by Moss, John
The evening was cooling and waiters closed the foldaway windows of the Wintergarten conservatory. With his back to the room, Harry hardly noticed when the other diners had left and he was there by himself. If service people were still around, they were astonishingly discrete, watching him through scarlet shadows.
Rather than feel discomfited by the rare solitude in such an august place, Harry felt emboldened. With only the gilt-framed portraits-of-record of Viennese bourgeois gazing over his head and more in tune with the magnificent dog than his still-life human companions, Harry realized how good it would be to get home. His anger had subsided into annoyance and he did not feel guilty about going.
Perhaps he should get a dog. Not a Saint Bernard. He lived on the twenty-third floor. His aunt owned an Airedale when he was growing up. His name was Davey Jones. Perhaps he’d get an Airedale and call him Davey Jones. Or Beckett, after Samuel Beckett. Not Thomas à Becket. No self-righteous saints in my house, he thought. I’ll take the man who wrote, “I can’t go on. I’ll go on.” He understood.
What about Camus: “Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?”
You can’t call a dog Camus. “Come, Camus.” It doesn’t sound right.
Does “Sit, Beckett, stay” sound any better?
Harry was struggling to resist images of the boy on the balcony stepping into the air.
His thoughts returned to Vienna. Like most North Americans of his educational background and ethnic origins, he held the fervent belief that travel was an end in itself. Nothing aroused the sensibilities like a visit to Europe to re-open old memories, whether personal or cultural or historically based. Such was the imperial legacy.
He maundered on about existential dogs and the benefits of travel when a waiter appeared out of nowhere and slid a polished ebony box the size of a briefcase under his gaze. He assumed he was being delivered his bill with peculiar formality, but when the waiter withdrew he discovered the box was sealed by elaborate silver clasps that were only snapped open with considerable ingenuity, something unlikely to induce a good tip.
Lifting the lid carefully, he could see a dark green velvet wrapping surmounted by a faux-vellum envelope with his name imprinted in a bold script that might have been done with India ink and a quill pen. He lifted the envelope carefully from the velvet, but before proceeding he glanced around and with his elbow poised on the white linen tablecloth he raised a hand. Miraculously, a waiter, not the same one, reappeared and topped up his coffee. He took a slow sip as the waiter withdrew. It seemed a point of pride at the Kressler to hurry no one, no matter what the hour.
As he expected, the note was from Madalena Strauss:
Dear Harry, the attached comes with a single proviso, that upon your own death it be returned to the people of Austria. Meanwhile, it is yours for safekeeping. Think of this as an act of kinship, a gift from one troubled spirit to another. Please leave Vienna as soon as you can. Yours sincerely, Lena
So, she’s Lena to her intimate friends! And she implies being fired was for your own good.
I wasn’t fired. I quit.
He welcomed the return of their chatter. Since he’d left the Café Central, she had been unusually quiescent.
Quiescent? Harry, why not just quiet or withdrawn, subdued, contemplative, reticent, puzzled, confused?
Some words sound better in your head than others.
He closed the box without pulling back the velvet to reveal what it concealed. He paid his bill and returned to his room, where his bag was open on the bed, ready to be packed for an early morning departure. He looked around amidst the overwrought splendour for a setting that would not intrude on his senses when he unveiled the painting. He placed a straight-backed chair in front of the closed drapes; leaning the picture against it, still shrouded, he adjusted the lamplight for optimal illumination. Then he lifted the velvet away.
Harry, my God! It’s her!
There was no question about it. Gustav Klimt captured her perfectly. While the public version of The Kiss showed a woman who was radiantly submissive, the smaller picture with flashing green eyes, lips parted, and an upward tilt to the chin suggested she was nestling into her own voluptuous cascade of red-brown hair rather than her lover’s pallid arms. This was a painting of Madalena Strauss, the woman Harry had met twice over coffee and had not quite seen, before now, not until the artist revealed her.
I know what you’re thinking, Harry.
Of course you do, Sailor.
I’ve never seen a portrait of decadence more seductive, alluring, enticing, provocative, and, I might add, ominously tempting. Harry, it’s a painting of the woman’s great-grandmother, you do realize that. It’s not her.
Ah, but it is; it’s just that Klimt didn’t know it. He’s captured her perfectly.
Beguiling depravity? You can’t keep it.
For a while, perhaps? A lifetime at most.
She’s trying to ease a guilty conscience.
I can’t give absolution.
But you would if you could. Your new acquisition makes you determined to believe she’s innocent—and I’m thinking it confirms her guilt.
I’m not even sure of her crimes. I’m thinking I judged her too quickly.
It’s on loan, Harry. When you’re dead, you lose it.
Harry was mystified by Lena Strauss’ conviction that he would do the right thing. He knew he couldn’t keep the painting. It would either go back to the donor or in due course he would pass it on to the State. In the argument about value versus worth, this invaluable painting from Harry’s perspective was worthless.
Except as collateral. What does she want from you that’s worth thirty million dollars?
My soul.
Don’t flatter yourself, Dr. Faustus. This woman needs you alive with your soul intact.
Harry read the note again. The vellum seemed warm in his hand. The script made it clear it had been written with deliberation, not tossed off in a moment of panic.
What the hell does she know about your troubled spirit?
He wasn’t sure. But her message itself indicated she was desperate. She needed help.
Where does it say that?
It was implicit.
But her warning to get out of Vienna was explicit.
It was.
4 GUMPENDORFER STRASSE
Once again Harry was on the streets of Vienna in the dead of night. It was warm, so he wore a sports shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The air was oppressively still. He made his way past the looming residence where Harry Lime might have lived and through the dank archway in the Lipizzaner horse palace. He continued across the roundabout at Michaelerplatz and along Herrenstrasse, past the darkened Café Central. Finally, he arrived in front of the stolid Polizei Zentralkommando building, which appeared to be closed. He rattled a door and waited.
Once inside, apologizing for his lack of German, he asked to see someone from Homicide. A stout, middle-aged woman with blue-tinted hair like his late Aunt Beth’s led him to a chair beside an oak desk and after he was seated, she sat down behind it, a notepad spread open in front of her. Her teeth glistened with a silver highlight; he avoided looking at her mouth. She was wearing a strand of dark pearls, possibly as consolation for working the late shift.
“Now you wish, yes, to report a murder,” she said.
“No,” he explained. “I’m looking for a woman in Homicide.”
“So, she is dead, perhaps?”
“No, I’m trying to find her.”
“She is missing. How do you know she is dead?”
“She is a detective.”
“I am detective.” She offered a thin-lipped smile. “I am not dead.”
“Good,” said Harry. “I’m trying to find Madalena Strauss.”
The woman’s face darkened, her features hardened.
“You think Fräulein Strauss is murdered?”
“No.” Harry paused. “I don’t know.”
It’s a possibility, Harry.
&nbs
p; “So. You believe she is murderer. I will make notes.”
But the woman did not write notes. She leaned forward on her elbows, pressed her fingertips together, and blew air across them as if she were drying her nails. She was waiting for Harry to explain.
“I am also a detective,” he said. He didn’t add the word private; he didn’t want to create more confusion. Inexplicably, he added, “I’m staying at the Kressler Hotel.”
“And you have credentials?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” She didn’t ask to see them. Perhaps the Kressler was enough.
“I need to find where she lives. I know it’s near Gumpendorfer.”
“So, American detective, you know Gumpendorfer Strasse. Good.” The woman paused.
“Canadian,” said Harry.
“I cannot tell you where she is, if she is not here. You will find her yourself, yes. You will excuse me now, please, for one minute. This is my desk, you may use if you like.”
She rose rather grandly and walked away. Harry looked around. He looked at the Rolodex sitting amidst bundles of reports and files on her desk. He slid his chair closer and leaned forward. No one was paying any attention. He flipped the Rolodex and found Strauss, Madalena, 23 Marchettigasse, 5.
The woman returned.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I cannot help. I am Frau Detektiv Honsberger. It is very nice meeting you. Now, you will excuse, I have much work.”
“Danke schön,” said Harry, rising to his feet.
His chair teetered behind him and he twisted to stop it from falling.
“Bitte schön,” she responded, apparently not noticing his awkwardness.
“Danke,” Harry repeated.
She stared at him. Her steely eyes matched the dark lustre of her pearls. He nodded formally and edged away.
Once outside, he took a deep breath.
What was that all about, Harry? She seemed like the gatekeeper on a descent into hell.
She’s just an old lady.
Harry. Did you see the silver tooth?
But Harry wasn’t in the mood.
He turned west and walked stridently toward the Ringstrasse, which he followed down to the museums and cut west over to Mariahilfer Strasse, passing innumerable plastic mannequins cavorting with static precision behind plate glass windows. He stopped at a bank machine and withdrew 200 euros and bought a surprisingly tasty latte at a vending machine. He sat to drink it on the steps of a church on a small walkway running south and watched a few wary derelicts watching him. Then he proceeded through the night shadows down to Gumpendorfer Strasse. With its modest shops closed at this hour, it seemed more like a small-town street than an urban thoroughfare.
In the quieter sections of the city, the street scenes in Vienna might have been anywhere in eastern Europe. Sporadic lights and drab colours, wrought iron grillwork and no room for grass might have meant Krakow or Prague. Marchettigasse itself, aslant to the moonlight, was even more austere, and he wondered why anyone who could afford better would live in such a bleak setting.
Harry was not used to European domestic architecture. As soon as he stepped through the massive unlocked gate at number 23, he found himself in a passageway opening onto a charming, well-lit courtyard with windows on all sides set into pastel walls covered with vines and ornamental flourishes. Many of the windows were open as a concession to the heat and he could hear quavering strains of a violin as if by consensus the other residents had turned off their sound systems, the better to enjoy their musical neighbour’s playing as they drifted to sleep.
This was not the Vienna he had seen as a visitor. He had stepped into the heart of a different city, and he realized that in his travelling over the years he had been a perpetual tourist, looking at façades, whether shiny or in ruins, looking for his own reflection.
Stairs off to one side of the passageway led to a fire barrier on large hinges, a door covered in sheet metal with no locking mechanism, which provided access to a small vestibule and an open elevator shaft encased in wrought iron and surrounded by a spiral staircase of marble and stone. There was sufficient illumination that he decided to walk the five flights, which turned out to be seven because of the peculiar numbering system. On every floor an open stained-glass window let the air flow in. When he reached the right level, there were three apartments, each labelled with a small brass plate.
Madalena Strauss’ was closest to the staircase and seemed to span the width of the building, overlooking both the street and the courtyard.
He knocked firmly. He rang the buzzer.
He waited.
He tried the door, but it was locked.
Looking through the stained-glass landing window at what he assumed was the rear window of her apartment at a right angle to him, he saw it was open. There were no lights on. He rang again. He moved back to the window, trying to estimate the distance to her casement.
Don’t even think about it, Harry.
I’m pretty sure I could make it.
That’s not reassuring. You don’t even know she’s in there.
It’s likely.
You’re prepared to leap through the air for a painting?
For a person.
Don’t confuse the two. You’re re-writing history, Harry. You came to Vienna because you thought she was guilty. You think Klimt proves she’s innocent? You need the woman to measure up to her picture.
And what does she need from me?
That’s what scares me, Harry. We don’t know.
He boosted himself onto his knees on the marble window ledge. Pushing the stained glass open as far as the frame allowed, he leaned out. Far below, the courtyard gleamed like foil. Moving across roof edges above him, an indifferent tabby prowled among silvered shadows. Tremulous strains of the violin slivered the air. Madalena’s window was just out of reach. He would have to release his grip on the landing window frame and let himself fall forward with both arms outstretched. He hovered. There would only be one chance at this. If he missed he would fall to an ignominious death. His passport was back at the Kressler, but the ID in his wallet would show who he was.
Karen was silent, allowing him complete concentration.
He teetered and reached out with his left arm, then gradually extended his right, as if moving slowly decreased his chance of making a fatal mistake. For the briefest instant, a ghastly apparition loomed forward and vanished in the dark window. He flinched, trying to comprehend what he had seen while fighting to keep from plunging into the courtyard below. Grasping the frame, rocking on his knees on the marble ledge, he did not take his eyes off the gloomy depths of her window.
Was it only the conjured spectre of his own death, or was something terrible actually there in darkness?
As if in response, the apparition moved out of the shadows into moonlight streaming through the open casement. Harry shuddered. Her eyes rimmed in black were empty, staring out from a mask of striated blood seeping among strands of open flesh. Her copper red hair was lank, plastered against her skull. In the strange muted light of the night, her lips were black battered flesh, the highlighted bridge of her nose was a jagged slash, her chin, her cheeks, the shape of her head were distorted by layers of dried and wet blood. Her moon-white shoulders were stained, her clavicle protruded as if the bone might burst through her skin, her breasts were wretchedly mottled with bruises and abrasions. Blood drained from gashes across her gut down into her pubic area and sheeted like molten ebony over her thighs. Her lower legs were hidden from view. Her arms hung at her sides, smeared in dark blood and as limp as dead meat.
Harry spoke gently, afraid she would fall out into the open air.
“Lena,” he whispered urgently. “It’s Harry. Lena, Madalena, it’s okay. It’s okay, it’s okay.”
He moved slowly back onto the landing, never taking his eyes off her. “Get away from the window, Lena, move back. Bitte schön, bitte.”
Harry thought he saw a glimmer of recognition in her eyes, but
it might have been moonlight.
“I’m coming in,” he said. “Can you open the door? Open the door, Madalena.”
She stared ahead, gazing out over the rooftops.
“Lena, I’m breaking in, I’m going to break through the door. Don’t move.” For God’s sake, don’t move.
Harry glanced sideways at the door. It looked solid, but most doors are a convention more than an impenetrable barrier.
He looked back into her eyes. They were wounds caught in a moment of stillness.
“Lena,” he repeated. “I’m coming in.”
Her eyes in the moonlight, tarnished silver discs.
She moved, raising one hand slowly in front of her chest, palm out, strangely commanding, and her unchanging eyes issued a warning. She stood proudly framed in the casement, which gleamed against the night.
My God, Harry, she looks otherworldly. She looks like a nightmare by Klimt’s tragic protégé, Egon Schiele.
A nightmare of anatomy, geometry, and passion, a perfect painting of imperious Death wearing robes of ebony and alabaster, encrusted with jewels and shimmering gilt: raw human flesh rendered inhuman, with eyes that saw nothing and everything in the same unfathomable gaze.
Harry stepped away from the window and braced himself against the ornamental iron of the elevator shaft, addressing her door straight on. The key was to believe he could break it down. He rocked back and looked out the window, but the angle was off and he couldn’t see her. Possibly she had receded into the shadows. Or fallen forward. But there had been no sounds of exploding flesh, only the mournful strains of the lone violin.
Harry breathed deeply three times for a hit of oxygen, crouched into a football stance, then hurled himself at the door as close to the knob as he could without hitting it. The locks burst, the door flew open, and Harry landed with a crash on a blue gabbeh rug. Apart from a single loud crack, there had been almost no noise. The violin paused then started again, picking up a more lively melody.
Gasping from the agonizing pain running through his right shoulder, Harry raised himself onto his hands and knees. Madalena lay still on a larger gabbeh in the room to his left; her body had twisted into a fetal position when she had collapsed or lowered herself to the floor. He crawled close and touched her gently on the forehead where blood was smeared across the taunt flesh.