Vienna Blood

58

THE LANDLORD'S DAUGHTER HAD come out from behind the counter and was standing proudly, almost defiantly, in the middle of the floor. For the regular patrons of Cafe Haynau this was a time-honored ritual. The audience, mostly military men from the barracks, began to clap and stamp their feet. The dense fog of cigar and cigarette smoke responded to the sudden movement, revolving into marbled, ghostly pillars. Mathilde pushed forward her plentiful cleavage, acquiring in the act an unexpected statuesque grandeur. Unfortunately, her posturing provoked a coarse remark from a young ensign, and her fragile dignity disintegrated when she lashed out and cuffed his ear. The ensign's companions roared with laughter and encouraged Mathilde to strike him again. She declined the invitation and instead recovered her poise, appealing for silence by repeatedly pressing her palms down toward the floor. The high-spirited banter died down.

“This song,” she announced, “is called The White City of Rijeka. I learned it off a Croatian soldier-”

“And what did he learn off you?” shouted the ensign.

There was more laughter, and Mathilde raised a minatory finger. She signaled to the old accordion player, who squeezed the bellows of his instrument. A few wheezy chords of unsteady pitch escaped. Mathilde chose an arbitrary note and launched into the song. “Rika je bili grad mej dvima gorama” Rijeka is a white city between two mountains “Onaj ograjena hladnima vodama…” Surrounded by cold fountains… “Tan ta-na-na-na, ni-na ne-na”

She did not have a good voice, yet what she lacked in technique she compensated for with an abundance of dramatic gestures and expressions. Swishing her skirt, she rapped her clogs against the floorboards and mimed looking into the distance to see the mist-shrouded white city nestling in the gap between two imaginary peaks. In fact, she was also looking to see if she had attracted the attention of Lieutenant Hefner. She hadn't. The handsome Uhlan was glumly and determinedly contemplating a half-empty bottle of vodka. Disappointed, Mathilde made coquettish eyes at the regimental doctor, who-having drunk more than his usual two glasses of slivovitz- tapped his lap. This surprising invitation caused something of a stir among the members of the eighteenth, who had become accustomed to viewing the good doctor as a model of propriety and restraint.

Hefner was oblivious to this coup de foudre. He was totally self-absorbed, preoccupied. It had been an extraordinary day.

Early that morning, he had had to endure another interview with the ludicrous Inspector Rheinhardt. This interview had been even more irritating than the first. The old fool had droned on and on about the recent spate of murders, beginning with the slaughter of Madam Borek and the three girls. Then there had been other victims: a Czech stallholder, a black man.

All of them were killed with a sabre.

At regular intervals the policeman had paused and allowed the silence to condense. He had played with his mustache and eyed Hefner closely. It soon became plain that the inspector was no longer merely asking Hefner to assist him with his inquiries. He was communicating something much more serious. Hefner was a suspect.

What did the buffoon expect him to do? Break down and confess?

None of the inspector's tactics had been particularly successful. His habit of letting implications hang in the air was largely ineffective. The lieutenant was quite comfortable with unresolved silences. What really disquieted Hefner was the inspector's knowledge of his private affairs: his links with Von Triebenbach, the Richard Wagner Association, and the Eddic Literary Association (although, thankfully, the inspector seemed to have no idea that the latter was merely an expedient for the better concealment of Primal Fire). The inspector even seemed to know what operas he had seen. He had been impertinent enough to ask if Hefner had enjoyed Director Mahler's production of The Magic Flute. “Tan ta-na-na-na, ni-na ne-na

Tan ta-na-na-na, ni-na ne-na”

Ludka: he remembered her compliant flesh, the way she obediently knelt to receive him in her mouth, the way she would guide his hand to her cheek and look up at him with knowing eyes, understanding his pleasure. He remembered the satisfying report of his palm as it made violent contact with her young face, accompanied by the explosion of heat in his loins.

Stupid little slut… It was bound to happen some day.

Hefner forced himself to look at the chanteuse, who was now swinging her hips in front of the inebriated doctor and reaching out to toy with his curly black hair. She winked, gay syllables tripping off her tongue in a cascade of suggestive nonsense. “Tan ta-na-na-na, ni-na ne-na”

The interview with Rheinhardt had not been unduly long, and Hefner had treated the policeman with all the contempt he deserved. But the lieutenant had still been unable to get away in time for the morning drill, and Kabok had reprimanded him severely. Hefner had tried to explain the situation but the old martinet had given him what-for, his verbal lashing finally degenerating into a series of half-muttered execrations that made immoderate and audible use of words such as “whoring,” “syphilis,” and “shit for brains.” Hefner knew better than to respond. The humiliation was intolerable.

That evening he had gone to the opera, but had been unable to enjoy the performance. He had become obsessed with the notion that he was being followed, and that a particular sharp-featured young man was one of Rheinhardt's spies. He was on the brink of challenging the fellow when he thought better of it. What was the point? Besides, he knew that he would be able to lose the scoundrel in the crowd as it spilled out onto the Ringstrasse.

As Hefner left the Opera House, he was confident that he had achieved his objective. The youth was nowhere to be seen in the cloakroom and did not appear to be waiting in the foyer. But the uhlan had only got as far as Schillerplatz when, to his astonishment, he became painfully conscious of footsteps following close behind him. He turned around abruptly, expecting to see the sharp-featured young man, but was taken aback by the sight of a curious-looking gentleman in a fur coat and pongee suit. He was carrying a cane, the top of which was shaped in the likeness of a jaguar, and a monocle hung from his vest on a length of black ribbon. The gentleman's face was broad, and he sported an oriental drooping mustache and a small goatee beard. His eyes could barely be seen below the wide brim of his hat.

“Do I know you, sir?” asked Hefner.

The stranger took a few leisurely steps forward and smiled. A frigid smile that seemed more like a grimace.

“No.” His breath condensed in the frozen air. “But I believe that you are familiar-very familiar-with my sister.”

His accent was Hungarian.

“Your sister?”

“The countess? You remember the countess?”

Hefner shook his head.

The stranger then produced a string of colorful and quite shocking insults, each one delivered with an almost gleeful relish. Occasionally he would slip back into his native tongue-presumably because he could not find a German word sufficiently plosive to express the desired degree of opprobrium that his insult required. He spat out harsh consonants and flattened vowels. From this cataract of curses and maledictions the nature of the gentleman's accusation gradually became clear. Hefner had misled his kind, good-hearted sister, taken advantage of her, and in doing so had ruined her good reputation.

The eighteenth had been stationed in Hungary that summer at a godforsaken outpost on the banks of the Tisza. There had been absolutely nothing to do there, and Hefner had been forced to relieve his boredom with a few inconsequential assignations: a milkmaid, a doctor's wife… and yes, there had been a countess, a countess whose family had fallen upon hard times. What was her name?

That was it-Zaborszky.

Countess Borbala Zaborszky.

Hefner was in no mood for a confrontation of this kind. It had all been such a long time ago-he could hardly remember the woman.

“Look, my friend,” Hefner said, somewhat dismissively. “I think you have the wrong man.”

The stranger shook his head. “No. There has been no mistake.”

Languidly-almost lazily-he pulled at the fingers of his glove, stretching the material covering each digit in turn. Eventually the thin, adhesive material snapped off, contracting in the process. The stranger then raised the glove up, with its pathetic cluster of drooping, shriveled udders, and said, “Consider yourself slapped.”

A small group of well-dressed men had gathered close by. They too had probably been to the opera. The stranger's raised glove was enough to signal what was happening.

In matters of honor there were three categories of slur. The simple slight, the direct insult, and the blow or slap. The first two might be resolved without bloodshed-but not the third.

Hefner executed a brief bow, then he and Zaborszky exchanged the names of their seconds. The uhlan made his way back to the Cafe Haynau, where he found Renz and Trapp at their usual table. They were immediately dispatched to the Cafe Museum, instructed to liaise with the stranger's seconds: Doctor Joska Dekany and Herr Otto Braun. “Tan ta-na-na-na, ni-na ne-na”

Mathilde rotated her hips provocatively in front of the doctor's face. The men sitting at adjacent tables began to clap and yell. “Lipje su Bahtrh p drva kxleci Nego Ri fe injice v htmarah svkci” The girls from Bakar collecting wood for the fire Are more beautiful than the girls from Rijeka Sitting in solemn attire…

The door of the cafe swung open, and Renz and Trapp appeared. The smoke eddied around their feet and a few stray snowflakes followed them in.

“Well?” asked Hefner.

The two men slumped down and removed their caps. Snow had collected on their shoulders.

“Yes, all done,” Trapp replied.

“Where is it to be?”

“In a private room above Kryschinski's whorehouse.”

“What?” Hefner looked from Trapp to Renz, as if Trapp had declared himself a lunatic and could no longer be trusted.

“They insisted on an American duel,” said Renz.

“An American duel!” cried Hefner. “And you agreed?”

“When we left, you said anything-it was all the same to you.”

“God in heaven, I can't believe it!” said Hefner shaking his head. “An American duel…”

Trapp and Renz exchanged worried glances.

“Renz is right,” said Trapp. “You did say anything. It's what you always say.”

“But an American duel…”

A loud cheer went up, and the three men turned to see the busty chanteuse straddling the lap of the regimental doctor. “Tan ta-na-na-na, ni-na ne-na”

“Well,” said Hefner, “at least this time we won't be needing his services.”