Fundvogel

Chapter Two

Of Geese, Spirits, and Leeches

It is the colored fool that
Gaily poaches game in Fairytales
Wild Fairytales also portray
How he opens the little box,
Takes the glittering magic dust,
Sprinkles it around, and how
Children easily make gold
Out of nothing.

-Gottfried von Strassburg

Andrea Woyland lived very much alone during this time. At dusk she would go running in the park or visit the concert at nearby Carnegie Hall.

Later, as it grew colder, she bought some ice skates and went to the skating rink. She hadn’t ice skated for over twenty years and thought she didn’t remember. She hesitated, was almost nervous, as she took her first step onto the ice. But after a few minutes her legs jumped through time and served her like they once had before. One after another all of her little tricks came back to her, the running leap, the axle, the Hollander, the triple and the vine-they all came back!

Every day she ran for a few hours. It was as if she was living a new life, hers and someone else’s. There was a remembrance, like how her legs had remembered to skate; her brain was remembering long forgotten feelings and sentiments. These feelings were like presentiments of her future.

Soon the early March winds would blow, the April showers would thunder and the sweet sun of May would kiss the green spring growth. That was how it used to be when she skated on the frozen lower Rhein by castle Woyland. The poor old Rhein would flood the lowlands and there would be smooth ice, infinite ice with no one else around.

That was how it was for her now. It didn’t matter if people pressed around her or that the pond in Central Park was a pathetic makeshift skating rink. She didn’t see the other people. It was for her alone.

Warmth filled her from these presentiments of a new spring to come. She rarely met any of her old acquaintances, but when she did, she wished them well. If they didn’t move on she chatted lightly, quickly broke off and left.

She called up Briscoe once, read Gwinnie’s numerous letters, answered them, spoke briefly with her father, only for minutes, and then wiped all of it away from her memory.

She was alone. She sat for hours in her room. When she came home from the skating rink her nerves, muscles and veins were hot, flooded with these new longings that swelled within her.

There was a half-conscious wish that she was a larva, soon to be wrapped up in a cocoon. Then she would emerge into a new dawn, her wings would grow, the narrow veil would fall, she would flutter and fly in the bright sunlight up through all the aethers.

She didn’t use makeup anymore to look beautiful, went without lipstick and face powder. Still, she was sorry she had cut her hair and wore a silk cloth around her head wrapped like a turban.

She lay on the divan, sat in the armchair. In front of her lay the white piece of paper with the words “Andrea Woyland” written on it. She wanted to write down everything that she knew about her, dozens of pages. Then, yes, she would give it to someone. Who? Who would understand the way she understood? Again she could think of no one other than her cousin, Jan Olieslagers.

Him, always him! He could scarcely care about her. She had very seldom written and hadn’t seen him for years. No, she wanted him to forget her as well. She didn’t want to give these pages to anyone. They should go into the fire, sink into the flames, just like she herself would soon be sinking.

She didn’t write a letter, not a single word. She only lay on the divan and thought about it.