Vienna Blood

7

The walls were draped with brightly colored tapestries depicting a fairy tale world of Gothic castles and jousting knights. In the flickering torchlight certain characters became more vivid: a group of gossiping ladies wearing high wimples, two huntsmen and their hounds, a lovelorn page contemplating a volume of poetry. Others faded into shadow. One of the hangings was sinuously undulating in the thermals rising from a nearby stove. Even so, the air was cold and smelled faintly of damp earth. There were no windows, and a low vaulted brick ceiling made the cellar overwhelmingly oppressive.

Pews, arranged in the shape of a horseshoe, faced a wooden throne that had been placed on a small dais. The throne was carved from oak and possessed heavy volute arms. The backrest tapered like a bishop's miter, and close to its top the runic character known as “Ur” (resembling the Greek capital pi) had been crudely carved within a raised circle. Behind the throne, purple curtains suggested holiness and majesty.

Gustav von Triebenbach had aged beyond the middle years of life, but he was still spry and stood head and shoulders above his companions. His thick eyebrows curled upward, giving him the severe, startled expression of an owl. When he wasn't talking, his shaggy mustache covered his mouth completely.

“I received a note from Counselor Hannisch this afternoon,” said Von Triebenbach. “He was very optimistic.”

“The invitation has been accepted?” asked Andreas Olbricht, unable to conceal his excitement.

“Our good friend the counselor spoke to the great man's wife yesterday… and my understanding is that it was his intention-at that time-to honor us with his company this evening.”

“Excellent,” said Olbricht. The bridge of his nose was sunken, making his eyes look as though they had been set unusually far apart. As he smiled, he revealed two rows of peculiarly stunted teeth, the ends of which were somewhat rough and uneven. Deep lines fanned out from the corners of his mouth, making him look considerably older than his forty-two years.

“What backbone, what fiber!” said Von Triebenbach's other companion.

“Indeed, Professor,” Von Triebenbach replied.

“Why do you say that?” asked Olbricht, looking from the professor to Von Triebenbach and back again. “The weather could be better, I agree, but none of the roads are blocked.”

“No, no, my dear fellow,” said the professor. “You misunderstand me. I wasn't referring to the weather. You see, our distinguished guest has only recently undergone a very major operation. For cataracts.” The professor glanced at Von Triebenbach. “I know the surgeon.” Then, addressing Olbricht again, he added, “And he is still recovering…”

Professor Erich Foch was a medical man. Yet he looked more like an undertaker. He was gaunt in appearance and seemed to have nothing in his wardrobe that wasn't funereal.

“It is truly a token of the esteem in which he holds us,” said Von Triebenbach, “that he sees fit to rise from his sickbed-on such a night as this-so that he might give us the benefit of his wisdom and learning.”

“Very true,” the professor concurred. “Among the sympathetic brotherhoods in Vienna, our order must occupy a special place in his affections.”

“Have you read his latest pamphlet?” asked Olbricht, looking up at the medical man.

“I regret to say that I haven't,” said the professor, looking a little ashamed. But he excused himself by adding, “Onerous duties at the university… onerous and interminable.”

“It is a preliminary work on the origins of our glorious language,” said Von Triebenbach, stealing the initiative from his junior companion. “A wonderful piece of scholarship.”

“In which case, I very much hope that we shall be hearing more on the subject this evening,” said the professor. With that, he turned and walked to the nearest pew. He was wearing an old-fashioned frock coat, and clasped his hands behind his back. His gait was distinctly avian, which, combined with his choice of clothing, made him look like a great stalking crow. When he reached the pew, he sat down and took an envelope from his pocket. He opened it, withdrew a single sheet of paper, and began reading the letter.

“I believe that congratulations are in order?” said Von Triebenbach, leaning toward Olbricht. It was, perhaps, a conciliatory gesture, the older man having just deprived the younger one of an opportunity to demonstrate the breadth of his reading.

“Oh?” said Olbricht, staring at Von Triebenbach with his wide-eyed, froglike gaze.

“The commission.”

Olbricht smiled, revealing again his square little teeth. “How did you hear about that?”

“I am a business associate of Herr Bolle,” Von Triebenbach replied.

“Ah,” Olbricht said. “I see. Yes, Herr Bolle requires a large canvas for his country house. I received the commission on account of the kind ministrations of my patron, Baroness von Rautenberg. She plays cards with Herr Bolle's wife.”

“And the subject of your new work? What will it be?”

“I haven't quite decided yet. Although, Herr Bolle has stipulated that it must be a scene from The Ring.” Von Triebenbach nodded with satisfaction. “The gods engulfed by fire, the ride of the Valkyries, or Siegfried's funeral pyre, perhaps.”

“Outrageous!” cried the professor.

Von Triebenbach and Olbricht were at first astonished, because it seemed that the professor was-quite unaccountably-objecting to Herr Bolle's aesthetic preferences. The misunderstanding was swiftly resolved, however, when Foch raised the letter he had been reading and with small, jerky movements, tore it from top to bottom.

“It is from the dean of the medical faculty,” he huffed. “I don't believe it! I have been reprimanded for my treatment of the female students.”

Von Triebenbach and Olbricht were still unsure how to respond.

“The faculty should never have allowed it!” the professor continued. “Women doctors! Who ever heard of such nonsense? I told them that women were ill-suited to the demands of a medical training, and they ignored me. Women are weak, squeamish… How can they be expected to open up a man's chest without swooning! And how can it be correct for a young woman-from a good family-to be exposed to those parts of the male anatomy that should by rights be of no concern to her until her wedding night?”

The professor quartered the letter and, rising to his feet, marched to the stove, where he posted each of the four pieces through the grill.

“I could not agree with you more, Herr Professor” said Von Triebenbach. “I would never subject myself to the humiliating experience of examination at the hands of a woman, however qualified. But for what-exactly-have you been reprimanded?”

“It has been my great misfortune,” continued the professor, “to have, in my demonstration classes, several of these new female students. They are a confounded nuisance! At the first sight of blood they become pale, distraught, and a distraction to the young men. Subsequently, I have had to insist-on no less than five occasionsthat they leave. Typically, these women-these girls-claim that they were not overwhelmed, and that I have misjudged their condition. I- a doctor for some thirty years-am supposed to be in error. And those fools, the dean and his cronies, are stupid enough, idiotic enough, to countenance this despicable calumny.”

“Appalling,” said Olbricht, “that a person of distinction, such as yourself, Herr Professor, should be treated with such little respect.”

“Damned hypocrites!” cried the professor. “In actuality, the dean and his cronies are as opposed to women being admitted into the faculty as I am. But, being spineless sycophants, they are less inclined to resist political pressure.”

“I tell you,” said Von Triebenbach, shaking his head. “This city is courting catastrophe and ruin. I pray and hope that we are not too late. Otherwise, I fear that all shall be undone.”

Von Triebenbach's words gave way to a low, thrumming sound, a hollow reverberation of increasing magnitude. Someone was descending the stairwell. As each hurried step became more distinct, the three men tensed slightly, adopting frozen, expectant postures. The latch lifted, and the door at the back of the chamber burst open, revealing a young man. He was wearing a brown suit, and a yellow-and-green checked scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck. His hair was long, swept back, and so blond as to be almost white. Under his left arm he carried a portfolio. On entering the chamber, he lifted his right arm and called out, “Heil und Sieg!”

Salvation and Victory.

In unison, the company returned the ancient greeting and battle cry.

The young man then marched aaround the pews and entered the central open area of the horseshoe. Nodding at Olbricht and the professor, he turned questioningly to Von Triebenbach and said, “Is it true? He's coming? Tonight?”

Von Triebenbach placed an avuncular hand on the young man's shoulder. “We hope so.”

Hermann Aschenbrandt raked a handful of platinum strands back from his forehead.

“That is wonderful news. Wonderful.” He looked at Olbricht and the professor. “We are most fortunate. Truly.” Then, addressing Von Triebenbach again, he added, “Herr Baron, I beg you, when the meeting is adjourned-may I play him the overture to my opera? It is based on his great novel Carnuntum. It would be such an honor. Such an honor.”

The young man's eyes were a clear powder-blue-and they positively flashed with eagerness. He was breathless with excitement.

Von Triebenbach, amused-as always-by the energy and zeal of his young favorite, threw his head back and laughed heartily.

“We can but ask him, my dear friend. And perhaps he will condescend to hear your work. He is a man of generous spirit.”

Aschenbrandt inhaled deeply, and his chest expanded. “Such an honor,” he repeated, his thin lips curling to form a slightly lopsided smile.