It is impossible for a human being to have as much tact as this Habib, thinks Levadski. Like an animal, yes, like an animal he holds up a mirror in front of me, the mirror of my own wretchedness.
Toifl Textile Care is waiting in the middle of the street, blinkers on, and turns off in the direction of the back entrance of the hotel. 15 Years Gruenfeldt Insect Screens breathes in the exhaust from the little Nordsee fish delivery van. Fall in love with fish.
If I were Habib, it would never have occurred to me to announce myself as the reception desk, such thoughtfulness, so tactful, such genuine sympathy! Just so that Mr. Witzturn is not reminded that there are people who are even more privileged that he is in this hotel. Or perhaps so as not to make me seem like a showoff? Levadski stares at the writing on the streetcar that slowly comes to a halt in front of his window. Nobody chooses where they are born. Mr. Witzturn probably has sufficient dignity to not feel one iota smaller in a Classic Room and without a butler. But you never know. At our age.
The ringing of the telephone gives him a start. Habib is on the line, he has got the tickets. Row 1, seats 3 and 4, ground floor box on the right, sparkling wine in the intermission ordered in Levadski’s name.
You are a treasure, Habib, Levadski wants to say. “You have done me a tremendous favor,” he slurs into the receiver and hangs up. My goodness, hard to believe. Musikverein. Great-aunts! Suddenly he feels a shiver run down his crooked spine. His great-aunts, what if they are still alive! He never received any death notices. Oh come on, Levadski thinks, they passed away long ago. Both of them. Their graves must have been leveled at least fifty years ago to make room for new great-aunts. Nobody who has ever made inquiries about reserving a plot in a cemetery believes in the fairy tale of eternal peace. All a sham. I won’t be bumping into them in the Musikverein, thinks Levadski, unsure of whether to be sad or relieved, but I will raise a glass of sparkling wine to the darling dead. And to mother, who never managed even once to come along, as she was always working. The poor thing. I will drink to mother later, at the bar.
Flight PS 819
Non-Stop
Flight time 2 hours
AT 7 P.M. ON THE DOT LEVADSKI SEES THE GLEAM OF MR.Witzturn’s silver cane handle on the stairs. His steps are muffled on the red runner and echo on the marble of the lobby. Leather shoes, thinks Levadski, extending his hand to Mr. Witzturn. “I thought,” he joked, “that we would bump into each other in the elevator again.” Mr. Witzturn pants and laughs, he had wanted to get a bit of exercise and decided to take the stairs at ten to seven in order to arrive in the lobby on time.
“Five floors,” he says, fluttering his eyelashless lids as if he himself refused to believe he had just managed to master them. Levadski doesn’t believe it either. I bet he got out on the second floor and then took the steps, the old windbag.
“Impressive, impressive,” Levadski praises Mr. Witzturn. “So your room is on the top floor.” Mr. Witzturn nods and whispers meaningfully:
“Above the tops of the trees!”
“Let’s go,” Levadski suggests, waving two tickets printed on shiny black paper. Only after Levadski has politely nodded at a doorman with gray hair at the temples does Levadski realize that Mr. Witzturn has followed him through the revolving door, rather than him going first. “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Witzturn, please forgive me!” Mr. Witzturn’s mouth is twisted, he is trying to suppress a laugh.
“One doesn’t get any younger,” he says coughing. “As an old man I am used to the youngsters being in the fast lane.”
A flock of perfumed matrons with fat ankles noisily totter past the two of them. “In the old days,” Mr. Witzturn recollects enthusiastically, “if you were a lady, you had a feather boa and moved as proudly and silently as a marble column.”
“Hhm, hhm,” says Levadski in a huff.
“One let oneself be worshipped like an icy mountain peak,” Mr. Witzturn says, waving his hand in its leather glove. Levadski grumbles and looks into the illuminated window of the restaurant, where yesterday he nearly dislocated his jaw on the Iberico. “For the conqueror,” Mr. Witzturn skips on, “the air grew thin around them, and some lost their lives in the ascent, isn’t that so?”
“You probably know better, I have never been a ladies’ man,” Levadski shrugs his shoulders.
“And those long languishing lashes, double rows of pearls, those scamps!” Mr. Witzturn says intoxicated, his voice sounding increasingly tender, as if a sharpedged sliver of candy were melting beneath his tongue. “And now this,” he says dryly, signaling with his head in the direction of the matrons in their clodhoppers hurrying away.
“Do you like classical music?” Levadski asks while crossing the street.
“Oh!” Mr. Witzturn exclaims, “I wanted to thank you so much for taking me with you today. I love music.”
“Wonderful,” Levadski says pleased, “I also love music, and Glazunov is one of the greats. A drinker!” he murmurs, causing the two women wearing trousers in front of them to turn around in alarm. “A drinker and a genius!” Levadski adds decisively, “one of the Russian greats!”
“Those two gentleman are showing us the way,” Mr. Levadski says to the backs of the trouser wearers, “the entrance must be there.”
“Have you ever been in the Musikverein before?” Levadski asks, keeping an eye on the steps, which he takes elegantly, according to his strength, one after the other.
“Yes, a hundred years ago,” Mr. Witzturn laughs, overtaking Levadski. “This evening, with your permission, I will lead the way.”
“That suits me fine. You are also the taller of the two of us,” Levadski cheerfully hurls at his back. “I almost feel like a female blackbird during the breeding season beside you!” he admits, breathing laboriously in the lobby.
The few steps have also taken their toll on Mr. Witzturn. “I like you,” he splutters, leaning against a column, “I like you, Mr. Levadski, although you have a lousy character.” Levadski expresses his horror by letting out a low whistle. “But I presume,” Mr. Witzturn adds, “that the lousiness of your character has gotten worse with age.”
“What a consolation,” Levadski says by way of thanks, looking around.
In the meantime the clodhoppers have dropped off their coats and are assessing — so it seems to Levadski — each other’s miserable festive attire. “Very shabby.” Mr. Witzturn confirms, following Levadski’s gaze.
“Oh, I have forgotten my magnifying glass!” Levadski says, slapping his brow.
“And the tickets?”
“Those I have, although nobody has asked to see them.”
“We are not in the auditorium yet,” Mr. Witzturn says to placate him.
“We will not be sitting in the auditorium, but in a ground floor box. First row.”
Mr. Witzturn clamps his walking stick between his thin legs and takes off his coat.
Levadski skilfully receives it and is rewarded with a beaming smile from Mr. Witzturn. “Stay here, I will drop off our coats.”
“Allow me the honor, Mr. Levadski.” When Mr. Witzturn has returned, Levadski hands him the program he has just bought. “I am really looking forward to this.”
“Let’s go,” says Levadski, “I will smooth the way through the crowd.”
“Strange, they didn’t check our tickets at all,” Mr. Witzturn remarks, making himself comfortable in an upholstered chair.
“They did, you just didn’t notice. There was a young lady at the entrance to the box.”