An Interpreter in Vienna | Chapter 26

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 26

A week or so later, things were starting to open up in the city more. Outdoor spaces for food and drink were accessible as long as one wore a mask whenever leaving their table. It was like a bunch of mini noir films all coexisting, with mask-bearing people moving in somnambulatory states, but secretly watching each other, watching out for the dangers all around them.

When the cafes first opened, I was surprised by the differences between them. The one I usually went to had become hyper-vigilant. Excessive amounts of duck tape and red and white caution ribbon sectioned off communal tables and water taps from use. Baristas wore masks and those plastic face covers and stood behind a window of plastic. No cash was allowed and no stamp cards. Plastic gloves were used to share the cups. As soon as a patron got up, the table and chair were immediately disinfected. I felt safe there. 

On the other hand, I went to the Parisian-style cafe in the second one morning. Servers wore masks on their chins. Regulars made fun of the meter-apart stickers on the floor and the need for a mask. They giggled as if it were a joke. I had the feeling that they were high on a vampirish notion of immortality. I had heard this on a Zoom call for work. A couple of Austrians talked about the way they were a strong ‘race’ … they lived long and did not worry about disease. ‘We are a mountain breed.’ 

It had all been going on for too long and everyone was sick of it. But we could not see the death. With such a sparse population, it remained invisible except to the few who felt it: the doctors and the family members of the dead. To the rest, it was an inconvenience to their dance steps of life. They didn’t know how to improvise. All they could do was try to figure out how to continue life as planned. An aberration was embarrassment. 

But these new steps to learn confused them, made them angry. So instead, they laughed. They wore masks under chins or under noses. They stood right behind you in the cue. They sat next to you on the metro. 

I found out later this was happening everywhere, but we had all become aware only of the life in our small vicinities.

⬩

Akihiro sent me a text one afternoon to tell me that a bunch of them from the UN were going to meet at Tel Aviv Beach Club by the canal. It was one of the few places opening down there and happened to be one of our favorites. 

I didn’t want to go, but I felt I had to make appearances or he and Danae would push me for reasons. My texts with her had naturally died out; we didn’t really have much in common.

I drifted in half an hour late and grabbed an Aperol spritz at the bar before sitting in a canvas beach chair, taking my shoes off to let my toes drift into the cold, imported sand. I stared out at the bleak canal and the people sitting on its edge, legs dangling while they imbibed and chatted in animation.

Without thinking, I got up, leaving my drink buried halfway in the sand, and drifted toward that same edge. My bare feet felt frozen and gritty on the cool pavement. I took a large breath in, all the way to my diaphragm, and gazed down into the opaque water. It was moving fast toward Bratislava, carrying the occasional branch from upstream. All my weight was in my toes, my body leaning a light angle toward the water. I was not afraid.

The noise in my head was getting louder and louder. It was in sharp contrast with the laughter and drinking around me. I felt the need to seek quiet and make sense of it all. I had to sort things out. I had to do something good. 

I bounded back to my seat and grabbed my shoes to leave. 

‘What are you doing, Marie?’ asked Akihiro. 

‘I don’t feel great. Thanks a lot for the invitation. Let’s hang out soon.’

I left before he could say anything else and he didn’t come after me.

Viennese arcades, Photo by Elimende Inagella on Unsplash

The next morning, I walked through the still mainly empty streets to the arcades with the French restaurant. I went there to speak in French with the waiters and eat something that reminded me of home, even if just a piece of cheese or a macaroon with coffee or rich, earthy wine. I wanted to go one last time before I left. 

You see, I knew at this point that I had to leave. I wasn’t sure how, and I wasn’t sure if it would be alive, but I knew my days in Vienna were numbered. I arrived there at the entrance to Beau Lieu on Saturday morning, but nobody was there. The empty stone and glass passageway was dark before me. I entered anyway and peered in the windows of Beaulieu to make sure it wasn’t planning to open soon. All the Paris-style cafe chairs were stacked up in the corner and only a dim security light was on. None of the cakes or cheeses were in the windows. The wine looked a little dusty. That was when I realized it wasn’t just closed today or this morning, but perhaps it had never reopened. Perhaps it was closed for good. Perhaps the owners were stuck in France, or had died. 

I felt stressed because I couldn’t control the situation. This had been happening to me more and more during lockdown. I remembered an ex-boyfriend in Japan who had always said to me: ‘Just relax; if you can’t control something, just accept it.’ But I always countered it was much easier to relax about things I could control. Maybe it was the wrong philosophy, but the feelings were real and I couldn’t ignore them. I put my head between my knees to breathe and gather a new perspective, trying desperately to avoid a full-on panic attack. 

There was another nice coffee shop just down and opposite from my French sanctuary. As I approached, I could see that this cafe was also closed in a similar fashion. I felt a little relieved that maybe they were all just hibernating a little longer with the absence of tourists and business in the first district. It was likely and it gave me solace. It was a sanctuary of glass and stone. Like a large crypt that others dared not enter.

I moved to the other entrance to the arcade then breathed and turned again to move through it one more time, one last time. I conjured Walter Benjamin’s writing on these places in Paris in The Arcades Project. A German view on a French architectural project. 

I didn’t feel at home here. I didn’t feel community. I didn’t feel welcome. Instead, I felt like the zones of occupancy from just after the Second World War were still in conflict and still made the first district especially a kind of a void, a kind of no man’s land where people were suspicious of all others. 

The walking wasn’t helping like it sometimes does. Instead, the buildings lurked by my side, as if they would come to life and swallow me up. I felt like my movements were watched. 

I went to another cafe I hoped would be open, to sit with the comfort of a waiter that could offer me some protection. There was a little classic cafe called Sluka located under a vaulted passageway on the way home. 

The terrace was empty, but a server was smoking outside. He greeted me with a friendly smile and an Italian accent. I ordered a coffee and a Tiramisu. 

I didn’t have a notebook, so I took out my phone to take notes of the thoughts running through my mind. Then I realized that this could be watched or traced, so I just sat and looked out while I thought about things. 

Julie, you will recall that this is when you showed up. Totally out of the blue. 

‘Marie! Wonderful to see you. In person! Gregoire told me that Zoom yesterday was quite boring, wasn’t it? I was in the background and saw you on there. I’m just so bored; I’ve been listening in on his meetings. Can you believe it? I’m desperate.’ 

I laughed along with you, trying to appear of normal demeanor. I didn’t want you and Gregoire to worry about me, or get wrapped up in this messy business I’m in. ‘Good to see you, too, Julie. Ça va?’

‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks a lot. I just came to have a coffee outside of the flat for once! May I join you?’

‘Of course.’

‘So, how have you been keeping yourself busy since our walk?’ 

‘Oh, not much. You know, some work, walking the dog, reading some books.’

‘Oh really? What have you been reading?’

‘Notes from Underground. That was a brilliant book. Oh, and I’ve just started Gargoyles. I read it before in English but now I’m trying the German.’ I was careful to omit where I had borrowed the book, afraid you would get mixed up in things. 

‘Good. Keep your brain active in times like these. Otherwise, it can go to mush!’

‘What about you?’

‘I’ve been doing some painting in the house, but Gregoire complains the fumes give him a headache. But now that it’s getting warmer, I can keep the windows open, so it should be ok.’

‘That’s good.’

‘You’re so sweet, Marie. You remind me of our daughter. She’s off in Scotland doing a postgraduate degree. When she was a baby here, she used to go on all sorts of adventures with me. We met with some powerful people…she kept them at ease, made them talk more freely. I learned so much about the world because of her!’ 

‘Wow. That’s incredible. My childhood was very simple. All near the seaside in our small town.’

‘That’s alright, too. Sometimes I think it’s better. Sometimes…I think this city has captivated me beyond my rational sense. My daughter is trying to have a baby with her partner. I hope they will stay somewhere in Scotland even though I wish they were close. She’s trying to do IVF now but the NHS is so backed up now, she’s struggling to access it.’

‘Oh gosh, I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Yes. Anyway, it’s good you’re here.’

‘Thanks, Julie, you and Gregoire are so kind to me. Like family.’

‘Oh, Marie, I wanted to mention that I talked to Frau Grüber the other day. Just on the phone, since she’s all alone, you know? Anyway, she told me that she mentioned that Klimt painting to you. You know, the one I had heard a little about.’

All I said was, ‘Yes, she mentioned it.’ I didn’t want to lie to you, but I also didn’t want to bring you into all this. It had gotten a whole lot messier than you could have imagined. I know you just wanted to save the painting. 

‘Did she say anything more?’

‘Just that maybe it was in Salzburg.’ I was careful not to lie to you. 

‘I see. Ok, thanks,’ but you were musing; you were so curious and I felt terrible that I couldn’t tell you more. ‘Do you think,’ you postulated, ‘It could even be inside that flat of yours? I mean, have you looked carefully at the walls? Or in the basement?’

‘Oh, that’s an interesting idea. I think that would be too obvious, don’t you? I mean, if she were trying to hide it.’ 

‘True. Well, worth a shot, I guess!’ then you added very quietly, ‘If you find it, please don’t tell her. I don’t trust her. She’s not bad, but you know, she’s Austrian. I’m not sure where her sympathies lie if you catch my drift.’

‘Ok, I won’t tell her.’ This wasn’t a lie either. Long ago, I had decided that Frau Grüber was a good woman but anything related to the painting might give her so much emotional stress that she could die on the spot. If she could have done something to help, she would have done it long ago. I think that’s why she trusted me with the little information she had.

We talked a little more, though I don’t remember what about, and then I left. I wasn’t really in the mood to be social and you understood. 

⬩

On the way home, I thought I’d give the Keller one more try. I hadn’t looked down there very hard and there was loads of junk. I was pretty sure, on the other hand, that the walls of the apartment were untouched. Everything looked intact and nothing had wallpaper over it or anything of the sort. 

I hated going down to that keller. I always thought of the Bernhard books and the stories on the news of people being kept down there. The ceiling was lower and the dim light didn’t shine into all the corners. There were twenty tiny caged cells, one for each apartment. A few were completely empty. Others held sporting equipment — skis, bikes, and even a treadmill. 

The uneven gray ground made me feel like I was in a haphazard hole — a graveyard of stuff nobody wanted anymore. That’s exactly what Frau Grüber’s cell looked like, although she had told me that none of the stuff in there was hers. It had all belonged to the tenant before me, or the one before that. She wasn’t sure. Anyway, it didn’t bother her because she didn’t need the space. I didn’t think it was particularly thoughtful of me, but I also didn’t have anything to put down there. 

She had a secondary coded lock that I took off first. The door creaked as I opened it with my skeleton key. It was almost too dark to see everything, so I turned on my phone flashlight. I had no idea what I was looking for, other than the painting itself of course. There were a few old lamps, small boxes of jars, and loose trinkets. None of these could have held a painting. There was an old suitcase, open from when I had come down before. Way in the back corner was an ancient oven. The last time I had come down, I looked up the mark, which had been made only in the 1950s. I had no idea why anybody would keep it other than they didn’t know how to get rid of it.

Oh! I had a lightbulb moment. How had I been so stupid not to look in the oven before? I guess it was just so dark in that corner, and numerous spiders were hanging over it. I couldn’t imagine a fancy painting being inside. But it was the right size…and it was old. 

I mustered up my courage. A Klimt versus a spider bite wasn’t a difficult comparison anymore. Maybe I had also become a little braver over the months.

I propped my phone on an old table and carefully stepped over several items to the oven. The door hinges were rusty. I slowly opened it, not wanting to make much noise and have a neighbor come by at an inopportune moment. 

There was something inside. It was a cardboard box. On the front was his name — Wolfgang. I imagined the friend in Salzburg labeling the multi-million dollar painting in this haphazard fashion so as not to draw attention to it. 

I gingerly pulled the box toward me. My heart was all over the place, not only fast but skipping beats. It was very lightweight, but I had read that sometimes to hide paintings, people take them off the frame. I moved backward toward the light of my phone, unable to turn around with the box due to all the junk piled around me. Carefully, I opened one end of the box and peered inside. 

Nothing. It was completely empty. 

I tried to pull at the other edge of the box, wondering if there was a secret space where the canvas could be held, but I couldn’t find anything. I sat, staring down. Wondering if it had once been there. How close had I come…

And then suddenly I was grabbed from behind and hit on the face with something hard. I later found a piece of wood that looked like it came from an easel though there was nothing like it in the basement. The assailant swiftly grabbed the box and ran. 

I decided not to scream, knowing it was futile. So set on secrecy, I dared not even call out for help, either for my safety or to catch the cardboard thief. Nobody would have heard me anyway, not loud enough that they would have felt compelled to act. 

Eventually, I had enough energy to make my way to the elevator, which was just around the dark corner. I don’t think I even locked the gate. The elevator’s glaring light shocked me. I closed my eyes as the metal doors closed on me and brought me up to the top floor. 

My nose was pretty ugly, bloody and bruised, but I didn’t think it was broken. I stuck a bandage on it and made tea. Then I threw out the tea and poured a whiskey. 

At least they hadn’t taken my phone. And at the same time, I was fairly certain there was nothing in that box. Maybe it would have been a clue though. 

As I write to you now, I still don’t know who it could have been. It happened so fast, but it seemed to be someone not much bigger than myself, a woman or a smaller man. That was all I had to go by. Fred, Roger, Josef, Finn…they were all too big. I thought of Danae and Akihiro. Both fit the size description. So, too, did thousands of others in Vienna. It could easily be someone I had never met, hired by someone else to follow me. 

I sent Fred and Roger a text on the burner phone. Fred replied swiftly that he was happy I was ok and that we should meet within the next few days. I was to wait for a location.

Almost simultaneously, I received a text on my normal phone from Josef. He said he would come by the next evening. He didn’t phrase it as a question. 

I wondered then if he could have been monitoring the other phone or somehow watching me from inside the flat. Then I know: he must’ve ordered the attack. If he came tomorrow, I would be alone. Just like Marija had been. True, I didn’t have a balcony, but my windows were high enough up and there were other ways to silently murder people. 

Maybe he wasn’t coming to kill me; he could have done that in Budapest easily. Was he grooming me or using me in some sort of game? I had naively trusted him. In reality, when I questioned the dangerous elements of being involved with him, I had masked them in a storylike appeal. Instead, I realized then, I was being used. I was expendable and I had information. 

I decided to flip the power switch around and gain the upper hand. I needed more information. 

That night, I began writing pieces of my story for you, now included in this narrative.

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To be continued…

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