Who Would You Choose?

by J. M. Bronston

  “I’m not making any impulsive decisions.”

  “Of course not.” They both smiled. This was the grown-up, mature, adult Marge Webster talking.

  “And you have a plane to catch.”

  “Right. And you’ll be on your way to Vienna tomorrow, and God knows where you’ll be after that.”

  “Right. And maybe I won’t want you to join me. So that I can have a chance to think with a clear head, without your charms to distract me.”

  Sam laughed. “My charms?”

  She slapped playfully at his shoulder.

  “Let me go,” she said. “You know how charming you can be.”

  “Okay.” He looked at his watch. “And you’re right. I do have a plane to catch. But first, there is something I want to give you.”

  “Oh, Sam. A gift for me?”

  “Yes. A gift.” Again, he held her face in his hands, and this time he was looking at her mouth, as though making a decision. “A charm.” And then he tipped his head very carefully, as though he needed to find the exactly correct place, and very, very lightly, he put a kiss just at the corner of her mouth. It was a kiss so gentle, it was barely more than a breath of air at her lips. She felt the tip of his tongue touch that tiny spot, right there, in the corner of her mouth.

  “There,” he said. His smile beamed at her. “That kiss belongs to me. I’ve never given it to anyone else. And no one else can take it from you. I buried it as deep as I could. So now it’s ours.” He laughed broadly, because she was staring at him, as though she’d never seen him before. “What?” he said. “I mean, kissing you is nice, but I didn’t expect to knock you speechless.”

  How could she tell him? A warmth had spread from that spot through her whole body, right down to her toe tips and up to the edges of her ears. For a moment, she hadn’t been able to breathe, and she thought she was again about to faint. She was trying to recover her voice, trying to return to a normal conversation.

  Sam was unaware. He had his arm around her shoulder and they started up the path past the Long Water, walking toward Bayswater Road.

  “Anyway,” he was saying, “wherever these next weeks take you, I hope you’re going to decide to let me join you. I don’t want you to be hiding from me.”

  She had taken a couple of deep breaths and recovered her voice enough to say, “We’ll see.” Then, as they approached Lancaster Gate and Sam hailed a taxi, Marge was able to laugh and say, “I hope you have a really hard time facing Jerry in court this week. You should have guilt written all over your face.”

  “No way,” he said. “In court, I’m a shark. Remorseless. No mercy. No conscience. Peter Pan could be ruthless, you know.”

  Marge laughed. “That’s true. And you lawyers, too! A pox on all of you!”

  And then, when the car arrived and he was about to get into it, he turned to kiss her goodbye. This was not a passionate kiss. Just a plain, old-friends, goodbye kiss. Because he could be seeing her soon in Vienna. And because she was carrying that kiss hiding in the corner of her mouth that belonged to him.

  “Oh, shoot,” she said. “I still have your toothbrush.”

  “That’s okay.” He got into the car, closed the door, and through the open window, he said, “Hang onto it. You never know. And while you’re in Vienna, have your first breakfast at Demel’s, on the Kohlmarkt. And think of me.”

  He waved goodbye, and she called after him.

  “Safe trip.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Marge thought a couple of hours up in the air at thirty-six thousand feet would get her away from the turmoil of Jerry versus Sam. She was wrong. The two men might as well have been actually sitting there, one on each side of her, crammed into her not-so-comfortable coach seat on the way to Vienna. How was a girl supposed to rest and recuperate while her fantasies were preoccupied with the two men, each of them poking at her like a nagging kid, wanting her attention? She couldn’t seem to turn them off. Sam was so appealing. But so was Jerry.

  She needed to shut them both up and just get on with her plan to do nothing but take care of herself. She hoped Vienna would be a good place for that. She knew no one there, and she knew very little about the city. Of course, “Vienna” meant Mozart and Strauss waltzes and whipped cream. She knew that much. And the beautiful blue Danube. All that sounded restful.

  Maybe I can dump the two of them into the river!

  But when her taxi from the airport wound its way through the tangled streets behind St. Stephen’s Cathedral and pulled up in front of the Pension Kreindl, she realized she was still imagining that she was sharing the event with her fantasy Jerry and her fantasy Sam, with each of them in turn, and the internal conversations continued:

  Marge: Look. Look at that. Look, Sam, look at the cobblestoned street. Must be centuries old.

  Sam: I’m glad you wore casual clothes for the flight. A girl in Jimmy Choos could kill herself on those stones.

  And then to Jerry.

  Marge: Have you ever seen anything like it? A whole city of baroque architecture.

  Jerry: I know. It’s like a Disney theme park. I should have brought a good camera with me.

  The street was so narrow, there was just room to open the taxi door and shoehorn herself out of the taxi and into the pension. She entered through a door topped by wrought iron filigree and flanked by elaborately draped and half-naked stone caryatids, and found herself inside a very small lobby with a desk and a smiling concierge who took her passport, confirmed her reservation and handed her the key to her room, two flights up. There was no elevator but there was an attractive winding staircase with a banister—also of beautifully decorative wrought iron. The room was small and not elaborate, but there was a vanity table with a tall mirror, the chair and the dresser were Biedermeier, and she had a strong sense that she’d been dropped into a time long past. Perfect for forgetting everything. She was now ready to get rid of her two annoying, imaginary companions. She told them most forcefully to shut up and leave her alone, and each of them slunk off into their imaginary corners, pouting. She deposited her carry-on, washed up, slipped a guide book into her handbag, and went downstairs to ask about breakfast.

  But she was too late. The little dining room was already closed and breakfast was no longer being served. The concierge gave her a map of the inner city, wrote down a few suggestions, and Marge left the pension.

  The day was lovely, crisp and November cool, and people moved briskly along the twisty streets, many of which were so narrow, she marveled that automobiles could squeeze through. She wandered without a plan, enjoying the freedom of being unmoored from everything—from work, from responsibilities, and mostly from being a grown-up woman who’d spent the last couple of weeks flitting around in a fantasy-like teen-aged romp with a man who had disappeared out of her life twenty years ago, and who maybe should have stayed there. And who presented the question: is that what she wanted?

  Don’t think about that! Not now! Not today.

  She wandered past the Stephansdom, crossed the Stephansplatz, went down a narrow street she recognized from an old Orson Welles film and turned into the Kohlmarkt which, from her map, she knew was where she’d find Demel’s. She knew she could get a late breakfast there, because even she, who did not know the city, knew of Demel’s which was about three hundred years old and was famous for its pastries. Lady Fair had once featured a story about the place and she was eager to see if it was as fabulous as the writer claimed.

  There were tables set up outside on the narrow sidewalk, but all were taken, and in any case, she preferred to see the interior. Which turned out to be indeed fabulous, with gleamingly polished dark woods and chandeliers of great globe clusters and high coffered ceilings and many tall display cases along the walls. But all that was nothing compared to the glass-shelved étageres, all bearing pastries and candies, rows and rows of them, and counters and serving tables
covered with platters of cold meats and small sandwiches, bowls of pasta salads and vegetable salads, everything exquisitely prepared and presented, the array and the variety overwhelmingly beautiful and seductive.

  There were several rooms, mirrored and gleaming and not crowded, and she took a seat at one of the small round marble tables near the front window. She remembered the description of the waitress’s uniforms from the magazine’s article and she smiled to see how accurate it was: designed hundreds of years earlier, a kind of loose smock of a soft glazed fabric, black, belted, longish and very plain.

  She ordered the asparagus tips in tartelettes and the cold stuffed veal in aspic and, while she ate her late breakfast—or was it her early lunch?—she looked around to study her neighbors. Difficult for her to tell but she thought they were a mix of tourists and Viennese, the latter being one elderly gentleman in a sedate dark suit who was reading his newspaper and having a mocha, ladies who’d been out shopping and were now meeting for a coffee and, at the table nearest her, a woman who was surely well into her eighties or more, quite tiny and fragile looking but elegantly dressed in a long gray woolen tunic over a short skirt. She was perfectly groomed and was wearing some very correct and very serious jewelry. The others seemed to be an assortment of American and German and Italian and Polish visitors who were obviously examining every detail of the decor and the service and the ambiance.

  The old woman at the next table was looking at her check and opening her handbag to take out her wallet. Marge sized up the outfit in order to identify the designer but then quickly corrected herself. That woman has a dressmaker. She glanced discreetly at the woman’s shoes and to herself she added, and those shoes are handmade.

  Their eyes met ever so briefly, the tiniest of smiles passed between them, and Marge went back to trying to decide on a pastry for dessert.

  She chose the hazelnut-and-chocolate cake and from the great variety of coffees on the menu, selected a mélange. She took her guide book from her bag, opened it up and thought to begin a plan for the day while she waited for her order to be brought to her, when the woman at the next table, having paid her bill, got up and to Marge’s surprise stopped beside her.

  “I don’t wish to disturb you,” she said, “but do you mind if I ask, you are American, are you not?”

  She spoke excellent English but with a slight Viennese accent and a charmingly gentle and well-bred lilt. Marge liked this woman instantly.

  “I don’t mind at all,” she said. “Yes, I am American. Why do you ask?”

  “May I sit down?”

  “Of course.” Marge was charmed by everything about her. Her gracious manners, her excellent clothes, her lovely voice. She moved with a bird-like delicacy and with minimum fuss. Her hands rested in her lap. She sat very erect.

  “I have been coming here to Demel’s since I was a child—oh, it’s been so many years now. It was always such a lovely place, and to be brought here by my grandmother for a treat, to be allowed an ice cream or a chocolate. And this was my grandfather’s Stammcafé after he retired. Every morning, he’d arrive at ten, sit at his usual table—this same table where I now sit—and have his usual newspaper brought to him, drink his customary melange. And precisely at eleven-thirty, pay his bill and leave. The same, exactly, every day.

  “In those days—that was before the war—here at Demel’s, they were such grand people, in their beautiful clothes and the visitors from other countries, I loved to hear all the foreign languages. It was like being taken to a show in a theater. But in those days, it was expensive to travel, so the visitors from other countries, tourists who came into Demel’s, they were perhaps people making the grand tour, or Czech aristocrats on their way to their summer place in Crimea, or Germans on their way to the Swiss ski slopes or American physicians wanting to meet Dr, Freud. But later—you know, after the war—when things began to return to normal”—she paused, but only briefly— “after the war, we had the occupation and only Americans had the money to travel, at least for the first years. And then the students began to arrive, and there were business people expanding their interests into Europe. Oh, it became all quite different then.

  “And so, after the war, when I came into Demel’s, when I was grown and could come to Demel’s without my grandmother, there were so many new people to watch. And I made a game of trying to guess where they were from, just by looking at their clothes, their shoes, seeing what they ordered, how long they stayed. I do so enjoy what one calls people-watching.

  “And when you came in—into Demel’s—in jeans! And a tee shirt. I thought she can only be an American. But Americans order only coffee and a piece of cake, and they leave quickly. So then I thought, no, maybe she’s Swedish. The Scandinavians are always on a hike, or some sort of wilderness excursion.”

  Marge smiled. She was enjoying this woman still more. She’d had no idea she’d been under observation.

  “And what did you see? Beside the jeans and the tee shirt?” she asked.

  “Two things. First, when you sat down, you looked at the chair, quickly. Your hand lingered momentarily on the distinctive top. You noticed the design—I’m sure you realized that the decor is in the Biedermeier style of the eighteen hundreds—and I saw the very tiniest smile, as though you approved. The leather cushions are, of course, a commercial addition, suitable for a restaurant. And then you ordered the asparagus and the veal. Not customary choices for Americans visitors. They seem to prefer the sweets. And then you ordered the nut cake and the mélange. Not typical. Usually the Americans order the Sachertorte. They’ve heard of it and then they are disappointed to discover it is quite a dry cake. They don’t know it’s supposed to be, for a reason.”

  “I hope you’ll tell me.”

  The woman laughed. “Ah, I’ve talked too long already. I’d hoped only to chat with you just a tiny bit.”

  “But how did you decide, with all that, that I am an American?”

  “It was the mix of things. The casual clothes. The self-confidence. You are here alone, without companion, and not shy. The sophisticated sensitivities. Also, what we call”—and here she lifted her hand and touched her thumb-tip to the other finger-tips—“we call it fingerspitzengefühl—a sensitivity, as though in the fingertips. Also, I must confess, there was one other thing.”

  Marge laughed. “Perhaps you saw my passport.”

  The woman laughed, too. “No, of course not. It’s your face. Despite the jeans and the tee shirt, I’ve seen your face somewhere. I’m quite sure of it. I can’t place it, but it will come to me. You are perhaps a famous movie star?” But then she drew back a bit, quickly. “Ah, but I see that does not please you.”

  It was true, of course. And for a very brief moment, Marge’s face said so, but she quickly made light of the idea. She laughed. “No. Heavens, no. I am most certainly not a movie star. And I can’t imagine where you might have seen my face. I’ve never been to Vienna before.”

  “Ah, then I have been wrong. But not about the ‘American’ part. You are an American, and you have been kind to let me sit with you for a moment.” She stood up. “I will leave you to your guide book. And I hope you enjoy your stay in Vienna. But before I go,” she opened her handbag and took out her card case, “I will give you my card. While you are visiting here in Vienna, if you need some assistance or would like just to have a coffee, you may call me.” She took a small, gold pen from her bag. “I will write my telephone number.” In the lower left corner, she wrote the number and handed her the card.

  Marge read the name, engraved in conventional italic font on heavy card stock.

  Christiane Riemer

  Only the name. Nothing more. Marge thought fondly of her own grandmother, who also carried a card case with her calling cards printed with only her name engraved on them. Marge had not seen one like this in many years.

  Marge watched Christiane Riemer disappear through the door and o
ut onto the street. Looked again at the card. And put it into her pocket. She turned, momentarily, to her fantasy Sam and said, I’ve just met a delightful Viennese lady—

  And then remembered that she was not going to be drawn into any more imaginary conversations with him. Or with Jerry. She banished them again to silence and focused on her guide book.

  * * * *

  She let her feet take her where they chose, with no guidance from her and she found herself at the top of a long flight of stairs, perhaps a hundred steps, leading down toward the Danube Canal. At the bottom was a quiet space with a small, plain church tucked away amid the surrounding buildings. Her guide book told her this was the Ruprechtskirche, Vienna’s oldest church, by legend founded in A.D. 740. She decided to go inside and had to smile as she crossed the quiet plaza toward the entrance. A timeless scene was being quietly enacted in the shadows outside the church. Off to the side, at the edge of the little plaza, there was a bench. And on the bench there was a couple, a young man and a young woman, and they were locked in a long, long kiss that Marge had observed as she had been descending the many steps from the Morzinplatz above. They made no move, even as she passed by them to enter the church, oblivious to all, aware only of each other, and Marge felt such a tenderness toward them, it almost brought tears to her eyes. Oh, to be so young. And to be so public with one’s love. And to have so little sense of the complexities that lay ahead.

  She sighed, feeling old and wise, almost as though she were as old as Christiane Riemer, and then she went into the cool, spare interior of the church, where she spent an educational half hour or so, enjoying its very simple Romanesque grace and beauty. Her guidebook told her everything she wanted to know, perhaps somewhat more than that, and she was ready to leave to walk farther on down, to the Canal. She wondered, as she left, if the kissing couple would still be there on the bench when she came out onto the plaza and laughed to herself to think that if they were, that would indeed be a kiss for the record books.