An Interpreter in Vienna | Chapter 13

Part II: Scopophobia

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 13

The next day, I woke up late into the morning to the sound of my phone vibrating. It must have been four by the time I had gotten home, and the others were still partying. I hadn’t expected the balls to be like this; I thought the formalities would keep it rather tame and everything would wrap up by midnight. 

Looking at my phone, I saw a bunch of messages had come through from Julie a couple of hours ago and now Marija was texting me. I was curious why each of them was texting me so quickly after the ball, but I figured it must be to tell me something about the ending of the party or just check I was ok, in your case, Julie. 

I opened up your texts after a few minutes (I didn’t want Marija to see I was online; I wasn’t really in the mood for talking). 

Did you get home alright?

And then a few minutes later:

Have you seen Kronen Zeitung? Something is going viral right now

There’s a photo…it’s not a great one. It looks like your green dress but can’t be. Have a look…

I clicked on the link you sent and saw an image described as two people having sex in the large windowed foyer photographed from the street. In reality, you couldn’t tell what they were doing but they were certainly intertwined. The woman was in a green dress like her own. The man was nondescript in a black suit and seen from the back; it could have been anybody. 

‘Oh my god,’ I thought aloud, ‘It does look like me…’

I knew in a flash that it must be Marija. And Josef. 

The tabloid speculated as such as I read below it: “A source has identified the woman as Bulgarian Ambassador Marija ——. However, the man has yet to be known. Send us your tips!”

Fuck. 

So then I opened Marija’s texts:

Marie! Oh my god, Marie. What am I going to do? Have you seen the local news?

I need to kill this story or my husband will divorce me and the government will force me to step down.

There was an interval of a few minutes until the next one:

You have to help me. You had that same colored dress. People were commenting on it, weren’t they?

Fuck. I knew what she was after. I knew I was trapped.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! 

You’re single. Nothing wrong with a little fun! Couldn’t it be you in that photo?

I’ll pay you. Just give me a call, we can talk about it…

Photo by Melloo on Unsplash

Shamefully, I agreed to meet her at Cafe Landtmann¹, where she often had breakfast on a Sunday. She wanted to keep up with normal behaviors. 

The grandness of the interior made me feel as if I were in a film. The host brought me to Marija’s table where she was speaking on the phone in Russian with an anxious expression on her face that surprised me despite the situation.

She hung up abruptly as I arrived. ‘Sorry, do you want me to go outside a while?’

‘Don’t be silly. That’s other business. We’ve got to save the world, Marie! Don’t we? You’re a part of this now.’

It felt like a film, which made it easier to just go along with. Sometimes the whole of Vienna felt this way. It was some kind of trick being placed on all of us: pawns in conspiracies of the powerful. I wasn’t sure yet if Marija was high enough up the ladder to be one of these powers, or if she was merely a puppet like the rest of us. 

No conversation here could be a part of real life. Waiters dressed in old-fashioned black and white toddled silver trays of tiny cakes in between the booths, occasionally grasping the wooden handle of a newspaper scroll with whatever part of appendage remained. They were efficient and limber in movement. 

We ordered coffees, a Melange and a Verlängerter schwarz², and drank them in porcelain cups on a white tablecloth. I had rehearsed what I would first say to her. 

‘To be honest, I don’t get why it’s such a big deal? Won’t it be worse if you try to change and defend it?’

‘You don’t know the people I work for.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean…they don’t want me to draw attention to myself. I should be a dutiful diplomat and wife. Otherwise, they will wonder what I’m getting up to. If you know what I mean.’

She didn’t mention her husband like she had in the texts. It didn’t appear like it was the sex exactly, that it would upset her husband. It was more about some work issue and allegiances. It was something completely past my pay grade, so to speak.

But I guess there was a part of me that enjoyed the idea of this story being me. Not the real me, but a fantasy I was living out. Somebody who was talked about in the papers. Somebody who had exquisite sex during Viennese balls. 

I left the cafe without a clear response. I said I would think about it and she suggested I talk to you, Julie. I thought that a bit strange, but I guess she knew I didn’t have anyone close nearby. 

So I did. You pitied me but also found the whole story a bit juicy.

‘Why not just go with it? You’ve got nothing to lose. It’s sort of fun, isn’t it?’

‘Do you think it will affect my job?’

‘I’ll tell Gregoire the truth. I don’t think it would matter anyway; you should’ve seen what the last interpreter got up to. But just to be sure, he’ll know. You’re doing the right thing. She’s an ambassador after all.’

‘Ok. Thanks, Julie.’

‘But also, are you alright? You sound a bit lonely.’

‘I know some people at the UN. I’m ok.’

‘Sure, but this is a weird place. You have to protect yourself. Why not get a dog? Those old apartments can be really creepy at night.’

You then asked about Frau Grüber. I could see you had a fondness for her. ‘Has she mentioned the painting to you yet?’

‘Your painting on the wall?’

‘No, not that one. It’s probably nothing; she’s old and confused. Somehow, she thinks that her lover was hiding a Klimt! Can you believe it?’

‘Wow. That would be incredible.’

‘I know, wouldn’t it? If it’s true, we can’t let it be lost forever. Maybe you can ask her about it next time you see her? It would give you two something to talk about other than her grief. She is also lonely. I suggested she get a dog, but she just laughed!’

⬩

You were so kind to go to the shelter with me later that week to pick out the dog. I felt a small part of my soul wake up when he approached me and kissed my hand. No matter what happens since you receive this account, Julie, I want to thank you for that. 

⬩

I spent the day trying to relax, so I went to the place that reminded me of Paris for some wine and cheese in the afternoon. Beau Lieu was hidden in the arcades and always conjured up thoughts of Benjamin for me. He immersed himself in the Paris arcades like a hidden city of a dreamlike quality. I ordered a bottle of Côtes du Rhône and slowly drank it away until the curves of the arcade beamed and bent over me like a surrealist architectural experiment. Here, although in the heart of the first bezirk, I was hidden from view and from precipitation. I was even hidden from time. Those of us on the inside were in shelter. I could speak French; I could get drunk on expensive wine; nobody would bother me. 

⬩

The bells came again in the evening as usual. They started to take a chillier tone than on arrival. I remember them singing out to me in the autumn after initial fears, marking my inclusion in a common experience. Now they seemed a knell. Reminders of tragedies in the past and warnings of the present. 

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To be continued…

Find all the published chapters in the Table of Contents. I’m in Istria for two weeks with very spotty wifi, so apologies for not getting back to your comments sooner. I’ll get there eventually!

1. A historic cafe in Vienna. Also a home to artists and writers.

2. How to order coffee in Vienna