Vienna Blood

24

CAFE IMPERIAL: FRETTING WAITERS, gesticulating patrons, and the peal and crash of cutlery.

The pianist had just finished playing a Strauss polka, and after a moment's rest he began a breezy popular melody.

“What's this?” asked Mendel.

“The Skaters’ Waltz,” said Liebermann. “Waldteufel.”

“See?” said Mendel to Jacob Weiss. “He knows them all.”

Liebermann was sitting opposite his father and future father-in-law. Their conversation had briefly touched upon the subject of wedding arrangements-but not for very long. The three men were content to leave such matters in the hands of their wives (and the bride-to-be).

A waiter arrived with a tray full of coffee and cakes: a Viennese walnut-and-apple torte topped with waves of cream and sprinkled with cinnamon and silver pearls, some poppy seed strudel, and a thick spongy wedge of guglhupf.

“Thank you, Bruno,” said Mendel.

The waiter deposited the order on the table, clicked his heels, and excused himself.

Mendel was soon talking business. “I've been thinking about another factory for some time. Now that our families share a common interest”-he nodded toward his son-”perhaps, Jacob, we should consider a joint venture.”

“Are you still talking to Blomberg?” Jacob asked, digging his fork into a moist pillow of strudel.

“Yes,” said Mendel. “His department store is still doing very well. He's been trying to interest me in a partnership for a while now, but I'm not sure. Redlich says he can't be trusted.”

“Redlich?”

“Owns the sugar refinery in Goding.”

“Oh yes, that Redlich!”

“Even so, a department store on Karntner Strasse couldn't possibly fail-whatever you think of Blomberg.”

Herr Weiss nodded and asked a few questions about ground rent, surcharges, and interest rates.

Liebermann scooped the cream off his torte, tilted his fork, and let the silver pearls catch the light. They were perfect spheres of different sizes and flashed like stars. When he became aware of his father's voice again, he realized that he must have been distracted for some time.

“…A cousin of mine, Selma, married a Pole called Kinsky.” Mendel speared a chunk of guglhupf and raised it. “They emigrated eight years ago, to a place in England called Manchester. We still correspond regularly. They have two little boys, Peter and Robert, and their import-export business is thriving. Now, the thing is, they want to expand, and they need a large capital investment. I'm sure I could negotiate favorable terms.” Mendel placed the cake in his mouth and chewed vigorously. “I don't know about you,” he continued, speaking with his mouth full. A few crumbs tumbled into his long beard. “But I'm very keen to get a foothold somewhere else-somewhere less volatile. Every time the politicians mess things up, the people go looking for a scapegoat…”

“You sound like Herzl!” said Liebermann.

“Well, what if I do?”

“When Herzl visits the theater nowadays,” said Liebermann, “he's greeted with cries of ‘Welcome, Your Majesty!’”

Jacob Weiss looked puzzled.

Liebermann leaned a little closer and said, “It's because of Kraus- the journalist. He described Herzl in Die Fackel as the king of Zion.”

Mendel shook his head and began tutting loudly. “Herzl has a much better grasp of the situation here than you realize.”

“Father…,” said Liebermann. “Vienna is our home. Our language is German, not Hebrew, and I don't want to live in Palestine!”

Mendel glanced at his old friend. “We can remember Schonerer's thugs marching up Taborstrasse… That's something you don't forget, my boy. Believe me!”

Liebermann reached across the table and squeezed the old man's hand. “I know there are problems, Father. But we are living in better times.” He looked at Herr Weiss, smiled, and then looked back at his father. “You worry too much.” They were the same words that Konrad had used a few weeks earlier.

“The younger generation,” said Weiss, shrugging his shoulders. Although these words were offered as nothing more than neutral observation, they seemed curiously explanatory.

“Eat your cake,” said Mendel, pointing at his son's walnut-and-apple torte. “You've hardly touched it.”