The Foreigner

by P. G. Glynn

  “I might not understand German,” Marie said, “but I’d need to be dense not to notice that you keep repeating yourself. What’s wrong with you, Otto?” She added tartly: “And if you answer me in a foreign language I’ll scream!”

  “It’s English that’s foreign over here,” he told her as the vintner arrived with a tray bearing fresh supplies of wine. “Nicht wahr, Herr Rieseder?”

  “Ja, ja!” their genial host agreed, beaming at Marie from within white whiskers that seemed to cover most of his face. “That is so.” He added kindly: “But I spik some English. You like my wine, yes?”

  Marie politely agreed that she did after which, wiping his hands on his big green apron and walking backwards until he collided with a tree, he retreated. “It’s hateful,” she told Otto then.

  “What is? This?” With a sweep of his arm he gestured to indicate the vintner’s garden near the Vienna Woods where he had brought her to sip young wine and sample simple food in time-honoured tradition. As musicians in national costume strolled between the tables to serenade them and their fellow-guests, there in the soft evening air, Otto decided that with the stars above her Marie resembled Gaea, the earth goddess. “You don’t like our Heurigen?”

  “There – you see?” Her eyes flashed fury. “You aren’t speaking like you did in London. Ever since we left England you’ve been speaking like a foreigner. I hate it … and I hate Vienna. You shouldn’t have brought me here. I’d made my preferences quite clear, yet we still ended up travelling across Germany and then honeymooning in Austria. If you were British, you’d respect my wishes instead of just doing what you want to do and going where you want to go. There are plenty of countries where English is spoken. Why couldn’t we have gone to one of those?”

  “Because English is just one language among many,” he told her in some amusement, “and not the only language, as you’d like to think. You’re simply homesick. The feeling will soon pass and when it does you’ll come to love Vienna as I love it.”

  “Stop patronising me! Your horrible city stinks of death and decay and there are more beggars here than I ever knew existed. Have you seen their expressions – that is, if they’ve a face with which to express anything? They look as if hell is where they live and I reckon it is. Yet we’re living off the fat of the land in embarrassing luxury. That seems all wrong to me – and you’re as wrong as you can be. I’ll never love Vienna and all I want is to leave here.”

  “There’s that word again!”

  “Which word?”

  “‘Never’,” he grinned. “If you keep saying it, then you must accept the consequences when eating it is necessary. Vienna is a city of contrasts, I agree. It always has been because west and east meet here, their cultures blending to form a new culture. But I must protest that Viennese air is no smellier than London’s and as for the beggars – yes, they are there and I’m not comfortable with them either. Have you considered, though, that they are perhaps an indication of Austria having suffered more from the war than Britain did?”

  “Austria lost. We won – thanks to Pa and men like him.”

  “So it’s their doing that Vienna’s beggars are suffering?”

  Marie was at a loss how to respond. While in Britain she had seen the war almost exclusively from a British standpoint, thinking in terms of ‘them’ and ‘us’ – the enemy and the allies – and seldom in terms of human beings on both sides. Governments set wars in motion, then left men to fight. And a man was no less a man, whatever his nationality. Told to fight the ‘enemy’ he fought, not necessarily knowing quite why … and paid the price. In other circumstances Pa might have liked the men that he killed and was ultimately killed by. Marie was awed by this insight. But no blame for the beggars’ plight could be perceived to touch Pa. “It isn’t in any respect my father’s doing that people are having to beg,” she said. “That’s the work of the warmongers who start it all off, maintaining their side is right and the other side wrong. So there are no actual winners. How can there be, with right and wrong on both sides and with war such a futile exercise? I’d like some more wine.”

  Otto was happy to oblige. There was nothing like wine for helping a woman to forget her travel-sickness … and lower her defences. In his hurry to honeymoon in Vienna he had given insufficient thought to his wedding night that, with hindsight, should not have been spent aboard a paddle steamer. Nor had the next night been any better, rattling along in a sleeper. And last night Marie had proved too tired …

  Never mind. Now that she was his lawful wife time was on his side. He would soon be making passionate love to her nightly and, the way things were going, heaven would open its gates to him tonight. Otto smiled.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “Because I’m gazing at my desirable bride, who makes me the envy of every man for miles … and because being here with you like this is so gemuetlich.”

  “I’ve told you exactly what I think of your speaking to me in anything but English.”

  “You have,” he cheerfully agreed, “but gemuetlich is a word that can’t be translated satisfactorily. I can sum it up in a feeling of extreme wellbeing. You, too, are beginning to feel … tranquil, I think.”

  “I am? If you think that you must be mad! If I feel anything, it is outrage at the way you keep lapsing into German despite all my pleas. Something should be done to make English the universal language if you ask me.”

  “Da muss was g’schehn!” he laughed, to her fury, adding: “Aber da kann man halt nichts machen.” Otto had, in the local dialect, summed up the Viennese philosophy. One half of this went ‘something will have to be done about that’ while the other half – often uttered in the same breath – acknowledged ‘but one simply can’t do anything about it’. The two halves formed a philosophical whole: whether it was done or it was not done the outcome would be much the same, so why worry? Time wasted on worry could have been better spent. Registering Marie’s glare he said: “That’s certainly an idea. Whether or not you’ll achieve universal approval of it is another matter.” Touching her knee beneath their table he then asked her: “You are ready to return to the Sacher?”

  “Not yet.” He was actually asking whether she was ready for bed and she would never be ready in the way he meant. How could she ever let him do to her as Charles had done? Marie could not imagine making love with Otto though fully aware that, having married him, she was being unfair in refusing him his marital rights. As her husband he had certain entitlements – but, oh, what a shock it had been since leaving Caxton Hall to realise she was now Otto’s wife! It was as if she had been asleep prior to the ceremony, only awakening once it was over. She had awakened too late to the fact that marriage was a new beginning, not just an end to her problem. Despite Uncle John’s best efforts she had been looking no farther than the wedding itself. She had not looked into the future and seen herself beside Otto for the rest of her life. She had not envisaged Marie Howard being replaced by Marie Berger – a wife accompanying her husband on a journey taking her away from everything and everyone she loved.

  Of course she was only away temporarily from London but now the sea and Holland and Germany lay between her and the Tavistock Theatre. So many miles separated her and Charles that these put her beyond crying. Was it in some other existence that she and he had lived and loved and entertained rapturous audiences? It must have been, because those experiences did not belong in this one. She was removed from them physically and in her head, which was just as well. Her detachment made Vienna and this horrid honeymoon more or less bearable.

  Marie had been struck first by the city’s post-war air of past grandeur and next by its shabbiness. It was also drab, as if sunk deep in depression, and Strauss’s Danube was grey, not blue. By far its worst feature were its beggars, about whom nobody seemed to care. Better by far for Pa to have died than survive to endure deprivation such as theirs. Not that in Britain, thank heaven, there was suffering such as she had seen here. She shrank from the beggars yet felt
for them as she had never previously felt for fellow humans. It was obscene that, materially, she had so much and they so little. There was surely something to be said for Communism if it abolished the gulf between poor and rich! Marie smiled at this.

  Pouring wine from their fifth Viertel Otto said: “Something is amusing you?”

  “Just the thought of my becoming a Communist!”

  “You’re thinking of it?”

  She saw that, to his credit, he did not look shocked but simply interested. “I’m beginning to see things in its favour.”

  “Such as?”

  “Fairer shares for all in the distribution of wealth. Why should we have so much while others have nothing?”

  Otto shrugged. “If two men were each given the same amounts, their portions would not stay the same for long. While the first worked to increase his, the second might be lazy, or wasteful, or even profligate. Communism to my mind works in theory but not in practice. Practically, allowing for human shortcomings, some people will always be poor and others rich. Speaking of being rich – tomorrow, I think, I’ll take you to Spitzers.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s where discriminating women shop. Yes, Spitzers is where we’ll go to buy you a suitable trousseau!”

  “We bought one, in London.”

  “That was just to tide you over. So we shall now buy another, in Vienna! A bride can’t have too many clothes. And,” he added almost as an afterthought, “it will be cold in Bohemia. You’ll be needing some warm furs.”

  “I fail to see what the weather in Bohemia has to do with me.”

  “Is that so? You will see, once we reach my country and you test the temperature.”

  “I shan’t be testing anything. Vienna is the farthest I intend travelling.”

  “Really?” he said serenely. “I’m sure you’ll change your mind once you’ve taken time to consider that I haven’t seen Mama for seven years and that she is naturally keen to meet her new daughter-in-law.”

  Fighting panic, Marie told him adamantly: “I’m going nowhere near Bohemia. Before we were married, you never mentioned … ”

  “It surely didn’t need a specific mention,” he intervened. “It’s been obvious all along that I wish to see my family – Mama especially. And it would be an odd mother who didn’t wish to make the acquaintance of her favourite son’s wife.”

  “If you’re her favourite son, then I hold out no hope for the others … and the fact that I’m your wife doesn’t give you the right to decide things without consulting me. How dare you speak as if a trip to Bohemia were a fait accompli when we haven’t even discussed it?”

  “Easily,” he said, “considering Schloss Berger was my destination when we first met. Meeting you on the boat to Kew simply delayed me.”

  Clenching her fists, Marie responded: “Oh, it did, did it? Far from delaying your departure, I should have personally seen to it that you boarded the train you’d intended boarding so that you reached Bohemia and your precious Mama punctually … without me!”

  “I am wrong in wanting to see my mother?”

  “You’re wrong in assuming that I want to see her and that I’ll willingly be carted off like a … a chattel to your ghastly castle. It’s time you realised, Otto, that I’m not a piece of property but flesh and blood with my own identity.”

  He did realise. How he realised it, with her ripe breasts thrusting at him through the stuff of her dress and with his loins reacting dramatically to the tune of her anger! He hungered for Marie almost more when she was angry than when she was placid – which was beneficial, given that her temperament did not permit too much placidity. “I’m sorry,” he said, considering it best to soothe her before taking her to bed. “I never meant to be arbitrary. The trouble is that I’m impulsive … and so in love that I want to show you off as soon as possible to my family and friends. It’s natural, isn’t it, for a man to want that … and to want to see his home again after a long exile?”

  “My giddy aunt,” Marie answered, “you’re too highhanded and too flowery by half!” Conceding that a wish to see his mother could hardly be termed unreasonable and deciding resignedly that it might be best to get their visit out of the way sooner rather than later, she then asked: “How far is it to Bohemia?”

  “Not far at all. Remember that my country was Austrian before the war … and it still is, in my book. So in a sense we wouldn’t even be leaving Austria … if we were to go there.”

  “If we went, it would need to be just a quick visit.”

  “Would it?”

  “I won’t even consider going unless you promise that we’ll be back in London before Christmas. With my baby due in the spring … ”

  “It’s natural that you should want this child to be born British,” he butted in, thinking it might not suit him to concur with her wishes any more than it suited her to concur with his. “Natuerlich, I promise that we’ll be back in Britain the minute you’ve met Mama and I’ve put my financial affairs in order. Does your yawn mean that I’m boring you … or that you’re feeling sleepy?”

  ++++++

  Marie had been unable to postpone bedtime indefinitely. Nor could she keep avoiding Otto’s attentions. At some stage she must submit to him, so why not be done with it?

  Preparing for bed, Marie told herself that sleeping with Otto could not affect all she felt for Charles. She and he were one spiritually so how could a physical act with another man alter that? Reserving her inner self for her true husband, she could allow Otto access to her outer self without being affected at any meaningful level. She belonged to Charles regardless of distance, regardless of a mere marriage of convenience. Separate states for soul mates simply did not exist. Brushing her hair vigorously, Marie relaxed a little.

  Watching her in the mirror as she brushed, Otto knew better than to rush her. Such a moment should not be rushed: it should be savoured. Wearing ivory silk pyjamas and sipping Sekt from a glass with an elegantly long stem, he watched from their huge bed, propped up on down-filled pillows. Marie’s glass was near her on the dressing table and she had been sipping from it with her back to him, commenting that bubbles were filling her head. After all the wine consumed in Grinzing and now the Sekt she would probably be unbridled in bed.

  Or would she hold back from him, feigning inhibition as some women did? Otto marvelled over the fact that, married to Marie since Saturday, he still had no idea how she would react to his passion … still had not even seen her naked. She had as yet refused to undress in front of him and was now wearing a white lace nightgown and negligee that kept her covered, except at the front which he could see solely in reflection. The expanse of skin between her neck and the top of her nightdress hinted tantalisingly at the fullness of her breasts. Otto could see where they started to swell before being lost in all the whiteness and longed for more than a hint.

  Well, he would soon be holding … and kissing … and caressing! Yes! He would lift that lustrous mane of hair, spreading it on the pillow before exploring every exquisite inch of her. As he expertly explored, she would warm to him as she had never warmed to a man before. And under his skilful handling she would soon forget that old man she had left behind in London, beginning to appreciate her wisdom in marrying someone at the peak of his virility. Not that Otto expected, for years yet, to be anywhere less than at his peak. How could he be, married to Marie?

  She must have brushed her hair the prescribed hundred times at least. Any more brushing and he would explode with the emotions awaiting release.

  Setting his glass down on the bedside cabinet, Otto swung his legs to the floor and crossed on the soft cream carpet to where his wife sat.

  Marie, immobilised by his arrival, tried to switch off her thinking as he kissed her neck and undid the ribbon fastening her negligee. He would soon have had his way with her and then this would all be over. She must just endure the next bit before forgetting it.

  She felt her negligee fall to the floor … felt him cup he
r breasts in his hands and lovingly caress each nipple before dispensing with her nightdress. She heard him whisper of his hunger for her and somehow resisted an urge to tell him to hurry things up instead of prolonging this process. That would be unkind when he seemed to be admiring her body minutely … and he didn’t deserve unkindness from his bride.

  No. For all his faults, he deserved better than that. She could perhaps pretend to warm to him … to enjoy the things he was doing …

  With her eyes closed, she could even pretend it was not Otto doing them. Pretending, as on the bed they entwined limbs and exchanged kisses, Marie found that her body was responding to his. His tongue was doing extraordinary things, causing her to feel feverish … to feel need.

  She needed this and couldn’t pretend she didn’t. Were he to take his tongue from between her legs and stop its glorious probing she would be forced to protest. He must not take it away, must not halt these awesome sensations … yet.

  She was riding the crest and as she rode he tuned to her needs while answering his own. At the height of their pleasure, knowing her at last as his, Otto cried out in triumph just as Marie gasped: “Charles … oh, darling Charles!”

  23

  Otto had been trying not to notice how few men of his generation there were in Vienna. When he was in the Dragoons the city had seemed to be teeming with young cavalry officers whose exuberance and energy pulsated through these streets. He had been part of that scene and had thrown himself headlong into living as they did, for the thrill of the moment – for pleasure, the more sinful the better. The sinning had not amounted to much. He could sum it up in drink and women. Wine, women and song had been their theme, as if Strauss had composed his piece expressly for them – or perhaps for all young Viennese men. Were there none left?

  There must be some, if barely in evidence. Otto couldn’t bring himself to visit his old regiment. It wasn’t that he was exactly ashamed of the way his war had been spent, although he wouldn’t welcome questions from men who had fought for Austria and nor did he want to know the fates of old friends. It was bad enough having to note the absence of vigour and vitality and the presence instead of grey-faced tired men. Sometime in the future he might face making some enquiries: not yet.