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.
∞ Table of Contents | Blurb
∞ Author’s Foreword
Chapter 25
The room I woke up in was made of large stones. I couldn’t remember noticing them during the night or when I had first arrived. There was a huge tapestry on the wall facing the bed that reminded me of the one in Bayeux my parents had taken me to. On that trip, we had also seen the Normandy bunkers and several cemeteries, both for the Allied forces and a German one. My father had said, ‘These soldiers didn’t have much choice. If something bad happens again in this world, please Marie, run away.’ His father had died in the war, far away and lost, impossible to visit any grave. He had been far too old for conscription, but he had wanted to make a difference.
Somebody knocked on the door and I pulled the covers up to allow them to enter.
‘Yes?’ It would have been futile to hide anyway.
It was Farkas who poked his head in: ‘Madame, would you like some breakfast?’
‘Please!’
He then entered with a silver tray of viennoiseries and a silver pot of coffee that he placed on the bed. It was as if nothing had happened the night before.
‘Enjoy, madame. I am to drive you to the train station in an hour. Do you require anything else?’
‘Only my…’ I hesitated to say my clothes, feeling awkward though I was already naked under the covers.
‘Your clothes, madame?’ the butler smiled kindly, ‘No matter. Here, Josef asked me to find you something new.’
He handed me several shopping bags with knee-high leather boots, warm tights in several colors, underwear and bras, and three tailored dresses, each black but with different textures. Everything still had tags on. He left before I could thank him, my fingers still testing the expensive fabrics.
I wondered briefly if they had been bought for Marija. Then I recalled Josef was not rich; could these items be business expenses? Things a male honeypot could claim from their employer.
I chose the burgundy dress with pearly buttons and left to find my way downstairs about five minutes before our departure. The driver was waiting for me near the entranceway with a long, fur-lined coat.
I felt like I was in a film taking place at least a century ago.
‘Don’t worry,’ the butler smirked, ‘the fur is fake. But it’s an exceptional quality faux fur.’
‘Oh. Beautiful!’
He held out the sleeves and escorted me down the snowy stairs to the car.
Farkas opened the back door, cueing me to take the role of passenger-client only. I felt relieved. In the back seat, in my luxury. He didn’t say a word and turned up the music.
⬩
The ride back was uneventful. My new clothes helped me play a role; somehow Hungarian things made me feel exotic in Vienna, as if it were the chic and edgy neighbor to traditional beauty covering up secret filth. I knew Hungary had its political problems, but at least they were out in the open.
The rest of my day was rather uneventful. I had to do a small job online. During those jobs, no matter the topic, I have to be fully present for interpretation. It’s like a meditation; there’s no leaving the present moment.
⬩
But after, instead of thinking about the weird experience in Budapest, I pondered what Josef had told me about the church. It was just nearby. I could even see the steeple from my flat. If this was really the place, I had to be careful about my approach. I still had no idea where the painting could be. In the crypt? Under a pew? Behind another painting in the church? I remember reading something about hidden paintings that were painted over. There was a process that could safely remove the top coat of paint. That would take quite a bit of time and people involved to get it done, though.
I was lost. So I went to bed with Ishmael at my feet.
The morning church bells entered my soul like mind control. I was lying in bed, already half awake, eyes closed, and just pondering what future I had and if anyone in the world actually gave a fuck about me. I came up with a very short list, including you guys - thank you. But I was again drifting into sleep when the long wake-up bells began at seven o’clock just like every other day. It was as if they were saying to me, ‘There is no time to stop and feel sorry for yourself; you must just get up and continue.’ I imagined that many Viennese had faced the morning bells in this way before and that some perhaps encountered them this way every day. The bells motioned them all to get on with life.
This morning those bells I could see from my window were loud and toxic. Other days they had been a joyous welcoming to the day, an easy way of waking up. It was as if I had a massive hangover and the ringing entered my head as if my skull had become the dome and inside its chime churned the innards of my brain to mush, reminding me that I was not in control of what was there, that my identity had spun away from who I really was. The sound vibrations changed the rhythm of my heartbeat.
What had I become? A dutiful worker? A solitary thinker? A shameless intellectual? A runaway? Who was I to anyone anymore?
The bells’ absence brought me back. I had a task to do. I recalled my initial encounter in that church with the lady ushering me out. Had she been a kind of ever-present guardian? Or was she a kind of demon connected to the painting in some way?
Nothing was impossible anymore. I realized I just had to go and find out for myself.
I knew this. And yet, I could not force myself to go, despite all the other church research I had done. I felt suddenly so lonely in my quest.
I hadn’t heard from Fred and Roger since the encounter at Prater and had forgotten about contacting them when I went to see Josef. I reached for the burner phone and tried to keep my message fairly cryptic: Went to see him. Have a lead on a church.
One of them replied almost immediately: Great news! Please check it out and let us know.
They trusted me. I was their spy. They didn’t think I would mess it up or they would have asked where and gone themselves. It all felt like some game they were playing on me. It was as if Josef had already told them this information and they were simply encouraging my confidence. What if asking about the painting there were dangerous? What if they were all setting me up for a trap?
My paranoia, and possibly my loneliness, made me do something once unthinkable. I called Akihiro for help. I knew it could be a dangerous move for many reasons, and mostly, I didn’t want to admit that I needed help to him. But he was the only non-spy I could call. Plus, we could speak in Japanese about anything secretive.
⬩
We met first on the Gürtel, which means belt in German. It’s that ugly road that wraps around the city. Anyway, there’s this pathway in the middle of it that starts near Westbahnhof. There are lots of drunks and addicts out as usual by the train station. The only difference was that they were all separated from one another. I imagined how cold the winter must have been for them and wondered how many had not survived COVID (so far…).
Akihiro and I walked the stipulated distance apart with traffic on either side. It seemed like one of the safest places to talk. It would have been impossible to surprise or surveil us. I was discovering that merely my intuition could create spy strategies. It was a lot more about conversations and using common sense than fancy gadgets and violent encounters.
We danced between English and Japanese, peppered with a little German here and there. It was as if we embodied the power of multiple boundaries that spies had used after the war. I imagined the Gürtel must have been a frequent meeting place. I had seen a map showing this edge between the seventh and fifteenth Bezirk to be the transition point from American to French control.
I told him about the painting. I was careful not to tell him about any people I had spoken to besides Frau Grüber, mostly to protect him. I also didn’t let him know about the plan for it that Josef had relayed to me. Instead, I told him: ‘Trust me, there is a good purpose for it. And at the end, it will be displayed for the public.’
‘Ok, sounds good. I’ll help you. I mean, it’s only a painting, after all. I don’t think we will be in any danger.’
‘It’s a multi-million dollar painting though! People have been killed for a lot less. Are you sure you’re ok with this?’
‘Yes. Let’s check out this church.’
⬩
We walked back another twenty minutes to arrive at the entryway. ‘It looks closed,’ Akahiro said.
‘Pull hard on the metal ring.’ The door jostled loose and we opened it just enough to squeeze in before it sealed shut again.
I expected the same woman to be seated where I had seen her, as if she haunted the place at all times. Instead, the priest was sitting in the same pew. I was sure of it because it was the one completely in darkness. No light from the high windows reached it due to the large wooden beams that crossed overhead.
He did not stir. I glanced at Akihiro and pointed at him. He whispered in Japanese, ‘He’s praying, I think.’
The priest turned, and I prepared to run out.
‘Anata wa nihongo o hanashimasu. Hai?’
‘Wow!’ Akahiro continued in his native language, ‘Yes, we do. I am from Japan and she also speaks Japanese. And you, sir, er - Father - why do you speak Japanese?’
The priest laughed. ‘It’s strange, isn’t it? I rarely get to use it anymore…sorry, it’s a bit rusty. I once lived in your country. I came to learn about Zen Buddhism.’
‘What? But you are Catholic…’
‘Precisely. It’s good to learn about other religions. In fact, I loved it so much I would have converted, but I don’t think I would have as big a congregation here. Instead, I am a Catholic priest, yes, but I include a lot of Buddhist ideas in my teachings. Don’t you think this is a good way to reach people? Maybe it’s a little sneaky.’
I was impressed. This man had his a covert operation. I thought it was a good time to ask about Wolfgang, since somebody else could walk in at any moment, including the freaky woman. The conversation was moving fast, but then I had learned the Viennese-like directness.
‘Do you happen to have known Wolfgang Lechner?’ I also spoke in Japanese, hoping it would impress him.
The priest looked up at one of the stained glass windows a while before returning his gaze to me. ‘Yes. I knew him. A little. He was a friend of my sister.’
Both Akihiro and I silently nodded.
He continued: ‘They were friends in school. Helena is a little crazy but loveable. She often sits in this church. Over here, always,’ he pointed toward the area where the strange lady had been sitting the last time, ‘She was traumatized from the war — even though she was just a toddler. I wasn’t even born yet. And then during the Allied occupation, she was in school. She had to move from the Russian zone to the British one every day. At least twice a day as a child, she showed her papers there and felt like there were people constantly watching her. She quickly learned English in order to communicate better at the borders and with the soldiers in general. My mother warned her about them. As a young, pretty girl, she could have been taken advantage of. Instead, she always said they reminded her of her brother or father to catch them off guard and remind them of home. Their visages shifted quickly when she did this. It was a trick, as was moving between languages, German and English, mostly, but a few words of French and Russian as well. My whole family loves languages, you see, but she is especially gifted at it.’
‘I think the whole thing messed her up. She never moved out of our family apartment and became an English teacher at the local school. It gave her some community and purpose.
‘At one point, I thought she must be a spy. She was so clever that I couldn’t imagine her being content in the small life she had created. There must be a double life she had hidden from us all. But I never found evidence, and now she is in her nineties ten years older than me. I would think she would have told me by now.
‘Come back sometime when she is here. She would be pleased to speak with some other linguists!
I promised that we would, and we left.
As soon as the door closed, I whispered, ‘That must be it. The woman on the pew.’
Akihiro laughed, ‘There’s no way some old lady in a church could be your answer.’
‘Why not?’
’She would have done something with the painting ages ago, probably return it to the owners.’
‘I guess you’re right. Dead end. Or maybe the priest is hiding something.’
‘I think you should just move on. Tell them there was nothing. Maybe they’ll leave you alone. Go back to being a carefree interpreter instead of freaking out about weird stuff and making us walk on the ugly Gürtel just to have a conversation.’ He was sort of laughing but I could see him looking at me in a way that showed genuine concern, and a little annoyance as well.
‘Maybe. Yes, maybe the spy life is not for me.’
‘What’s in it for you anyway? Did they offer you a cut?’
‘No. I guess I just wanted to do the right thing.’
I realized it then. Something had shifted inside of me. Although others saw inaction and isolation, I had found a reason to live. I no longer craved importance or status as I once had. Instead, I wanted to simply do something good. Marija had been able to have both. But her ambassador life and flashy clothes, even her husband, were all a show. The only real part of her had been the work she was trying to do for her people, knowing it was dangerous. I guess the other part had possibly been her love for Josef. Things could get messy, though; she or Josef would have killed the other for their cause if necessary, despite this love.
Better to stay alone. I can accomplish more for this world in that way. I parted ways with Akihiro, vowing to leave him out of it from then on.
To be continued…
Find all the published chapters in the Table of Contents.
Closer and closer - I can't wait to get my hands on that painting... uh, I mean, Marie get her hands, yeah, that's it. ;) It is strange - strange to need to remind ourselves that yes, people do kill for money, and not always vast sums.
Chapter 25 captures the mood of uncertainty brilliantly. The vivid scene in the church, where the protagonist contemplates, "What had I become? A dutiful worker? A solitary thinker?" adds a profound layer to the narrative. It’s a captivating blend of introspection and suspense, with every detail heightening the intrigue.