In the meanwhile, Herbort joined his friends for an evening at the Traumhalle, one of the more modest yet bright and reasonably modern venues of Vienna. Of the many music halls of the city, the Traumhalle lived up to its name: it was a dream, and not just one dream but a dream of such magnitude that it answered to everyone’s idea of a dream.
It was Herbort who had heard of the Hanging Artist, and had encouraged his friends to remain in their seats for the entirety of the bill. “He’s all I’ve heard about these past few weeks,” Herbort told them. “Not just from the others at the bank, but from customers, too.”
“What do they say?” one of them asked.
“That he has to be seen to be believed.”
“What does that mean?” another asked.
“I don’t know,” Herbort said, and it was true. “I take it to mean that what he does is—well—beyond description.”
“He hangs himself,” one of them said. This was the tall blonde girl from Die Verliebte Stockente, where she was noted for her ability to serve eight drunkards nine full steins of beer at once without spilling a drop. “That’s all he does,” she said. “Hangs himself. It’s no secret.”
“With a rope?” someone asked.
“I assume,” she said. “If he used a string of sausages, we’d hear about it. Now that would be fun!”
Prinsky wrested his steady, disconcerting gaze away from the girl who lived on Wunderstrasse and said, “He doesn’t, really. He can’t.”
They humored Prinsky as best they could.
“He can’t what?” they asked.
“Hang himself,” Prinsky said. “If he really hanged himself, well, he’d be a one-performance phenomenon. He’s been here three weeks now.” He glanced at the girl who lived on Wunderstrasse to see if she’d marked his practical wisdom. She popped exactly three anise drops into her mouth and sidled up against Herbort, who had smelled her coming and had moved away.
“I don’t think it’s as simple as that,” Herbort said. “I’m led to believe this man is… well, his act… it’s… more than a gimmick, it’s…”
He looked away from them. These people are so basic, he thought, so dull. To them, whatever they didn’t understand was a joke; nothing was worth saying if not to elicit a laugh.
“…it’s nearly show time,” someone said, and they went in.
Herbort did not join them immediately. He waited on the curb, looking up at rather than into the blazing lobby of the Traumhalle. The girl who lived on Wunderstrasse stopped.
“Something wrong, Hermann?” she asked.
“Not a thing in the world,” he said, using the answer he always provided when exactly the opposite was true. “Remind me of your name,” he said, “because it’s tiring to keep thinking of you as the Girl Who Lives on Wunderstrasse or the Girl Who Smells of Licorice.”
“Is that how you think of me?” she asked. “I didn’t know you thought of me at all.”
“I also think of you as Prinsky’s inamorata.”
“What’s an inamorata?”
“It means lover, girlfriend,” he said, “sweetheart.”
“I’m none of those things,” she said, “to him—or anyone else.”
“Tell that to Prinsky.”
“I shouldn’t have to. I don’t pay him the least mind. Why he doesn’t get the hint…”
He slid his arm through hers and said, “Let’s go in. If you’d be so kind as to sit next to me, I’ll have a better chance at learning your name.”
“It’s Hannah,” she said, warmed by his attention, “and I don’t live on Wunderstrasse anymore. If you promise to walk me home after the show, I’ll show you my new address.”
“And make Prinsky jealous?”
“Don’t tease me. He’s such a pain. I wish he wouldn’t come around.”
“But then I wouldn’t have a rival,” he said.
“Now I know you’re teasing,” Hannah said, but smiled a hot, flushed smile anyway.
Was he teasing her? Herbort wondered. Perhaps he was, and he felt a little shame at doing so. They went in, found their seats—at the end of the row, furthest from Prinsky, whose face changed to thunderclouds when he saw them together—and settled into the warm excitement of the promise of entertainment.
From the moment the modest orchestra of the Traumhalle struck its first notes, Herbort sensed a heaviness in the air, despite the gaiety of the music and shabby elegance of his surroundings; as if a sheer, sober, amber curtain had lowered on the working class Wednesday-evening revelers of Vienna. He couldn’t account for the feeling—was it that he knew he would ultimately see a man hang himself?
He reasoned that if his internal darkening grew intolerable, he could always excuse himself before the final act.
After the orchestral selection, the crowd was treated to acts trying desperately to put new twists or variations on their tried-and-true tropes: the Italian tenor (who was about as Italian as a sacher torte) sang songs from Spain; the popular comedienne (popular since before the Great War) had bobbed her hair and offered a slightly amusing, nearly ribald playlet of four scenes, backed by a company of artists who seemed to have been only allowed five lines of dialogue apiece; the Three Dierkop Sisters proved to actually be Four, leaving one to wonder if they’d lost count at some point or merely knew someone needing the work, as the quartet sang tight harmonies and sounded like hornets; the featured comedians tried for laughs in a frenzied, desperate fashion, and looked as if they were grateful for the few titters they were granted, despite their mildly clever use of cream pies (“What a waste of good food,” Hannah whispered to him); the Flying Hurricanes made Herculean efforts to overcome their encroaching tubbiness as they bounced, tumbled, and flew about the stage.
What, Herbort wondered, was driving them to perform with such frenzy? As if their lives and not their livelihoods depended on it?
Finally, it was time for the last act on the bill, the one that everyone had shown up to see, although none had admitted it.
The orchestra sat in silence; the music director set his baton on his podium. The musicians doused their lights.
The Traumhalle became total darkness, as if it were about to be dumped into an abyss. Herbort realized it was too late for him to leave, and besides, even if he tried, he couldn’t see where he was going.
A blast of cold air filled the theater and chilled everyone, even though the summer heat had made the typically cool building uncomfortably close and warm all evening.
No one moved. No one spoke. It was quite possible that no one breathed.
The curtain ascended on a wall of light.
Once everyone’s eyes had adjusted to the sudden rush of brightness, they were presented with a simple stage setting painted in a riot of merry colors: yellows and pinks, robin’s egg blue and frog belly green.
To the left, a Parlophone gramophone, outdated by some ten years, sat on an oak table, its brass horn a big, dazzling flower in the intense stage lights.
To the right, taking up most of the stage, was the tallest, starkest object of unease anyone had ever seen: an enormous gallows, nearly as high as the stage would allow, and at its foot a simple cane-backed chair.
The gallows loomed black, austere, and ropeless.
A man appeared.
He was tall and robust, and sported a healthy, well-fed face.
He wore a suit of tan linen, a sport summer suit that fit his sturdy figure well.
On his big hands were delicate, tan calfskin gloves.
He smiled at the audience.
His hazel eyes sparkled.
He began to speak.
CHAPTER THREE
AN AFFIRMATION
FRANZ KAFKA AWOKE from a dream and assumed that what had felt to be real had also been a dream, but he was mistaken, and he didn’t know how to feel about that.
For there was Gregor, sitting by the window, reading a pile of papers by the light of the moon.
“So I didn’t imagine you,” Franz said.
“Huh?” asked Gregor.
“I mean,” Franz said, “you are probably still imaginary, but it appears I’m to go on imagining you consistently.”
“Whatever you say.”
Franz yawned. “Well,” he said, “it’s a nice change, at any rate, to have something stay the same from one waking moment to the next. If it’s to be you, all the better, because after you, there can be no more surprises. What time is it?”
“Wednesday will soon be surrendering to Thursday.”
Franz listened to the stillness for a moment or two.
“I don’t—”
“Just wait a second,” Gregor said.
The clock on the town hall down in Kierling began to strike midnight.
“Has anyone been in to see me?” Franz asked when the tolling had subsided.
“Beats me,” Gregor said. “I haven’t been here the entire time you’ve been asleep.”
“And here I thought you were sent to watch over me.”
“Hell, no. I just came back because I was bored. And the outside world is… well, I don’t have to tell you.”
“A terrifying place?”
“Among other things. A dung heap, basically.”
“I thought you’d be…” Franz censored himself. Gregor sighed.
“…comfortable with dung heaps?” he said. “You’re always quick on the draw with snide remarks about my being, aren’t you?”
“I apologize.”
“It’s all right,” Gregor said, setting aside the stack of paper.
“What are you reading?” Franz asked.
“This story of yours.”
“A story of mine?”
“It was over on the table.”
“Oh. I’d forgotten I was writing something. I’d been pretty much focused on dying the past week or so. Which one is it?”
“About this guy who starves for a living. Weird stuff.”
“Do you like it?”
“It passes the time.”
Franz thought about his dear friend Max. Had things gone as planned, Max would have been here by now to scoop up the story and burn it along with every other scrap of writing Franz had struggled with and left behind, as Max was the sort of friend who would do anything he’d ask; and Franz had asked that of him, before it had become impossible to speak. Now, in his new circumstances, Franz wondered if he could get Max to burn all of his writing anyway.
“Not a sign of a doctor, I suppose,” Franz said. “Nobody has come by to give me a clean bill of health?”
“Not even to give you the bill,” Gregor said. “Go back to sleep and tomorrow—well, today, now—you can worry about what’s to come.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“By what?”
“What’s to come. It sounds ominous.”
“Don’t be so paranoid. Go back to your dream.”
“How do you know I was dreaming?”
“Lucky guess. What were you dreaming about?”
Franz tried to retrieve his dream; fragments floated up. “Music,” he said.
“What was the tune?”
And Franz could hear it again, played by a jazz band that sounded as if it was at the end of a long hallway and covered with a wet, woolen blanket. “The most ridiculous thing—‘Ev’rybody Shimmies Now.’ Have you heard it?”
“Sure,” Gregor said.
“You have?”
“I get around.”
Franz closed his eyes and said, “Of all the tunes to come to me. And sounding like it’s trying to escape. I don’t like it. Not just because it’s cheap, but because… I don’t know… there’s a desperation to it…”
“Maybe if you go back to sleep, the tune will change.”
“Maybe if I stay awake, there won’t be any more music to deal with.”
“Well, then, stay awake,” Gregor said.
But Franz was already snoring.
CHAPTER FOUR
A NOCTURNE
WE SEE AN assortment of people on their way to wherever it is they’re going. It is late at night, and the Viennese streets and alleys are still loud with music and humanity, the former jazzy, the latter somewhat dazed and silent, as many of them have just left a music hall and seen something they shouldn’t have seen.
WE SEE A boy of twelve clutch his mother’s hand, a hand he hasn’t clutched since he was nine years old, because he had taken great pains to erase the label of Mama’s Boy. We see his mother jolted from what can only be described as a troubled reverie by his touch. The boy’s nose is running; he is unaware of this. The boy’s mother takes a handkerchief from her pocketbook and wipes his nose. Their eyes do not meet.
WE SEE A young man lingering outside the music hall, his hands behind his back, looking slowly up and down the street. People swarm around him. The look on his face could either be that of one who has had all of his concepts of Life and Art and Ambition scrambled at one violent stroke, or that of someone deciding whether to walk or hail a taxi. He has forgotten his portfolio and cap.
WE SEE AN old woman walking along. She looks at the street, but doesn’t appear to be studying it for any particular reason. She drops her souvenir program. She stops walking. She begins to sob. She brings her hands to her face and continues to sob, silently, while others walk around her.
WE SEE A rather plain young man, hands shoved into his pockets, stomping homeward. His progress is halted by a blast of laughter from a tavern, and he studies the warm, bright yellow open doorway. He ought to drink. He needs to drink. Because damn all of them who are taller and better looking and thinner and have manners like silk ribbons. No, damn all of the others who make fools of themselves over those golden people. No, damn everyone. Her. Him. Them.
WE SEE A young couple, arm in arm, strolling in tandem, she bewitched by he, he gallant but removed. They stop in front of a respectable but shabby building, every front window open to the summer night air; the young woman says to the young man: “The Wunderstrasse was nicer, but this is all I can afford now. If nothing else, it’s clean.”
WE SEE A tall, stocky man in a tan suit exit the stage door. He is out of breath, as if he’d been hurrying or lifting an enormous object. He smiles at the five black-haired men waiting for him.
“Thanks for waiting. Anybody hungry?” he asks.
The five men exchange glances. “You buying, Henker?” one asks.
Henker laughs. “If you like,” he says.
The shortest of the men says, “I could do with a drink.”
The rest of his brothers, as it turns out, could also do with a drink.
“Come on, then,” Henker says, and leads them out of the alley and into the next street. “First round’s on me, but you’re on your own after that. By the way, you boys were truly remarkable tonight. Have you put in extra rehearsals?”
The men grunt.
The tallest of them takes a close look at Henker.
The next tallest elbows him, makes a face: Don’t look.
The tallest looks away.
A wide figure in a black coat and hat appears from a doorway and barrels into Henker, who is knocked to the ground. The newcomer mutters what sounds like an apology and helps Henker to his feet. He wipes muck from Henker, who brushes him away.
“I’m fine,” Henker says. “Only watch where you’re going.”
The black figure touches his hat by way of leave and hurries down the street.
“…and try not to be so obvious,” Henker says. Only one of the five brothers hears him, but declines to ask what he means.
WE SEE TWO women hurrying down a residential street.
One stops and supports herself on the other.
“Pinching something awful,” she says, loosening the laces of her boot.
They are under a streetlamp.
The other woman doesn’t like the lateness of the hour or the emptiness of the street.
She wishes her friend would hurry.
She wishes her friend would buy better boots.
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br /> She looks down and sees their lumpy shadows.
She sees the spear-like shadow of the streetlamp.
She follows the shadow as it stretches across the street.
She sees another streetlamp.
She sees a man standing leaning up against it, his cap over his eyes.
He is looking at the ground.
She leaves her friend lacing her boot, and crosses the street to the man.
“Warm night,” she says to him. “I know a cool place, if you’re game.”
He doesn’t look up. Or flinch.
“You don’t have to be shy with me,” she says.
She touches his arm.
He collapses at her feet.
His cap falls off.
She sees his starting eyes, his darkened face, and his protruding tongue.
She screams.
CHAPTER FIVE
A REVIVIFICATION
THE CARNAGE WAS complete. The whole process had been swift and remorseless.
There was nothing left.
The coffee had been hot and welcoming, and the sugar and cream had held out until he’d drained the last drop from the pot.
The fruit juice—orange or grapefruit; he had slurped it down too fast to know for sure—had been fresh and free of pulp.
The cheeses had been godsends—the sweet, buttery Obatzda and the salty, pungent Weisslacker. How had Gregor found such delicacies?
The fried egg and the boiled egg had been cooked to perfection; the Müsli (two bowls!) hadn’t been too much like sawdust, and the yogurt he had mixed into it hadn’t been too sour or runny.
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