An Interpreter in Vienna | Chapter 4

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.

∞ Table of Contents | Blurb
∞ Author’s Foreword
∞ Discussions about Layering Fiction

Chapter 4

Eventually, the extreme heat broke, and I began to settle into a rhythm of going into work whenever there was an assignment and seeking side jobs when there wasn’t.

On my way home from work, I got off at Prater to explore a different part of the city. I spotted the famous Ferris wheel soon after coming off the train, but first I had to go by the many vagrants and addicts near the train station. People at the margins were left somewhat undisturbed here due to the large space for them to roam and hide. The rich Viennese neither lived nor worked here, so they didn’t complain about their presence. 

These were sad-looking souls, but I was also afraid of them. Their gaping smiles stared out at me in search of something that I could not give them. 

It was a strange time of day and there was a weird energy on the fairgrounds. The children were mostly in school and it was just after tourist season. The people who wandered there were loners like me, perhaps also new to the city, and a few small groups of university students or unemployed twenty-somethings having drinks. 

In front of me was the iconic Ferris wheel which I knew to be famous from The Third Man. Red and looming, it was a bridge to a joyous past. Nothing about Vienna’s classical music and gothic architecture seemed to match the kitsch quality of this fair.

A plaque nearby told me the history in German. It had been built for Emperor Franz Joseph in 1896 by some English engineers and was the biggest wheel in the world at that time. The bombings in WWII had destroyed parts of it, but it was also one of the first structures to be restored in 1947¹. 

An old man with a gold front tooth stood by the gate with a money belt around his waist. Keeping watch, he held a large lever tightly, although the wheel was static. 

There wasn’t a line. Only an asynchronous couple with a child stood to get on. Some supernatural force pulled me toward them and I reached for the correct change to enter. 

The man moved the wheel for me to get on a few gondolas later either for the physics of balance or for our privacy. One of the groups of college students saw the wheel start to turn and found it hilarious; they ran over and begged the man for a discount which he refused. They got on anyway after paying the normal tariff to the gatekeeper who simply grunted acceptance in reply. 

Three occupied gondolas among thirty. 

Below were geometric lines, moving, and ant-like humans remind us we are all minuscule in the churning of the universe.

The rickety sounds reminded me we could fall to the ground at any moment. 

I saw a few tiny creatures walking along Prater. Two men holding hands caught my eye. They looked a lot like Fred and Roger, but I couldn’t be certain. It would have made sense for them to come on a walk after their river bathing. 

We swooped around slowly for fifteen minutes and waited to be let off one by one. I was stuck at the top, dangling with time to consider just how old and rickety the device I had entrusted my life to really was. 

I glanced down to watch the others climb off. First, the family left, as they clutched their baby closely who must have fallen asleep to the wheel’s movement. Then the wheel spun a little to let out the students who exploded from the car to their next adventure.

I should’ve been next, but the man stopped the machine again and opened the creaky door. I hadn’t seen anyone else get on. Perhaps in the commotion of the students or my awe at the view, this had happened. It was Brian and an older man. I could hear the mumbles of their speech, which certainly wasn’t English but an unrecognizable Eastern European language or maybe Russian. 

I was realizing quickly how small this world really was. They walked away with purpose down toward the long boulevard in the same direction I had seen the British men. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen me getting on; my back must’ve been to him as he arrived. But then he was with someone else, so maybe he had remained oblivious. Who was it? An uncle? Business associate? 

Perhaps he had been protecting me by keeping his distance. Or, he could have been following me.

There was no way of knowing unless I contacted him, and there was no way I was going to do that. I drifted in the other direction, though it was less desirable, back to the train station. There could be power in observation and in taking my time.

Photo by Alessandra Verre on Unsplash

The next week was rather mundane except that it was my first contact with Marija. I had opted not to visit the Englishmen at their shop. Something told me not to make myself too exposed and there was something strange about the way they had been standing under that tree at the river. 

Instead, in my time looking for side gigs, which I told myself was for money but I knew was really in seeking excitement, I had made a contact with the Bulgarian ambassador who happened to speak French. She also spoke Bulgarian, of course, as well as Russian and had decided long ago that this was enough. 

Marija actually understood quite a bit of German and English but preferred to pretend she spoke none so that she could overhear anything meant as an aside to her deaf ears. I noted the fantastic and clever strategy. The woman was powerful and I liked it. I agreed to help her whenever I had extra time. It appeared like a straightforward exchange and, anyway, the money was pretty good. I was hoping to send a little home to Maman every now and then.

‘Très bien. J’adore parler en français. Et toi, je pense que tu es discrète. J’aime bien ta disposition.’

I wasn’t sure how she had already worked out she liked me on the phone, but I chose to ignore it since she enjoyed speaking French, I could perhaps attend some interesting functions. 

‘Mostly there is a Hungarian man I do business with. He doesn’t speak French but his English is good. I will need you when I work with him. Sometimes it will be a rather intimate conversation or venue. Can you handle this?’

‘Oui, bien sur, Madame.’

‘Marie, call me Marija. In any case, I want you to meet him first. I’ve orchestrated his attendance at your boss’s dinner party later in the week. You’ll be invited as well. I’m off to Russia today for the next few weeks for some business, so we will have to wait to meet in person. This man will know why you’re there but will pretend not to. Ok?’

‘Sure, no problem.’ I had learned in my profession when not to ask questions. 

‘His name is Josef. He is very careful; he needs to feel that he can trust you. But I will also ask you the same question about him. This is how I work.’

Of course, I agreed again. I was finally feeling like I might be doing something exciting, that I could have a role in the world more than just playing with language. At the same time, I knew I had to be silent about it, and I thought the fewer close friends I made the better. They might keep me from getting on with my private business. In hindsight, not catching up with my new UN colleagues may have been for the better. I remained aloof and free, roaming and navigating the strange city as I pleased.

A ding cut into my thoughts. It was a text from you, Julie, inviting me to your home for a dinner party that Thursday.

My new world had been set in motion. 

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To be continued…

1. Here’s a nice exploration from Culture Trip and a scene on the Ferris wheel from Richard Linklater’s gorgeous film Before Sunrise.