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…at the threshold where she believes one of them will die.
∞ Table of Contents | Blurb
∞ Author’s Foreword
∞ Podcasts about Layering Fiction
∞ Toggle on/off sections of the newsletter
Chapter 3
I woke up confused and sweating.
The morning sun was already shining in, penetrating the cheap curtains I had bought at IKEA.
I couldn’t remember the end of the night.
I sent a text to Danae as she was the only one I knew besides Brian, and I wasn’t sure what had happened with him, if anything.
Danae: No, you weren’t that drunk. Everyone gets their drinks spiked here, it’s a thing. But don’t worry, I saw you get in a cab on your own. Those British guys put you in it
Me: They did?
Danae: Yeah, they seemed alright. Brian knows them. Says they’re just some old gay expats
I was sure they had left, but at least I was reassured by her witness report.
⬩
The heatwave continued. The forecast was for forty-one degrees that day and there was no AC anywhere. Just a mild fan on public transport. My top-floor apartment was like an oven that got worse every day until a storm could come and break the heat. I had to be sure to place the ugly, light-blocking curtains in place by sunrise or it was all over. But even in doing this, the heat seeped in from the ceiling and simultaneously rose from the six apartments below mine. Anytime somebody cooked or allowed the light to heat up their flat, the heat eventually made its way up to me. And the heavy roof kept it from releasing into the sky. I was being cooked, as if I were in Dante’s Inferno. My purgatory was different; it wasn’t about bad and good but about seeking relevance or receding into the shadows.
I tried to get more sleep, but the heat seemed to reach deep within my soul. There was no escaping it. Something or someone was breaking me to be a part of it all.
Julie, I want you to know I am still grateful you found me this flat. I certainly saved money and once the heat was over, it became my oasis from the city’s uncanniness.
But in the depths of August I felt that if I spent too long in this hot space, a few of my brain cells would explode. How long would it take for me to go mad? To become a creature driven by impulse?
The grocery store was the only place I knew of with air conditioning. I went there and stood by the open freezer, pretending to look for the right brand. A woman came over to me and aggressively closed the door in my face, saying something I didn’t understand with a vicious whip.
I had been in some sort of trance—from the heat or my hangover; I didn’t know how long I had been standing there.
Even so, her response shocked me so much that I felt tears welling up in my eyes. While she continued to stare at me, I turned my eyes downward and pivoted to hide in another aisle until she disappeared.
It gave me an idea. For the first time after arriving, I wanted to disappear.
This desire, though, was in constant conflict with the opposition: I wanted to be important, whether for good or for evil. We interpreters get grouped into a category of irrelevance, of doing the job that Google Translate could do and acting like puppets to our masters. This seed of corruption had been planted by you, Gregoire, as an antidote to the mundaneness I saw all around me and recognized as life’s horrific goal.
I remembered somebody at lunch the day before talking about the riverside beach at Donauinsel, not far from the UN, where they sometimes went after work.
Alone, I took the metros identical to those I had taken to work and simply got off a stop earlier, following my phone’s map down a strange path.
I walked by countless little riverside houses, perhaps considered big by city standards. Later I found out that these were the summer homes of the Viennese. I laughed when a fellow interpreter later told me this. Why would you have a summer home in the same city that you lived, a few metro stops away? What kind of people do this? I mean it was relaxed by the water, but to think there was nothing outside of Vienna seemed crazy. It couldn’t be the lack of vacation days because it seemed my local colleagues were always on vacation. It was just easier, I guess. It was familiar. It was Austrian, but not only Austrian: Viennese.
⬩
I arrived at the back of the snaking line of Viennese. The entrance was a huge gate and several windows to purchase your day ticket for three euros, only by cash. I waited in line and was pushed to line number five by the man at the front. ‘Ein Ticket, bitte’ and was understood to get my receipt for entrance in yet another line. This one moved quickly, and I entered the utopia within the utopia. Manicured grass and flowers greeted us on arrival and a fruit stand sold idyllic snacks as if each of us were Bacchus. Cafes and grill stands came next, but as I continued on one of the many paths, I started to see the concrete cages. Two-story rectangular units with air holes cut out of the walls. From the hanging clothes and people entering and exiting in bathing suits, I intimated that these were the big lockers to keep their floats and igloos and lawn chairs. Some came out holding wagons of gear for their day at the river. Everyone looked happy, complacent. But I couldn’t quite understand the nature of these structures in this otherwise quite natural scene. They disrupted my understanding. They seemed to hold a dangerous memory of the past. Even if they themselves were not spaces of torture or imprisonment, somehow they held that psyche within them.
However, after emerging from one of the open-air concrete tunnels, I again saw the river before me, lined by trees and the ground covered in green grass that seemed free of menacing insects. I continued to walk until I was within a few meters of the river, then found a spot for my tiny bag and towel and lay down to sweat out toxins from the night before.
I eventually went for a swim and didn’t feel the need to worry about my stuff on the riverbank. Everyone seemed connected, like a big family. I couldn’t imagine crime being a problem. I swam up by the second set of ropes and felt the seaweed tickle my stomach. It was not a nice feeling, but it was new and the newness made me more interested in my swim. Later I learned about that machine that cuts back the weeds every morning all down the Donau. I imagined these tentacles of vegetation as further reminders of the past or of people’s shame, reaching up from the past no matter how often they were cut back.
I swam down to one pier and then slowly made my way back toward the right of the shore. As I did, I noticed there were swimmers on the far other of a rope and that there was a fence coming up from the water’s edge. I thought maybe it was a private beach, but as I got closer, I noticed the difference: everyone was naked.
Danae had told me about this. She said the Austrians loved naturist areas and even devoted some of the riverside grass just next to the bike path to the pursuit of lying without clothes in the sun. Nobody was bothered or offended by it; even the changing rooms were occasionally mixed-sex. She had recommended the section I was now gazing at, but I hadn’t known where it was nor had I wanted to try it out by myself.
It seemed funny that this space was cut off from view and then on the water (and on top of the symmetrical pier) everyone was just as exposed to the chagrin or disgust of the boats passing by. I didn’t feel either reaction, just curiosity. I had my sunglasses on, so I felt I could sort of look without looking like I was looking. And I did just that. But honestly, there wasn’t much to see. It seemed more relaxed over there. Or quieter. Less children I guess, but still a few. I couldn’t tell if it was a sun-soaking joy or a quiet solitude that made it seem this way.
I was getting close to the rope, close enough to interact with swimmers on the other side. Two men were trying to get my attention. My instinct was that I must have done something wrong, and I quickly looked around for signage of the fact.
‘Marie! It’s us, Fred and Roger. Hello!’
They were both waving frantically, so I couldn’t pretend not to see them. ‘Hi!’ and after a slight hesitation, ‘Thank you for helping me out last night.’ I was both ecstatically embarrassed about the night before, only because I couldn’t remember the end of it and imagined the worst, as well as a little bit frightened of these strange men who seemed to pop up everywhere.
’No problem!’ Fred replied, then more quietly, ‘Someone may have spiked your drink, so we got you out of there.’
‘But we didn’t want to freak you out and come home with you!’ Roger maintained a jovial tone.
‘Ha ha, right. Anyway, this is normal here. You’ll have to be careful, especially you lot with the foreign governments and all.’
‘Ok, well, thanks. How are you both?’
‘We’re fine, thanks! What a gorgeous day.’
‘Yes, we’ve got the day free. Noemi is manning our shop. Have you been? It’s called Vienna Vinyl. Name speaks for itself. Have you heard of it?’
They seemed too smart to just own a shop, but maybe they didn’t need anything intellectually stimulating; they had each other after all. It also seemed a strange reason to live in a foreign country, but I supposed there was some backstory I would eventually hear about. ‘I don’t know it. Maybe you can show me sometime.’
‘Yes! We will. It’s on Spengergasse just off Mariahilfastrasse. I think you said you live near there? Just pop by one day this week; one of us will be there.’
‘Ok, I will,’ and I meant it, mostly due to curiosity, ‘I’ve got to swim in; I feel a bit tired.’ It was true. We had all been treading water, the seaweed wrapping around my ankles and sun singing my scalp.
‘Sure, Marie! See you at the shop!’
⬩
I started to get hungry and went to buy something at the food stand, but it was a huge line without shade and the menu was only sausages and chips.
I opted for an ice cream instead, only because it was a shorter line. The tables were full, so I meandered back toward the river, slowly licking the chocolate shell and strawberry interior. I felt like I was in a painting by Seurat: none of the people in front of me seemed real. Everything before me slightly broke apart as if pixilated. Was it a utopia or an uncanny parallel universe?
I was unaware of the path I was taking; all I knew was that I was on a path, walking at a much slower pace than those around me. From a bird’s eye view, one would have seen groups of people approach me, surround me, and then pinch in on the other side in the shape of an eye or a vagina in a constant flow of people moving to activities or snacks.
Suddenly, the flow in front of me was interrupted and I could no longer move forward in a meditative state. Moving toward the grass to go around the obstruction, I suddenly heard the approach of the helicopter. It was flying low over the riverbank, searching for a place to land. Its yellow color marked a rescue mission, so we all stared in tragic anticipation, holding onto our hats and unable to move out of the way. There were lifeguards in a huddle, an ambulance arriving from behind me. I couldn’t see anything and I wasn’t sure why I wanted to see, but human curiosity makes one search for the answers to even horrific scenes. It was not as if I could have done anything to help. I guess if someone needed an interpretation…but that was unlikely.
I could understand just enough German to make out the bits and pieces of what others around me were saying. It was as if the information moved like Chinese whispers back from the river in a wave. What I heard was awful: a man, drowned. This was why the helicopter suddenly went away. There was nothing left to do.
For some time everyone stared, helplessly and hopelessly. And then after some more time, and after the people involved left hidden from view in the ambulance, everyone returned to what they were doing.
I learned that this happened several times every summer and that, likewise, in the winter, a few people would fall through the ice when the layers weren’t quite deep enough for skating. It happened quickly and quietly, often not even making it to the news. The graves would be dug in the central cemetery, which was a more difficult task when the ground was frozen in winter. The families would grieve silently in their homes.
And then the season would change.
I felt watched. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Fred and Roger in the shadow of a tree, holding their bags up over their penises as if they had just run over from the other side to check out the action. But they had been watching me, I was sure of it.
This time, we all pretended not to notice each other. I grabbed my things and quickly left the tainted scene.
To be continued…
The sense of something unsettling and foreboding and not quite as it seems bubbles throughout this. I love it, Kate.
Also: "Anyway, this is normal here." about drinks being spiked... 😮😮
The casual aside in which this is delivered makes it quite the terrifying fact.
Some wonderful lines and evocative thoughts throughout. Especially liked this:
"I felt like I was in a painting by Seurat: none of the people in front of me seemed real. Everything before me slightly broke apart as if pixilated. Was it a utopia or an uncanny parallel universe?" 👌
"Anytime somebody cooked or allowed the light to heat up their flat, the heat eventually made its way up to me. And the heavy roof kept it from releasing into the sky. I was being cooked, as if I were in Dante’s Inferno." I love the way the mounting temperature matches the mounting tension, while the nod towards Dante adds a moral dimension. Wonderful.