The bed boards underneath the cotton mattress creaked as Werthen rolled on to his side to face his wife.
‘You are being awfully conciliatory about this. It affects us both, you know. They’ll be constantly underfoot, or expect us to be their guests. This is my little piece of heaven and I do not appreciate interlopers.’
‘It’s the Burgtheater for you, Karl. So dramatic.’
‘Have you forgotten how difficult my father and mother are to be around? And I repeat, why are you suddenly the peacemaker?’
She said nothing for a moment. A fly had got into the house and was now busily buzzing in the dusk of the room.
‘It is only natural for grandparents to want to be near their grandchild.’
She continued staring at the black expanse overhead.
‘Is there something you’ve been wanting to tell me?’ he asked.
‘Father mentioned that he might be moving to Vienna. Well, not moving. Perhaps a pied-à-terre to begin with.’
‘Wonderful!’ Werthen groaned. ‘They’ve got us boxed in on both fronts.’
‘It doesn’t have to be like that,’ Berthe said.
‘Don’t you remember the argument over christening?’
‘That was settled amicably enough,’ Berthe said.
‘Yes. But I had to threaten to bring Frieda up a Buddhist unless they stopped intervening. The hypocrisy of it. We’re all Jews — it doesn’t matter whether they are assimilated or not, or if they were baptized Christians or not. Yet they go about playing at being German aristocrats.’
‘It’s their lives, their hypocrisy.’
‘Not when it has an impact on our lives. And let us not forget your father’s insistence on an aliyah naming ceremony for Frieda.’
‘But he finds her name so Nordic.’
‘Better Ruth? That is fine, though. I understand his position. After all, he is a leading Talmudic scholar. .’
‘It’s not about religion. It’s more about tradition for him.’
‘Fine. So now he will be in Vienna part of the time to be close to Ruth.’
‘There is a silver lining,’ Berthe said, turning to him now and placing a kiss on his nose. ‘There is a certain widow he has met. .’
‘Nuptials in the offing? Sorry. I don’t know why I am being so difficult about all of this. I enjoy your father. I even enjoy seeing my parents with Frieda now and again. It just feels suddenly like the world is crowding in on us.’
She moved against him, putting a soothing hand around the hair at the base of his head. Her fingers felt cool to the touch. Her lips touched his.
‘Not the world,’ she said, moving closer. ‘Just me.’
In the middle of the night Frieda woke them with a cry. Berthe went to her and then came back to their bed with the little bundle of their daughter cradled in her arms.
‘It’s still a strange room to her. She’ll get used to it.’
‘I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘A couple of hours ago, maybe. But now — ’
‘There,’ Berthe cooed to the infant as she lodged Frieda between them. She was asleep again in a matter of minutes.
‘I’ve been wondering,’ Werthen began.
‘No more discussion about our parents tonight. Please.’
‘No. About Salten. Was he hiding something, do you think?’
‘You mean when you asked him about his personal contact with the unfortunate young woman?’
‘So you overheard our conversation?’
She ignored this question. ‘Definitely defensive.’
‘Why, one wonders?’
TWO
On Monday morning Werthen set off for the office first, and would leave from there for his eleven o’clock appointment with Frau Mutzenbacher.
The day was glorious: a shimmering blue sky overhead and a soft warmth already at eight as he made his way down the Josefstädterstrasse. On the opposite side of the street he noticed the same military man he had seen for the past few months. Tall and thickly built, his moustache finely waxed, the patent-leather visor of his peaked cap shiny and without a smudge, as if the fellow put it on only after he had donned the fawn-coloured suede gloves he invariably wore. The greatcoat had long since been relegated to mothballs, Werthen imagined. The captain — for the three stars on his stiff collar indicated that rank — looked resplendent in the green tunic of the General Staff. His meticulously creased blue pantaloons were tucked into low black boots, as gleaming as the visor of his cap. A sword swung from his belt, and on his chest he wore the 1898 Jubilee Medal presented by Franz Josef in honor of the Emperor’s fifty years of service to his country.
This General Staff officer had interested Werthen from the first time he had seen him during the dark grey days of winter. Like Werthen, the officer was an inveterate walker. He stood ramrod stiff yet moved with a seeming casual elegance despite his size. Werthen, who still fancied himself a short-story writer in the odd moment, thought this officer would make a splendid character in a tale of love and regret. He secretly looked for a flaw in the captain as they continued to make their way down towards the Inner City on opposite sides of the street. A gambler, perhaps? There were enough of those in the military; forced to live on impossibly small army pay, many a young dandy had ruined his career attempting to supplement his income at the vingt-et-un tables of Baden bei Wien.
Soon Werthen lost interest in this game, however; and also lost sight of the officer as they approached the Volksgarten, since the other man headed off to the Ministry of War offices in the Hofburg while he, Werthen, continued through the park to his law office on Habsburgergasse. He was in an elated mood, looking forward to a new commission, wondering what to expect from Frau Mutzenbacher.
His orders from Berthe before leaving this morning were clear enough.
‘Eyes forward, Karl,’ she had teased.
‘I’m sure the working members of the establishment will still be sleeping, dear,’ he assured her.
Prostitutes were not his style. He neither fancied them nor frowned upon them. They had their job, and he had his. Quite simple, really. He had never sought their services, though once, when Werthen was sixteen, his father had made a clumsy effort at initiating his son into the ways of the world by a visit to a Viennese brothel. One look at the ghoulish eye makeup, however, at the sullen expression of the woman his father intended for him, and Werthen ran out of the place and all the way back to the hotel where they were staying, up from the country for the ball season.
His father never mentioned the incident.
The Habsburgergasse was bustling with activity when he arrived at No. 4. Down the street, Waltrum, the booksellers, had wooden boxes out on the street with second-hand books for sale. The flower shop next door was alive with bunches of lilac in large metal buckets of water, the heavy scent attracting honey bees. The Portier of his office building, Frau Ignatz, was out sweeping the cobbled sidewalk in front. The day was so splendid that he would not allow her presence to dampen his spirits.
‘Good morning to you, Frau Ignatz,’ he said, tipping his Homburg as he entered the door.
‘I am not so sure what’s so good about it,’ she said. ‘The refuse that’s left behind on this street is something awful.’
He ignored her remark, taking the stairs at a fast clip until he reached his office. As usual, Fräulein Metzinger had preceded him. She was already at her typewriter, beating out a staccato rhythm on the keys. A far cry from the forefingered typing that was all she had been capable of when she first came to his office. She looked surprised when she saw him.
‘I thought you had an interview this morning.’
There was a small sound of reproach to her comment.
‘I thought I would get some work done here first. The Herbst trust is still in need of that codicil.’
‘It’s been taken care of.’