An Interpreter in Vienna | Chapter 17

Part III: Acrophobia

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 17

I was worried that the window of the possibility to travel could close soon. People were talking about this virus more and more. It was paranoid, but I imagined that in the least, perhaps we would not be able to travel for a while. 

I couldn’t sleep on the train. I was trying to make sense of it all. Plus, I was worried somebody had followed me. 

Of course, I had booked a room at the inn Frau Grüber had told me about. I check into the Hotel Goldener Strauss with ease. I had thought about giving a fake name but realized I would need identification. I was really not cut out for this and it reminded me I was merely the interpreter. 

The room had old wooden beams and a few antiques, such as the mirror and dressing table. But the rest had been modernized. I realized then how futile this would be. Surely the hotel had changed hands and been sorted through several times over. It was impossible that the painting could still be there. 

It was around seven o’clock, so I decided to go to the hotel restaurant for dinner, partly because I was alone and partly to begin my investigation.

At the entrance to the grand dining room, I waited, alone, for the waiter to bring me to my table even though many were empty. He greeted me with formality and I was ushered to my table. This would, of course, be the same table for the remainder of my meals during the two-night stay. They had already set my single place, including two different-sized wine glasses and the complete set of silverware. The way it was set had my back to another man sitting alone and facing me. He would be watching me for the entire duration of the meal, and I would be facing a group of three men. Next to the man behind me, at another table, was another man eating alone. There was another in the far corner away from me, also with his gaze in my direction. A few other tables were filled on the other side. Of course, this had all been set up by the hotel staff. It felt like a conspiracy. 

I heard different languages around the room. I could understand the French and English, of course, but also a lot of the German and Italian. There was another table speaking something else, maybe Polish. 

The room was small and felt confined with no windows and only the opening of the small doorway on the opposite wall. The voices bounced around the room louder and louder as I could, unfortunately, understand most of the tables. 

Only then did I hear Russian from a far corner. My ears gravitated in that direction as I became quickly convinced that they must be talking about Marija or working with her. Although I only knew about three words in Russian, I tried to listen for names or places as clues to their conversation. It was, of course, futile, and I attempted to switch my ears off by looking instead at the objects in the room.

Trying not to make eye contact with the people themselves, I noticed many trinkets around the room and several photographs adorning the walls. One was labeled with the family name of Klammer. It was an old photograph and the famous skier was front and center. Another adjacent was a modern photo of a family in traditional Austrian clothing. I recognized the woman immediately as the person who had checked me in.

A man came back with my wine. I scoured his visage for a likeness but he appeared unrelated to the Klammers. In my eye movements, I caught a mirror on the wall as well and realized it reflected myself, although small, along with my side of the room. Staring back at me in the glass was the man seated behind me, his brow furrowed and his fist tightly clutching a mug of beer. 

On instinct, I turned to gaze at him. I had nowhere to turn and the thought of his eyes on my back petrified me. Somehow facing him in this glass was better, even if it meant facing my death. To my surprise, it was then the man who started and abruptly left his table, not bothering to push in his chair and avoiding all eye contact with me. 

I decided to stay. Nothing much was usually gained by following strange, large men who stared at you up into dark passageways of old hotels. Perhaps my ego was getting the better of me. He was probably just a slightly drunk and lonely guest who had nothing better to look at than the items on the wall…hadn’t I done the same thing? 

After finishing a plate of chicken cordon bleu and potatoes, I retreated to my room to consider my options. I realized the only way was to talk to the owners. There was no way to look through the entire hotel. The painting could be anywhere and most of the doors would be locked, especially if the one that might hold a missing Klimt painting.

I looked at my phone for some distraction and came across some young woman’s blog from Wuhan that the BBC was publishing in translation. There were cute pictures she had drawn of her movements within her apartment. At this point, I had already heard that there was a kind of lockdown happening in that region. She was healthy and had a decent place to live; it wasn’t like she was crowded on top of other people or something like I had imagined.

But in reading the blog entries, I realized maybe the solitude was worse. She didn’t know how long she would be there. Her movements were rhythmic, mundane. She focused on staying alive and healthy but also questioned her entire existence. I guess her blog was a little way of reaching out to the world. She probably never imagined the BBC would pick it up and someone would be reading it in Salzburg. 

I thought about writing her a note on her blog page if I could find the original. But I had no idea what to say. I was as lost as she was. And something else held me back: envy. She had been a nobody like me but now she had used that to her advantage. She was famous for her existential misery and her fight for survival. Even if China decided to simply wipe out everyone in the area possibly tainted by the virus with some kind of poisonous gas, she was immortalized through her blog.

At the moment, I wished so badly to be her. 

⬩

The next morning, I got up early to suss out the lay of the land. I love those morning hours in European cities when only a few people inhabit the place. During those moments, I am able to notice more: the other denizens, the stones, the doorways. They come to the surface as if they are normally drowned underwater. 

At breakfast, the same waiter greeted me and brought me a large pot of coffee then let me be in the empty room with a long table of butter, cheeses, sliced meats, boiled eggs, and a large basket of Semmel, the twisted rolls ubiquitous in the countryside. 

About halfway through my plate, I noticed the woman from the photograph getting things ready in the foyer. In a quick decision, I abandoned the end of my breakfast to catch Frau Klammer discretely.

‘Grüß Gott!’ 

‘Grüß Gott! Are you Frau Klammer?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ She puffed up straight in her dirndl and fixed the curled blond hair to fall correctly at her shoulders.

‘Wunderbar! My friend - well my landlady - told me about your wonderful family. She is Frau Grüber of Vienna. I don’t suppose you know her?’

Frau Klammer furrowed her brow in thought, ‘I don’t think so…should I?’

I tried to keep it light with a burst of laughter, ‘No, of course not. But her partner was I guess friends with Christophe Klammer.’

‘Oh, Grandpa! Yes, he died years back. Ein guter Mann.’ 

‘Sorry to hear that.’ I then leaned in, and with nothing to lose, went for straight-shooting: ‘Do you, do you know about a…Klimt? A painting I mean?’ 

‘Well. I see! That’s what this is about.’ I was worried I had offended her, but she then continued, ‘Your friend’s partner must be Wolfgang?’

‘Yes!’

‘He is known as an invisible good spirit around here. I met him once, years back, when he came to visit my grandfather. Oh and then at the funeral as well. Yes, this is when he took the painting.’

‘He took it?’

‘Right. Well, it was in the will that Grandpa had written, only for the family’s eyes of course. My father was upset that Grandpa had given the painting away, out of the family. But we knew that he was always trying to do the right thing and that Wolfgang was also this kind of spirit, as I said.’ She paused as if to catch her breath, ‘I’m not sure why I’m telling you this but I guess because you know of Wolfgang, it seems alright,’ she laughed, ‘Nobody has ever asked about this.’ 

Why hadn’t Frau Grüber known this detail? That it had been given back to Wolfgang again? I felt closer to solving the puzzle and also more confused. Besides, Wolfgang was dead. How could we ever figure out what he had done with the painting if Frau Grüber didn’t know? Then I realized that the woman in front of me might know more, ‘Did you stay in touch with him? Did he tell you what he did with the painting?’

‘Frau Grüber must be wondering about it. Did she send you here?’

‘In a roundabout way, yes. I hope that doesn’t upset you.’

‘Not at all. This is a welcome visit and memory. The painting was…exquisite. Maybe something good will finally come of it.’

‘You saw it?’

‘Just the one time, when it was handed over. Its foreignness enticed me. The Japanese-style foliage and the way the perspective shifted were beautiful. It felt like Klimt wanted us to experience our surroundings with imagination. I know I look like an Austrian country bumpkin but that’s just for the hotel. My family and I love traveling. I went to Japan once during my student years. I stayed on a tatami mat for a month near Mount Fuji.’

‘You did? I lived there a while. Isn’t it a wonderful place?’

‘It’s…magic. Mystical. I found that beauty again in the Klimt. I mean, I liked the Japanese scrolls in the Tokyo National Museum even more, but something about the blending of cultures, of ideas made me feel…blissful. It was like an antidote to my country’s shame.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean…I detest that I look like this: blue eyes and blond hair. I’m proud of the good part of our history, but I want to erase the shame of our nation that lives on in our hearts.’

‘Aren’t you doing that in the way that you live?’

‘Sure, we try to bring guests from everywhere and every walk of life here. Do you know the city well? Salzburg may surprise you. It looks like a crypt of tradition but can be very progressive.’

‘I’m only discovering it now. I’ll have a close look around. Thank you.’

‘But wait, if you want to find that painting, I would look in a kirche. Wolfgang said he would hide the painting somewhere the Nazis had already scoured long ago and a public place that might be protected by someone. He didn’t mean God; he was an atheist. After all he had seen…Anyway, I don’t know which church, but he mentioned with a wink to me that this would be a good place to hide something. I think it would be in Vienna. He kept friends everywhere in that city, and he also took care to wrap the painting for a journey. There is a kind of underground web in Vienna, well likely several webs, but there is also a good one besides the evil work of dictators and other rich trying to capitalize on information. Perhaps ask for him by name.’

‘Ok, thank you. It may be long gone but I guess it is worth a try.’

‘He would have been very careful. I think there’s something special about that painting but I’m not sure what it was. Besides being a Klimt, obviously, I mean. But don’t worry about that now — go! Discover Salzburg! And you are welcome here anytime, Frau Thibaut.’

‘Many thanks, Frau Klammer.’

The amount of formality framing a conversation between peers feels anachronistic when I write it here, but this was the way they do things, as you two know very well of course. For our readers though, I add these elements into my story to explain the way I felt as if I were in a novel or a spy thriller. Even the kind interactions, like this one, felt uncanny.

Salzburg (photo by the author, 2019)

With a large coat on, I walked to the old, famous Cafe Bazar by the riverbank, just past the Mirabelle Gardens and the house where Mozart lived. There were already three patrons there at eight o’clock but they looked like regulars. 

The waiters were formal and friendly. They continued to be so even after I spoke poor German to order coffee. They reminded me of the waiters in Paris, not as casual as those in Bretagne, not as desperate for tips as those in New York. They made me feel like I belonged even though I didn’t. 

I sat and observed people reading the newspaper on wooden spindles, looking out at the moving green river, or keeping their dogs and children from misbehaving. Every now and then a cyclist went by on the path below or I spotted a scooter on the other side of the water. It seemed to me like nobody was going anywhere, like we were all stuck in a painting forever. 

Life felt dangerously stuck. What trauma has trapped a whole nation? What fear has kept progress at bay? On the other hand, the country’s socialism was something to marvel at. I knew about the history already, but I did not understand why the nation could not move on, perhaps like the Japanese example I had witnessed.

Then I realized: the war was still happening here. The visible costumes and demonstrations covered many invisible layers of violent thoughts and coordinations among those attempting to use xenophobia or related fears for power and money. One could see it in the politics. Perhaps this was the breeding ground for ideas and interchange among the world’s evils. I began to wonder if Trump’s America, fueled by Russia, had been born here? Or if Brexit’s trick on Britain’s own people, threatening to plummet them into vulnerable isolation with their citizens dying of starvation was something predetermined in this web?

I thought of Marija. Finn. Of Fred and Roger. Danae and Brian. Akihiro. And especially of Josef. What parts of the web were they functioning on? 

What part had I weaved myself into? 

⬩

Although the tourists weren’t here in this dark time after Christmas, besides those from Vienna or the countryside like myself, the main street on the other side of the river was packed. I imagine it was also locals filling these streets as it was an unusual time and people were changing their habits. 

The streets snake in strange patterns as if the river had one day overflowed and carved out tributaries. Along the uneven stones, I felt more natural, like the Austrian artist Hundertwasser imagined¹. When manmade spaces become too flat, too square, too unnatural, we may forget that these spaces, too, are a part of the earth. We may forget that we move through time and space naturally — and that sometimes time slows down in the same way a space of road may bulge. A natural path is never linear.

⬩

The old streets have Louis Vuitton and Prada as well as Zara and H&M. But the prevalent fixture, or rather the unique one perhaps, are the dirndl shops. People were wearing dirndls like they are a normal fashion. I wondered as I walked around if some people wore them every day. If they have one for each day of the week, or perhaps some for each season. If not, why should today mark a day to wear one? I had seen people in Vienna wear them for holidays already and was told that some of the balls are in that kind of outfit. I thought about getting one myself at that point; I was still trying to fit in and didn’t realize it would be impossible. I was concerned that maybe they would laugh at me if I went into one of the shops with my broken German or that perhaps wearing one meant a certain kind of political allegiance. 

⬩

I sat again for an early drink to watch. Crowds moved past me. There were families and groups of tourists and people coming back from office jobs. A man with a large dog whose snout was covered by a muzzle walked slowly by. He was smoking a cigar and greeted the waiter near me. A tall, skinny drag queen in a black cut-out coordinating separates of a mini skirt and small shirt covered by a puffy, open coat came next. She walked easily over the stones in five-inch heels and was the only one to stop for the guy with deformed legs who was limping and asking passersby for change. She didn’t just give him money; she talked to him for several minutes. 

I thought that maybe she had something of the Sissy Syndrome, too. I hadn’t eaten more than apples and croissants in passing during this trip so far and began to wonder if I, too, had it. Maybe if it worked, I could just disappear and nobody would pay attention to me anymore. The less I ate, the easier the wine affected me and I felt like I was floating on air. 

I walked back to the hotel for the second night though it was only midday. The river flowed through the rich houses in serenity. Its denizens could be seen peering out from upper-floor windows with curiosity or condemnation. 

The sky had cleared up and I could see the snow-covered mountains from my hotel room. They rose behind the train station, churches, rooftops, and a big castle on the hill. If I had been on that mountaintop, looking down instead of up, what would I have been feeling? Would I want to dive back into civilization or retreat in an igloo for eternity? In other words: why the urge to live in the city but dwell in my apartment space? What was I doing in Salzburg now – watching television until dinner time?

⬩

I returned in the morning and had some work to do with Marija that evening. She told me to meet her at Do & Co at Stephansplatz. She had some diplomats to entertain and I could be her in-between in English. 

It wasn’t especially crowded, likely due to the heavy snowfall that evening. The host guided me toward a table by the huge window opposite Stephansdom where snow was covering the gigantic roof. 

Marija was there in a black dress, poised at the center of discussion with her martini. I was introduced briefly to the others: three men and two women from Moldova, Portugal, and Taiwan. I gathered it was a rather ordinary affair among diplomats.

Eventually, Marija invited me up to the rooftop, typically reserved for private parties. It was empty that evening and she knew the host. Everyone else remained with their drinks, not noticing our absence.

Of course, the roof was closed in for the winter, but it still felt grand, and I knew it was something I could only gain access to through my employment as an accessory to power. I followed Marija over to a tall table by the glass where we propped our drinks.

‘So, where have you been? Secret mission to Salzburg?’

I had told her where I was when she sent the text, and this was said with some humor, but I didn’t like the suggestion. ‘Oh, just doing some sightseeing. I haven’t seen much here yet. Salzburg is really beautiful.’

‘That it is. But in February?’

‘Well, to be honest, I’m a little nervous about that virus. You know, the one in Wuhan? That maybe our movements will be constrained.’

She looked straight into my eyes and became quieter, more deliberate, as if the other comment had been for show, ‘Really, try to forget about it. It was probably made in a lab. There are powerful people who control things like this. You have to just keep your head down and carry on. There’s something coming…and when it does, you must simply stay away from it. Don’t go digging into anything.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Oh, I just mean if something strange were to happen. To me perhaps.’

I realized that rather than looking out at the sublime rooftop cut of various triangular designs whose sharp angles were now softened by a thick covering of snow — instead of this, she was looking down. Straight down, with a strange morbid expression. As if trying to determine how far a fall it would be or if the snow would indeed cushion somebody who jumped…or was pushed.

In following her gaze, I too looked into the abyss. I could only conclude that the snow would perhaps mute the sound of crushing bone and even screams if the person were to fall face down.

‘Marie, there are others who know much more than I do. If the virus arrives, when it does, promise me you will stay in your apartment and just do what you’re told.’

I assured her I would. I still wasn’t sure what side of things Marija was on, but at that moment I didn’t care. Though I felt the sting of my small insignificant naivety, I was also deeply comforted by the fact that there was somebody who cared for my well-being. 

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To be continued…

Find all the published chapters in the Table of Contents.

1. Read more about the fascinating Hundertwasser here.