by Jane Lambert
‘Ciao!’ I whisper, dipping my head.
We interlace fingers and share a glance as we make our way down to the subway in contented silence.
The train clatters and jostles noisily along the track.
As we pull into Enkplatz, Francesco nudges my foot with his and points to a poster advertising the play. Our eyes meet. He traces his thumb back and forth across my hand, kisses my forehead and smiles.
* * *
My performance that evening is not my best, as I find it hard to concentrate. In between my lines, when I’m normally listening to what the other characters are saying, I’m thinking about Francesco and wondering if he found his way to the theatre, did he pick up his ticket, and where should we eat afterwards? I am playing with fire. It therefore comes as no surprise that I miss one of my cues; serves me jolly well right. Oliver, ever the consummate performer, comes to the rescue, jumping in with his next line.
As soon as the curtain comes down for the interval, shamefacedly I flee the stage to the dressing room, slam the door shut, and burst into tears.
Mags enters quietly, puts a mug of tea down in front of me, and stroking my hair says soothingly, ‘Listen, sweetheart, it happens to us all, and tonight, well tonight it was your turn. Not one member of that audience will have noticed you missed a line, believe me.’
‘I wasn’t concentrating. I was being totally unprofessional, and I’ve let everyone down,’ I bleat through gasping sobs.
‘Nonsense. Look, love, we all have our off nights,’ she says putting a motherly arm around me. ‘We’re not superhuman. And promise me one thing: if Francesco, or anyone for that matter, congratulates you on your performance, you smile sweetly and simply say thank you, do you hear me?’ she says firmly. ‘Don’t you dare draw attention to the fact you missed a line, or Mama Mags will be very cross with you, do you understand? Now dry your eyes and drink your tea before it goes cold,’ she says, snatching a tissue from the box on the table.
As the curtain goes up on Act Two, I can feel the adrenaline pumping round my body. Five pages of dialogue until my next entrance. Can I put my silly goof-up behind me, or will I freeze and ruin it for everyone? Is this what they call stage fright?
Our doubts are traitors and make us lose … Our doubts are traitors and make us lose … rings Portia’s voice in my head.
Despite my initial tentativeness, it goes without a hitch, and I am the complex Chelsea once more, at odds with her father and finally reconciled. The pent-up tears of earlier come in very handy during my emotional scene with Ethel, and then finally with Norman.
* * *
‘Brava!’ enthuses Francesco, as I emerge from the stage door. ‘It was fantastico!’
I give a modest smile and murmur, ‘Grazie.’ The others file past, calling out their goodnights. Mags turns and darts me a knowing wink.
Francesco takes my hand as we make our way along the Graben (one of the many posh, pedestrianised shopping areas), past the fountain and illuminated statue of Saint Leopold, up the alleyway, and through the stained glass doors of Annerls Beisl.
The waiter nods in recognition and guides us through the snugly arranged tables to a discreet, low-lit booth. As soon as we sit down, he brings over two glasses of complimentary champagne, lights a candle, and hands out menus.
A pianist plays quietly in the corner.
‘Allora, la mia cara attrice, come stai?’ asks Francesco, clinking glasses.
‘Bene,’ I reply. He looks at me expectantly. ‘Bene, grazie.’ I swallow hard, shuffling in my seat. ‘Erm, Vienna è meravigliosa … Che città fantastica!’
‘E-milee?’ he says, with a seductively cocked eyebrow.
‘Che cosa?’ I say innocently from behind the menu, cheeks flushing.
‘E-milee?’
‘Okay, okay,’ I say, raising my hands in submission. ‘I haven’t been studying Italian lately. Sorry, but come on, Italian and German are worlds apart. I mean, the other day, when I found myself ordering G-nocchi instead of Knödel, I realised my poor wee brain can’t cope with learning two languages at the same time any more.’
‘Scusi?’ says Francesco, with his famous, whataya-talking-about-hand gesture.
‘G-nocchi. You know, dumplings. Knödel, in German.’
‘Aah!’ he says, teasing me with a small smile. ‘You mean “gnocchi”! My cara imbecille, the “g” is silent.’ Leaning forward, he removes my glasses and plants a kiss on my nose. My heart gives a little jolt.
In between sips of bubbly and mouthfuls of dumpling, I tell him about Anna, Mags, Oliver, the play, the opera, the trip to the country. Francesco orders more wine, we eat, I talk some more, and because I’m a little bit squiffy, I divulge the Nigel saga (not, you’ll be relieved to hear, in a bitter, all-men-are-bastards rant, but rather in a things-happen-for-the-best way). All the while he listens intently, shakes his head, and smiles in all the right places.
‘Hey, enough about me, Francesco,’ I say, a voice in my head warning me my chattiness is verging on self-obsessed gabble. ‘Tell me about the restaurant, Luigi, Nonna Maria … I want to know everything.’
‘Zio Luigi and Nonna Maria are well. They send auguri (good wishes). Every Friday and Saturday we now have Serata di Opera – how you say? – opera cabaret. Rosalba and Lucio, they perform opera, and the restaurant is so busy you must make a reservation at least two weeks before. Allora, Zio Luigi is a ver-ry happy man.’
‘And Sergio?’ I ask as casually as I can.
‘Bene,’ he says, nodding. ‘He will return to work full-time very soon.’
‘Aah,’ I say, nervous of the answer to my next question. ‘Do you know when exactly?’
‘Mit the compliments of the house,’ says the waiter, delivering two Maria Theresia liqueur coffees.
Francesco turns, raises his glass in thanks to the barman, then says, ‘Look, cara, is your mother and father, over there.’
I lean forward, turn forty-five degrees, and sure enough, deep in conversation, oblivious to the world around them, are Oliver and Mags, the light from the candles illuminating their faces. He takes a neatly pressed hankie from the top pocket of his jacket and gently dabs her eyes. I bob my head back, pretending I haven’t seen them.
‘You don’t say hello?’ says Francesco.
‘No … don’t wave,’ I say, grabbing his arm in the nick of time. ‘I don’t say hello because … well, it’s complicated. But trust me, it’s better they don’t know we’re here.’
‘Aah,’ he says with a sigh. ‘Amore, cara, is never simple – even when we are old.’
He then proceeds to tell me how his grandparents were married for sixty years, and at his grandfather’s funeral, his mistress pitched up. It transpired their clandestine affair had been going on for over four decades. Francesco was only eight at the time, but remembers hiding under the altar table, hands clasped tightly over his ears to block out the caterwauling the arrival of the shameless strega (witch) brought to mass that day.
However, the two women eventually became friends and would meet in the piazza, where they would sip limoncello and compare notes about the old man’s flaws and irritating habits. Both agreed they were better off without the old bastardo.
* * *
‘Anna?’ I enquire next morning.
‘Ja, liebling?’ she says, clearing away the breakfast things.
‘I should have thought of this before, but do you know of anywhere that rents bicycles?’
‘Komm’ mit mir,’ she says, wiping her hands on her apron, then leading me down to the basement. There, behind various old rusty garden tools, is an ancient bike with ‘Schildberger und Söhne’ painted in faded lettering along the crossbar.
‘This bicycle belonged to my man … in English, husband, ja? He worked for his father in the Bäckerei, the bakery,’ she says, feeling the tyres. ‘A little Luft (air), dann ist alles in Ordnung.’
I wiggle along the road, pushing both bikes, unwieldy as supermarket trolleys.
‘B
uongiorno, principessa!’ calls Francesco from Cristina’s balcony, as I weave unsteadily round the corner.
‘Buongiorno! Ho una bicicletta!’
‘Madonna mia!’ He guffaws in disbelief, then smiles and gestures. ‘Eh, whaddya think I am? Il postino? The postman?’
* * *
As we rattle across Herbert von Karajan Square towards the opera house, I can’t help but think what Nigel would have said in Francesco’s shoes: Are you mad? There’s no way I’m riding that heap of metal. We can afford a taxi. Why can’t you be sophisticated? Just once? Then we’d have an argument and he’d storm off. But he just didn’t get it; you see, it has nothing to do with saving on taxi fares or worrying about how you look; it’s about being a little bit wacky and not giving a damn if you might get oil on your designer jeans or mess up your neatly coiffed hair.
‘Eh, il postino! Attenzione prego!’ I yell. ‘Stop here!’
We lean our bicycles against a lamppost and join the growing line of mainly American, Japanese, and Spanish-speaking tourists waiting for the box office to open.
José Cura, the Argentinean tenor, is playing the role of Rodolfo at tonight’s performance of La Bohème, and the couple in front of us has flown over especially from Buenos Aries to see him perform. (Pity his understudy.)
‘Excuse me. Do you speak English?’ comes an American drawl from behind.
I look over my shoulder, and before I have time to respond, a large lady sporting a baseball cap and multicoloured poncho says, ‘We were just wondering if you and your husband have ever seen La Bohème, and how it compares to Les Misérables? We saw that on Broadway and loved it.’
‘Oh, um, we’re not …’
‘My wife and I, we love this opera, don’t we darling?’ interjects Francesco, a cheeky grin creasing his chin. ‘We come from England by bicycle to see it.’
‘Really?’ says the woman, mouth gaping to reveal a large piece of gum.
‘Sì. And my great-grandfather, he write the music.’
‘Omigod!’
‘Ja, bitte?’ calls the lady through the box office window.
‘Two for tonight, per favore, in the upper circle. One for me – and one for my wife.’
‘One hundred and forty euros, please,’ she says with a knowing smile, as she passes the tickets through.
‘We should be going,’ I say, promptly dragging Francesco away by his sleeve, before our American friends have the chance to probe any further – and before I crack up.
* * *
We head out along the shady Augustinerstrasse, lined with rows of unchained bicycles (bike theft is non-existent here), past the antiquarian bookshops, quirky galleries, and a life-sized wooden figure of Pinocchio perched on a bench, and on towards St Michael’s Gate. We stop by the church and go inside. The sweet smell of incense mixed with lilies hangs heavy in the air. Solitary figures sit in silent prayer. Who or what are they praying for, I wonder? For a sick parent, a pet, a premature baby, a son fighting in some foreign war, for a lotto win, or for success with a job interview?
I look round to find Francesco lighting a candle, head bowed. I leave him to his private thoughts, and retreat on tiptoes to an empty side chapel.
I drop to my knees, close my eyes, and ask Steve to keep Wendy safe, to encourage her to pick up her paintbrushes again, and although no one will ever take his place, would it be all right for her to fall in love again someday?
Feeling a gentle hand on my shoulder, I tilt my head back and am met by Francesco’s kind, watery eyes. He holds out his hand and pulls me to my feet, our fingers locking together. He kisses the crown of my head lightly, and as we walk along the red-carpeted aisle towards the exit, and out into the bright and busy square, I am reminded once more that silence can be filled with meaning; that you don’t have to cram every void with inane chatter. I don’t feel the need to impress Francesco with my wit or knowledge of Viennese rococo architecture, and am not embarrassed that he’s caught me crying.
* * *
Of all the places I have so far visited in Vienna, the little innocuous market just around the corner from Rudolfstrasse has to be one of my favourites. It’s so … well, ALIVE. Sure, I appreciate the magnificence of the Opera House, the Spanish Riding School with its chandelier-lit paddock, the over-the-top, baroque, faded golden glory of Schönbrunn Palace, but they all have a LOOK-BUT-DON’T-TOUCH feel about them; whereas here, in this little market, I can see, feel, smell, listen to the Vienna of the here and now.
I know I shouldn’t compare, but Nigel would not have been impressed: So what? It’s just a market. All these historic buildings and you drag me here?
‘Che bello!’ enthuses Francesco, disappearing into its maze of colourful stalls: pyramids of blood-red, vine tomatoes, bunches of thin asparagus, reaching out like witches’ fingers, rosemary, oregano, and garlic bound up with raffia, swaying from metal hooks, roasted chestnuts, smoking in a coal-filled, metal drum, speckled eggs, nestled together in straw-filled baskets, row upon row of freshly baked Kaiser rolls, rye, wholegrain, sourdough, and seeded artisan loaves that send your taste buds into overdrive, trays of sausages, cuts of meat in pools of pink blood, and trotters with sprigs of parsley stuffed between their piggy toes. Aaw. If I allow myself to think about those cute little porkers too much, I could turn vegetarian.
I seek refuge in the flower stall, where the air is perfumed with woodsy pine, cinnamon, eucalyptus, and orchids. With Christmas just a few weeks away, it’s like entering an ice-white winter wonderland. Ladies in voluminous dirndls and boiled wool, fir-green jackets with rustic horn buttons and heavy-duty gloves deftly create advent crowns from aromatic spruce, holly, metallic frosted pine cones, red berries, cinnamon sticks, silver ribbons, garden twine, and candles.
I return to the food section where I left Francesco. Through the rows of hanging, cheesecloth-wrapped salamis and hams, pretzels, and dried chillies, I watch him as he zips from one stall to another, tasting olives, smelling herbs, feeling tomatoes, and aubergines, checking they are ripe. He laughs and jokes with the amiable stall holders, cosied up against the cold in furry earflap hats and fingerless gloves, his hand vocabulary and humour bridging the language gap.
I’m learning that the Italian hand gesture can be used either to convey a meaning that it would take several words to express, or to simply emphasise a point – a kind of communication shorthand.
He’s spied me and is gesturing for me to come over, so I shall now do my best to demonstrate this point:
‘Eh, cara, I have an idea,’ he says (forefinger stabbing temple). ‘Call (thumb to ear, little finger to mouth) Anna and Cristina. Tell them tonight, before (forefinger rotating backwards) the opera, I prepare dinner.’(fingers of right hand clasped together and indicating mouth.)
‘But you’re on holiday.’ I groan. ‘You don’t want to be cooking on your night off. There’s a lovely taverna near …’
‘Punto e basta! Enough!’ (horizontal cross-over and swiping of both hands.)
‘But …’
‘I insist.’ (forefinger stabbing the palm of the other hand.) ‘Now, let’s have an espresso.’ (forefinger and thumb touching, other fingers extended in drinking mime.)
* * *
I sprinkle some of my precious Bad Aussee mix into the bath and slither down into the warm water, swishing my hand gently back and forth. I can almost feel the toxins draining out of my body.
Opening one eye, I lazily lift a pruney arm and grope around for my watch: 5.40. I haul myself out of my warm cocoon, slip into my LFMD (little flea-market dress), scoosh some mousse on my hair and scrunch it up, apply some lip gloss, and put on my shopping channel, diamante earrings. I grimace then grin as I relive that particular cringeworthy presentation …
ME: Notice the way they catch the light.
VOICE IN EAR: Twenty-five more seconds to fill. Keep talking.
ME: Yes, the light catches them in a most alluring way – blinding even.
VOICE IN EAR: Twenty-two second
s.
ME: My mum has a pair like this … and my friend.
VOICE IN EAR: Twenty seconds.
ME: And my aunty.
VOICE IN EAR: Okay, enough of the family-tree thing. Change tack. Eighteen seconds.
ME: In fact, Wills, if you’re watching, I can guarantee Kate would love these and wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between these and your granny’s.
VOICE IN EAR: Cut!
* * *
‘Ready, Anna?’ I say, popping my head around the living room door.
‘Fertig,’ she says, buttoning up her dark green Lodenmantel and collecting her basket.
As we totter along the street arm in arm, she tells me that since Walter her beloved husband died, she rarely ventures out in the evening.
Her lovely warm face creases as she pats my hand and says out of the blue, ‘Francesco is a good man, liebling. This I see in his eyes. Und good men are hard to find.’
‘You can say that again,’ I say, half laughing.
‘So, you should marry this man, ja?’
‘I … I …’
‘Life is short, and you are not so young,’ she remarks squarely.
Had anyone else said this to me, I’d have thought, here we go. Give me a break – not all us single ladies of a certain age are on a quest to harness a husband.
Yet, old she may be, and like many Austrians, steeped in traditional values, but I know from our many discussions over coffee and strudel, Anna is a modern, forward-thinking woman, who juggled career and family life at a time before it was the norm. So no offence taken. She’s right though; men like Francesco are a rare breed, but finding your happy ever after isn’t just about chemistry and meeting ‘the one’, like in some Hollywood romcom, is it? Real life is complicated and can sometimes pull you in opposite directions.
As we climb the winding staircase to Cristina’s apartment, the mouth-watering, Mediterranean mix of sweet tomatoes, garlic, and fresh herbs drifts down to meet us.
Anna depresses the brass handle of the solid dark wood door and beckons me to follow her inside.
‘Grüss Gott!’