An Interpreter in Vienna | Chapter 27

Part V: Claustrophobia

An Interpreter in Vienna is a response to Graham Greene's The Third Man and a psychological thriller serialized on The Matterhorn each Saturday. This prose is a continuation of a letter written by Marie to her (official) employers in anticipation of Josef’s arrival at her door.

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Chapter 27

I could feel the fear rising through my body as the morning began. At once I felt both lighter, as if a helium energy had taken over my body, and a burdensome and growing stone taking over my soul. I could not rest myself. I could not right myself. I could not move forward. 

I let out a small scream, just to see if I was really there. It came out of my mouth with some force, so I did it again.

‘Help!’ 

I wasn’t sure whom I was asking for help or why exactly. I’m sure a neighbor must have heard me though. It was certainly loud enough and I could often hear people simply walking around their flats. 

But nobody came.

Maybe I had to be more specific, or they were used to my madness.

‘I’m stuck. I’m scared. I can’t breathe!’

But I said this more quietly. Even if the neighbors had heard a noise, they wouldn’t have been able to discern the words. They may have thought I was watching a film. Perhaps I said it for myself. It was a reminder that things were not ok. It didn’t mean I had a solution. Everyone was suffering now, weren’t they? It would be selfish to assume I had it any worse than anybody else. People were dying. Or they were trapped inside. Or they were trapped inside, dying.

I had seen the videos of people in Italy, taking their last breaths in their homes while the medics looked on with nothing they could do. There were no more ventilators to put them on. No medicine that would help. It was better, they reasoned, to hold their hands dying in their beds than to transport them to a parking lot to wait to see if they could enter a hospital to wait to see if a tube could be put down their throat, and where they would probably die alone and encased in plastic under fluorescent lights.

When you say it out loud, it seems obvious. But we hang onto a hope for life. Even a few minutes more alive, we reason, is better than death. Even if it means we suffer unnecessarily or have to be alone. 

All I could manage for breakfast was yogurt from its plastic cup. I used a tiny spoon to make it last longer and ate standing near the kitchen window. The solitary tree in the courtyard grew twice its size during the lockdown. Its knobby branches reached closer to me as if waiting to pull me down into hell. Maybe it would happen in the middle of the night so nobody could witness it. 

 As I slowly ate the yogurt, I tried to connect with the soul of the tree. Any kind of escape could save me now. And what if the tree would simply decompose my body within a hollow of its trunk? Would that be so bad? I could be a natural part of the environment, looking in at other apartments, hearing their stories…

⬩

I willed myself to have a strong coffee and move back to a fresh mind. It worked. I was seeing more clearly and my body felt ready for action. 

I gazed in the mirror after brushing my teeth to make a plan for the day. First, all I could see was the black and blue nose with little bits of blood crusted at the end of it. It was still tender to touch but didn’t bother me otherwise. Who had I become? 

I recalled a scene from Jekyll and Hyde. Jekyll looks at his reflection and wonders: “It yet remained to be seen if I had lost my identity beyond redemption and must flee before daylight from a house that was no longer mine.” He looked at his split personality with curiosity, relishing in the uncanny nature it created in his own home, until it was finally too late. However, leaving was his solution and so it could be mine as well. 

I had to give it one more try. There were moments when I knew I was a good spy. I felt that I could play this game forever, discovering information that would change the course of history. 

But in other moments, I felt an imposter. A little girl being thrown around by those who only cared for my expendability. Even the thing I was good at — languages—hadn’t come to my advantage in any meaningful way I could discern. 

My mother’s death at the back of my mind compelled me to continue. 

I knew better than to contact Fred and Roger before they got in touch with me. In any case, it seemed they were only waiting for my information rather than giving me more to go by. Instead, it was necessary to go back to Frau Grüber. She had asked me to come join her for coffee soon. She was quite lonely in that big flat in the first. Others, she said, the few that she knew, were afraid of giving her the virus. ‘Don’t worry,’ she had said on the phone, ‘I’m a strong old lady and we can wear our masks.’

I wasn’t sure if that was a good idea, but I also wasn’t sure her isolation was. And this painting had started to feel bigger than her life or mine. I decided to let her in on some of my information.

⬩

She was always home, so after sending her a text that I was on my way, I walked out the door. It was getting warmer, but I still wore a light long coat. It gave me some kind of shield as I floated through the vastness like a caped crusader, only I wasn’t trying to save the church at all. My only allegiance was to the truth. 

The city was mostly empty until I got near the Hofburg. A megaphone was blaring indiscernible words and the protestors had hung a huge cloth sign over Hitler’s beloved balcony. Drums were beating and people had their fists in the air. 

Rather than shirk from the violent sounds in dissonance with the streets that held the ghosts of Beethoven, Freud, and so many others, I walked toward the noise until I could see the signs. They were chanting the words on the signs: Black Lives Matter! and No room for refugees? Look around! It was the plight of the brown and black in this rich nation plagued by shame and secrecy, although many of them who showed up today were also blond and blue-eyed.

I smiled at the protesters to express solidarity. Nobody was listening to them except themselves. But I guess the fact that they were allowed to be there was something. They, too, would disappear into their tiny homes at the end of the day in safety. But the ones who were refugees would have the weight of their uncertain futures. 

⬩

I reached Frau Grüber’s apartment in the first just a few minutes later. 

I was invited in kindly, as always. She was dressed in a long black dress as if from another era, which matched the rest of the flat. We sat on the couch with coffee.

‘Oh Marie, I have been so lonely!’

‘But you look wonderful, Frau Grüber.’ It was true. She was vibrant and full of life. 

‘Thank you, dear. Do you mind very much to come here?’

‘Not at all. I enjoy speaking with you and hearing your stories. I like the way you have preserved something here in this apartment as well, something that’s been lost.’ 

‘Ah, sometimes I think you are the only one who fully understands me. How have you been, Marie?’

‘Fine, fine, thank you. I have been busy just taking care of my dog and doing some of my work online. I’m still getting paid by the French government, so it’s been fine really. What about you?’ I had started to feel some affinity with her. It was as if we were on the same side in this game, perhaps wiser than those around us but without all the power or tools to get things done. Maybe it was better to stay out of the messy parts of the business. 

‘I still miss my Wolfgang every day,’ I was afraid she was going to start crying again and not be able to talk, ‘But I know this just means I loved him. Ha, I am a silly old woman! He has been dead such a long time. Well, meeting you I feel a part of him come back to me.’ She went over to the snow globe that had reminded her of him and what I imagined were many romantic Ferris wheel rides, or some metaphor of that experience even if it only happened once. She picked it up and held it in the light of the window. Perhaps because she was so enamored of her memories, the globe suddenly slipped out from her fingers and smashed on the floor.

‘Oh! Oh dear, what have I done?’ Again, I was afraid she would start crying and didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to escape. But then, she did something strange: she started to laugh. ‘Oh, Marie, I’m such a silly old woman! I’m sorry I broke the beautiful present you got me.’

‘It’s no problem; I can get you another one.’

‘Oh, that would be lovely, but there’s no need. I was just thinking, those memories, they are already in my mind. Do you know what I would really like?’

‘Yes?’

‘A ride on the Ferris wheel! Shall we? Once it’s opened up again, of course. Would you do that with me?’

‘Yes. That sounds wonderful.’

I was starting to feel like I could fit in, just like this lady who had been an exile only to return and embrace the Viennese life. I found myself wanting to inherit her flat, wondering how I could get just a little bit closer to become her heir. It sounds selfish and greedy, I know, even manipulative. But it wasn’t the value of the flat that interested me; it was the thing itself. The way I had carved out a little home there, and in the city I had come to inhabit willfully. I wanted to have the liberty to linger here, well, forever, just like Frau. The house back in Bretagne was waiting for me, I knew this, and it had many happy memories. But somehow it did not feel like my home anymore. That idea that I must leave scared me, for despite it all, I was making a true home here.

Of course, it was preposterous. Surely, she would leave the flat to Wolfgang’s grandchildren she was always talking about. I came back to reality.

‘Frau Grüber, I also wanted to tell you something. About the painting.’ I was afraid of upsetting her but I also thought she might have more ideas that could lead to its return. This possibility outweighed her emotions. 

‘Oh, have you discovered something? That’s funny, Julie was just asking me about it on the phone again. She’s always been so curious about it since I first told her. I think she would like to use it for inspiration for her wall paintings, you see.’ 

I told her the story of going to Salzburg and speaking to the granddaughter of Franz Klammer’s brother. I told her, too about the churches and the tip about the church near me. 

‘My parents used to drag me to church there. Oh, I hated it! But I remember there was a girl Wolfgang had gone to school with whom he talked about a lot. I think it was her little brother who became the priest? Anyway, it was never a romantic thing. The girl was a bit odd, but kind. She was a lot like you, I think, no offense,’ she laughed. ‘She loved languages and taught at the local school. That’s the difference; she never went anywhere like you and me. Wolfgang said she had some purpose here that kept her from ever going very far even though she was very curious.’ Then she turned to look directly into my eyes, ‘She might know something about the painting.’

‘It’s possible, from what you say.’

‘Yes, certainly. But she might be dead. I just don’t know. I only met her once.’

‘Ok, I can ask the priest about her.’

‘Please do! But also, Marie, please be careful. It’s not worth getting into trouble over this. I still don’t know what killed my Wolfgang. Remember, that family in New York is doing just fine.’

‘I’ll look out for myself. Thank you.’ I didn’t dare tell her about the rest of the plan with the painting or the missing gold that it may hold the key to. I knew she could be questioned. In any case, it would just worry her more. 

7th Bezirk, Vienna (photo by the author, 2017)

I knew I had to go back to the church on the way home. With Josef on his way, it felt like this detail was imminent. If he were dangerous, perhaps whatever information I could deliver would save my life. And if he were actually good, I would also have information to help us fund the vaccine project. With the combination of information and my likeness to his dead lover, I thought I would be able to control the situation.

I opened the church doors just as I had with Akihiro. 

Nobody was there. I didn’t know if the priest lived in some apartment attached to the church or if he would have surveillance. The walk up toward the altar echoed through the vast chamber. I had a look around, trying to look like I was simply interested in the art and architecture in case somebody was watching me. There were countless beams, paintings, statues, crevices, and stones. 

I realized it was futile. Even if the painting were in the church, it could be anywhere. 

Instead, I sat down to pray for my own safety and for the strength to do the right thing that night, whatever it might be. So much has happened in the last few months. I felt like I was often running on instinct and adrenaline. The prayer was a pause, a source of strength, and a moment to absorb the love of my absent mother. 

My eyes closed, unbidden, until something asked them to open. The priest’s sister appeared before me. She must have floated in from a back door while I was seated to pray. I froze, both afraid and unsure what to say or do. 

She came directly toward me, moving extremely slowly, and began breathing deeper and deeper with a hissing sound on every inhale. At once, I realized she was also the woman I had seen at Belvedere admiring the pastoral Klimt over my shoulder. 

‘Who are you?’ she snapped in German.

‘Marie Thibaud,’ with slight hesitation, I thought I might as well be direct at this point: ‘I am here for the painting. Wolfgang sent me.’

‘Wolfgang is dead.’

‘Yes, his lover, Frau Grüber sent me to discover this lost artifact he had loved so much. I went on a search and wound up here. I also spoke to your brother…in Japanese…’ 

‘He mentioned you to me. He likes you, but how do I know I can trust you? I do not even tell my brother my secrets.’

‘You don’t,’ I switched to English, ‘But I think we are similar – invisible linguists moving between nationalities. Women who want to make the world good…I can take the burden from you now.’ Suddenly, I found the courage that had been lacking. 

‘Perhaps. I saw you go to the Bulgarian Embassy. What is your business there?’

‘It was simply interpretation work. The ambassador is dead. I’m risking my life to do the right thing with this painting.’

She paused a moment to examine my eyes. ‘So, it is time. Come —,’ and she beckoned me to follow her, like a psychopomp. 

She brought me over to the pew she was sitting on the first time I had entered the church. ‘Can you lift this stone?’

There was a small chip on the side, enough to slide a finger into. But the stone was too heavy to pry with just a finger. 

‘Here.’ The woman had a metal stake in her pocket, perhaps both for the purpose of moving the rock and for her protection. It was sharp on one end but thick enough to grab hold of. 

I placed it into the spot and used it as a lever. The stone began to move, and the old woman reached down to pull it up the rest of the way. 

‘Remarkable!’ I exclaimed. It was the size of a watermelon. Thinking it must be a fake stone, I tried to move it with my foot, but it wouldn’t budge. I couldn’t imagine how she had found the strength to pry it up. 

‘One can do amazing things when faced with situations of life and death.’

‘Are we in danger of death?’

She laughed. ‘In here, no. But we will all die, one way or another. This painting doesn’t have to, though. This painting can live on with a dream and history of internationalism.’ 

She then pulled out a sealed plastic box, like one would store photos in under one’s bed. There were layers of tissue inside and cedar balls. She opened the lid and then each layer of tissue as if they were butterfly wings, finally arriving at a small rolled-up canvas. She opened it slowly to reveal the masterpiece. 

The painting was even more exquisite in person and at once I understood how some elite criminals stole paintings for their eyes only in secret vaults in their mansions. Sort of. 

It was a perfect scene of joy: colorful flowers and the distant hills outside Vienna. Dominant shades of green in chiaroscuro fell to the background with the outline of the flowers — yellow and orange but also purple and pink — and a gnarled tree on the right reached up and arched over the scene as if it were an overseer, a godlike creator of this scene. All done in a Japanese style with strong complements of color and clear lines of movement as if our eyes were constantly following some path toward that elusive joy. 

‘There’s something else. It was in the frame of the painting, and I thought it best to keep these items separate in case one was discovered.’ She picked up a candle and we went through a small wooden door into darkness. There were old stone stairs, ‘This leads to the bell tower. I am an old woman; you go. Take this candle. When you reach the top, there is a wooden box. A musical score is in there. It was with the painting and I understand it tells where a lot of hidden gold is. Wolfgang had two bars of it with him that they gave us for the trouble of looking after this for so long. At first, they were also in that wooden box, but we took two bars out when we knew of some Syrians struggling here. My brother, the priest, he knew of this but not the painting. But there should be a piece of paper still inside.’ 

The passage was dark and damp. The steps were spiral, and I imagined the wrong kind of fall could be fatal. Up at the top, however, it lightened up with the opening to the bell. There was a little shelf, protected from the elements behind glass. There, sitting small and unassuming, was a little wooden box, without a lock. I reached back behind the glass and produced the paper I was searching for. 

Just at that moment, the bell started to ring. It was deafening and I nearly fell down the stairs to my death. For a moment, I thought of catapulting myself that way. Would it be a better end than the one Josef had in store for me? Would it be best to take things into my own hands? 

But I wanted to live. These discoveries and this old woman gave me power. 

I descended gingerly and emerged from the same door I had entered, calling out: ‘I’ve found it! Thank you so much. But you haven’t told me your name –’

The words echoed back to me from an empty altar, empty pews, and an immensity unlike any I had ever felt before. 

For not only was the woman gone from sight but also the painting. The Klimt had been literally within my reach and now it was gone again. 

Only the dagger remained to convince me the scene had been real. I picked it up along with the contents of the box and ran. 

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To be continued…

Find all the published chapters in the Table of Contents.