An Interpreter in Vienna | Chapter 2

Part I: Xenophobia

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.

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Chapter 2

I came to Vienna for work. It was my fourth country to call home and, this time, I wanted to make a name for myself.

As you know, I was the interpreter for you, Grégoire, and the French diplomats at the United Nations. I also did freelance work because the job didn’t pay all that well despite the prestigious sound of working for the UN. (I guess that was probably difficult for you both as well, but maybe with the paid accommodations, it was ok.)

However, I also started to think I was in a piece of music or a play, or maybe a film, and that I was interpreting somebody’s mad words into actions and behaviors. Who was writing the script? 

Some of my freelance work was in written translation, mostly just government documents and things like that, easy work that paid fairly well but was also inconsistent. The Icelandic barista encouraged me to try translating literature, just for fun. But that took ages, and the pay was even worse. I was working on a spy novel by John le Carré, Our Kind of Traitor. The thing is, the French publisher wanted something really direct, almost like I had put the text through Google Translate. I wanted to embellish the text a bit and describe the Russians differently. I mean, I wasn’t aware I was doing it; I think I just got really carried away with the story and also wanted to write something that would make people remember the translator, like Robert Fagles or the early work of Vladimir Nabokov and Paul Auster. 

The publisher told me quite bluntly that’s not how you do translation work, even for fiction, so I gave back my small advance in order to quit. I had to find a different way to make a name for myself.

⬩

My father once told me I thought I was too good to be a fisherman. He died when I was only twelve. He didn’t mean it as an insult; I think he admired my young chutzpah. At the time, I wanted to be an architect, but I hadn’t struggled with physics in school yet.

Anyway, now I often think being an oyster man like him would be bliss. Every day you could just look out at the sea’s horizon. The seasons of the work would be therapeutic. You’d be with life, surrounded by the ebbs and flows of the tides and the seasons. Your body’s impulses kept in check by them. 

My mother’s job, on the other hand, was with dead creatures. I am no vegetarian but constantly smelling and handling dead fish must get to you after a while, subconsciously even. Closed in at the marketplace, your eyes focus on catching or throwing wet, decaying things. The job starts so early that the morning light is often missed for the sake of the restaurateurs’ needs. Sunlight is replaced by neon white reflected off of mussels, sea bass, and scallops splayed out on ice. There is a celestial beauty to it, the iridescence and incandescence of the scales and shells. But an unnaturalness as well. They are middlemen caught between the beauty of the sea and the kitchen.

⬩

I’m not in touch with anybody from my high school, well just one guy who had a mental breakdown or a schizophrenic episode, I’m not sure which, then found me on Facebook and tried to hit on me, online. I guess I was safe because he knew I lived in Tokyo at the time and would never meet him for a coffee. He didn’t say anything inappropriate. It was just strange that he reached out. We had a few classes together, but that was all. I felt bad for him and wrote to him every year at Christmas and then I found out he was married with a kid all of a sudden. I was the sad case now. 

⬩

I thought maybe working at the UN could be meaningful. I met you later that first week, Grégoire, during the summit on digital anti-terrorism efforts. I wanted to make an impression, that I could be a political influencer and a confidante. We met outside for a coffee near Kaisermühlen VIC metro stop in the UN complex. It was a strange gray space, just back from the river. Outside the secured gates, I could see the recognizable semi-circle of national flags displayed colorfully in the sunshine, but on the ground, it was merely stone upon stone of grey nothingness. I assumed functionality was most important here. 

Nothing was marked in the concrete mazes but the only place there was sound drew me toward the little terrace outside the small cafe. I recognized you from our Zoom calls when I was still in New York. Your little round glasses and big grey hair atop a slender, navy-suited body. 

‘Bienvenue, Marie! Enchanté!’

‘Merci beaucoup, vous aussi. It’s very good to finally meet you in person. I am proud to be working with you now and it was lovely meeting your wife in New York.’

‘Of course! Me too. You must tutoyer me from now on, none of this formal business. Julie tells me you are a sophisticated and trustworthy young lady. Today is pretty straightforward. And anyway, as you know, my English is pretty good. But officially, we have to have you there in case one of my aids doesn’t understand or maybe I miss something.’

‘Yes, I understand. I would be pleased to discuss the meetings at any time.’ For the others who may read this in the future, I met Julie first in New York at an event thrown by one of my private clients. Julie, it was so wonderful the way you got the office to bring me over to Vienna, and you even set me up with the flat! No matter what happens to me now, I am so grateful for this opportunity you gave me. 

‘Ha ha, well I’m not sure we have to go that far. Don’t worry about it, just relax. I’m trying to say that this is a fairly easy gig for you. Just play the game.’

‘Ok…’

I remember you then leaned in a little and lowered your voice: ‘It’s easy, but just be careful not to let your guard down. Let me know right away if anyone…approaches you.’

‘Sure, I work for you.’

‘Yes, that’s it! Exactly!’ You looked around then motioned up toward a strange building that was almost hanging over the main headquarters of the UN. There was a section many floors up that jutted out into space like some sort of air traffic control. ‘Do you see that weird-looking building there?’

I nodded.

‘The Americans built it for the purposes of spying. You know, during the Cold War, this was the richest place of knowledge exchange, although often involuntary,’ you laughed as if I was in on the joke. There was a syncopated space to let that sink in a little, then you went on: ‘Maybe with technology, we don’t need conveniently placed offices anymore, but the spies are still around. Welcome to Vienna, where the East and West are in a silent battle for our futures.’

‘I’ll be careful.’

‘Yes, I know. But you will likely learn some things. If you do, just let me know about it and we will navigate together. Best not to try this alone. Have you seen The Third Man yet?’ It would be the first time of many that people asked me that question. Somehow, outsiders dwelling in Vienna thought it was a kind of beautiful homage to the city even though I would find it to be dystopic, only highlighting the city’s cracked base of existence.

‘Not yet, should I?’

‘Oh it’s an excellent film, yes, do. You never know who’s on whose side. There are double bluffs and multiple allegiances…I’m not sure it even completely makes sense in the end, but that’s what it was like at the time. The climactic scene in the sewers is très cool; you can do a cinematic tour, gross, I know. But it’s a metaphor for all the stuff going on beneath the surface. People don’t realize what it was like after the war here. It’s actually much more complex than East and West. They still show this film every week at Burg Kino, maybe because it’s still so relevant.’ 

‘You mean, it’s still like that here?’

‘Yes. Absolutely. But don’t you worry about it! We diplomats simply drink the green wine and eat the schnitzel, say the correct greetings and goodbyes, and live in our little bubbles of socialist bliss. Like most Austrians, really.’ You looked at your watch, ‘It’s time to go! Let me just show you to your working area, where the other translators are.’

‘Ok, thank you.’ 

And on that, we left. I translated the first of many boring meetings about data security measures and GDPR. It was so mundane that it almost felt like a farce invented to trick observers, including myself. 

The real danger was happening completely off the grid.

⬩

After the meeting, a Greek interpreter named Danae invited me to the cafeteria where other interpreters and aids usually ate together, she said. As we walked down the hall and waited in line, she began to interrogate me.

‘Why did you leave France?’ her voice cut into my soul. She hadn’t asked why I was there, what work or relationship brought me to Vienna, ‘What’s your secret? What are you escaping?’ 

I’m not sure if I’m remembering it all correctly; I may have imagined the last part. 

‘I…I’m not escaping anything. I do work with the UN and the French embassy…’

‘Ha ha ha. All the UN people are escaping something. I know it, I’m one of them. My family’s psychotic. Not literally, but they make me feel that way. My mother was a Greek film star and still likes to keep a sort of entourage even though she hasn’t acted in decades. She signed me up for acting lessons, but I always moved into set design for the productions. And my brother is a dentist who married a woman who sells healing crystal merch on Instagram; they’ve got six or seven kids now, I’ve lost track. They live with my parents and my dad just sits outside with a cigar and bottle of wine, waiting for his friends to come by to have a chat. I never really fit in. What about you?’

‘Oh, well, I guess my hometown is a bit small. And I love Paris, where I went for school, but it sort of felt too cool and chaotic to just really live in.’ I then remembered what you had told me, Grégoire, ‘I plan to stay out of politics. I’m just interested in languages.’

‘Nobody stays out of it. Somebody will offer you something for a dirty job. Do it. Otherwise, they’ll come after you.’ Danae made it sound so simple.

‘What? Why would they come after me?’

‘You’ve got to show them you’re not afraid. And that you’re powerful. Otherwise, you’re just a tool. You’ll know some stuff, too much about something, just by nature of your job. Or at least that’ll be the perception.’

‘Hmm, ok. Is it good money?’ I didn’t want to show my fear.

‘Can be. Anyway, just don’t mix up with the Russians. They’ve got their own guys. Shouldn’t be an issue. But you never know. Do your homework on any gig you’re offered and keep yourself at a distance.’

Photo of the UN building in Vienna by Fiona Frommelt on Unsplash

Danae pointed out the table for lunch where they all met before disappearing into the busy cafeteria. There was one interesting-looking guy I could see. From my view in the lunch line, he never spoke up and seemed to defer to the others, so I assumed he was some sort of understudy and, therefore, accessible. 

The table was a mix of interpreters and ‘mature’ interns. I joined them, and they all welcomed me. Everything was done politely. That was something I never needed to worry about.

They were speaking in English rather than German. I soon found it was truly the common language here. 

‘Hello, I’m Brian. Welcome. Where are you from?’

‘Hi, I’m Marie. I’m French, interpreting for the government.’

‘Lovely to meet you. I work with the Americans, same idea. This is a very nice place to live and work.’

‘Yes, so I’ve heard. I guess we are lucky.’

‘Yes, an excellent quality of life!’

Something felt flat, robotic, about his responses. Was he trying to convince himself or was he brainwashed? Or had he brainwashed himself over time? 

He continued with the standard expat inquiry about my journey to arrive at this place and time at the same time as the others in the middle of their journeys, ’So, what’s your story? Where have you lived before?’

‘So, I moved to Paris for school, then went to Tokyo and New York for interpreting jobs. The foreign office asked me to transfer here. Or I guess my boss here, Grégoire —, he asked for someone new, and it’s sort of closer to my mom in Bretagne.’ It was the concise reply I could use at countless encounters. 

‘Ah, you lived in the States. My apologies, ha. And you’re single?’

‘Yes, I mean, I broke it off with a guy in New York. I’m not really into long distance.’ It wasn’t true, but I didn’t want to sound desperate. There was something attractive about his eyes despite the standard conversation.

A young Asian guy to my left piped in, ‘So you speak Japanese? Or were you just working in French and English in Tokyo?’

‘I do; I learned even before moving to Japan. I was a double major in English and Japanese at the Sorbonne. Are you Japanese?’

‘Hai. Cool. I’m Akihiro. We can practice anytime you like.’

Brian had already turned to discuss evening plans with the others. 

I ate my food without tasting it. Flat mumbles of life continued around me and sometimes I replied. This required no thought, for the questions were always formulaic. Staying in a safety zone of international camaraderie; existing to make it to the next drink out. 

They all decided to reconvene after the conference and go to Tel Aviv Beach Club. I agreed to meet them and gave Brian my number (‘in case I am running late’), hoping that the lunchtime conversation was simply a farce under the watchful eyes of their superiors and any unknown observers behind CCTV screens. And anyway, I had nothing else to do.

⬩

It was a couple of hours into the night at the little open-air bar by the canal. I had no idea how much life there was at the canal in the summer. I thought that maybe this was the answer; it was where life was hiding or just that the UN complex was a strange bubble of grayness and politics and careful interactions.

Here, with their feet in the imported sand, people were letting loose. Others streamed past them on the walkway or sat with legs dangling over the edge of the tall drop into the canal while sipping on wine and huge German-sized cans of beer.

I got tipsy fairly quickly off of a couple of Aperol-Spritz cocktails that everyone was drinking at the club. They seemed to arrive like magic, but I was so focused on using the sober part of my brain to stay away from the canal’s edge that I didn’t question the drinks. We moved our beach chairs into an exclusive circle and awkwardly twirled the imported sand with our hands or feet. 

Danae suddenly got up when a strange guy leaned down to whisper in her ear. I remembered the warning about spies and strangers, wondering if I should rescue her, or if she was on the wrong side and might be grooming me. But then I realized she must’ve been just scoring some coke or something because they had gone toward the bathrooms and I could hear her innocent Aphrodite laugh above the music. 

At the same time, Brian was uncovering a note left in the sand…but I was suddenly distracted by a tap on my shoulder and never saw what became of it, or if it were simply someone’s grocery list. 

Two men with British accents started speaking to me while they handed me another Aperol Spritz. It’s a little hazy from here as I was really feeling the heat and the alcohol. They were older, but I didn’t feel threatened. I thought maybe they were a couple and also had that British sort of humility in the way they held themselves.

‘Hello, lovely! You’re new here?’

‘Ah…yes…’

‘Don’t worry, we don’t bite! I’m Roger and this is Fred. We know most of this lot.’ He dramatically twirled his hand as if a toreador, motioning to the UN group. 

‘Oh! Well, I’m Marie. I’ve only just moved here.’

‘Welcome, Marie! Come, have a little chat with us.’ 

They were funny and somehow familiar. We shared some stories and did some people-watching together. 

‘I can’t believe people hang out at the edge like that. Don’t they fall in?’

‘Well, yes, sometimes. Not a lot. This guy who was drinking at Strandbar Hermann with us - British guy - he came out of that club on the canal around two for a smoke and instead he walked straight into the canal.’

‘Oh my God, what happened?’

‘Nobody knew he had gone until this morning. They found his body floating, nearly in Bratislava since the current is so strong.’

‘But, Fred, it’s rarely accidental, you know that.’ 

‘Let’s not scare her!’ Roger changed the topic to a silent one of dance. The music was loud and we shared its rhythms in a kind of trance.

Fools were continuously passing before us. Boat lights reflected off the dirty canal water as if seeking out the secrets of its past. 

I remember saying goodbye and Brian suggesting a stroll…Danae was dancing by herself in the middle of the circle, as if she wanted to be sacrificed…

And then it all went blank.

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To be continued…