An Interpreter in Vienna | Chapter 22

Part IV: Agoraphobia

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 22

I used to relish the silence that enveloped me on those nights. Though it was freezing cold and damp in Vienna all through that March, I would crack the window and read something or just sit with a glass of wine on the couch, feeling the silence. There were small sounds, of course. Doors closing in the building or the owl on the roof that persevered in winter. The movement of the weather also echoed in the courtyard and entered my realm through the small opening in the window.

The calm seems eerie in retrospect. It was only so quiet because people were silently dying and a curfew had been put in place. Ambulance alarms came a few times a night as well despite the lack of people on the streets; it was as if they wanted to remind us of this death, those of us cocooned in our tiny living spaces, waiting for the virus to permeate. 

At some point, I would stop reading and stare out into the darkness with my wine glass in hand. The world felt strange at these moments, as if I were just a player in someone’s game. 

I started to think I was losing my mind. And at these moments, I thought I should get out of the game I had started to play. 

But there was no way out. I knew it even then.

⬩

My mother was so far away. I don’t just mean physically. It was as if she were occupying a different realm of existence, a parallel universe. I couldn’t imagine her reality. 

Every day, the call came around the same time in the late morning. I imagined they were updating many families. Even those who lived right down the street were at the same distance. Some of them must have felt relieved that they were not expected to face the virus themselves. 

Would it ever feel real? This whole episode or what was to become of it?

Her health had been stable the first few days, and I even got a couple of texts on the third day. Bonjour, Marie! T’inquiète pas. Je t’aime, cherie. And then she had also asked me about the weather in Vienna and had I read a good book recently. The normalcy of it all made me worry less. I guess maybe that was the point; she was always trying to make me run free and not be burdened by my roots. 

They helped her to do it when I asked about it. I was a little disappointed she hadn’t tried herself, but I didn’t know what the situation was like in there. 

On the fourth day, they said her oxygen had dropped and they would have to put her in intensive care. She was in ‘luck’ because a bed had opened up. They would likely put her on a ventilator and asked me if this was ok. Of course, I said yes. I had no idea why you would say no. They said she was a good candidate for it — not so old and not sick in other ways. She was likely to respond well and just need it during this dive, like they had seen in other patients. 

I felt reassured. Doctors always know which thing to give you and what the outcome would be. That had been my experience. My dad’s death was different. It was sudden and without warning. 

So I carried on with my day. I had a work Zoom. Gregoire, you were meeting with a few locally based diplomats to discuss citizens’ rights, do you remember? As usual, I was mainly shadowing; you didn’t really need me. But a couple of times you asked for clarification of esoteric medical terms. All the official interpreters had been briefed on these terms to ensure we were well prepared with COVID-specific language; it wasn’t the kind of stuff we usually talked about.

There were so many hypotheticals…when borders open, should people visit their homes or risk getting stuck or infecting others? What kinds of tests would be available? What was more valuable—having time with a family member during the summer or staying put to be first in line for a vaccine trial or just to stay healthy? 

The ethical considerations were vast. They talked also about dead bodies and what to do with them, as well as the issue of Vienna’s full graveyards. Most international families wouldn’t have the money to send bodies home and when would they even be able to? 

One of the others from Slovakia asked about Marija: ‘The news was so terrible! That woman was so clever, so full of life. Do we know what happened? I mean, the real story?’

There was fear on her face that she had disguised from her voice. You tried to ease her mind, Gregoire: ‘She was, wasn’t she? It looks like it was just a bad accident. I haven’t heard anything on the pipeline.’

The Slovakian continued, ‘What will they do with her body? I heard it’s been at the morgue for weeks.’

’They will cremate her and bring her home to Bulgaria when it’s safe. Her husband, Finn, you know he is Swiss?’

The others nodded, seeking a leader among none. ‘Yes, he is well connected like all the Swiss,’ he laughed, ‘And he knows how to get things done. It was sad news, but you needn’t worry.’

After we ended the call, my phone rang and I saw it was you, Julie. 

‘Marie! It’s both of us here. Want to go for a walk?’

‘Is that allowed?’

‘Yes,’ Grégoire laughed, ‘Weren’t you paying attention at the start of the call?’

I knew he wasn’t bothered. So I forced a laugh as well, ‘I guess my mind was drifting.’ I hadn’t told either of you about my mother, so there was no way you could know.

‘Well, do you want to go? It is allowed if we keep a distance of a meter apart. We could meet over in Spittelau and walk along the canal away from the city.’

‘Of course, thanks.’ I only realized then how lonely I had been, but I vowed not to tell you about my mom. I didn’t want it to be real.

Hundertwasser factory, Vienna, Photo by Dmytro Shchetynin on Unsplash

We were walking by the water, keeping distance between us. Others were doing the same and most gave a wide berth when they passed. 

We were passing by the Hundertwasser incineration plant. Such a strange and beautiful sight. We all naturally looked up at it. 

Julie, you were always commenting on art: ‘I love this building. We are so lucky in Vienna! All this beautiful art,’ you paused, ‘‘Don’t you think art should be for everyone?’

‘What do you mean?’ 

’Accessible. Not hidden away by the rich and powerful?’

‘Yes…of course…I mean, there’s no way I could afford any masterpieces. It’s great that so many are on display in museums.’

‘I agree! And also many of the buildings here are art,’ and then you came closer to me while Gregoire kept slowly walking ahead. Rather than fear, I felt a desire for closeness, to anyone. ‘You know, Marie, Frau Grüber might be hiding that painting I told you about.’

‘Hiding?’ My heart started to race. I didn’t want to mix you both up with this awful mess I had gotten myself into. 

‘Oh, not on purpose. She’s a good lady, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, of course,’ then I realized I hadn’t mentioned my visit to her flat, ‘I saw the wall you painted at her apartment. I wanted to tell you how beautiful it was!’

‘Haha, I don’t mean my wall! That’s not a masterpiece, just a decoration. No, she is keeping that Klimt from the world. I’m not sure if it was her lover’s or what. She must have told you about him. She’s always talking about him, crying about him…’

I started to feel uncomfortable. I can tell you now because it’ll be all sorted when you read this and I’ll either have taken the fall or killed the real culprit. You went on with only a nod, ‘I think it belonged to a Jewish woman who owned the Viennese Cabaret and got passed on to somebody. I love that woman, your landlady, but if she is doing that, we must stop her. Do you think you could try to find out? I mean, if somebody else found out, say the police after she dies or her cleaning lady, the painting could fall into the wrong hands or her reputation could be tarnished. Imagine if she were forever remembered as a woman whose lover had conspired with the Nazis to take wealth from Jewish people, and then never give it back after the war?’

I hadn’t thought of these alternatives. I mean both that Frau Grüber could be hiding something, though I didn’t think so, I mean besides what she had already told me, and the way it could affect her if I didn’t find it. 

‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure Frau Grüber wants to do the right thing. She’s probably hoping somebody will ask her about it to relieve her of this burden and help her. I would do it myself, but she thinks I’m after it. Haha. She told me about it once and I asked too many questions! She thinks I’m a spy!’ 

‘Oh, that’s funny. Well, sure, I can try to find out. I’m supposed to go over there once we’re allowed. I heard it might be soon.’

‘Perfect. Just don’t tell anybody else about this.’

We walked on. And don’t worry, I never did tell anyone that you had asked about this. I just knew at this point, I had to figure out a little more myself. I kept my cards close.

⬩

Maman didn’t have one of those preexisting conditions they kept talking about on the news. But she was alone. She had been pretty careful, had worn her mask, but also had had to get her groceries and essentials sometimes or just go on a walk. The little town in Bretagne didn’t have delivery the way they do in the city. And when she went out, she always ran into someone she knew, whether the grocer himself or a friend walking their dog. They would stop and talk a while, even if a meter apart. Risk was unavoidable. The virus could have been on something she ate or lingering in the air after a sneeze. It could have been enveloping her, invading her at any time. Unknown and certainly unbidden, it could have entered her system with the sole motivation of taking it over, feeding off of her nutrients to stay alive to be passed on to the next victim. 

I received a call from the hospital number just after getting home. It wasn’t the typical time, so I was hopeful she was getting out.

‘Bonjour? Oui, c’est Mademoiselle Thibaud.’

‘Mademoiselle, I’m so sorry to tell you this. Your mother died today. We did everything we could.’

I was silent.

‘Are you ok? Well no, probably not. I’m sorry it is all like this, so impersonal. I have to tell you that we will keep the body here for up to a day only because of the problems. I know, it’s not something you want to hear. Shall we go ahead and organize the cremation or do you have someone who will prepare a funeral?’

‘No. It’s just me.’

‘Ok, so can we go ahead with the cremation?’

‘Oui.’

‘Mademoiselle, this is a good choice. I will organize it all and send you the information as I understand you are in Austria?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

I recited my email address and hung up. My mother would be dust, back to the sand and salt of the earth. 

Maybe she had waited too long to go to the hospital. Maybe the virus had already caught her too strongly. Or maybe it was better to have had a few extra days in her home, with her dog. Would it have changed things if I had been there? 

Or would we have died together?

⬩

In the hours that followed, I tried to wrestle with the concept of her death. I wanted to feel it and to make some sense of it. There was no question she had been a good woman, so at least there was that. But what impact had she had on the world? She lived a small life, even more so after my dad died. She enjoyed it and was kind to people. Would they remember her? Did it matter?

I didn’t know if she had suffered or not, so I tried to imagine that she hadn’t, that the drugs in the hospital had calmed her. Anyway, she would have been isolated besides talking to some nurses behind plastic. But she had always been a solitary person; maybe being alone wasn’t all that bad. I realized I was trying not to feel guilty for not being there, but there was no way I could’ve been. I guess I could’ve been there before, when she first got sick. 

There was nobody to talk to about it or about her. Even if I did call someone, what would we talk about? 

No matter what the story: she was dead. 

I wrote a long email to my uncle, her brother, and my aunt, my dad’s sister. I just made it longer so they wouldn’t think I was an awful person for not calling. I said it was too hard for me to talk right now so they would pity me. I sent nearly the same email to two of her friends. I then sent a small memo to the local news at home. There was nobody else to tell. 

I felt like I was watching myself from the ceiling and just waiting for some emotion to come through on my face. I couldn’t get any tears to come until forcing them by cutting my thigh with a kitchen knife. It was just a little cut, enough to feel the pain. I felt stupid because her pain must have been so much worse. Then I realized she would never have pain again. I wasn’t sure if this was a positive conclusion or not. 

⬩

By evening, I was struggling to cope in my little flat. It wasn’t sadness exactly, more like imprisonment, but this time the prison was my mind, not the quarantine in my flat. I screamed out of desperation of not knowing what to do or feel. Maybe a part of me wanted to be heard by someone with an answer or at least a hug.

Unconsciously, I then smashed a bottle of red wine on the floor. It startled me after it happened as if something else had moved my hand into the action. I left it in the kitchen and went into the living room to curl up under a blanket. The violence inside had been let out, and I felt somewhat better.

Fifteen minutes later, the police showed up at my door.

The neighbors must’ve called; but why didn’t they come to check on me? Was it the virus? They could have simply called through the door. 

The police asked me if I was alone, that somebody had heard shouting and something breaking. Then they asked if I was ill. I still had the blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I sputtered out that my mother had died. Nobody responded to this. I didn’t understand what they were doing until it dawned on me that they weren’t concerned for my well-being at all. Instead, they just wanted me to shut up and not disturb the others. They also didn’t want to get sick. 

After noting I did not appear ill, they entered my flat to have a look around. I had forgotten about the wine bottle. 

‘You are definitely alone?’ they switched to English because of my foreignness though we had been speaking in German.

‘Yes.’

They looked at me with suspicion while pointing to the kitchen, ‘What happened here?’

I think I held my breath for almost a minute while my face turned red behind my mask. Eventually, I exploded: ‘My mother fucking died! Did you not fucking hear me?’

But it was as if my words were ghostly: ‘That looks dangerous. Please be careful cleaning it up. We need to take your name, miss — ?’

‘I don’t want to give you my name.’

‘Well, do you live here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ok, we’ll just look at the records. Auf Wiedersehen.’ 

They left without another word.

The other neighbors must have heard my final declaration, which also pleased me. Now, maybe they would leave me alone again.

I heard them murmuring in the hallway as they closed the door. I had a rage inside me still and I didn’t know where to put it, so I pulled out a clump of hair and smacked my face, again and again, until I fell to the floor. The spilled wine moved slowly toward me until it soaked my light blue jeans an irreversible shade of pink. 

This time, I screamed silently out of fear. I opened my mouth to its largest hinges. Ishmael licked the wine from my jeans. I placed him on my lap and stroked his fur, keeping him away from the glass

There was nobody outside anymore, no one waiting for me or coming to my aid. No one waiting for a telephone call or sitting in the other room. Even my spare key sat in a cold ceramic cup without a friend to hold it.

Emptiness was all around me. The agoraphobia reached me even in my apartment now, so I knew I had to get out, either by jumping on a plane with a few of my belongings or jumping out the open window to forever remain a horror of this city, staining the streets with my blood and streaking the media with headlines about the fate of that girl who was fucking in the photograph.     

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To be continued…

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