Vienna Secrets

19

Professor Priel and Asher Kusevitsky had been engaged in a deep conversation about mysticism and metaphor. They were sitting in a corner seat in the Cafe Eiles, which was situated behind the town hall. It was a relatively new coffeehouse and had not as yet built up a very large clientele. There were some regular customers, mostly civil servants and lawyers, but it was always possible to get a seat.

The gas lamps on the wall had already been turned on, but the opaque globes on the brassy arms of the chandeliers were dull and lifeless. A big station clock hung on chains from an archway that led to the kitchen. Beneath it an alert-looking waiter scanned the empty tables.

“You see, my boy…,” said Priel, pausing to accomplish the delicate operation of sipping coffee without moistening his mustache or beard. “Lurianic Kabbalah was never the exclusive property of a small closed group. It became the subject of much popular preaching and influenced many aspects of Jewish life. Why? I’ll tell you why. The Lurianic creation myth describes a cosmic catastrophe-the breaking of the vessels-after which nothing is in its proper place…” He took another quick sip. “And of course, something that is not in its proper place, is-as it were-also in exile. Needless to say, this idea, which is at the heart of the Lurianic canon, is one that finds deep and complex resonances in the Jewish psyche. Human existence becomes the scene of the soul’s exile.”

Asher Kusevitsky nodded, and picked up one of the punschkrapfen that Professor Priel had ordered before his arrival. The symmetry of the cube appealed to him. His teeth sank into the soft pink icing, which cracked, forming a tessellated surface. At once his mouth was suffused with a melee of flavors. The coolness of the shell contrasted with the warmth of the alcoholic sponge inside, and he was overwhelmed by an almost dizzying sweetness. After he had swallowed, his taste buds were still tingling with flavors: marzipan, nuts, and jam.

“Is it good?” asked Priel.

“Excellent,” Asher replied.

The professor took a large bite, examined the interior, nodded approvingly, and picked a few particles of icing from his beard.

“How are the rehearsals going?” he said, evidently having finished with the subject of Lurianic Kabbalah.

“Very well. Herzog is a fine actor.”

“Yes, I saw him at the Court Theatre last year. A very impressive performance.”

“And Baumshlager’s shopgirl is perfect. She brings such sympathy to the role.”

“Excellent. Let us hope that this play receives the plaudits it so justly deserves.”

Asher’s mouth twisted to form an ironic smile. “Well, given its subject matter, I have to say that I am not expecting very much praise from certain critics.”

“Indeed. But they are not your audience. Providing our people come to see The Dybbuk, that is all that matters.” Priel held up his half-eaten cake as if it possessed totemic potencies. “They must become more aware of who they are and draw inspiration and strength from their traditions. Much has been forgotten, but gradually, little by little, we can reintroduce them to their stories, myths, and legends. I have such faith in the power of narrative-to inspire, revive, and sustain. A people who have been cut off from their folklore are doomed. We define ourselves with our stories. We become who we are-by telling stories. And we are held together-as a people-by our stories. Yes, Asher, my boy, you are doing us all a great service. You are giving them something back, which they have lost. You are giving them back their souls.”

“Today, the Volkstheatre. Tomorrow…?”

“The Opera House!” Priel lowered his voice. “Perhaps Director Mahler could be encouraged to try his hand at a dramatic piece. After all, his symphonies are dramatic enough. He must be sick and tired of all those caterwauling Valkyries and brutish muscle-bound heroes. The Dybbuk would make a fine libretto…”

“It could never happen.”

Priel squeezed Asher’s arm. “It does no harm to dream. And sometimes dreams come true. Ask your brother. He knows a thing or two about dreams!” Asher smiled and swallowed the remains of his punsch krapfen. “And how is he, by the way, the good doctor?” Priel continued. “Enjoying his newfound liberty as a Rothenstein scholar?”

“He’s… well,” said Asher.

The professor detected a slight hesitation. “Is something the matter?”

“No, no.” Asher paused, grimaced, and added, “Nothing’s the matter, but…”

“What?”

“He’s seeing someone.”

“Seeing someone?”

“A woman. Katzer’s daughter-Anna.”

“Perhap it is just an infatuation… a temporary dalliance.”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“He’s in love?”

“He talks about her incessantly.”

The professor dabbed his mouth with a napkin and thought for a moment. “I see.” He peered over his pince-nez. “Well, providing it doesn’t distract him.”

Asher’s expression became resolute. “Don’t worry. I won’t let it.”

“Good,” said the professor. “Then there’s nothing to worry about, eh?”

He raised his hand to get the waiter’s attention and called, “Two more coffees and some more of these splendid cakes.”

“Oh, by the way,” said Asher. “The Katzer girl… she has a project you might be interested in. She’s trying to raise funds for a Jewish women’s hostel in Leopoldstadt.”

The professor turned and, looking over his pince-nez again, said, “Is she, indeed?”