Vengeance in Vienna

by Blake Pierce

  He nodded, took her map, and circled a few things for her, as well as the route to take her there, marking them with stars so she couldn’t get lost. “A nice place to get some good photos, since it’s a lovely park on a lovely day! You will like it, I am sure.”

  “Perfect! Thank you,” she said, heading off.

  As she walked, she saw why the man had laughed. There were quite a lot of attractions in the city dedicated to the famous waltz composer—streets, bookstores, even a pretzel stand on the sidewalk were named after him. The one attraction the concierge recommended she visit on such a lovely day was at the Stahtpark—a golden memorial to the composer surrounded by lush greenery and park-like atmosphere.

  As she went through the gates of the park, following the map, she noticed an abundance of tourists, all enjoying the weather and the beauty of the place. The stone paths wound through the idyllic greenery, past memorials for other composers, like Franz Lehár, Anton Bruckner, and Franz Schubert. At each one, she snapped a photograph, even though each one was a reminder of the beautiful music she wouldn’t be able to hear tonight.

  She walked past a small river, where ducks floated by lazily, hoping that wasn’t the mighty Danube, and crossed a bridge to a lovely, Renaissance era building and gazebo that looked like an outdoor concert venue. Unfortunately, there was no music being played at that moment.

  She paused, listening to the wind blowing, and the sound of children playing on the bank of the river, hoping that what the old lady on the train had said was true. No. There was no music in the air at all. Or maybe she was just in such a negative mood that she couldn’t hear it.

  Sighing, she snapped a few more photos, and then came to a busy section where stood the golden statue of Johann Strauss, Jr., playing a violin. It glistened in the bright sun, so blindingly that she had to raise her hand to shield her eyes from the sight. There was a long line of tourists, waiting to snap a picture with the King of the Waltz.

  Well, if I can’t listen to his music, at least I can get a picture of him.

  Diana got on the line, still studying the map. After this, she’d go to Strauss’ birthplace. His grave. Oh, and there was a museum nearby that could be interesting.

  It was all very lovely.

  But it wasn’t soulful, emotional music.

  As she followed the line, she noticed a number of men, dressed in period-style outfits, with powdered wigs, waistcoats and knee breeches, waving papers in their hands. Occasionally, they approached people in the line, and while often they were motioned away, sometimes, it appeared that money was exchanged. What are they selling? she wondered.

  Just as curiosity got the better of her, a man approached and handed her a brochure. It said on the top: Musikverein.

  Her heart sped up. She tried to read the rest, but it was in German.

  “What is this for?”

  The man was wearing a terrible, windblown gray wig and white cravat, and his face was powdered a sickly white. She supposed he was dressed up to look like Beethoven. He grinned. “Pretty American! You like music? I can tell you are a woman of distinction, of course you do. You want to see it at the best music hall in all the world?”

  She nodded eagerly. It was as if he’d read her mind.

  He grinned, showing crooked, yellowing teeth. “We can make it happen.”

  “You can?” she asked, suspicion creeping in. There were plenty of ticket scalpers all over New York City, and she was wise to them. They were thieves, and she knew it. She’d never be caught dead talking to them. Somehow, she’d thought Austria’s people were better than that.

  Still . . . if they could get her into Musikverein . . .

  “I can,” he said with a sly wink, reaching for her hand. She snatched it away, slightly disgusted.

  Ugh. What am I doing? What a slimeball. So scalpers are all the same, no matter what side of the ocean you’re on.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not intere—"

  He pulled out a couple of tickets and held them up to her. “Are you sure? You don’t want to see the concert at Musikverein? It’s tonight! A once-in-a-lifetime performance, with Lukas Huber and the Vienna Philharmonic!”

  She stared at them. So badly did she want to see the concert that her palms grew slick and she felt her mouth go wet. Her mouth spoke even before her mind had fully weighed the pros and cons. “How much?”

  “For you, pretty American?” He grinned wide, revealing a missing eye tooth. “Just four-hundred euros.”

  She had a bit of an idea what that amounted to, in US dollars—about $500. And maybe she didn’t care. Suddenly, spending far too much money on a ticket for a concert that she really wanted to see didn’t sound like such a bad idea. “And that’s for one ticket?”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  She was probably being taken advantage of. No, scratch that. She knew she was definitely being taken advantage of. The ticket looked legit, but he was probably making a huge profit on it. She hesitated.

  The man looked nervously around, clearly anxious to close the deal. “It’s something you’ll never see again in all your life. If this is your vacation, make it memorable! You only live once, right? Imagine, being there, at the debut of Beethoven’s greatest symphonies, symphonies that have been played the world over, millions and millions of times. But you get to hear it first. History is going to be made on that stage tonight,” he whispered, leaning in. “They say Lukas Huber is the next great composer of our lifetime. His Liebeskonzert was so well-received when it was performed her last month that it stunned the world. He’ll be debuting his next creation tonight. Early word is, The Jupiter Symphony? It is a masterpiece. That is why this performance has been sold out for most of the year.”

  Sold.

  She reached for her purse, sliding open the zipper. Taking out her wallet, she carefully looked around to make sure no one was watching her as she opened it. “Well, I—”

  “Move along, der Gauner,” a thick man with a red mustache and almost equally red face said, shaking a fist at them. “You’re nothing but a crook! Bilking these tourists out of their money! For shame!”

  “But—” Diana said as the two men in period costumes scattered away like cockroaches in a kitchen light. Clearly, they were frightened by this refrigerator-sized man.

  “No need to thank me,” the man said with a smile. He was wearing shorts that seemed to go up almost to his breastbone and had no discernable waist whatsoever. Also, white sports socks to the knees, and a Tyrolean hat, tilted at a jaunty angle. “Those pests are always out here, disturbing me while I try to enjoy my afternoon stroll.”

  She sighed. “I really wanted to see that concert, though. So I—”

  “Ah. But those crooks charge you four-hundred euros? For a ticket that costs no more than eighty? That’s robbery! It’s a shame. You can do better.”

  “But I—”

  He thrust a hand out to her. “Hans.”

  His hands were like giant paws. She stared at it before shaking it lightly. And she thought she was sweating, in the heat. His hand was even sweatier and more unpleasant than hers was. “Diana.”

  “It’s really no trouble. I hate to see tourists of our fair city taken advantage of. We Austrians are not thieves. You’re American, eh?”

  Diana nodded. “Yes. I’m from New York, so I know a little bit about scalping, and I was actually—”

  “There are plenty of places in town to hear good music. You don’t have to go to the tourist halls.”

  She sighed. “I guess you’re right. I guess I don’t need to see the concert that badly,” she said, though she wasn’t sure. The man was clearly a snake oil salesman, but he’d made that concert sound so good. What if Huber was the next Mozart? The lady on the train had seemed to think so. What if he was debuting the greatest piece of music the world had ever known, and she could be in the concert hall where it was born? What a story she could tell her grandchildren!

  “Well, enjoy your tour, maybe I’ll see you around,”
he said with a broad smile, strolling away as she scanned the area for the scalpers. Maybe, when she got off the line, she could find them, before they sold the tickets to someone else. She really wanted to see the concert. Suddenly, four-hundred euros felt almost inconsequential.

  But the two men were nowhere in sight. She craned her neck, trying to find them, but they’d disappeared among the greenery.

  Then she looked anxiously at the line. It was dragging. A bunch of teenagers were near it, taking selfie after selfie and giggling. At this rate, she’d never get a photo with Strauss’ statue.

  Forget it. Letting out a grunt of frustration, she stepped out of her place in the line, hoisted her bag higher onto her shoulder, and headed past a line of trees, in search of the ticket scalpers. I need that ticket!

  She broke into a bit of a run as she scanned the area, looking for the men. But she couldn’t see them anywhere. She crossed the bridge over the “Danube,” then stood on her tip-toes, trying to find the men among the many hedges and park visitors.

  They were gone.

  “Ugh!” she growled, dragging a hand down her face. If only Hans hadn’t come by. She’d be skipping off to her hotel right now, getting ready for the night of a lifetime. A once in a lifetime experience.

  Just then, her phone buzzed. She stared at the display, hoping it was notification from the box office that some miracle had come through. But it was a text from Evan: Hi Love. Back in the states. Where are you?

  She sighed and typed in: The Music City.

  If only she could get a chance to witness some of that music!

  A moment later, the response came back: ? What happened? Lily said you were in Austria? How did you get to Nashville? Are you okay?

  She wanted to toss her phone into the trickling little “Danube.” Her ex-husband was a brilliant surgeon, but he’d never been much of a world traveler. Once, she’d met Yo Yo Ma, the famous cellist, in New York City, which had to have been her most thrilling celebrity encounter ever. When she came home and told him, he’d looked at her, and quite seriously, said, “You bought a yo yo?”

  No, I am not okay! I am totally annoyed! And you’re only contributing to it!

  She wanted to type that, but she restrained herself. Instead, she typed in: Evan, no. I am within walking distance of the greatest music hall in the entire world.

  His response: So you’re in New York?

  She clutched her phone in a death grip and rolled her eyes to the heavens. Contrary to what Evan believed, Carnegie Hall wasn’t the only music venue in the free world. Far from it.

  Before she could respond with something that was destined to be snarky, considering how riled-up she was, her phone actually started to ring, with a foreign number.

  She answered. “Yes?”

  “Hello. Is this Diana St. James?” The voice was female, but unfamiliar.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Leonie Winkler. I called the ticket office and heard that you might be interested in a ticket to tonight’s performance. I have one that we will not be using, and I wondered if you’d be interested in purchasing it from me?”

  Diana’s heart jumped in her chest. She gripped the phone tightly, half-wondering if she was hearing things. “Are you sure? You don’t want it?”

  “Quite sure. I can’t use it, actually. Something came up, you see.”

  “Oh. Yes! Yes! I’d love to,” she gushed, speaking so fast her words tumbled out atop one another. “Just name the time and place, and I’ll be there!”

  “Meet me at the café in the lobby of the Strauss Hotel, in twenty minutes?”

  “Yes!” She said, already rushing for the park’s exit in search of a taxi. “Thank you so much!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  By now, it seemed to Diana like every place in town was named after some famous composer or another, and the place where Diana arranged to meet Leonie Winkler was no exception. It was called Café Johann Strauss, in the lobby of a modern hotel, not far from her own hotel. Where Diana thought it might contain décor with pieces of his music, old instruments, and the like, there was nothing of the sort, here—it contained bare walls and minimal décor, as seemed to be the style of much of the newer parts of the city.

  The cafe was practically empty at that time of day, right before the dinner rush, so when she stepped inside and instantly locked eyes with a young, pretty woman with flowing dark hair and a red silken neck scarf, she smiled.

  “Diana?” The woman said as she approached her booth.

  “Leonie?” She asked, motioning to the seat across from her.

  She nodded and pointed to her carafe. “Please sit. Be my guest. Coffee?”

  Diana slipped in and shook her head. “Thank you so much for getting in touch. I was so excited when I heard about the performance, but it broke my heart to learn that it was sold out—” she stopped when she noticed the woman’s gorgeous pendant, beneath her red scarf. “Goodness, that’s lovely!”

  The woman touched the round disk pendant, holding it up to the light so Diana could see the amber and gray stripes through it. “Thank you.”

  “Anyway, Beethoven’s 4th Piano Concerto is one of my favorite pieces of music, and I’ve always dreamed of seeing a performance there.”

  The woman nodded. “Of course, it’s been sold out for ages. Lukas Huber is a true genius.” She touched her heart. “I’ve been a fan of his for many years. Have you ever seen him perform?”

  As Diana shook her head, her phone buzzed in her hand. It was a text from Bea. Mommy? Wait . . . Dad said you went to Nashville? Please text back. I’m worried about you.

  “No. I haven’t.” She sighed and typed in: No. I’m in Vienna.

  Diana looked up, suddenly remembering she was in the midst of a conversation. “I’m sorry. No. Kid problems. But you are not the first to tell me that Lukas Huber is a great talent, one of the modern masters. It seems like ever since I arrived in Austria this morning, everyone can’t get enough of him. He has quite the line of admirers.”

  She frowned. “Yes. It’s true. He is a genius. Not to mention that he’s very handsome and has great stage presence. The fans line up at the stage door whenever he performs, crowds upon crowds of them. I’m devastated I won’t be able to make it, but I wasn’t able to get a sitter for my little one, unfortunately.”

  A moment later, Diana’s phone buzzed again: Oh. So . . . question. Hai wants to set the wedding for next June in Japan. You won’t still be traipsing around Europe then, will you?

  That was odd. Her youngest, Bea, was a free spirit. Diana thought for sure she’d tie the knot while skydiving, or trekking in some jungle, or doing something equally crazy. One never could quite tell with Beatrice St. James. A June wedding in the place where they lived sounded so . . . normal. Maybe that was Hai’s influence. Diana hadn’t met her future son-in-law yet, but he seemed very mature, very grounded. Perhaps they balanced each other out. Of course, Bea was head over heels for him.

  Diana pocketed her phone and came back to the conversation at hand. She was being rude, because of her family constantly bothering her. She needed to stop that.

  “I’m sorry, again. Family troubles.”

  The woman smiled thinly. “Of course, I understand all about family.”

  “Oh, so you said you have children?” Diana asked, smiling. And she looks so put-together. I wish I could’ve said the same for myself when I was that age. I used to go to work with Cheerios in my hair.

  In fact, even now, I have issues with dealing with my family . . . clearly.

  “Yes. Just one. She’s young; I can’t leave her alone,” Leonie said shortly, so shortly, it surprised Diana. Usually, people loved to speak on their kids.

  “Oh! A daughter? I have two. Daughters make this life an adventure. Of course, Mine are grown now, but they’re still providing color to my life.” She pointed to her phone. “That was my youngest. Seems like she can’t do a thing without consulting me, even now. She just got engaged last week so she’s in a
bit of a frenzy, with all the plans!”

  The woman didn’t comment. She didn’t even smile. Instead, she reached for her purse. As she did, Diana noticed a large ring on her ring finger. Diamond. Maybe she’s just intensely private, Diana thought. But whoever she’s married to is clearly making good money.

  “Anyway, I’m sure you’ll appreciate Huber’s genius when you see him tonight. You can really get lost in his music. They say he’s the next Beethoven, believe it or not, and I believe it. I believe one day his name will be in papers all over the world. That is why the show has been sold out since last year.”

  Diana shook her head as she gazed at the ticket. It might as well have been a brick of pure gold. “Are you sure you can’t find a sitter?” she asked, though the desperately wanted to lunge across the table and take it in her hands. “It seems like such a shame that you—"

  “I am,” she said, rather curtly. “I’m not out to make any money on the sale of this ticket, so . . . shall we say face value? Eighty euros?”

  Diana’s eyebrows went up. “Are you sure? I’m more than happy to compensate you for coming all the way--”

  The woman shook her head. “No, it’s quite all right. I come here often. It was no trouble.”

  To think, Diana had almost paid nearly five times that to the scalper in the park. Maybe Hans was an angel in disguise.

  “That’s incredibly generous. I can’t believe I have a ticket to it. I heard it was rarer than an invitation to dinner with the Queen of England.”

  The woman shrugged. “Perhaps. Like I said, he’s very good.”

  “I do feel like I owe you something. Let me at least pay for your coffee.”

  “No need,” the woman said, waving her hands. “It’s my pleasure. I’m happy to grant the opportunity to a fervent music lover such as yourself. You will be moved.”

  “You think so?” Diana asked, opening up her wallet and pulling out the bills. She counted them carefully and slid them across to her. “It’s funny that you say that. Because when I was deciding on coming here, my top bucket list item was to be moved to tears by beautiful music.”