Who Would You Choose?

by J. M. Bronston

  But no, they were gone and the bench was empty. She decided to take their place and sit for a while on their bench to have a think before she continued her walk.

  I miss Sam. It would be fun to have him here with me. That young couple would have given him a chuckle, so innocent they were.

  And I miss Jerry, too. He’d find all this so interesting. He’d have spent a couple of hours inside the church. He’d have devoured all the information from the guide book and the printed materials they had available.

  What am I going to do about those two?

  Chapter Twenty

  After a few more days of wandering aimlessly about the city, through the ancient, winding streets inside the Ringstrasse, after sitting for comfortable hours in the Stadtpark or near the Gloriette behind Schönbrunn Palace, reading or doing a bit of fashion sketching, just for fun, after a full morning at the Prater where she had a lunch of wurst and beer and treated herself to some of the rides, including the giant Ferris wheel, the Riesenrad, which she also recognized from the same old Orson Welles movie, she realized she was beginning to be tired of all the rest she was getting. She had to laugh. Tired of resting! Tired of being unproductive, unbusy. She was feeling much better, more like her old self, more like the woman who could cruise through days of effort with no feeling of strain. If it weren’t for the dilemma Sam Packard had brought into her life, she was ready to believe she hadn’t a care in the world. Damn Sam! Why did she have to feel so young and happy when she was with him? Why did he have to show up at all?

  Why did he have to have gone to law school and become a really good lawyer—as good as Jerry—and of all things, so good he wound up on the other side of a case against Jerry? Why had fate arranged things so that she went to the courthouse that day? If she hadn’t, he’d never have seen her there. If all that hadn’t happened, she wouldn’t now be trying to sort out all this confusion, which heaven knows, she didn’t need in her busy life.

  So maybe, instead of going home to New York at the end of the week, she’d stay on in Europe for another little while, and let the whole problem simmer a couple of weeks longer—and see if she decided to write to Sam—or not!

  She’d been thinking of contacting Christiane Riemer, and was feeling ready to make a little human contact. Lunch perhaps? Or a mid-morning coffee?

  She got Christiane’s card out of her wallet and first thing the next morning, dialed her number. She’d already dialed when she realized it was early—perhaps too early—but Christiane sounded wide awake and said she was delighted that Marge had called. “I think we quite liked each other,” she said, “and I am free this morning. Shall we meet at the Cafe Sacher, let us say in half an hour? It becomes so crowded later, but we should be able to have a table if we are there before ten.”

  And so they were to meet. Marge decided jeans and a tee shirt would not be the appropriate attire for this meeting and was glad she had packed one pair of proper dark trousers and a creamy cashmere sweater from The Row—just the thing as the days were cool—and a pair of Prada flats, sturdier than ballets but not quite sneakers, good for extended walking around town. When she arrived at the Cafe Sacher, she was led to a table where Christiane was already waiting.

  “If you were Viennese,” Christiane said, laughing, “I might have come a bit later. It is our custom to be just a little late. But as you are American, I was careful to be here on time. Americans are always so punctual.”

  “We are?” Marge was surprised. “I never thought about it.” She, too, laughed. “How late is proper?”

  “Fifteen minutes. It is our Viennese viertel—a quarter of an hour—our permission to be a bit lazy. A custom that is dying out, I think, as we become more efficient and modern.”

  “It sounds like a good idea. Sometimes, we Americans work so terribly hard, we wear ourselves out.”

  Christiane said nothing, only lifted her head a bit to signal the waiter who arrived instantly. She ordered a kipferl and coffee and Marge said she’d have the same, and when it came, she discovered that a kipferl was an incredibly delicious, buttery croissant, bent into a full crescent, a little sweeter and a little smaller than the stateside version. Christiane gave her a brief history of the croissant which was in fact an import from Austria by the French at the time of Marie Antoinette’s arrival from Vienna to make her doomed marriage to the young French king. Its crescent shape was created, Christiane explained, to celebrate an Austrian victory more than three hundred years ago, driving the invading Turks out of the country. This led to a discussion of the Sachertorte which also had a complicated political and legal history dating back to the time of the Congress of Vienna and to Prince Metternich who, legend had it, wanted a chocolate cake not so rich and gooey, but rather one that would appeal more to a man’s taste, something drier. The “original” recipe wound up at Demel’s and the other “original” recipe remained at the Sacher Cafe, and for decades the battle raged through the courts, and the entire city of Vienna took sides.

  Marge was laughing outright by the time Christiane finished her little history lesson.

  “Vienna is a European crossroads,” Christiane explained, “and therefore much of our history right down to our pastries, is woven into and out of the culture of other countries.”

  “I’ve heard that it is still a hub of European espionage. Is that true?”

  “It is. Or, so I have heard. We have always been a city of intrigue, you see, though it is perhaps more sophisticated today than it was in earlier years, now that we have the electronic capacities.” She laughed and looked around. “This place, here at the Sacher Cafe, was famous in the years after the war for being the place for buying and selling information. Everyone knew that if you either had or wanted information, you sat at one of these tables,” she indicated the two rows of tables that faced each other along the walls and pointed up the aisle between them, “and you ordered coffee. And then, as the waiter left you and walked away, you called after him so as to be heard by others in the café, ‘Aber mit Schlag!’ Schlagobers is the whipped cream that may accompany a Viennese coffee but it is optional and must be requested. And this was the universally recognized signal. But you can learn more about these things from the Internet,” Christiane said. “I don’t wish to bore you.”

  “You are not boring me.”

  “Good. And now you must tell me, what have you been doing? What are your plans for the remainder of your visit?”

  “I’ve been just walking around. Reading in the park. I took a ride on the big Ferris wheel, and I went into that old church down by the canal. And saw a couple there, sitting on a bench outside, in the longest kiss I’ve ever seen. I almost envied them, to be so young. And so oblivious.”

  “But you are not so old. Surely not old enough to be mourning your lost youth.”

  “No, of course not. I know. But there are days—” Marge stopped herself. What could be more boring than getting into a big confessional session with a woman she hardly knew? “I’ve just been working very hard and I guess I’m emotionally a bit vulnerable.”

  “Ah. Then you must rest. Take a vacation.”

  “That’s just what I’m doing.”

  “And that is why you are in Vienna?”

  “Yes. I spent a couple of weeks in London. I’m not sure if I’m ready to go home, or will spend another couple of weeks resting.”

  “I will not pry. But I suspect there is a man involved.”

  Marge laughed. “Worse than that. Two men.”

  And Christiane laughed, too. “And you must choose?”

  “I suppose. It’s all happened rather suddenly.”

  “A whirlwind attraction? A ‘shipboard’ romance?”

  “Hardly that. But now it is my turn to say, ‘I will not bore you.’”

  “And it is not my business. We will not speak of it further. Instead, if I may, I will make a suggestion or two about your rem
aining days here in Vienna.”

  “That’s very kind of you. I will not be here long enough to do more than see just a few things. And I am supposed to be resting, so I mustn’t have too strenuous a schedule.”

  “Perhaps you will see the Lipizzaner horses. That’s easy. You can go into the Reitschule any morning and watch their practice sessions. At the Hofburg palace—it is just steps away from here.” Her gesture indicated the street outside the café. “In the old days, one didn’t need even to buy a ticket—one just walked in off the street, any morning, and one could sit upstairs in the gallery and watch them being trained. It was a lovely place to pass a half hour or so, perhaps to meet with a friend while those beautiful horses were put through their paces. Such an elegant and unusual setting.

  “And then there is Carnuntum—the Roman encampment being excavated up the road, only a little way toward Budapest, and the two amphitheaters a bit further on down the road from there. And I think the most extraordinary thing about those amphitheaters is that they are just there. Right out in the field. Just as the Roman soldiers left them two thousand years ago, and you can freely walk around in them. When I was a child, we sometimes had our history lessons there, along with a picnic lunch, on the very banks of the Danube. And the teacher would point across the river and tell us about the scary German tribes ‘just over there,’ she would say, the enemy forces massed against the Roman soldiers who were stationed there to protect this outpost of their empire. It was very exciting. And the boys would play gladiator, exploring in the tunnels and play-fighting out in the arena.” Christiane’s eyes were alight at the memory. “Ah, but that was so long ago. Vienna is different now. This old city is catching up with the rest of the world.”

  “It is just right for me now. I need less hectic surroundings. At least for a little while longer.”

  “And then you must get back to your modern, American—dare I say it?—to your rat race?”

  “Oh, my work is no rat race. I love my work. That is, perhaps, the problem. I forget how hard I work, how busy I am, and then I wear myself out.”

  “And you are traveling about Europe, in a leisurely fashion, to take a rest for a few weeks?”

  “That’s it.”

  “And when you return, will these men in your life, will they still be a problem or do you think you will have solved them by then?”

  Marge laughed. “I’d better have solved them. I’m supposed to be an excellent problem solver. I won’t be able to hold my head up if I haven’t.”

  “My dear, you haven’t asked for my advice. But I will tell you anyway. I think you must forget them both, forget all your worries, for the time you are here in Vienna. Tomorrow night, let’s the two of us go to Grinzing. You must be my guest and I will introduce you to a proper Viennese Heuriger.”

  “And that is—?”

  “The Heurigen are taverns where the new wines, the ‘heurige’ wines, are sold. In November, the wines from the vineyards outside the city are ready, and the wineries hang a spruce branch over the front door as a sign that they are ready for the Viennese to come to the Heurigen to taste the new wines and celebrate. There will be singing and drinking and it will be fun. Tell me where you are staying, and my driver will pick you up tomorrow evening at eight.” And with a big smile, she added, “You may wear jeans. The Heurigen are very informal. And we can drink till dawn, if we like, and watch the sun rise over the hills of Kahlenberg.” Her smile was mischievous, but then she said, more soberly, “Though I think that it is not wise for you to drink till dawn. It may be too strenuous for you, if you are regaining your strength.”

  “It sounds like fun,” Marge said. “Maybe not till dawn, but midnight, anyway.” They both laughed, and Marge took a pen and a page of paper from her notebook, wrote down her address and phone number and handed it to Christiane. “Tomorrow at eight. I’m looking forward to it.”

  They chatted some more, and then Christiane looked at her watch, made her excuses, and said she needed to leave.

  “Goodbye, my dear,” she said. “We will see each other tomorrow evening.”

  * * * *

  At her villa on the Speisingerstrasse in Mauer, Christiane took off her gloves, removed her jacket and settled comfortably onto the sofa in her living room. She took her cell phone from her bag, and texted a message.

  Sam, dear. I have met again with your friend. She is lovely and I enjoyed her company. We will go to a Heuriger tomorrow evening and I will put in a good word for you. Good luck.

  Thank you, Christiane. If she should mention her next port of call, perhaps you’ll be willing to share that information with me?

  Christiane smiled. This was fun. Partnering with her old friend and “coconspirator.” Like the old days. And now, a little matchmaking on his behalf. A happy task, for a change. She scrolled back up through her messages to the one she’d received from Sam only a few days ago.

  Christiane. A favor, please? A friend will be in Vienna, arriving Monday morning. Marge Webster—yes, that Marge Webster. Lady Fair magazine.

  She is taking a medical leave, so is incognito and must not be recognized. And she must not know that I am interested. But she is traveling alone and I worry that she be safe.

  I care for this woman, Christiane. So, behind her back—please let it remain there—I’m asking that you make contact and be there if needed. Yes?

  I’ve suggested Demel’s for her first breakfast. Have a coffee on me…

  To which Christiane had replied:

  You sly dog. Turning me into a an old Cupid. But of course. I am happy to help, And I don’t need to ask. I know you and I know your intentions are honorable.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Marge followed Christiane’s suggestion and took the bus to Carnuntum. The day was perfect for a ride to the countryside, with the air crisp, the sky blue, and the colors of the foliage along the way changing dramatically. At Carnuntum, she decided to give the ruins and the digs and the museum a pass and just take a walk up the road to see the amphitheaters. Christiane was right; there they were, just there. Right out in farmland that stretched as far as she could see, one amphitheater on the right and a little farther on, another on the left, right up on the banks of the Danube. She had picked up a sandwich and a bottle of Orangina before she’d left, and now she unpacked them and sat down on the grassy edge of the more distant amphitheater, looking down into the floor of the arena. There were extensive remnants of stone bleachers, and stone work at the entrance of a tunnel that burrowed into the hill. It really was remarkable that there was no one in sight; she was totally alone, in a great empty place that had been built thousands of years ago and had been simply left, unattended, just there, like a footprint from an ancient time.

  She ate her sandwich. She drank the Orangina. The breeze blew gently about her, and there was a scent of the new-cut hay from the field behind her where, off in the distance, a huge stone arch built by those Romans stood alone, like an alien presence from another time, now in the midst of some farmer’s acreage. And she thought about the passage of all those centuries, and the warring tribes and the soldiers, deployed here so long ago to protect the borders of their empire. It seemed that all the years wafted over her.

  And then, a strange thing happened. As though it were a kind of hallucination—not quite that, but something like—she imagined so vividly a scene down there on the floor of the arena, a scene so real, she gasped. There were two men, stripped bare except for their pants. Suit pants, of course. And no shoes. She recognized the two men, both tall and quite good-looking, and of course she knew instantly that her imagination had conjured up Jerry and Sam, battling each other fiercely, not with swords, but with their fists. And as long as she watched, they fought and they fought, bloodying each other’s noses and raising shiners on each other’s eyes and beating against each other’s torsos, but neither one seemed to be making any headway against the other. Ev
enly matched? She wasn’t totally losing her mind, and she knew they were only fantasies, but she also knew the significance of what she was imagining—that they each had an equal but different claim on her affections.

  Damn! She tried to banish them from her imagination, but there they were. Two strong men. Two very attractive men. Two smart and interesting men. And each with a place in her heart.

  Damn, she thought again. Look how cute they are. Both of them in great shape. Though she had to admit, Sam was the sexier of the two. But Jerry had a kind of lasting steadiness. So yes, they were evenly matched and in their battle, nothing that either one of them tried to do could wear the other one down.

  This is ridiculous, she said to herself. She closed her eyes, and willed them away, out of her sight. Out of her imagination. She opened her eyes and they were gone.

  Wow. That was weird.

  She didn’t need to wonder what it meant. It was clear enough. She was on the horns of a dilemma and Christiane was right. She should just not think about them. Just. Not. Think. About. Them. Marge was a smart woman, and not given to foolishness. She made them disappear. For the time being. She returned down the road to the bus stop and took the next bus back to Vienna. And congratulated herself on escaping that little time warp.

  The bus left her off in front of the Hilton and on her way back to the Pension Kreindl, she stopped at a gasthaus just off the Singerstrasse and had the best—and the largest—wienerschnitzel she’d ever eaten, large enough to cover the entire plate, with slices of lemon on the edge and a side order of delicious buttery boiled and parsleyed potatoes. Then she went up to her room at the pension, turned on the TV and for a while tried to make out what she was hearing, but she had no German and finally gave up. She read for a while. She thought about the coming day and decided to again follow Christiane’s suggestion and go to the Reitschule and watch the white Lipizzaner horses. Then she turned out the light and slept. And again, dreamt of the two men, in battle against each other. Still evenly matched. But now, in her dream, there was also a beautiful white stallion, a powerful war horse, trained for combat, tethered at the edges of the arena, impatiently stamping his hooves into the soft earth, waiting to see which man would get to be his rider, which man would scoop her up and take her off into the future.