Vienna Blood

78

Herr Beiber awoke from a particularly vivid dream.

The races: a humid day in early summer, damp air blowing across a field from the invisible Danube. Hurdles and ditches surrounded by a bright white fence, and in the distance woods, luxuriant with heavy foliage. Jockeys on their mounts-gray, dapple gray, bay, chestnut, piebald-shiny bright silk shirts puffed up by the wind-sashes of red, blue, and gold. The crowd, dark and swarming around the track: counts, bankers, cavalry officers, students, salesmen, clerks-and elegant ladies with parasols, the breeze rippling their long muslin skirts.

The evocation of the Freudenau had been so vivid that something of the summer air-hay, meadowsweet, manure, and every kind of exotic perfume-still lingered in his nostrils, masking the insistent and ubiquitous monotony of hospital carbolic.

Herr Beiber had had similar dreams before, and in all of them his companion had been Archduchess Marie-Valerie. They were usually seated together, in the royal enclosure, where they sipped champagne and laughed at the horses’ names: Kiss Me Quick, Lord Byron, Fraulein Minnie. This dream, however, was different.

He had not been dressed in his sombre work clothes. Instead, he had been wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, pale flannel trousers, and a red-striped jacket. A pair of binoculars hung from his neck and in his hand he carried a stylish ebony cane. He hardly recognized himself. And more peculiar still, his companion was not Archduchess Marie-Valerie but Frau Friedmann-a typist who occupied one of the three desks in his small office.

He closed his eyes and tried to recover the dream world.

The horses assembled at the gate-nostrils flaring, flanks glossy and shimmering in the sunshine.

Which is yours?

The black-brown stallion.

Their arms were linked and Frau Friedmann's body was pressed against his. As he remembered the sensation, he felt an unfamiliar stirring in his loins.

The red flag lowered and the stallion broke away, taking the lead at once. It surged forward-ten, fifteen, twenty lengths.

If Apollo wins, I'll take you out to dinner at Leidinger's. And afterward, we'll get orchestra seats at the Weidner Theater. Front row.

Herr Beiber opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

Frau Friedmann.

He had hardly noticed her at work. She was simply part of the office furniture. But now that he thought about her, it occurred to him that she was a pleasant enough woman. A plump red-cheeked widow, who had a sweet, kindly smile. And-yes-he could recall that she had once complimented him on his choice of neckties.

Because of her ample figure, Frau Friedmann's dresses were always rather tight. When she sat, the stretched material revealed little ridges of folded flesh.

Again, the unfamiliar stirring.

He would be seeing Doctor Liebermann later that morning. He would tell him all about the dream. It was the sort of thing that the young doctor would be interested in.

Herr Beiber sat up.

He felt strangely altered. In fact, he was feeling rather well. Perhaps all this talking to Doctor Liebermann was doing him some good after all.

Frau Friedmann.

“Now, why didn't I notice her before?” he whispered into the crisp bedsheets.