The English Girl (16 page)

He is at once intrigued.

I tell him about her hand-washing, and how she will arrange things to be exactly in line.

‘There’s usually a fear underlying that kind of compulsive behaviour,’ he says. ‘A fear that can’t be allowed into consciousness. A fear that the person believes could overwhelm them entirely.’

‘I don’t know what she’s afraid of,’ I tell him.

‘No. Well, neither does she,’ he says. ‘And the purpose of the behaviour is to keep it that way.’

I think about this for a moment.

The pianist reaches the end of the piece. The room is quiet; the candle flames falter in a slight movement of air. The vast silence of the cemetery seems to reach out towards us.

‘So, that’s Marthe. What about Rainer?’ Harri asks me.

It’s easier to talk about Rainer.

‘Oh, Rainer’s the sane one,’ I say cheerfully. ‘Rainer’s much more well-balanced than Marthe.’

‘And what kind of man is he?’

But it’s harder than I thought to put into words.

‘He’s very well-mannered, very polite,’ I say lamely. ‘He likes music – Schubert. We perform songs together sometimes…’

I feel my face go hot, remembering that jolt of something I didn’t want to feel.

But if Harri notices my discomfort, he doesn’t remark on it.

‘What work does he do?’ he asks me.

‘He works in the civil service. There’s something about him – I don’t know how to put it.
Disappointed
, perhaps. He’s a bit fed up with Vienna.’ I remember the last conversation we had. ‘He thinks the Viennese are complacent. That they need a sense of purpose, a vision for the future. That they need to aspire … He likes that word, I think. To
aspire
.’

I’m smiling, a little amused by this. But Harri doesn’t smile. His eyes hold tiny candle flames.

‘Does he talk about politics at all?’ he asks me.

‘Well, only in a general way. Marthe discourages him. She feels you shouldn’t talk about that kind of thing at dinner. But he sometimes complains that there’s weak government in Vienna. That something has to change here … Some men came to meet with him one night and it all looked very intense.’

There’s a ghost of a frown on Harri’s face. As though he knows something he’s not saying.

‘Have you told them about me?’ he asks.

I feel a surge of discomfort.

In that moment, I resolve to change things. I shall introduce him to people, no longer keep him secret. I shall start with Anneliese, who is always asking when she can meet him. And, picturing her and Harri meeting, I feel so happy at once. I don’t know why I’ve hesitated.

Harri repeats his question.

‘Stella? Have you told Rainer and Marthe you’re seeing me?’

‘Well, not exactly. Not yet.’

He breathes in – as though he is going to say something; then thinks better of it. The candlelight makes the bones look too sharp in his face.

‘What is it?’ I ask him.

‘Don’t worry, darling. It’s nothing. Really,’ he says.

The roses are nearly over, in the Volksgarten. There are just a few scruffy blooms that still cling to the blood-red stems, their petals pale and fading as though they’ve been soaked too long in water, and the fountain that plays in a round stone basin has a hard, brittle sound.

Lukas grabs my hand.

‘Come
on
, Fräulein Stella!’

There’s a bird-charmer standing by the tall wrought-iron gates to the park. Lukas tugs at me.

The bird-charmer’s clothes are tattered; he has a straggly grey beard. He has put down his cap, for money. He whistles and holds out his hand. A sparrow lands there, quivering, light as a leaf, the colour of shadow or earth; then another and another. We join the group of women and children who have gathered to watch.

‘I want to do that,’ says Lukas. ‘I want to make the birds come.’

‘It’s difficult, Lukas – to call the birds. Most people can’t do it,’ I tell him. ‘You have to have a special gift.’

He ignores this; or refuses to accept it.

‘I called a bird once, but the silly thing just flew away. Why don’t the birds like me?’ he says.

‘It’s not that they don’t
like
you. It’s just that they’re scared. All wild things are frightened of people.’

‘Why are they frightened?’

‘They think the people could hurt them.’

‘But they don’t need to be frightened, do they? We wouldn’t hurt them,’ he says.

‘No, of course we wouldn’t. But some people might, I suppose.’

‘Bad people? Might bad people hurt them?’

A small chill wind shivers the leaves of the sycamores. I pull my coat closer about me.

We walk back to Schottentor, to the tram, through the sepia afternoon light. The lamps are lit already. The air is thick with the smokes of a thousand chimneys, and has a rich, acrid smell, of horses and soot and petrol fumes. Lukas looks unhappy, and I’m worried that he’s thinking about Verity. How he saw her crying. How he misses her.

He kicks at a stick on the pavement, stumbles, falls to his knees. I kneel down, hold him. In the chilly light of the street lamps, I can see all the unshed tears that glitter and shine in his eyes.

‘Poor Lukas. That must have hurt. Don’t cry.’

‘But I’m not
crying
. I’m
cross
.’

I take his hand, but he pulls away from me, doesn’t want his hand held. We walk on through the darkening day and the thickening light.

‘The birds don’t know anything, do they, Fräulein Stella?’ he says then. ‘They don’t even know who to be frightened of. The stupid stupid birds.’

‘There she is, Harri! That’s Anneliese!’

I watch her coming through the doors of the Landtmann. I’m so excited. I don’t know why I’ve kept postponing this moment. It’s my first step. After this, I shall introduce him to Rainer and Marthe, and bring the different parts of my life together. It’s the right time now.

I wave, but she hasn’t seen us yet. She’s wearing a dress of orchid silk and a jacket of silver-grey fur. I watch her walking between the tables, her back as straight and graceful as the stalk of a flower. An ugly little worm of a thought slithers into my mind. What if he likes her more than me? What if he fancies Anneliese? Perhaps it wasn’t wise to bring them together like this …

Stop it
, I tell myself.
Don’t be so stupid
.

‘Look – she’s seen us,’ I tell him happily.

He stands as she approaches; and I introduce them formally, like my mother said you should.

‘Anneliese, this is Harri Reznik. Harri, this is Anneliese Hartmann.’

He kisses Anneliese’s hand. She gives a small, tight smile.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ she says.

But her face has a blank, shuttered look.

‘Anneliese. Are you all right?’ I ask her.

‘I’m absolutely fine, thank you, Stella,’ she says.

She sits. She rather elaborately chooses a place on the floor for her bag. When she takes off her gloves, I see that her nails are a daring red, almost black, like the stain left by ripe mulberries. I expect her usual flood of chatter – but she says nothing at all.

Harri orders coffee for her. She says she won’t have a cake.

I feel clumsy, gangly, as though my body isn’t fixed together properly. Something’s wrong. It must be me: it must be something I’ve done. Did I mismanage the introductions? Have I offended Anneliese in some way – broken some rule of etiquette that I know nothing about?

I smile brightly at both of them.

Anneliese doesn’t smile back. She flicks some invisible lint from her sleeve.

‘Stella tells me you’re a doctor,’ she says to Harri.

He nods. ‘I work at the psychiatric hospital, in Penzing.’

There’s a look in his face I’ve not seen before – rather weary, resigned.

‘Harri used to study with Dr Freud,’ I say proudly.

‘Did he? Oh,’ says Anneliese. Not asking any of the questions that I’d expect her to ask.

A silence opens up between us. Like a pit you could fall in.

Harri shifts around in his chair.

‘So, Anneliese, you’re also at the Academy?’ he asks her.

It’s her opening – to talk about her ballet dancing and all her ambitions and dreams.

She nods; and presses her lips together. Keeping all her words inside.

Her coffee comes. She turns away from the table, smiles vividly at the waiter, thanks him too effusively. It’s as though she’s saying, This is what I’m
really
like – generous, talkative, warm: when I’m with other people …

She drinks her coffee quickly, not looking at me.

‘Anneliese’s a ballet student.’ My voice determinedly cheerful. ‘We met in Beethovenplatz, when her hat blew off in the wind.’

It’s a happy memory. But now it sounds stupid, the words falling between us and swallowed up, like pebbles dropped into a pond.

There’s something I can’t get hold of – almost a sense of complicity between them. As though they both understand something that I know nothing about. It suddenly enters my mind:
What if they knew each other already? Could they have had an affair?
But at once I push the thought away. It’s too bizarre a notion – even for someone as feverishly jealous as me.

The silence deepens between us, threatens to drown us. I fall back on talk about the weather, as my mother always would, in any awkward social situation.

‘Well, it’s a lovely day, isn’t it? I suppose we should make the most of it. I’ve heard it can get quite cold here, even this early in the year…’ My voice is brittle.

Anneliese doesn’t respond. She’s staring past me, over my shoulder, as though looking for someone more congenial to talk to.

I feel cheated of my moment. I’d so looked forward to this, so wanted these two to like one another. I’d imagined us talking intensely about everything that matters – music, psychology, films: our passions, all the things we share. And maybe there’s a part of me, a not very admirable part, that wanted Anneliese to be a little envious – to envy me for my boyfriend, with his intelligence and his beautiful face; when I envy her so much for all her sophistication, for the way she seems to walk so easily through the world.

‘I need to powder my nose,’ she says.

Her eyes on me – requiring something.

I go with her.

The Ladies’ Room is in the basement. It’s plush and well-appointed: long mirrors, soft pink flattering lighting, orchids in a vase. The room has an expensive scent, of sandalwood soap and women’s perfume; but you can just catch the faintest sulphurous smell from the drains. Reminding you of that world that lies beneath Vienna, beneath all the palaces and the airy streets where we walk – the sewers, crypts, dead things.

An attendant with wayward gypsy hair is cleaning the basins. She withdraws into a corner as we go in.

I’m about to say,
What on earth’s happened, Anneliese?
Afraid that something has gone awry in her life.

She turns to face me.

‘Please tell me it isn’t serious.’ Her mouth has a hard downward curve: she looks older; world-weary. ‘Please tell me you’ll finish it soon.’

I’m mystified.

‘Of course it’s serious. Of course I’m not going to finish it. You know how I feel about him.’

I’m confused, exasperated. Perhaps it was right after all – that fleeting fantasy I had, that they might have had an affair. Why else would this matter so much to her?

‘Anneliese – what
is
this?’

‘You didn’t tell me about your boyfriend,’ she says.

There’s a note in her voice I don’t recognise, rather cold and contemptuous – as though we have no connection.

‘I told you all about him,’ I say.

‘You didn’t
really
tell me about him. You didn’t say who he was.’

‘For goodness’ sake. He’s kind, he’s clever, I love him. I love him so much…’

And as I say this, I think how true it is – how very much I love him.

‘That’s not the point,’ she says. ‘He’s a Jew, Stella. Your precious boyfriend. You didn’t ever tell me that he was a Jew.’

The room tilts.

‘You mean – that
matters
to you?’

She turns from me and undoes the clasp on her bag. She takes out her lipstick, opens it. She doesn’t answer my question.

‘You liked the sound of him, when I told you about him,’ I say. Rage is rising inside me like steam, searing me, scalding my throat. ‘He makes me so happy.’

She stares at herself in the mirror. She strokes on her lipstick, says nothing. The lipstick matches her nail varnish, the colour mulberry-dark, so her mouth is a gash, a scar, against the pallor of her skin.

‘I mean, he’s not even religious,’ I tell her. Floundering. ‘He doesn’t believe in God – he’s an atheist. Why does his being Jewish make any difference to anything?’

She closes her lipstick with a sharp little click, like glass splintering.

‘Well, that’s what they want you to believe. That it doesn’t make any difference. They want you not to think about it. That’s what they rely on,’ she says.

‘Not to think about
what
?’

‘There are things going on that we can’t begin to imagine. There’s a conspiracy, Stella. The Bolsheviks and the Jews.’

There’s something new in her voice – a thrill, as though saying this excites her.

I’m flailing around. I don’t know how to respond.

‘What d’you mean – a
conspiracy
?’

‘There’s a book about it that Caspar gave me. I think you ought to read it. It explains it all so much better than I ever could,’ she says. ‘The things Caspar’s told me … Believe me, Stella, you’ll find it takes your breath away. The things they’ve done. The things they’re planning to do.’

Her eyes are on me – serious, certain. I feel a queasy discomfort under her gaze.

‘They’d take over everything, if only they could,’ she tells me. ‘Finance, the government – everything. It needs sorting out. It needs bringing under control.’

‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I tell her.

She raises her eyebrows.

‘Stella – you’re just so
young
, aren’t you? In a way, it’s rather endearing. But the world isn’t always a pretty place. You need to open your eyes.’