I run down to the salon and now am able to say: The air is wonderful here, I was out walking and looked in on a few friends here and there, but the air in particular, the country, after the city! Antoinette calls out a few names with her sure, sharp voice and seats the guests. First there’s plain leberknödel soup. It’s Antoinette’s policy, especially in the house at St. Wolfgang, to stick to traditional Viennese cuisine. Nothing chic or undependable is allowed on the table, nor anything French, Spanish or Italian, one isn’t surprised with overcooked spaghetti, as at the Wantschuras’, or with a sad, sunken zabaglione, as at the Mandls’. Probably Antoinette owes it to the name of Altenwyl that the names and the dishes remain unadulterated, and she knows that her policy reaches the awareness of most guests and relatives. Even if everything Viennese should disappear, as long as the Altenwyls are still alive they will be serving stewed plums, duchess potatoes and husarenbraten, there will be no running water and no central heating, the linen napkins will be woven by hand, and in the house there will be no “discussions,” “talking,” or “get-togethers,” but conversation, a dying species of weightless speaking at cross purposes, which permits proper digestion and maintains the good spirits of all. What Antoinette doesn’t realize is that her artistic appreciation in these areas was developed more by the Altenwyl spirit than by her existent but somewhat confused knowledge and even less by her haphazard acquisitions of modern art. Half the table has to speak French today, because of Atti’s distant relatives, a certain Uncle Beaumont and his daughter Marie. When French begins to dominate, Antoinette intervenes with a request in German: Atti, be so kind, there’s a draft, but I can feel it, it’s coming in from over there! Atti gets up twice and tugs on the curtains, pushes and pulls the window lock. These days everything they make is slipshod, the craftsmen around here! Mais les artisans chez nous, je vous en pris, c’est partout la même chose! Mes chers amis, vous avez vu, comment on a détruit Salzbourg, même Vienne! Mais chez nous à Paris, c’est absolument le même, je vous assure! Really Antoinette, I admire you for what you’re still able to come up with these days! Absolutely, without Antoinette . . . but she’s able to stand her own ground! No, we had a very simple dinner service shipped from Italy, from Vietri, down in the south, you know, before you reach Salerno! And I call to mind a large, wonderful bowl from Vietri, gray-green, with a leaf design, burned and lost, my first fruit bowl, why must today bring not only vodka with orange juice but ceramics from Vietri as well? Vous êtes sûre qu’il ne s’agit pas de Fayence? Jesus, cries Antoinette, Uncle Gontran is making me completely dizzy, please help me, I never realized that faïence comes from Faenza or that it might even be the same thing, you learn something new every day. Bassano del Grappa? Il faut y aller une fois, vous prenez la route, c’était donc, tu te rappelles, Marie? Non, says this Marie froidement, and old Beaumont looks hesitatingly at his daughter and then to me for help, but Antoinette makes a quick detour because of cold Marie down into Salzburg and picks at her Viennese meat loaf, whispering to me: No, today the meat loaf’s not up to par. Loudly to others: Incidentally, The Magic Flute, have you all been to see it? And what do you think? Anni, tell Josefin she has really disappointed me today, she already knows why, you don’t even need to explain anything. But what do you think of Karajan? The man’s always been a riddle to me!
Atti smoothes the waves between the excessively dry Viennese meat loaf, Verdi’s Requiem, which Karajan conducted without Antoinette’s approval, and The Magic Flute, which was staged by a well-known German director, whose name Antoinette knows exactly but mispronounces twice, confused, no different than Lina, who so often fluctuates maliciously between Zoschke and Boschke. But Antoinette is already back with Karajan, and Atti says: Of course what you all must realize is that every man is a complete riddle for Antoinette, which is exactly why men find her so beautifully unworldly and charming. Antoinette laughs with the inimitable Altenwyl laugh she acquired through marriage, for even if Fanny Goldmann is the most beautiful woman in Vienna and can claim the most beautiful “Sie,” still Antoinette must be awarded the prize for the most beautiful laugh. That’s Atti for you! my dear, you have no idea how right you are, but the worst thing is, she says coquettishly to her dish of blancmange from which she’s removed a dainty spoonful she lets dangle between the table and her head, her hand kept at a gracious angle (Josefin is simply priceless, the blancmange is just perfect, but I’ll be careful not to tell that to her) — the worst thing is, Atti, that you’re still the biggest riddle of all, and please, don’t contradict me! Her manner of blushing is moving, as she still colors when something occurs to her she’s never said before. Je vous adore, mon chéri, she whispers tenderly and loudly enough for everyone to hear. For if a man still poses the biggest riddles after ten years, or if you prefer, twelve, we wouldn’t want to importune the others with our public secrets, then we must have won the grand prize, am I not right? Il faut absolument que je vous le dise ce soir! She looks around for applause, in my direction as well and sends Anni an icy glance since Anni almost took my plate from the wrong side, but the next moment she’s once again able to gaze on Atti with loving eyes. She tosses her head back, and her pinned-up hair falls down almost accidentally over her shoulder, lightly curled and golden-brown, she is sated and satisfied. Old Beaumont begins, unmercifully, to talk about the old times, those were real summer retreats back then, Atti’s parents would leave Vienna with crates loaded with dishes, silver and linen, with the servants and children. Antoinette looks around sighing, her eyelids begin to flutter, for the whole story is threatening to be trotted out for the hundredth time, naturally Hofmannsthal and Strauss were with them every summer, Max Reinhardt and Kassner, and that rare Kassner commemorative album by Fertsch Mansfeld, really we should finally have a look at it today, and Castiglione’s fêtes, une merveille sans comparaison, inoubliable, il était un peu louche, oui, but Reinhardt, toute autre chose, a true gentleman, il aimait les cygnes, of course he loved swans! Qui était ce type-là? asks Marie coldly. A shudder runs through Antoinette’s shoulders, but friendly Atti comes to the aid of the old man, please, Uncle Gontran, tell us that incredibly droll story about your tour of the mountains, you know, when alpinism had first made its appearance, you’ll just die laughing, you know, Antoinette, that Uncle Gontran was one of the first skiers to learn the Arlberg technique at the Arlberg, was that the same time as telemarks and christianas? And he was also one of the first to invent a sunflower seed diet and sunbathing, back then it was considered daringly audacious, naked, please tell us! Children, I’m dying, announces Antoinette, I’m glad I can gorge myself however I like, figure or no figure. She fixes Atti sharply, puts away her napkin, she stands up and we all move from the little parlor to the large adjacent one, wait for the mocha, and Antoinette once again stops old Beaumont from treating us to the Arlberg and the Kneipp cure, sunbathing naked or any other adventure from the turn of the century. Not long ago I was saying to Karajan, but one simply doesn’t know whether the man is listening, he’s in a constant trance, please, Atti, you don’t have to look at me so imploringly, I’ll keep my mouth shut. But what do you say to Christine’s hysteria? Turning to me: Can you please tell me what has got into this woman, she’s such a bore, she stares at me as if she’d swallowed a cow, I keep being friendly, but the woman seems intent on dousing me with fire and brimstone, Wantschura with his sculptures, naturally he will have driven her crazy by now, just like he did Lisel before, he’s notorious in that respect, all of his muses wear out because they constantly have to stand around in his atelier, and then there’s the household on top of that, I understand, but one has to have the countenance for it if one is to going to appear in public with such a man, of course he is extremely talented, Atti bought the first things he did, I’ll show you, they’re the best things Xandl has done!
* * *
Once another hour goes by, I’ll be allowed to go to my bed and cover myself with the thick down-blanket they use in the country, as it’s always cool in
the evening in the Salzkammergut, outside something will be whirring around, but in the room too something will start to hum, I’ll get out of bed, walk around, look for a humming, buzzing insect but not find it, and then a moth will quietly warm itself on my lamp, I could kill it, but it’s not doing anything to me and therefore I can’t, it would have to make noises, some agonizing sound, in order to make me thirst for murder. I fetch a couple of thrillers from my suitcase, I just have to read something. But after a few pages I realize that I already know the book. The Simple Art of Murder. Antoinette’s scores are lying on the piano, two volumes of Sang und Klang, I open it to different pages and quietly try a few bars I once played as a child: Tremble, Byzantium . . . Ferrara’s Prince, Arise . . . Death and the Maiden, the march from The Daughter of the Regiment . . . the Champagne Aria . . . The Last Rose of Summer. I sing quietly, but out of key and flat: Tremble, Byzantium! Then even more quietly and on key: The wine which through the eyes we drink . . .
* * *
Right after breakfast, which Atti and I ate by ourselves, we take off in his motorboat. Atti has a chronometer hanging around his neck, he’s handed me the boathook, I try to hand it to him at a critical moment and wind up dropping it. That wasn’t very bright, you’re supposed to fend us off, we’re hitting the dock, push off! Normally Atti never shouts, but he feels obliged to shout whenever he’s in a boat, that in itself is enough to spoil being in a boat for me. We set out in reverse, he comes about, and I think of all the years in motorboats on lakes and seas, once again I gaze at the landscape from the past, so here is the forgotten lake, it was here! Atti, to whom I try to explain how wonderful I find skimming across the water, isn’t listening at all, since all he wants to do is reach the starting line before the race begins. Near St. Gilgen we kill the engine and rock for a moment. Ten minutes must pass after the first shot, then finally the second shot is fired, and now a signal ball is removed every minute. You see, they’re taking down the last one! Actually I don’t see anything but I do hear the starting gun. We stay behind the sailboats, which are getting underway, all I notice is that the one ahead of us is jibing, a racing jibe, explains Atti, and then we proceed very slowly so as not to disturb the regatta, Atti shakes his head at the maneuvers of these sad sailors. Ivan is supposed to be a very good sailor, we’re going sailing together, next year, maybe on the Mediterranean, since Ivan doesn’t think much of our little lakes. Atti is getting excited: Good God, he’s not very bright, he’s sailing with too much trim, that one there is drifting off course, and I point at one well underway while all the others are almost lying still. He has his own personal gust! His what? And Atti explains everything very well, but I see my forgotten lake with these playthings on it, I would like to sail here with Ivan, but far away from the other people, even if it tears the skin off my hands and I have to crawl back and forth below the boom. Atti motors up to the first buoy, which all the racers have to round, he is completely amazed. You have to sail very close and then round the buoy, the second one there has lost at least fifty meters, the sailor on that one-person boat is pinching, he’s just giving wind away, and then I also learn about real and apparent wind, I like that a lot, I look at Atti admiringly and repeat the lesson: What counts in sailing is the apparent wind.
Atti’s mood has mellowed thanks to my participation, the man there isn’t just sitting oddly on his boat, he ought to move back more, there, finally, now he’s getting it out. More, even more! It all looks like so much fun, I say, but Atti, once again annoyed, says it’s not fun, the man isn’t thinking about anything except the wind and his boat, and I look up at the sky, I try to remember from hang-gliding what thermal wind is, what a thermal is, and I change my view, the lake is no longer the lake, light or the color of lead, but the darker patches mean something, now two boats are heeling to leeward, since once again there’s not much wind, they’re trying to fill their sails. We follow them a little, close to the next buoy, and it starts to get cool. Atti thinks they’re going to “shoot down” the regatta, since it’s not worth it, it really isn’t worth it, Atti already knows why he’s not taking part in this regatta. We motor home, jolting over the water, now more agitated, but suddenly Atti stops the motor, as Leibl is heading our way, he’s also in St. Gilgen, and I say to Atti: What kind of big steamer is that over there? Atti shouts: That’s not a steamer, that’s a . . .
The two men start to wave. Hello Altenwyl! Hello Leibl! Our boats are next to one another, the men are talking excitedly, Leibl hasn’t taken his boats out yet, Atti invites him to lunch tomorrow. Another one, I think to myself, so that’s the victorious shortbodied Herr Leibl, who wins all the regattas in his catamaran, and since I can’t shout like Atti I wave respectfully and occasionally look back in the mirror. This Leibl is certain to say this evening that he saw Atti without Antoinette and with some blonde. The prizewinning Herr Leibl can’t know that Antoinette absolutely had to go to the hairdresser today, that she couldn’t care less who’s racing around the lake with Atti, for Atti’s thoughts have only been about sailboats and the lake for three months now, as Antoinette will painfully, confidentially inform everyone, about this damn lake and nothing else.
* * *
Late in the evening we have to go out on the lake once again, at thirty or thirty-five knots, because Atti has an appointment with a sailmaker, the night is cool, Antoinette has gotten rid of us, she has to attend the opening of Everyman. I keep hearing some music: And dream beyond the fair horizon . . . I’m in Venice, I think about Vienna, I look across the water and look into the water, into the dark stories through which I’m passing. Are Ivan and I a dark story? No, he isn’t, I alone am a dark story. Only the motor can be heard, it’s beautiful on the lake, I stand up and hold on to the porthole frame, on the other shore I can make out a pitiful chain of lights, bleary and forlorn, and my hair is blowing in the wind.
* * *
. . . she was the only human living there, and she had lost her orientation . . . it was as if everything had swirled into motion, waves of willow wands, the Danube wandered about at will . . . imparting an uneasiness such as she had never known and besieged her heart . . .
* * *
If the fair wind weren’t there I would cry bitterly, halfway to St. Gilgen, but the motor stutters, dies, Atti throws out the anchor and ground tackle, he shouts something to me and I obey, I’ve learned that on a boat you have to obey. Only one person is allowed to say anything. Atti can’t find the canister with the extra gasoline, and I think, what will become of me, all night long on the boat, in this cold? no one can see us, we’re still far away from the shore. But then we find the canister after all, the funnel too. Atti climbs forward on the boat and I hold the lantern. I’m no longer certain whether I actually want to arrive at any shore. But the motor starts, we weigh anchor and sail home in silence, as Atti also realizes that we would have had to spend the whole night on the water. We don’t say anything to Antoinette, we smuggle in some greetings from the other side, invented greetings, I’ve forgotten the people’s names. I am forgetting more and more. During dinner I can’t remember what I wanted to or was supposed to have told Erna Zanetti, who was at the opening with Antoinette, I try a greeting from Herr Kopecky in Vienna. Erna is amazed: Kopecky? I excuse myself, it must be a mistake, someone in Vienna told me to say hello, maybe Martin Ranner. That can happen, says Erna considerately, that happens. Throughout the entire dinner I keep thinking about it. It really shouldn’t happen, maybe it was something more important, something other than greetings, maybe I’m supposed to ask Erna for something, it wasn’t a map of Salzburg, it wasn’t a map of the lakes or of the Salzkammergut, it wasn’t a question about a hairdresser or a drug store. My God, what was I supposed to say to or ask Erna! I don’t want anything from her, but I’m supposed to ask her something. While we drink our mocha in the large parlor I keep looking guiltily at Erna, since it will never occur to me again. Nothing concerning the people surrounding me will ever occur to me, I am forgetting, already f
orgetting, the names, the greetings, the questions, the messages, the gossip. I don’t need any Wolfgangsee, I don’t need to recuperate, I suffocate whenever evening comes with all the conversation — the same situations don’t really return, they’re only hinted at, fear is making me suffocate, I’m afraid of losing something, I still have something to lose, I have everything to lose, it’s the only important thing, I know what it’s called, and I’m not capable of sitting around here at the Altenwyls, with all these people. Eating breakfast in bed is pleasant, walking along the lake is healthy, going to St. Wolfgang to buy newspapers and cigarettes is good and useless. But to realize that one day I will miss each of these days terribly, that I will cry out in horror because I have been spending them the way I have, while life is really at the Mondsee . . . I will never be able to make up for that.
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