Between Two Nights Austrian novelist Edith Kneifl was awarded the Glauser Prize for her first novel, Zwischen zwei Nächten. In the following extract, translated by Helena Ragg-Kirkby, she sets the scene for a Viennese tale of friendship, murder and revenge. She watches with half-seeing eyes as the coffin is lowered on thick ropes and disappears into the grave. She wants to keep this picture in her mind for ever. The oppressive silence gives way to loud sobbing and sighs of grief or relief. She turns away. Anna stood in the doorway, tall and elegant. She was holding a tray with two glasses and a bottle of wine. Her age did her no disservice – on the contrary, she was more attractive than ever. Her angular, sharply drawn features suited her much better now that she was forty: as a young girl she had always seemed a little gawky and awkward. Her severe-looking bun and the grey streaks in her dark blonde hair looked good on her too. The two friends hadn’t seen each other for years – not since they had both attended the same conference in New York. Anna had declined to stay in the small flat that her friend shared with two men, opting instead for the sterile surroundings of a smart hotel. Ann-Marie had felt hurt, and they had met each other only once for a brief drink. This last encounter had been a disappointment for both of them. In the ensuing years there were occasional items of post from the other side of the Atlantic: tasteless postcards from Anna holidaying in the south somewhere, either alone or with her husband; a generous cheque arrived in New York every Christmas; at New Year and on her birthday there was a phone call. And then, a week ago, this letter. Ann-Marie had been in touch even more infrequently. Letter-writing was not one of her strengths. The most she managed was to send a photo with all her best wishes. ‘Come closer, let me get a good look at you.’ ‘I was about to say the same to you. You’ve barely changed at all’, said Anna uncomfortably. They exchanged glances tinged with anxiety. Ann-Marie didn’t like the careworn set of Anna’s mouth. And that beige dress – Dior? – impossible; it looks like a potato sack and it makes her all pale. Fashion parade at the cemetery. Haute couture and mail-order alike. The sales have started earlier this year. Pretty summer coats in soft pastel shades: black is not in fashion. Darkcoloured umbrellas, standard-issue men’s umbrellas, and extravagant, futuristic-looking women’s umbrellas, over-sized and dangerous. She has no umbrella. Her wet hair straggles over her face, hiding the red patches on her cheeks. There are solemn faces beneath the umbrellas, but few tears. For some, intense grief makes crying impossible. And anyway, there is already enough wetness cascading onto the muddy ground around the freshly dug grave. Even the leaves of the old chestnut trees are drooping under the heavy burden of the raindrops. Rustling foliage and a chill breeze herald the onset of autumn. Their friendship had begun on a late summer’s day more than thirty years earlier. Anna had been instantly captivated by Ann-Marie’s cheerful, impish nature, and from their very first day at school had followed her around like a little puppy. Ann-Marie had felt flattered to be so admired by this clever but intensely shy girl. Before long, the two were inseparable. They went to the same schools, sat next to each other for eight years, and shared a flat while at university. Clothes, books, records: they shared everything with each other – including men. Ann-Marie was never short of suitors: she didn’t take men very seriously, so they chased after her in droves. Being generous by nature, she let her friend have any she fancied. Anna wondered whether her friend had gone on having the same success with men. Alfred, too, had found her very attractive on their last visit to Vienna. But his judgment didn’t count, he chased anything in skirts. Ann-Marie didn’t exactly match the ideal of beauty purveyed by magazines and adverts. Her face bore the telltale signs of over-indulgence in alcohol, her nose was too long, her mouth too wide. Her most beautiful feature was her large, brown eyes. There were still plenty of men these days who fell for her enigmatically distant gaze – due solely to her short-sightedness – and her charming and irresistible smile. Ann-Marie’s hands were unusually strong for a woman, her arms unusually muscular. She liked hiding her broad hips beneath generously cut skirts, but her legs and her bosom were a delight to the eye. Anna, who had spent much time in the hands of dentists, particularly envied Ann-Marie her strong, healthy teeth. ‘If I had such shiny white teeth as you, I’d never stop smiling! You’ve got teeth like a horse – and that’s supposed to be an unmistakable sign of intelligence in a woman.’ ‘You read too many women’s magazines.’ Anna laughed. ‘But you still don’t wear glasses!’ Even at primary school they’d always had to sit at the front because of Ann-Marie’s shortsightedness. She was as blind as a bat, but neither her parents nor well-meaning teachers had ever been able to persuade her to wear glasses. In her teens she had once tried contact lenses, but they made her eyes all red and watery, so she never tried again, preferring instead to make do with her extremely limited vision of the world around her. She can see scarcely any familiar faces, and few of the mourners know her. Curious glances are cast at the stranger in black who had thrust her way to the front. No one has heard her utter a word – no word of greeting for the grieving husband, no gesture of condolence. She doesn’t speak, she doesn’t shake hands, she simply stands there, stiff and silent, an accusing figure simply by virtue of her paltry clothes. In her old-fashioned black trousers and oversized man’s pullover she looks out of place among these well-dressed mourners. On top of this, her large dark glasses give her a mysterious air, reminiscent of a faded film star doing her best to remain incognito. The woman in black appears to be paying no attention to anyone else; behind her impenetrable glasses, however, she is observing them all in minute detail.