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 20
I began doing strange things at home. I burned the incense that had been under my bed for months. I had bought it after a few yoga classes with Danae when I was still looking to belong in some way. At times, I lay on the floor in a savasana pose for hours without any physical practice before it. I made designs out of masking tape and tiny pieces of trash I found in the corners of the flat. I felt the floors and walls for cracks or irregularities and knocked along any that I found. The sound reverberated through the building. I felt exposed. I stayed away from open windows after catching a young couple gazing at me with pity. I could hear few sounds from the others, whom I imagined must be home. There were no children in the building. I did hear a kind of subtle wailing noise from time to time but the voice was indistinguishable. Anyway, we were not allowed to visit one another. I could only assume this person had a phone should one need to call the ambulance. Also, I reasoned, they could call out for help or other kinds of assistance, since we could clearly hear the wailing.
Sometimes, though, I wondered if the sound was emanating from my apartment. Or even from myself.
I often thought about the painting and the money. It gave me something to do, I guess. I didn’t particularly want any of it myself. I’d have no idea what to do with it really, being unaware of black markets and how to actually reap the rewards. But I figured if I found it, I could decide whom to go to. Probably you both. Anyway, I was more focused on the act of finding than on actually knowing what to do with it. I felt like a dog digging up a lawn for a bone, although I didn’t want to damage the apartment in any way.
At some point, I realized that it would be unlikely the painting was in the apartment. I mean, it had been abandoned, refurbished, inhabited…somebody was bound to have found it if it were indeed hidden there at the start. So instead, I searched my brain for answers, wondering if I held the clues to unearth this discovery. A church, Frau Klammer had said. It sounded vague, but what if her instincts were right? What if she knew more than she was saying and she was certain it was a church?
I thought of the frightening encounter at the church nearby. It had kept me from entering others to see the art or architecture, but now I felt silly. It had just been a grumpy old woman.
Still, something haunted me about her presence and the way she had looked at me.
Austria was one of the few places in Europe where you could still enter the churches. They had stopped public worship but allowed people to enter with masks at supposedly safe distances. I guess they all thought God would save them or that they were doomed already so maybe this would get them to Heaven. Who knows? But I did realize that I could do some investigating and it would give me something to do during the long, slow days of solitude.
⬩
I rarely left the seventh Bezirk at this time, but on that day I felt like a long walk. I figured I could then visit a couple of churches on the return journey when I would likely be seeking warmth. We weren’t allowed to take public transportation, though it continued to make ghost-like runs across the city, carrying the odd doctor or nurse who needed to get to work.
I walked through the center of the city and continued right along the canal to Rotundenbrücke across the water to an entrance of Prater Park. I thought the long open walkway would relax me and make me feel comfortable in its normalcy. I had left Ishmael at home, fearing it was too far, but I imagined others would be walking their dogs or children along the open path.
A cold mist was in the air, and only a few were there enveloped in it.
Something happened as I approached the other end of the path where the amusement park lay to the right. The deserted space was perfect for a horror film. I could hear ghostly sounds of children laughing and sausage sellers calling out for Käiserkraner as well as the creaking of fun rides. I looked up and an uncanny aura filled my mind. Nothing was making these sounds but my mind and the wind. Rationally, I knew this, but something else wasn’t right, was missing.
Then it struck me. The Ferris wheel was gone. I couldn’t see it, no matter what angle I looked up from the path. Instead, the mist was moving toward me from all sides, threatening to drown me.
I recalled Graham Greene’s story: “The Man Who Stole the Eiffel Tower.” Could this be a manifestation of the surreal story? Was Greene haunting this city? Had I stolen it without meaning to?
Suddenly someone tapped me from behind and I whirled around in fright, ‘Who’s there?!’ I tried to sound threatening enough that they would run away.
In what felt like minutes but was actually a split second or so I imagine, my eyes refocused to find Fred and Roger smiling in front of me.
‘Got you!’ announced Fred who clambered back toward me.
‘I told you not to scare her.’
‘Oh come on! Have some fun. The world is ending!’ Fred laughed.
‘What are you guys doing here? I was just going on a walk…’
‘Yes, we know. We’ve been following you for ages! Thought you’d never arrive at a good spot.’
Roger added, ‘Don’t worry. We’re not here to harm you. We followed you from home to find a safe space to talk with you — safe for you. Shall we all go into the park? There are some benches in there and the fog will hide us from view.’
‘Sure, ok.’ I didn’t feel afraid of them and was hoping I could trust my instincts. We turned to walk the 200 meters or so to the entrance. The Ferris wheel was looming over me again. I was certain the fog couldn’t have covered it completely and wondered if my mind was playing tricks on me or if someone was playing tricks on my mind.
We walked casually through the run-down gates and weaved through abandoned food stands and rides. Roger opened a back door to a small wooden food stand, ‘Quick guys, in here!’
We huddled together in the small space. ‘It’s warm isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but Roger, is this really necessary?’ Fred rolled his eyes.
‘Better to be safe. Marie, we’ll keep this quick. We’re sure you’ve heard about Marija’s death, right?’
‘Yes, very sad.’
‘Sure. Ok, has Josef contacted you?’
‘He did, just to tell me the news pretty much.’
‘Good. When he invites you to his home, when things open up a little, you must go. Alright?’
‘Am I in danger?’
‘No. I mean, no offense, but you’re just the go-between, the interpreter. You don’t have anything that valuable.’
Fred could see I looked a bit dejected by this statement, so he added on to Roger’s directness, ‘This is the most important piece of the puzzle! The person who can go between without essential information makes it all work, you see? Nobody can get you. Nobody has a desire to get you. You’re just there, everywhere, like the mist.’
I smiled at this, ‘Alright, I’ll go.’
‘Good! Just go with the flow. And here’s a cellphone you can call or text us on. It’s a burner, so just throw it away if you have to use it. We’ve put our secret numbers in it. Keep us posted if you go and also if you find anything out. What about the painting? Any news there?’
I hesitated, not knowing if it was Josef or these two who were bad. I had also trusted Marija after all, and she was in allegiance with Josef. They were on opposing sides and I was stuck in the middle.
‘No? Well, let us know about that, too. We have ways of protecting it, should it be found.’
I didn’t have much time to consider the repercussions of saying anything to them, so on a whim, I told them about the extra information. ‘Frau Klammer in Salzburg thinks it might be in a church.’
‘A church?’ they chimed in unison, and then Roger continued, ‘I thought Wolfgang was an atheist.’ It was evident they had done some research.
‘That’s what I understand, too. But according to our source, he liked church spaces and thought it would be a good hiding place.’
Fred looked exasperated: ‘There are a million churches in this country! Where to start…I don’t even like going in them after that priest kicked us out of a christening.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘No gays allowed! Not openly at least. This city is quite welcoming to us, but the churches are not.’
‘Awful. Well, I can investigate the churches.’
‘That would be great, but we can, too. Fred is a little fixated on that but we are spies. It’s our job to go in foreign territory.’
It made me laugh, ‘Churches feel quite foreign to me as well. I used to go as a child, but there is a veil made between it and us. Maybe this is why Wolfgang thought it would be a good place to hide a painting.’
‘She’s brilliant! I think you’re right. I also think it must be in a less touristic church. The big ones - even beyond Stephansdom - are constantly being renovated and poked at. Probably not a cathedral in any case. We must do a bit of research about churches Wolfgang may have been connected to.’
‘Ok, and I can look at some of them in person. Actually, I had planned to do this today.’
‘Good. Ok, you have the cell phone. You’re a smart girl! You would make a good spy. I don’t say that lightly. For now, though, do yourself a favor and lay low. You must embody the interpreter that you are. A good spy does not reveal her strength.’
Once we left the little hut, they disappeared into the mist again. I knew it was intentional, so we would not be seen together. I couldn’t help but feel lonely though. I told myself to toughen up and just get on with things.
On my phone, I discovered there were over a hundred churches in Vienna. I chose three on my path home.
The first one was Ruprechtkirche in the old town. I went through the little square below where the church that was over a millennium old rose out of the other stonework as if they were all natural elements of the earth. The building had a tall steeple but was unobtrusive, lacking ornateness or much design at all.
One of the large wooden doors was cracked just slightly open, and I slipped inside after pulling up my mask. Just after the entrance, a sign proclaimed that Saint Rupert was the patron saint of Salzburg. That detail immediately caught my eye. Could it be a connection to housing the painting in Salzburg all those years?
There were several lit candles at the altar. I moved slowly up to the front and could see no one, nothing in the empty space. For that reason, I didn’t even bother to mutter a prayer. I simply sat in a pew and had a look around. The furnishings were sparse. I couldn’t imagine something being hidden here.
Without event or interaction, I got up and moved on toward Michaelekirche. I passed by the cuckoo clock - the Ankeruhr - on the archway near the fancy Billa grocery store where the hourly animation was just beginning. I paused, alone, to witness the passage of time through the wooden creatures moving by mechanics designed long ago by Klimt’s friend Franz Matsch. The sonorous quality of the display filled my ears as if cutting through the fog to reach me. Somehow the hazy quality of the historical figures moving awkwardly along a rail made it feel more real, as if the characters could be living slaves made to repeat these movements over and over again.
I recalled the lines from the film: In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias, they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland, they had brotherly love, they had five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.
Although I knew it wasn’t true, the clock had been invented in Bavaria, I thought of Finn. Could he be like the Swiss were painted in The Third Man? A thorough timekeeper, seemingly peaceful but perhaps plotting with enemies?
Like the previous church, Saint Michael’s was probably too touristic as well, but I had heard about these. Also, they were both technically Kirche not Dom. Although Roger had suggested avoiding cathedrals, I hadn’t given them this detail of my conversation in Salzburg.
I had read about the crypt at this church that American soldiers had discovered after the war. Mummified elite Viennese of long ago had been placed there when they ran out of burial space. It sounded a lot like the current situation; I thought of Marija’s frozen body again. Although this was also a very old and touristic church, I wondered if these hidden spaces offered possibilities. There was no way I was going to sneak into the crypt to look for a painting, and I thought they had tours there anyway, so it was unlikely the painting could be hidden. However, I gazed up at the magnificent paintings. The decorations were a huge contrast to the previous church. I imagined the priest working there would have a particular affinity with art; maybe this was a connection.
Two others were praying, so I lit a candle and pretended to pray at the altar, when in fact I was scrutinizing the walls. Of course, I could find nothing here as well.
In a strange moment, one of the other visitors to the church sneezed. It echoed through the emptiness. Me and the other perked up, alert like a deer who hears a runner approaching in the woods. Then he sneezed again, and again. We both ran out of the church. We could have been leaving him to die, but we didn’t care. As long as the disease did not get us. And if he were marked already, what could we do?
I didn’t think I had been worried about the virus at all, but this moment made me consider my thoughts about it. Perhaps it wasn’t the sickness that scared me but the idea of being placed in an even deeper quarantine than lockdown or ending up in a pile of bodies at the hospital. In any case, I was clearly on edge, likely for many reasons. I decided the best thing I could do was continue with my mission, which gave my life at least a small purpose.
Saint Anne’s - Annakirche - was next and last on my journey that day. I could feel my low blood sugar and worried that I would pass out and hit my head on the marble, left to die in solitude.
It was over near the opera house. This one was quite plain outside but ornate inside, like an exquisite cake without decoration being sliced open. I had seen a Mozart concert here back toward the start of my time in Vienna and imagined the sounds filling the hollowed space again. Alone, I wandered around the exterior of the pews, gazing at the pastel frescoes. There was a sign about the painter named Daniel Gran and a recent in-depth restoration. I noted this was a point against this church holding the Klimt somewhere.
I sat in a pew and let my mind wander. Perhaps the first district was the wrong place to look. There were so many other churches; I had no idea where to begin. But there was also time. It didn’t cross my mind that I might not find the painting. You see, that feeling of living inside a film was real for me. I naively trusted that somehow a conclusion would arrive.
Suddenly, a door near the altar opened and a priest in his full robe appeared. His eyes bore down on me like the devilish face of Krampus at the Christmas market, designed to cause children to feel shame for their sins.
Out of instinct, I started to get up and move backward away from him, as if he were a rabid dog. He was not moving quickly, but he did continue to approach me with his hands folded together and the black of his cloak moving like a phantom across the stone floor.
He stopped at the first pew and allowed his arms to open as if he were a marionette. He tilted his face slightly and smiled. ‘Meine Dame, bleiben Sie. Bitte schön! Gott ist für alle!’
Why did he want me to stay? Why did he think I needed God? I quickly considered the notion that this man may have information central to my mystery and decided to put my fears aside. ‘Danke schön!’ I gathered my thoughts, then spluttered out in German, ‘Where would you look for a missing painting? What I mean is, do you know of anyone hiding paintings for the purpose in this church?’
He looked struck by this notion. ‘My child, this is a wonderful idea. Art moves us to be good, even if the subject is not. We find the beauty in the world and seek the difficult truth. Do you have reason to believe there is a painting in my church other than these beautiful frescos on the walls?’
‘I…perhaps. I know there is an important painting hidden in a Viennese church. A man - Wolfgang Lechner - he placed it there for safekeeping years ago.’
‘I know this man. Knew. We spoke about a different affair. He was a good man. I don’t know about this painting though.’
‘Ok, thank you for your time.’ I turned to leave.
‘Wait! I don’t have more information about this painting. But let me help. This man was good. He was doing secret and dangerous work. I am a good judge of character, and I can see you are like him. I know most of the priests in this city, so please give them my name as well when you ask. They will be more likely to help you. Maybe they will even send me a text or we can do a video call!’
‘You have a smartphone?’
‘Of course!’ he laughed. I realized then that the costume made him appear like something completely anachronistic when he was just as much a part of 2020 as I was. He even more the mask to prove it. ‘My name is Father Franz Krätzl. Remember it. Why don’t you take my number? I cannot type it in because of this disease. Here, I will call it out to you — ‘
I took the kind priest’s name and number in my phone and tried to sound as thankful as I could from behind my mask. He graciously thanked me instead for doing good in the world. In reality, I had no idea what or whom I was working for, but I reluctantly accepted his gratitude before turning to leave.
Was it serendipity? Fate? I guess the fact that Father Krätzl knew Wolfgang is not that strange. The Viennese are a tight-knit group. Still, I felt as if someone were writing the plot and I was a mere pawn in my lonely movements across the city, vulnerable due to the empty streets.
To be continued…
Find all the published chapters in the Table of Contents.
Ah the plot thickens, Marie is getting closer.
"Suddenly, a door near the altar opened and a priest in his full robe appeared. His eyes bore down on me like the devilish face of Krampus at the Christmas market, designed to cause children to feel shame for their sins."
This says more about Marie than it does about the priest. :)
Loved this chapter. I found it a little unsettling, though, that Marie would so openly tell the priest at the end that she was looking for a hidden painting, as well as mention Wolfgang's name. But I'm sure there's a reason for that, and it will reveal itself later in all its magnificence. Great story, Kate. It’s been keeping me on my toes for a while now, which is no small feat! Beautiful!