(P. 146-148)

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