The Attic

Pretending to be princesses used to be a favourite pastime for me and my sister. We’d slip on one of our mum’s treasured evening dresses and walk up and down the house in it all day, imagining we were beautiful princesses for whose delicate hands a whole army of brave princes would compete. Mum had a floor-to-ceiling wardrobe in her bedroom, and its deep cedarwood shelves concealed an abundance of dresses, which, to our eyes, were mesmerizing. The sheer sight of them was enough to promise endless exciting adventures in the hall of mirrors of the hundred-spired castle that belonged to our playful imagination. These dresses had been cared for lovingly: they were freshly ironed and scented, and lined up on hangers in the hope of someone minded to put them on. The wardrobe lock could be opened with a small metal key, twisted out of shape and decorated with a rose. Mum kept it in the top drawer of her dressing table. We had to ask her for it whenever we wanted to play. She’d never deny us the pleasure, since she had taught us early on to appreciate and look after other people’s belongings. The sight of her daughters enthusiastically staggering about in oversized gowns would invariably bring a smile to her weary face, compensating for her own childhood when such mischievous light-heartedness wasn’t permitted. My younger sister and I felt honoured every time she slipped the magic key into our palms, because in this way we were not only allowed to admire the treasures of grown-ups from afar, but also to touch, smell, and for a short while own them too.

My sister let out a cry of joy when she learned that we had the key in our hands again. The metal tongue stirring in the lock sounded like a padlock falling off a cage, freeing the rainbow-coloured bird of the imagination and letting it take flight until sunset. My sister opened one door, and I the other, and the wardrobe swung open with a gentle creak. The scent of this blend of colours and fabrics immediately hit my nostrils, and I could feel myself caressed on my flustered heart by the gently warm touch of this amazing assortment. I ran my hand over the dresses floating on the hangers. They responded with a gentle flutter: the kingfisher-blue cocktail dress, the pink evening dress with puffed sleeves, dark green sequined lace-up ballgowns, silk blouses, velvet skirts in elegant patterns, countless floor-length pieces in soft fabrics adorned with lace and ruffles. For a princess, this was pure heaven. My sister immediately reached for the pink dress. This was her favourite. It was a long silk gown with a see-through lace train, featuring open shoulders, puffed sleeves, and narrow ruffles at the cuffs. My sister’s short and slight frame vanished in the dress; the puffed sleeves concealed her arms almost entirely, and the skirt was so long that she had to hold it up while walking about to stop herself falling over. Yet, it was this aspect that made the dress so special to her, and also that led her to feel like a proper princess. She adored dancing on the carpet in the spacious living room, marvelling at the way the skirt’s heavy pleats would turn into a steady but gentle wave and lift up, enshrouding everything in a pink cloud of silk. At times, she’d stand for a long while by the balcony door, curiously following the afternoon sunrays as they changed the colour of the shiny patterns in the lace insert on the dress.

I would often wear high heels with the dresses because they made me feel like an even more noble princess. Mum also used to keep her special occasion shoes in the wardrobe, on the lower shelf. They were of course a much larger size than anything a girl of my age would have needed, so walking in them with my feet only half-filling their well-padded insides was a challenge, and required a special skill. Despite this, I enjoyed tottering up and down the tiled kitchen floor, listening to the pleasingly loud pit-a-pat of my own steps.

On this day, my sister was mooching about in her usual dress, humming sweetly and preparing to throw a tea party for a princess and her loyal ladies-in-waiting on a visit from a nearby castle. She was planning to offer them packets of freshly baked household biscuits, and was just about to pour tea into grandma’s fruit-patterned china cups on the carefully laid low table placed in the middle of the ferns and dwarf pine trees in the living room when I solemnly teetered into the room. I came to a halt at a slight distance from her, and cleared my throat to get her attention. Since there were only the two of us, it was my role to play the visiting lady. My sister put the teapot down, lifted her skirt a little and wobbled over to me. We both curtsied to greet each other and then, arm-in-arm like two old friends, strolled to the table laden with mouth-watering delights. We decked out the sofa behind us with plush teddies intended to impersonate the ladies-in-waiting.

My thoughts wandered off as I held my cup. Sitting opposite, my sister seemed to enjoy this game a lot more, carefully nibbling on the biscuits so the crumbs wouldn’t damage her beautiful dress.

– I’m bored with this dress – I said, pulling a face.

– Put on a different one then.

– I’ve tried them all. I want something new – and I left my sister alone with her soft toys, swiftly retreating to my bedroom. I took the dress off, carefully arranged it on the hanger and put it back in the wardrobe. I also put the shoes back on the shelf, next to the others. My sister came after me:

– What are you doing?

– Come, change! I have a brilliant idea!

—

The attic. A vastness of forgotten family secrets, covered in cobwebs. Above the dusty, worm-eaten floor the sinister creak of roof beams awakens the sleeping monster who eats children for breakfast. At night, in the moonlight seeping through the dirty windows, nimble mice perform a bizarre dance. The pungent, dry scent of withered herbs hanging in bunches from hooks permeates the enormous roof space and the empty boxes forgotten in the corners. This is the place that holds the oldest and most beautiful memories of the house, and where the solitary wonders of yesteryear are preserved in timeless silence.

My sister was a great believer in the monster’s existence, so with trembling legs she kept behind me on the spiral staircase, holding on to my hand with all her might. She almost burst into tears when I revealed my thrillingly dangerous plan to explore the attic, but I managed to reassure her that I’d protect her if the bogeyman fixed its eye on her and wanted to gobble her up.

My heart pounding, I pulled the golden door-handle. The rusty hinges let out a sleepy moan, and we found ourselves in the thick of unknown relics and bric-a-brac. Countless tiny specks of dust danced to the silent tune of our gentle movements in the dry air, refracted by the light seeping through the tiny single window and the gaps between the roof beams. We ventured further. Still afraid of the monster, my sister held on to my hand for dear life, closing her eyes every now and then so she wouldn’t notice if she were to step on a mouse or suchlike. Drunk with childish excitement, I breathed in the smell and shape of the past. On the left there was a crumbling chest of drawers, surrounded by an array of dust-covered boxes, all waiting to be opened by curious hands. In the corner there was a shabby sledge, dreaming of snow-covered hills and the sound of laughing children. Leaning against the wall was an old bike, next to a headless wooden mannequin; in another corner, were sackfuls of used toys and outgrown children’s clothes. The torn box of a train set was lying in the middle of the floor, together with yellowing postcards. In a moth-eaten pram slumbered a deflated red and white dotted rubber ball, while two pairs of ice skates were dangling from the ceiling. Their blades hadn’t been sharpened for many years.

I opened a small chest the size of a chair, decorated with patterns of curling foliage traced out of copper. Inside I found fragments of disintegrated newspaper and some very old photo albums, containing jagged-edged portraits of unknown and unseen relatives. Suddenly, my sister cried out:

– Look, I’ve found it! – she squeaked in a thin voice while jumping up and down by the wide-open lid of a large, capacious box. I went to see what it contained for myself, and as soon as I peeked into it my lips curved into a mischievous smile.

I’d been certain that we’d find at least one box in the attic holding some of Mum’s old-fashioned girlhood clothes. It seemed that we’d finally met with not just any old success. Like a pair of stubborn ostriches, my sister and I plunged our heads into the box and started rummaging through these precious items. We found a pair of hippy pants worn to death, along with a knitted jacket in Inca patterns, a torn red camisole, a Breton top, and light and loose wrap-skirts; but the cherry on the cake was hiding at the very bottom of the box: Mum’s wedding dress. It was with a sense of shock and amazement that I pulled the dress out from that heap of rags. I grabbed it with both hands and held it up high, so I could see it properly in the light. It was an old-fashioned style with a high neck, two layers of underskirt and ruffles to spare. It didn’t look worn out, though its ashen white colour and the rough feel of its thick fabric instantly betrayed the passage of time. It was a proper lady’s dress, fit for a princess, akin to those on display behind the hermetic glass walls in various museums set up in the towers of fancy castles. As I held up the dress with a flourish, my sister gazed at it, drooling with naïve amazement, and totally forgot about the monster, or about being watched from some remote and draughty corner.

I couldn’t wait any longer, and put on the dress at once. My sister, like a sullen chaffinch, puffed herself up and pursed her tiny lips as she stared at me while I dizzily waltzed about this fluff-covered stage wearing the ultimate fairy-tale dress of dreams. Then, rising in protest against all this, she dived into the treasure chest, hoping to find an equally beautiful dress for herself. My satisfied vanity had so taken over my imagination that I failed to notice the impatient noises of this furious search suddenly fade away, to be replaced by the unusually sharp sound of rustling paper.

– Yay! – I heard my sister’s voice from behind my back.

She had just come across the veil. It had been wrapped in waxed paper as a protection against attic dust and bugs. They like to wrap birthday bouquets in this stuff at the florists.

– Of course! – I brightened up as I saw it. – It’s part and parcel of the bridal outfit!

But my sister didn’t catch a single word I said, mesmerized by the veil she was unfolding in her lap. It was a sturdy yet soft and see-through angel mantle, embellished with white and silver pearls and embroidered on the hem with white flowers, finishing in a high, arched tiara. It was unbelievably long, and by virtue of its unusual and sequined fabric it gave the impression of a white fleecy cloud covered in stardust.

My sister fell in love with it at first sight, and her blushing cheeks revealed her joyful conclusion that this veil was more precious than any splendid dress that might be owned by any spoiled princess in this world. She lifted it above her head in a slow, almost sacral movement, and pinned it into her dishevelled hair as if it were a crown of regal power. Then she rose to her feet, and as this endless whiteness encompassed her tiny frame, she looked perfect, even without the baggy dress, because she wore this resplendent headdress with a super dignified sense of self-awareness.

Watching my sister’s proud smile while standing in the middle of the attic, I felt overwhelmed by a sense of wicked envy. This led me to the conclusion that the veil was my prerogative, as after all I was wearing the wedding dress. Without a second thought I stepped behind my sister and in a single movement yanked the veil off her head.

– Give it back! – she screamed with a red face.

– No! I’m the bride! You don’t even have a dress! – and I pinned the stolen treasure into my hair.

My sister let out a hysterical scream and jumped at me. As we started fighting she beat me all over my body, and in this battle for blood the veil fell off my head and ended up on the dusty floor. My sister kept hitting me on the back with her fists, so I pushed her and she fell over, nearly knocking over the pram, which was right in her way. Seeing this, my vehemence petered out for a moment, as I became concerned that my sister might actually have been injured. I watched in stiff silence as she slowly raised herself from the grubby floor. She had tears in her eyes, though these were no tears of sadness. She immediately broke into loud and intense gasps, her hands clenched in a fist.

– I hate you! – she yelled, and stormed out of the attic, banging the heavy door in my detested face.

She raced down the stairs, along the hallway and straight into my room. She charged in, came to a halt, pushed her brown tangled locks off her face and scanned the room in a fury, searching for something to destroy. She finally settled on a doll placed at the very top of the fully packed bookshelf, amid the keepsakes reminiscent of our happy childhood.

It was a genuine Austrian porcelain doll; Dad had brought it for me as a gift from one of his business trips. The doll had waist-length ebony hair tied into two loose bunches with a claret ribbon. She was wearing a greenish-grey dress with a ruffled skirt, kitted out with a lace-trimmed underskirt and stockings. Her black lace-up leather sandals were paired with a black velvet hat with a large brim and a velvet satchel fastened by way of a metal button. Her face and limbs were made of painted porcelain. At the waist she was held up by a metal stand to make sure she wouldn’t fall over. I had named her Liz.

My sister went straight to the shelf and stood on her tiptoes to reach the doll. She grabbed it tight to take it off the shelf, then for a few seconds looked it steadily in the eyes, before her mouth drooped into a ruthless curve and she whacked the doll against the floor with all her might.

—

I sat quietly on a box, feeling remorse at my recent stupid mistake. As the drab objects in the attic threw me an accusing look, I kept fiddling with the pearls glued onto the veil. I suddenly recalled Mum’s warning, as if I were still hearing her stern voice in my ear: ‘Envy can only beget evil, because it turns those who are meant to love each other against one another, wounding their hearts with the bitter thorn of ambition.’

This extraordinarily simple fact, of Mum always being right, made me reflect on things afresh.

I decided to apologise to my sister, and return the veil that I wrongfully took away from her. I flew down the stairs with the speed of a saved soul, looking forward to hugging her and putting the veil back on her head, so we could marvel together at her happy and beautiful self in the large hallway mirror – but she was nowhere to be found in her room. From the direction of my own room, however, I picked up the sound of muffled sobbing, so I dashed over.

My sister was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, her stubborn, remorseful solitude squeezing elephant tears from the dark brown irises of her puffy red eyes.

She could clearly hear me enter, but didn’t look up. Next to her on the carpet there was a broken doll, its face and hands cracked into a thousand shards.