Liechtenstein

LIECHTENSTEIN / Mark Jarman to Audrey Rugg Two white whales, the father and the bolster That he hugs, rolling his sour stomach for relief Until the medicine becalms. Something he ate. High up in the hotel room the roof beams, Carved with bluebirds and red crocuses, Are thatched with shadows. Hammocks Of cobweb luff in the rising heat. His wife pages through a guidebook. His children Finger new purchases, the girl her dirndl skirt, The boy his Swiss watch with 17 jewels, Already a glinting scratch across the crystal. August, a rainy month in this small country, A gray scrim lowers on the castle at the window. Now he is snoring, whom the doctor sighed for Listening to his chronicle that accused Last night's Italian dinner: "Ah, but you are a foreigner." Sleeping now, the man-long pillow in his arms. Last night among candles with their children, The parents took off their masks of worry. The folio-sized menu backed with white satin Printed in German came to life as boats Of sauces, soup tureens, platters full Of smiles. After the long, grinding climbs, The stint of travel poverty, along rivers, At shrines in passes without bathroom facilities, They smiled, breaking their painted, wooden reserve, Adding their children to their happiness. Last night, in this reposeful cup Between the upper Rhine and the Säntis Mountains, Happiness rose as light as a fleck of snow. But then it spun, a harrowing spur, AU night in Father's guts, turning singular, Exclusive. He needs to be alone. Out in the little capital, the day above The heads of the mother and her boy and girl Combs rain out that hangs too high as yet, 62 · The Missouri Review Lapsing over the castle's roofs and windows. The children ask questions about the prince And reason that, being only a prince And his castle small, he might welcome a visit. But Mother says the way looks wet and steep. They find a konditorei of covered tables, Sober as snow in an empty city square Where statue-like two pairs of men eat ice cream At separate tables, a table in between them. Two of the men whisper head-to-head. The others, old and young, both smile. The mother lets her children say the French For ice cream, and at once the old man speaks. His elephant ears are nests of silver hair, His bald head faintly blue with broken vessels. He compliments the girl's black braids, The boy's blondness, and their mother's youth, Nimble with English, with flattery. The white ice cream tastes sweeter than its color, Like the flesh of pears and apples, And comes in tulip glasses that, empty, Show a smokey tinge and weigh no more Than cobwebs. The old man keeps talking, "It is a pretty place, our country," And they nod despite the weather. Then changed By sweetness, they say, "Yes, yes, it is." He admires the boy's new watch, the girl's dress Spotted with ice cream, and sympathizes That Father back at the hotel is sick and sleeping. Strands of wet snag on the window panes Then rain falls in a rush, tress after tress. "It is a pretty place," he says again. "You would not think it an unhappy place. Yet like America it has its history, Much older, of course, and just as sad. Our little country gave up one in ten, One in ten, 300 out of 3000, 300 years ago. But you, too, know of witches hunting in America. A kleinstaat, however, is like a small town. There were jealousies and the wild assumption That eternity could be won for the accused And for the living peace of mind—with fire." Mark Jarman THE MISSOURI REVIEW · 63 The woman and her children stare, enclosed Now by the rain and by this voice, This confidence that starts a conversation Anywhere with anyone and tells a story. "But the witches tale a child would love I know . . ." The boy and girl swallow their ice cream And feel it down their throats, a cold paste. The old man's young companion poises, but well— The woman appears intrigued...