The door of the apartment house opposite opened and the red setter bitch walked regally down the steps and sat yawning in the sun. She is no fetcher of newspapers and frankly she is losing her looks. When the English Miss agreed to model in my shop, she moved into the attic flat and asked Frau Hinkler whether, for a suitable fee, she’d mind the dog. Frau Hinkler made it clear that no dog could be of the faintest interest to her after Rip, but in three months the bitch has acquired the stomach of an alderman and the smug expression of someone whose lightest wish is someone else’s command.
The English Miss, of course, is a sensation. Is it being brought up on an island surrounded by heaving water that gives the British that look of dreamy unconcern? I could put her in a shroud and my customers would clamour for it.
The choristers were out early, walking across to sing the morning service in St Florian’s. Ernst Bischof’s voice broke at last; he is no longer there. The new soloist is fat, solemn and good, and frankly Helene and I are finding this a little dull.
Joseph, wiping the tables on his terrace, looked disgruntled as well he might for his mother, who retired to bed when Egger’s plans for the square were published, liked it so much there that she has not got up again and he’s had to pay someone else to work in his kitchen.
The church clock struck the half hour, and punctual to the minute the door of the Schumachers’ house opened and Lisl handed Herr Schumacher his walking stick and hat. It was clearly one of the days on which the timber heiress was to accompany her father in order to soak up the necessary impressions in the yard, for her bassinet was loaded into the carriage, and then the nursery maid hopped in beside the coachman.
Professor Starsky came next, looking up at my window. A menagerie owner is deluging him with goitrous axolotls which he sends ‘Express’ from Pest, but not ‘Express’ enough. At least Laura Sultzer no longer brings terror to the poor man’s heart. Laura was so angry when her daughter insisted on marrying a pork butcher that she took the Group to the villa in St Polten where she discovered she had healing powers, and is now becoming an expert on herbal remedies, particularly worts.
The Professor raised his hat; I waved. He’s coming to supper next week and so is Alice, but though Alice has been so wonderful, understanding how much I miss Nini, offering to mind the shop whenever I am called away ‘on business’ (but she has guessed, of course; she guessed years ago) she has not been entirely cooperative about the Professor.
‘I’ll come to supper,’ she said, seeing through me as usual, ‘but I have to make it perfectly clear, Sanna, that the Professor is yours.’
I dressed quickly and went downstairs. There were two letters. One was from Leah Cohen who is standing up well to the hard work and simple living conditions, but badly to a Madame de Rubin on a neighbouring settlement who gets her orange-planting clothes sent out from Paris.
The other was from New York. It was very thick and when I opened it I found three sheets of music paper covered with notes. I’ve become a kind of Razumovsky, you see, for Sigi has started to compose and though I can’t read the music and certainly can’t play it, I’m exceedingly honoured. With the new étude inscribed to me was a note from Nini who is putting Daniel through the maximum inconvenience by suggesting that they live in sin in a cold water apartment in the Bronx. Personally, in this struggle, I back the wolverine who wants an official daughter-in-law to show off to her friends, and wants her soon.
Have you asked her yet? was the P.S. on Nini’s letter, and the answer is, no I have not. Frau Egger has adapted well to widowhood. She has resumed the petit point which she used to enjoy as a girl and I am about to be presented with a footstool cover depicting two pheasants and a deer. But no, I have not found the opportunity to ask this burning question and I doubt now that I ever will. Nini and I are destined to go to our graves, I fear, without learning about Herr Egger’s Nasty Little Habit.
The salon was bright with sunshine; the narcissi that Old Anna brought me yesterday were bunched in their alabaster bowl. I went through into the workroom where the dummies of my regular customers greeted me like old friends. Frau Hutte-Klopstock’s was draped in the white muslin that is to make her look like Debussy’s Melisande. Edith Huber’s was clad in a grey alpaca dress which might have been worn by that low-spirited English governess, Jane Eyre.
It didn’t take Edith long to understand the point of my charade that day in the fitting room, and when Herr Huber proposed, she came at once to see me.
‘You must tell me what to do about clothes, Frau Susanna, please. I mustn’t disgrace him.’
‘You won’t disgrace him, Edith, but I’ll tell you what to do about clothes. Nothing. Forget them. Dress as plainly as you can, ignore fashion — be seemly and nothing more — by day. But at night…!’ And I scribbled down for her the address of the woman who makes lingerie for the girls of the Opera Ballet.
And it worked, of course. Inspired by that great gift, a secret wife, Herr Huber, within a month of his marriage, had patented the Huberwurst which is causing a sensation in the world of charcuterie.
It was almost time to open the shop, but I went out first into the courtyard because they’re so magical, these hesitant first days of spring. Mitzi had spent the night with Maia and they were playing next door.
‘We’re in an igloo,’ came Maia’s voice over the wall. ‘You can’t cook in an igloo.’
But Mitzi is growing up. ‘Yes I can. I’m going to heat some seal oil and fry strips of penguin meat.’
The buds on my pear tree are already showing white. This year I feel sure will be its annus mirabilis. It will give two pears or even three — but if not it doesn’t matter for I have plenty of time. When you plant pears you plant for those who come after you, for your heirs. And I have an heir… an heiress. No one ever had such an heiress as I. I know her name now. She’s called Elisabeth. They gave her the name I offered her in the hospital — my mother’s name. I found this so amazing, so unbelievable, but Gernot said it just meant that the nun who was on duty that night, the one who gave me the baby to hold, had told them what I wanted. He’s not at all keen on miracles, yet it was a sort of miracle he performed for me.
Because I’ve seen her — I’ve seen my daughter! Oh, only from a distance, but I’ve seen her, and it was because of him!
Gernot was right about the square. There were some fulsome obituaries about Herr Egger who had died so tragically in a shooting accident; then Heinrid came to lay a wreath on the family grave, and two weeks later the plan was dropped.
But he was wrong about having to resign from the army. The Kaiser was displeased about the duel, but a great deal more displeased at the idea of losing Gernot. ‘Don’t be silly, my dear fellow,’ he said — and immediately sent him to Albania to calm King Ferdinand.
When he came back we met at the Bristol and he asked me if I’d like to go to a wedding.
‘You’d have to go incognito — in one of your famous veils — and watch from a window. But I’ll take you if it would make you happy. If there are no tears.’
‘Your daughter’s, you mean?’
He shook his head. ‘The whiskery young man in the Diplomatic Corps got away. I was afraid he would. No, not my daughter’s wedding. Yours.’
I was sitting at the dressing table, brushing my hair. I knew he was watching my face so I took some deep breaths and managed to speak steadily (I think).