'Elegant and original... beautifully crafted, without a word out of place or a sentence too many.' - Time Out
Part Two
"THINGS in those days were relatively good for our people. Lueger, the Mayor of Vienna at the time, said that he hated Jews, but in truth this was rhetoric which he ignored once it had served its purpose of winning him votes. He had many Jewish friends, some of whom I knew. However it was still difficult to get certain jobs unless you had the contacts, you see. All my life I had wanted to become a waiter in a coffee house. I would go often to Museum or to Central and sit for hours watching them at work as they served the customers. They had an unusual dignity, one to which I aspired.
"I was fortunate. My sister, Emma, had made the acquaintance of a wealthy and aristocratic man who was great friends with Klimt and, I dare say, associated with the others of the Secession group. His name was Karl and he was an artist himself, though very much the gentleman amateur. He spent a great deal of his time in Museum and when Emma, with whom he was quite in love, mentioned my ambition to him, it was as good as a command. Doubtless it helped that my father, in fact, was not Jewish, but whatever: he arranged it and I started within the month. Furthermore, as we were close enough in age - he was only two years older than I - we became firm friends.
"My parents would not allow Emma to marry Karl. Not because of his religion, of course not. But because he already had, by a previous relationship, the most beautiful twin daughters I have ever had the pleasure to lay my eyes upon. They were illegitimate, though to be fair it must be said that had their mother survived childbirth I am quite certain that Karl would have married her. He was a rascal, but he was a man of honour who hated hypocrisy more than anything except Germans. Karl worshipped Maria and Clara above anything else in his life. No matter how busy he was with his friends or his mistresses or his business, he always found time to spoil them and give them the best. Until the war started, that is.
"I was fortunate. I knew many people who were in a position to help me avoid conscription. Karl himself helped me. I had no loyalty to Franz Joseph; Franz Ferdinand was a good man but his death was no reason to start a war. And indeed, I was something of a socialist in those days, as were many Jews of my generation. I had met Trotsky once, I read his newspaper. Why would I have wished to fight for one imperial power against another? Karl, however, was obliged to serve, and wished to. He never actually fought because he was a strategist, one of the few good ones the Empire had. It resulted in his being absent from Vienna for the duration of the war. He never managed to return, not once.
"I occasionally saw Maria and Clara over the next years. As you should know, those of us who remained in Vienna continued to lead a very civilised existence, as if there were no war. Only the lack of certain consumer items and a shortage of young men were noticeable. As they grew older Maria and Clara spent more and more time in Museum meeting with the artists who still came there. Maria seemed to be following in her father's footsteps because she was becoming a talented artist herself. And as they became young women, they grew even more beautiful.
"Karl had asked me to keep an eye on them and see that they were well and needed for nothing. It did occur to me at times that their guardian allowed them greater freedom than might have been expected, but it was wartime and besides, what could I have done? For all my friendship with their father, I was just a waiter in a coffee house and a Jew to boot. I had no right to instruct them how to behave. When I saw them I asked after their health, if they had any troubles, but they were always in high spirits and the men they were with seemed to be of respectable character, or as respectable as artists can be. I continued with my life, married a beautiful woman, had children of my own. All I wanted was to survive the war, wait for things to change - as they were bound to - and continue with my comfortable existence as a waiter in a Viennese coffee house. Karl wrote me occasionally, though never more than a few lines of greeting and news of the war; he never suggested that there were problems with the girls. By the time he returned to Vienna, at the very end of 1918, the girls' guardian was dead of the flu that killed so many people that year. Clara had married some ridiculous Prussian diplomat and Maria, Maria was gone.
"There was nothing Karl hated more than Prussians. He was a proud Viennese - you should have heard the language he used in 1933 when Hitler became Chancellor. Had he been alive in 1938 I am quite sure he would have fought the Germans with his bare hands. But Clara was as strong willed as he and his mother before him. She refused to leave her husband as Karl demanded - she could have done so easily because she was a Catholic whereas he was a Protestant - and in defiance of Karl's wishes they moved together to Berlin and only returned to Austria when he was dead and Schuschnigg was Chancellor of the Republic. I never saw her after her marriage except once, in 1936, and if she recognised me she gave no sign of it.
"Maria was the mystery. No one, but no one knew where she was, if she was alive or dead, in Vienna or on the moon. Karl searched for her everywhere. He visited me every day in Museum asking if I had any news of her, could give him any clue as to where she might be. And, in truth, there were things I could have told him. They were not pleasant and I was reluctant because I did not see how they could help. Better, I thought, for Karl not to know. Maria, you see, became a courtesan. Not, I heard, for the money, but for the fun. It was impossible for me to tell Karl this, that his daughter was little better than a common whore. It would have upset him too much and I thought it would be best for him to remember her as the innocent fourteen-year-old she was when he last saw her. Perhaps I was wrong, but that was the decision I made.
"It was in November of 1918 that I saw her for the last time - in the week that Schiele died, if that interests you - and, indeed, I suspect that I was amongst the last to see her alive. The man was a little wild, with a long black coat such as our people used to wear, though he was no Jew, and wearing a hat. When I saw them it was late at night and not in Museum, but on the Ringstrasse near the Schwarzenbergplatz. They both seemed drunk and he was pushing her around, perhaps playfully, perhaps not. Now, I cannot be certain that it was Maria, but she had the same red hair, whoever she was, and a certain posture, an... abandon would be the word. Naturally I considered challenging the man but by then I had heard enough of Maria's adventures to feel that she had outgrown any care I might have been able to give, for all her youth. I do not know to this day, but I suspect that I should have done something. He was one of those bohemian types who look as if they have stepped from the gutter but who, in all probability, are wealthy enough. I remember him staring at me, a wild stare. It unnerved me. I have lived with that and it is enough. I would not wish to have the added burden of a close friend's misery on my account. I suspect that the man recognised me from Museum, but in any event saw neither him nor Maria again.
"It is difficult to make out the features, now, but the figure on the right is Maria - she was slightly taller than Clara at that age, I remember. The photograph was taken by myself on the day before Karl went away to the war. It was a glorious day and Karl and I took the girls into the Vienna woods for a picnic. He had bought the camera only that week and he asked me if I would take a picture of the three of them. I did not see my handiwork until after the war, however. When Karl returned. By then, as a favour to Karl, Klimt had coloured it. I must say that the likeness was a striking one - not my doing, of course, as I had never held a camera in my life and never have since. Over the next years Karl kept the picture in his study where the sun could shine on it, making the colours truly glow. One could imagine that it was not a photograph, but a window, looking onto the past, onto another, perhaps better time. I told him that the colours would fade, but as he often said: better to enjoy the picture than to stick it away in the dark, and I dare say he was right.
"The last time I saw Karl was in 1934. He had not spoken of the girls in years, though the fact that he never married suggested perhaps that they were always on his mind. We had dinner together and afterwards coffee in his study. We spoke mostly of recent news, that the Nazis had killed their own people. He urged me to leave Austria, to go to America, because he knew that more trouble was stirring here, too. As much as anything, he knew of my involvement with the Socialists in February of that year and, I suspect, had protected me in some way. Before I left he took the photograph down and we looked at it for a long time. Klimt's colours had faded into nothingness. 'Franz,' he said, 'they have gone now. The girls have gone.' And he handed it to me and told me to keep it: I had taken the photograph and now that the colours were gone it should be mine again. That night he killed himself. The newspapers said it was because he had been discovered plotting against Dolfuss, but I have never believed that. His heart was broken. There was nothing else to it. There were also some letters he gave me. Including one from Klimt. Perhaps you would like to see it? It is here somewhere..."
While Lasker packed his pipe again and started to rummage through a pile of papers on the floor Adele went onto the balcony again. She was sure that Maria was the woman Leopold had killed. The date - the week Schiele had died - was certainly correct; Maria was red-haired; the description of Leopold, wearing the coat and hat which still hung behind the door of the studio, fitted. Somehow it made it worse to know something about the girl's life, to know the name of her father, her sister, to have spoken to someone who himself had known her, to have seen a photograph, albeit faded, of her as a child. She decided that she would return and visit Lasker without Reid and tell him how Maria's life had ended, if he wished to know. And there were other things he could tell her, she was sure.
ADELE paled when she read the letter from Klimt. There were only three sentences of relevance, but Adele knew that they would be enough for Reid: "I spoke to S. the other day - he says that he will exhibit at the Prater provided that P. is permitted to exhibit as well. I've told him that he is a fool - P. is no painter - but S. says that he owes him the favour and furthermore that he feels sorry for him (you know, of course, about the terrible accident with P.'s father and that bitch of an Italian of his - at their factory - it was in the news last month). He also says he will give him a piece which is nearly worse, because however much he is worth, P. is a philistine."
Reid read the letter over and over, apparently unable to grasp what was written.
"P. This must be him, Monika. It has to be."
"So how do you work that out?"
"OK, it's a long shot. But as far as I know I never came across someone with an initial P. who might have been given a painting. The Prater exhibition - that was an exhibition of war art. I always thought it was strange for Schiele to be there at all, but if there was some guy who did him a favour..."
"If this S. is Schiele."
"May I ask what it is you wish to discover?"
"Sorry, Mr Lasker. Do you know who this P. person is?"
"I am afraid not. Klimt had so many associates. Schiele as well. There can be little doubt that S. is Schiele, however. If you will excuse me, Monika, Reid, I am tired now. It has been a pleasure to share some time and this story with you both, but I fear I must sleep."
"Thank you Mr Lasker. I'll arrange a lawyer and I'll come by again soon."
"As you wish. Come in a few days and I will have the agreement ready. It is a simple one with few conditions."
Outside Reid was exId.
"Right. I'm going straight to the Albertina to find out the names of everyone who exhibited at that thing in the Prater. You want to come?"
"No thanks, Reid. I've had enough for one day. Say we meet later... in Jocherl? Sixish?"
"Sounds good. I think Januz is free this evening, I'll get him and Peter along too. See you then."
Adele felt numb as she walked back to Harry Lime's to pick up her car. Reid would still have problems tracing her address on the basis of Leopold's surname because he had been another bastard, the son of a peasant girl from near Hollabrun. It was ironic: Leopold's mother, too, had died giving birth and her father had brought the baby to Vienna and presented it to Hans Mahler who gave him some money and agreed to take the child. At that point Hans was unmarried. His own father ran the family business and was content for Hans to enjoy his youth before he in turn started working for the company. The child was welcomed into the household and Hans, it seemed, enjoyed the notoriety he gained by having a bastard son at the age of only seventeen. Many young women seized upon the opportunity of visiting baby Leopold as a means to seeing and attempting to win the favour of the eldest son of such a powerful industrial family. When Leopold was four he gained a stepmother, a beautiful Italian aristocrat named Alessandra, who insisted that Leopold be disinherited as soon as she herself bore children. She had three daughters but no sons, which was a disappointment to Hans. As Leopold and the girls grew older, Alessandra's demands grew stricter: Leopold was forbidden to use the name Mahler; he was to live in the attics so that he could not interfere with the girls' games; he was to have no property of his own; he was never to eat with the family...
For all that Hans was a fair father who looked after his son as best he could. He gave him a substantial allowance drawn against a secret trust of which Alessandra had no knowledge, he took him out with his friends and spent what time he could with him, allowed him as much freedom as he wished by way of compensation for the security which he could not have. Leopold was a poor little rich kid who had everything but who had nothing, not even a name. But Reid was not stupid: he would surely find out who P. was, who Leopold was, and there was nothing Adele could think of to stop him.
She was not sure how long she had. It might take Reid a day or a month or anything in between to fill in the details. There were, of course, possibilities. She could try to remove everything from the attic before Reid got there. But that was not the point: Reid needed only go to the police and he would soon discover that Adele was the Monika he knew. Another option, of course, was to confess to him, as she had thought of doing before, in the hope that his respect for their friendship would prevent him from publishing the story. But she was under no illusions: Reid would certainly resent the fact that she had kept the painting hidden from him. In any case, she simply did not want Reid or anyone to know that she was Adele. She decided to return to the studio and speak to George. If anyone could suggest a solution, she thought, George was the one.
ADELE was in Jocherl, in the eighth, by five. She had argued with George about what to do: when she had explained everything he had suggested that he speak with Reid and, if necessary, threaten him, force him to give up what he was doing. Adele said that was stupid, because he would realise that she had told George about the visit to Lasker's and anyway he would carry on with his search but would keep it secret from the rest of them. To resort to violence was against her principles, she said. George replied that in that case he did not care if Reid did find out where the painting was. He was not ashamed to model for Adele, what did it matter? If they moved the painting to one of his friends' apartments there would be no proof that they had ever had it, Reid would be no better of than he was before. They ended up shouting at each other, then sat in silence for over an hour.
And the worst of it was that she had not progressed with the painting all day. Only George's sketched outline and part of his torso was on the canvas, a shapeless layer of gouache. Her concern about Reid and when he would arrive made her nervous. She could not paint when she expected him to walk through the door at any moment. She had tried, she had removed her clothes and put on her smock, but it was no good and she had to leave. She made George promise to stay there until she returned. "A deal's a deal, isn't it?" he'd said. First she had gone to Museum where she sat alone for a while drinking a coffee, then she walked through the underground passage below Karlsplatz to the Wienzeile and went into the Secession where she spent half an hour studying the Beethoven frieze in the basement. After that she had walked for a while longer, not going anywhere in particular but allowing the roads to lead her. She had ended up at Harry Lime's where she sat with Januz for a while, not talking much, before taking a tram back to the centre, picking up her car and driving to Jocherl.
Januz, Peter and Reid arrived at the coffee house together at just after six.
"Monika, you OK? This is twice you've been on time today. What's with you?"
"Get lost, Reid. I came to read the paper. Been here an hour already."
"Guess who's a clever bastard."
"What did you find out?"
"A name, that's all. Tell you later when we've had some beers to celebrate."
When Januz ordered his drink the waiter, who had just come on duty, pretended not to understand his German. Adele snapped at him, telling him that he had some kind of a problem and did he know there were laws in Austria against racism. It was a problem which Januz often had in coffee houses where his dark skin made him stand out amongst the other customers. It was true that there were bars in some districts where a Yugoslav or a Turk would be refused entry. But coffee houses were supposed to be above that and the waiter became icily polite when he realised that Adele herself was Viennese.
When the drinks had arrived Januz told them about the book he was reading.
"Apparently Bokassa beat up some suspected criminals and three of them died. Waldheim, who was Secretary General of the United Nations at the time, complained about this or something and Bokassa went crazy and called him "a pimp, a colonialist and an imperialist." I wonder, perhaps, if Bokassa knew things which the rest of us did not at the time."
"Probably they used to have breakfast together."
"Don't, please, Reid. You know, two nights ago I was walking past the Hofburg and there was a big crowd hanging around outside, so I decided to go in and have a look. I just pretended I belonged there so the cops didn't stop me. A film company had taken the place over to shoot some movie about the war. It was incredible. The courtyard was decked out with swastikas and cardboard tanks and everyone was in army gear and stuff. Right outside Waldheim's office. I can't believe that he would allow such a thing."
"It's because he wants everyone to think he's liberal and has a clean conscience. Typical Austrian reasoning, Peter."
"Clean conscience. You're joking, Monika."
At that Peter stood up and did a Nazi salute and shouted across the café:
"The man is a pimp, furthermore an imperialist and, in addition, a colonialist."
The waiter came running over and almost pushed him back into his seat saying that this was a Viennese coffee house, not a Bavarian beer cellar. When he had gone away again Peter said:
"I want that man for lunch tomorrow, but stew him well."
"I wouldn't joke about it, my man. Look it that guy's eyes, he'd have you for a snack as soon as look at you. You know how these Austrians like their meat. So, Monika, you want to hear what I found out?"
Monika shrugged.
"Why not."
"Paukerl. Leopold Paukerl. He's the only name with a 'P' of all the people who exhibited at that exhibition who I think's a contender."
"So that's all you got? Bet he's not in the phone book."
"Come on, Monika. It's a start. Anyway, by the time I tracked down a catalogue of the exhibition it was too late to go to the records office. No rush. I'll go tomorrow. I should have his address by the evening. You want to come and help?"
"Reid, have you considered what the implications of this might be?"
"What implications are they, Januz?"
"In all probability George will break your arms at least..."
"No, no, no, he'll have his balls."
"Or as Peter rightly says, he may have your balls. That is a start. But also what about this Adele woman? The painting is her personal property; she is under no obligation to allow you into her apartment; more to the point she clearly does not wish for others to know of the painting's existence or who she is or, indeed, anything about this matter. It is questionable whether you have the right to go into this. At least one can say that you are entitled to find out the whereabouts of the painting, but you should consider well if it is right to publicise that information or to challenge Adele. You could do much harm."
"Since when did you give a damn about all that ethics shit, Januz? You said yourself it's a question of public interest if there is a Schiele which hasn't been seen before."
"And I am not certain now that it is. There is also the detail that this discovery would be good for your career."
"That's OK for you to say, Mr Bar Manager, but what about me? Anyway, look: I've got as much respect as the next person for individual privacy and all that stuff. But we're talking about something which people should be allowed to hear about. If you have to know, I think there may well be some legal questions in there: I'd bet good money that the tax people would be very keen to hear about all this. So, I don't like the tax people any more than the rest of us. I change names, keep the location a secret, get a good photo of the thing and leave our Adele friend in peace. Won't hurt a soul."
"I hope you conscience remains clean afterwards. I hope your conscience has no reason to feel bad, I should say."
Reid did not answer but Adele could not tell if it was because he was thinking about what Januz had said or if he was simply annoyed that the issue had been raised.
Januz ordered another drink for everyone, coffee for Adele. He was loyal to George in a way that Reid could not possibly understand. He saw in his boss the same innocence that she saw, the same childlike seriousness which helped him run his bar so well. It was an innocence which, Adele thought, Januz had lost a long time before, if he had ever had it. But he was aware of its existence in others and, perhaps conscious of his own worldly cynicism, he appreciated it and sought to protect it. There were, Adele knew, many things which happened at Harry Lime's of which George would not approve and from which Januz shielded him. The trade in false passports, for example, would have appalled George whose view was that people's misery should not be exploited in the way that the misery of the guest workers often was. Januz was more pragmatic: he knew that the demand for passports had to be satisfied and that even if the forgers and the bureaucrats were making vast sums from the business, it was what the guest workers wanted and often needed in order to stay in Vienna. Adele did not suppose that there was anything Januz could do in this case. She doubted whether Reid would listen to him or any pleas that he might make on George's behalf. He would absorb Januz's arguments and arrange his own around them, justifying them out of existence. And Januz did not realise that the fact of Reid's knowing Adele's identity was the crucial element, that in destroying the exclusivity of her work, it would ruin the project.
It had been the same for Leopold. He had barely left the apartment in the ten months after he received the painting from Schiele. In that time there had been a constant stream of models entering and leaving the building, prostitutes many of them, who had answered his advertisements in the press. Some he attempted to paint, most of them he sent away with a few crowns as soon as he saw them, telling them they were unsuitable. Only Maria did he specifically seek out. He had seen her before, in Museum, and must have known long before he went to see her that she was the model he wanted, though there was no mention of her in his diaries until the last three days. When he did find her his entry in the diary was rhapsodic and kitsch, but so contrived that Adele had the feeling he had rehearsed it a hundred times before writing it. When he found her he spent those three days trying to paint her as he thought Schiele would have. After that sentimentalist outpouring about Maria, the entries were sparse and terse until the final entry which read: "Schiele dead. Flu. Must go on." She had not been sure whether he meant that Schiele had died of flu or if he knew that he himself was coming down with the symptoms and did not have long to live.
Adele had tried to imagine Leopold's frustration with the girl, the anger building up in him as his model, who must have been feverish, failed to pose in "the right way", anger which he typically directed at Maria instead of at his own incompetence. He had strangled her with his bare hands. And even after she was dead he had attempted to move her limbs into the right position and paint her. So the doctor had said after examining her broken bones. And ironically, it was probably that Maria had given Leopold the flu which killed him. A justice of sorts. It was several days later when they opened the attic and Gertrude had told her the stench was awful. Sometimes, at night, when she was alone, Adele had imagined she could smell it leaking from the floorboards or the walls and she would have to leave the studio, go somewhere, anywhere to escape it.
She excused herself to the others, saying she felt tired. After arranging to meet Reid in Museum the following day she went back to her apartment. She would work all night, the imminence of Reid's arrival a spur to her: she had to finish this painting before he discovered her whereabouts.
SHE reached Museum at one, half an hour later than she had arranged but she was still there before Reid. She had kept George awake all night with coffee and had continued working until she had to leave. The painting was almost complete, only the detail on the face needed to be finished. She was pleased with it. She had captured the outlines perfectly, and the texture too was right. This evening she would finish it, after she had stalled Reid for a while. He arrived, out of breath and laughing.
"I'm getting worse than you, Monika. Sorry: I just filled in the rest of the details."
"All of them?"
"Nearly. I haven't found out who lives there now - I'll do that this afternoon - but I know where Leopold Paukerl's place is. Paukerl. What a name. Like Mozart's pet dog, Putzipaukerl, so someone had a sense of humour. Anyway, I checked up on him and there was no Leopold Paukerl to be found. Bad news. But then I thought I'd see if there was something I could do with what Klimt hinted about P.'s father. Look: it's from the paper."
Reid pulled a photocopy from his pocket and handed it to her.
"See? 'Hans Mahler and his wife Alessandra were killed in the explosion at their armaments factory yesterday. The factory was recently converted to the production of blah blah blah... The way I see it Leopold was illegitimate and his parents didn't want him using their name on his paintings. Especially if they were as bad as all that. Well, I checked it out - it was easy in the end - and the Mahlers lived at 15 - gasse. In the third fucking district, can you believe. Leopold Mahler, when I finally got there, died of flu in November 1918. No address listed, but I reckon that would be him. Only one way to find out, though."
"You want to go now?"
"No, no. Januz and Peter want to come along too and Januz isn't free until nine. A bit late, I think. Probably they just want to make sure I behave myself when I get there. You want to come too?"
"Maybe. Hey, Reid: shall we do something for the afternoon?"
"Such as? I did want to try and check out who lives in this place now. No good if Adele turned out to be Waldheim's best mate's bit on the side, would it?"
"Not very likely."
"You don't know George."
"Maybe a gallery."
"You hate galleries, Monika."
"Yeah, but sometimes, you know. More modern stuff. Or in the Belvedere - get you in the mood for discovering this Schiele."
"OK, if you're sure. You driving?"
When they arrived they paid and went straight to the first floor, to the rooms where the Jugendstil collection was on display. Adele led Reid to a painting by Klimt - Judith and Holofernes.
"Look."
"Yeah, not Schiele."
"But look."
"Do you know the story."
"Holofernes was Nebuchadnezzar's general, besieging some city."
"And Judith agreed to sleep with him, but then she killed him and saved her city."
"Klimt was afraid of women."
"Woman goes around doing that, who wouldn't be?"
"I had a dream about you last night, Reid."
"Nothing decent, I hope."
"I was lying in bed. I was cradling your head in my arms."
"So what was I doing?"
"Nothing, Reid. It was just your head. You were dead, I think."
"Great, Monika. Just great."
"I was her. Judith."
"And I was Holofernes?"
Adele laughed at Reid, his voice sounding so meek.
"No, Reid. You just had his eyes."
Reid shook his head and passed on to a sculpture which was on loan to the museum, a Rodin. Adele stayed with the Klimt for a while. She loved the way he turned his frames into integral parts of his paintings, something assertive and proud of their function. Or something which invaded the paintings themselves. After a while she joined Reid who had gone through to the next room and was sitting cross-legged on the floor staring at a late Schiele, desire written on his face.
"There's a world in that painting."
"There's a world outside it. C'mon."
She pulled him to his feet and they wandered around for a while until she slipped her arm through his and led him back down the stairs and outside where they say looking down the gardens towards the city centre.
"Say we go for a coffee."
"Shit, Monika. It's always coffee with you."
"OK, a drink then."
"You, drink?"
"Sure, it's been known. There's a bar not far from here. It's great, really dirty. You'll hate it."
"And see you drink? You're on."
The bar she knew was near her place, in the third, close to the old slaughterhouse. Inside it was smoke-filled and busy with workers who had been on the early shift at the factories nearby. The other customers turned to look when they came in and the bar became quieter. She noticed Reid's horror as he took in the red plastic seats, the vinyl tablecloths, the plastic flowers which were practically black with grease and smoke. There was a table free by the window so they sat down and the old woman behind the bar came over to take their order - a beer each.
"Monika, what in Christ's name is this place."
"Neat, don't you think? Don't worry about it, Reid. No one's going to knife you - I know all these people."
He looked uncomfortable in his smart jacket and shirt but gradually he relaxed as the other customers lost interest and went back to their conversations.
"This is my sort of place, Reid. These guys are fun, you know. Bet you didn't know I go to football matches with some of them every Saturday and truck racing whenever it's on. Good bunch of guys. Nothing to be scared of."
"I'm not scared, I'm just surprised. Never thought this would be your kind of scene."
"And we all go skiing together in the winter, things like that. Actually, skiing isn't quite right. But we go away and have a good time. Most of them can't ski."
The old woman behind the bar was watching her intently and Adele nodded to her, upon which she broke into a toothless grin and came over and tapped Reid on the shoulder. He started and looked round, leaning away from the woman as she pushed her face close to his and greeted him in a variant of Viennese dialect that even Adele found difficult to follow. Then she went back to the bar and returned a moment later with three schnapps glasses and a bottle. She poured one for each of them. Adele said:
"She likes you, Reid. You're getting the star treatment. But don't breathe in when you drink this. Down in one and chase it with a good shot of beer, OK? You die otherwise."
Reid nodded, bewildered, and they toasted each other cheerfully - Reid uncertainly - before downing their drinks. Reid did as Adele had told him and managed to say, "Wasn't so bad," before he belched, tasted the schnapps at the back of his throat and vomited onto the table. Adele and the old woman stifled their laughter as Reid collapsed sideways, groaning with embarrassment as much as nausea. The old woman went to get a cloth and they cleaned the table while Reid went to the toilets to wash his face, the other customers still laughing at the entertainment.
When he returned Adele said,
"Cross between diesel oil and raw potato? Probably what it is, but face it, Reid, you'll never be accepted in Austria until you can take home-made schnapps like a man."
She knew he would rise to the bait and, sure enough, after demanding another beer, he filled their glasses again. An hour later he was unconscious and two of the workers who had been watching the spectacle carried him out to Adele's car and laid him gently on the back seats, shaking their heads uncomprehendingly.
REID was still unconscious when she parked the car outside the monastery on the Leopoldsberg. Adele left him there while she walked around the outer wall to the viewing platform on the other side of the hill from where people could look out over the Danube and the east side of the city. The hill was named after the ruler of Austria who ransomed Richard I of England. With the ransom he decided to build a new town wherever the handkerchief he dropped from the top of the Leopoldsberg landed. So she had been told, though history was never her B point. Adele often came here with George to look over the city and towards the town, Klosterneuburg. It put Harry Lime's into perspective for George, the Schiele for her. After a few minutes she returned to the car.
Reid had started to snore so he did not, at least, have alcohol poisoning. He had drunk most of the bottle himself, not even noticing that she had stopped after her third glass and slipped out to the toilet where she forced herself to throw up. She dragged him by the feet from the car and then hooked her hands under his armpits and pulled him over the low wall at the side of the car park, where the hillside dropped steeply down into the woods. She propped him up against it and sat down beside him. His head lolled over and rested on her shoulder but after moving him twice she let him be.
"Texture, Reid. It's all about texture. Texture and perspective. People like you, Reid... You see the world so simply, don't you. In black and white and two dimensions, because you don't know how to see it any other way. Just like Leopold Paukerl. He tried to copy the Schiele, Reid. But he didn't know what he was doing. He didn't realise that Schiele painted that thing standing on top of a step-ladder, six feet off the ground, looking down at his model. There was no way anyone could have got into the position Leopold thought he saw in that painting. But he tried. Just like you would have tried. You're just like him, Reid. You fit the world around you, make it the way you want it to be."
Suddenly she slapped him on the face, a hard slap which echoed against the monastery walls. He barely stirred, just dribbled a little from the corner of his mouth and fell sideways when she stood up. She kicked him viciously, but more self-consciously, in the thigh, walked over to her car and drove away from the monastery without looking back.
By the time she reached the nineteenth she was calmer, but still shocked by the depth of her anger. Reid was on the verge of destroying her life, ruining her work: she had wanted, just for an instant, to see him dead, to strangle him, to throw him over the hillside. The violence with which she had slapped him had diverted her from that, but she knew the impulse had been there. Maybe, she was not sure, maybe she understood Leopold's anger now. A rage caused by lack of vision and little else - she had only herself to blame. She headed for Harry Lime's, driving fast and cutting up anyone who got in her way. She had to see Januz, just to get things into perspective, to start herself thinking sensibly again. She was not sure what she would do, if she would tell him the truth, but the Yugoslav's view on things was always so clear that even if she disagreed with what he said she came away from any conversation they had with a clear view of her own.
"NO sign of George?"
Januz looked up from the book he was reading when Adele walked into the office, apparently pleased to see her.
"No. He is normally several days. But I wish I could contact him, to let him know."
"Reid didn't give you the address, then?"
"No. You?"
She shook her head as she took of her jacket and sat down.
"I do not like what our friend is doing, Monika. His career is successful enough without this, whatever he says. It will be of service to no one. And George, George will be very angry. That is what I worry about most of all."
"Never seen George angry."
"I have, once. It was last year and we were together at a concert in the Stadhalle. Some Austrians started shouting at me, the usual things. It had been a bad day. We had been to the funeral of a friend of George's in the morning and in the afternoon he had to sack a barman for stealing drinks. He started hitting these Austrians: before I knew what was happening four of them were unconscious, one with a broken arm. The other two ran away. I will go with Reid tonight. But only for his own safety."
"Maybe Reid deserves to get kicked."
"Possibly so, but he does not deserve to die. Where is he now?"
"He went off somewhere. Something about the records office."
"It is a great shame. Reid is like a young child who is compelled to break things open in order to see how they work. Even when he has no right to do so. He is never content with the mystery of things even when it is clear that to examine closer will bring no advantage whilst destroying the mystery as well. He tries to do the same thing with people. Not with us, but with others."
"Like with Adele."
"Possibly, though Adele interests him less than the simple physical existence of this Schiele. 'How can this be?' he asks himself. He is unimaginative in this way. He needs the concrete, whatever he thinks about it."
"So what do you think George will do?"
"I truly do not know, but I think he will hurt Reid. Someone, anyway, will be hurt tonight."
They spoke for a short while longer and then Adele said that she had to go.
"Will you come tonight?"
"Perhaps. If I do, I'll see you here."
"At nine or so."
When she reached her block she double-parked outside and remained sitting in the car for some minutes, her hands clenching the steering wheel tightly. She felt exhausted, mentally and physically, now. But she had to gather together what energy remained. She had to finish the painting before Reid, Januz and Peter arrived. And then what? Januz had told her things she had been unaware of. About George and the extent of his commitment to what they were doing, his commitment to her. George had confided some of his feelings to Januz, feelings which he could not express directly to her but which, perhaps, she had caught in her studies of him. "Adele is important to George. You do not realise. He would not simply kill for her. He would die for her as well. He is in love."
"REID, what the shit are you playing at, man?"
"Monika. I'm going to kill that bitch. I don't know what she's at but she went too far this time. I'm going to kill her."
"OK, so you got drunk and she dropped you somewhere. What did you do, try it on with her again? She's said no about a million times already, Reid."
"Wrap it up, Peter."
"Yeah, well cool it with my car, OK."
Januz was in the back smoking a cigar and looking out of the window with a peaceful smile. His passivity annoyed Reid even more, but the Yugoslav let it wash over him. Reid had arrived in Harry Lime's, stinking of alcohol and stale urine, at eleven, shouting for Peter and cursing Monika. Januz had said to him that he should quieten down or leave, he was disturbing the other customers. Reid, recognising the dangerous edge to Januz's tone, fell silent and walked to the back of the bar where Peter was talking with the barmaid. "You," he had said, "let's go. Keys." Peter had casually slung his jacket over his shoulder and led the way to the car, but Januz took the keys and refused to hand them over until Reid told them what had happened and where they were going. "You see Monika?" Januz told him that she had come by earlier. "So why don't you know? I told her the address. She's probably gone there already, the bitch." Januz had agreed that it was possible.
"I don't believe it. She is here. That's her VW."
Reid parked the Audi behind Adele's car and the three of them crossed the street to the front entrance. Before Reid could go through into the building, however, Januz grabbed him by the arm and pushed him against the wall, gripping the lapels of his jacket tightly.
"OK, friend. We're here. And we will find Adele and George and maybe Monika and they will not offer you a cup of tea when you go in there."
"Let me go."
"No. Not until you calm down again. Are you calm, Reid? Good. Now, I will lead the way and, when we see George, I will do the talking."
Reid nodded and Januz slapped his cheek gently before leading them through into the courtyard.
"These stairs? They seem to go to the top. George told me it was in an attic."
When they reached the apartment there was a light shining from inside but no sound could be heard. Januz tapped on the door. It creaked on its hinges slightly and Reid tried to push past.
"You will wait."
He swung open the door and stepped inside, glancing at the Schiele on his left as he passed through to the studio bedroom. Reid stopped in front of the desk and stared at the painting.
"At bloody last. Would you believe it."
"The real thing?"
Reid nodded, his mouth open in wonder as it all sank in.
"It's worth a fortune, Peter. Worth more exactly because it isn't signed. Look at that. Just the date. 1917. Perfect. Absolutely perfect."
"So where's Adele and George? And Monika."
Reid waved Peter through to the room where Januz had gone.
Januz was just inside the door studying the painting on Adele's easel. Only the faintest shadow of George's torso and limbs seemed to emerge from the neutral background, built up with clear glaze to give it texture and depth, though from other angles it would seem not to be there. And in vivid detail, splashed onto the canvas in the primary colours, were George's eyes, his lips, his hair and one hand which covered his genitals. Red lips, a red hand, blue eyes, yellow hair. Beneath Adele's signature was an inscription: "Virtue dies but is born again more exacting than ever."
Peter read it aloud and Januz said:
"Camus. Of course. She was always quoting him to George, so he told me. They're dead, Peter. I covered them up. On the bed. They used morphine. From that old medicine cabinet."
Peter walked over to the bed and pulled back the canvas coloured sheet and looked at Adele and George lying in each other's arms, their eyes closed. George's expression was peaceful. It took Peter a moment to realise that it was Monika lying there with him. He drew back and turned to face Januz who said:
"Somehow it isn't a surprise."
As Peter ran out of the room Reid came in, his mouth open in astonishment as he saw Adele's painting.
"I'll never be able to look at George in the same way again, you know..."
Januz whipped round and punched him twice, once in the stomach and once in the face, and as Reid crumpled to the floor, he carefully picked Adele's painting from the easel before walking out of the apartment, down the iron staircase, across the courtyard and out of the building to the car where Peter was waiting for him.
"Come on, friend. I have a bar to run."
"And a picture to hang."
"Yes. And a picture to hang. And that."
Copyright © Steven Kelly 1991/1995
Steven Kelly is the author of the short story collection Invisible Architecture and the novels The Moon Rising and The War Artist. By day, he maintains web sites for a living - including his own on-line literary magazine The Richmond Review. By night, he writes. Contact Steven Kelly via The Richmond Review.