A.B.S.T, Ch5

Alas, I've misplaced my camera. It must be somewhere, but I'm not going to spend ten minutes looking for it when I could be guzzling my grub.

Our first veggie dish, this one (after all, it is the 21st century), and quite simple: boil some spaghetti up, and mix a heaping tablespoon of green pesto and a bit more mascarpone in a bowl. Add a handful of chopped rocket and a sprinkle of black pepper and mix it all up. Drain the spag, reserving some water, and toss with the sauce, adding a couple of spoonfuls of water to loosen it. Then add some more rocket, put it all in a bowl, and grate parmesan over. You can have it hot or cold: it's nicely tingly and refreshing cold.

Meanwhile, the seven-day plan lumbers unhaltingly onward!


I awoke in a warm, soft bed: the first time in Vienna that I did, and that made it all the better.

Thinking on this, I smiled to myself: for years I had slept in the same bed, one blanket in summer and two in winter, as the mattress steadily accrued more patches and stitches. (In my last year at home I had had to bend my knees to fit, but I hadn't mentioned this to anyone: there was no point in making the expense of a new one when I would be gone so soon.) Since coming here I hadn't slept in the same place twice. It was bona-fide symbolic!

Where was I today, though? There had been a fire burning in the night: the air was thick and pungent with the residue of the flames, and the weak sunlight filling the room shared it with a reddish glow.

Sitting up was a daunting prospect: I felt limp, dried-out, weak as a paralysed kitten. After much effort, I stirred and pulled myself up, discovering in the process that I was quite naked.

I was in a small room that contained, besides the bed, no evidence of any habitation: a spare room, I thought, a room for sleeping in and not for living in. The cold light of the sun shone through a large window looking out on swirling snow and another window across the street, with nothing to be seen of the ground below; the red glow came from some dying embers hidden behind a grating - hung, I saw to my relief, with my clothes.

I unfolded myself from the bed little by little, pausing to adapt to each new temperature. Even lying naked on the covers, I wasn't uncomfortably cold: the room was cozy with ash-scented warmth. I even felt a little hot as I donned my garments. They were the same ones, I realised with a momentary prick of shame, that I'd been wearing when I stepped down from the Brno train three nights ago. There were my trousers, the flecks of mud about their ankles dry and distressingly obvious; my rough and crumpled shirt, rough because my family bought only rough Indian cotton, so as not to finance the American slave-barons - the crumpling was all on my watch; my subduedly checkered waistcoat; my neckcloth in the Brno colours of red and white, but so faded now that you could hardly tell; my low peaked cap in the German fashion - or un-fashion, as those were the days when everyone but students and soldiers wore top-hats, be they silky black or battered rabbit-skin, in totemic imitation of the chimneys springing up over Europe's cities; and the coat that had been my father's. Only my boots were missing, which brought the events of last night into sharp relief.

I went over to the window, imagining for some reason that the sight of the snow and the muffled sound of the wind would cool me down. As I went I tied my neckcloth under my shirt-collar like a sailer's neckerchief: a little badge of student status like the cap. I marvelled that this cap had somehow stayed attached through all my misadventures: probably this meant it was too small.

Outside, it was impossible to tell which way the wind was blowing, so intricate was the dance of the snow. Flakes plummeted in great swooping flocks towards the ground, and then swept at the last moment out of their dive, turned this way and that and wound back on themselves - and suddenly as one they lunged at the window and hurtled straight towards me! I stepped instinctively onto my back foot... and then they fell away to chase each other along Seitenstettengasse (just possible to make out from my vantage on somebody's fifth floor) like boys in pursuit of their ball.

I was still watching all this, mesmerised, when someone knocked at the door.

"Morning, Ottokar, you decent?," said Jan's voice.

"If you can stand the sight of my bare feet."

"I'm sure they're very nice feet, but fortunately I have some modest coverings for them." Jan entered, bringing with him a pair of boots. "These belonged to the Rabbi Kochmann, but his feet shrank. Should fit you nicely. The socks are his son's. We sort of, well... set fire to yours. By mistake."

I glanced suspiciously over to the fireplace: there did seem to be something fibrous in there...

"I'm sure it's a great privilege, to be given the Rabbi's boots," said Jan diplomatically, and I sat down on the bed to put them on. They were a good fit, and both soft and sturdy. They held your feet, but left room for you to waggle your toes: a privilege indeed, whether or not they were imbued with any mystical powers. I savoured their gentle tread as we descended two flights of stairs to join an ongoing breakfast. It was only a little past eight, according to a grandfather clock in the dining room: I must have been getting used to rough nights.

Around the table were the Rabbi Kochmann, a withered but tough old gentleman who reminded me immediately of his own boots; Mrs. the Rabbi Kochmann, who was even tougher and more withered, if that were possible; Macebulski; Christian; and Max. The breakfast was humble but varied: I could see all the staples of a German morning's table, even ham for the benefit of the gentiles and, conspicuously, Max.

"Benefits of atheism," he said when he saw me glancing at him; I blushed and felt rude.

"Master Eberstark is always welcome here, not only because his father is a very good friend of mine, but also because all the other Jews always agree with whatever I say," said the Rabbi. "His presence brings a little controversy. It's very refreshing."

"It is a theory of mine," said Macebulski conversationally as I pulled up a chair, "That the similar prohibition of pig-meat in Islam, as well as alcohol, is one reason why Vladimir the Great chose to make the Russians Christian. He was set on one of the great religions but doesn't seem to have cared which overly. The pig is important in their climate: they eat the fat as well as the meat, for warmth. And I've never tried to go a winter without my vodka, but I don't imagine it would be pleasant."

I nodded vaguely. "It's an interesting idea, but... Russia and Orthodoxy are so very deeply bound up, it seems... awfully prosaic."

Macebulski chuckled genially. "History usually is, 'Sts. C&M'. You're a romantic soul; that encourages a healthy interest in history, but to study it for a living you must be an utter cynic. I should know: I have been a history teacher in my long and checkered career. Language is the field for you."

"And besides, if you're to live in Germany, you must know all about tactical conversions," said Mrs. the Rabbi Kochmann. "Look at Heinrich Heine. 'God will forgive me, that's his job'!" The poet was a year dead then; I’d heard of him but never had a chance to read any of his works, banned as they all of course were. I chuckled along and seemed to see unexplored landscapes roll out before me.

"Or my father," put in Jan. "He has a sudden awakening and becomes Protestant once a fortnight, when it's time for his confessions. Then he forgets about it." There was another chuckle; mine, though, a slightly guilty one. When I was fifteen or so, my parents had said I should go to confessionals by myself, and shortly afterwards I'd stopped going. I didn't like to think of myself as a lapsed Catholic so much as a busy one. I went to church at Christmas, and when the fancy took me, and occasionally felt penitent about it all.

We had all soon eaten our fill from the Rabbi's generous table: I might have arrived later than the others, but my appetite was lesser, for I had a dreadful apprehension gnawing at my stomach and all my ham and cheese escaped through the resulting hole before I could properly digest it. At some lull in the conversation, I had realised I was going to have to get my luggage back today, somehow...

But fortunately a distraction appeared: Macebulski, who knew all about the superstitions of romantically-minded students, offered me a look at some of our prizes. We found them stowed about the house in various obscure corners, dark and dry.

"I'll be sending some of the troops round to collect them tomorrow night," he said. "We can't cause poor David and his wife any more trouble than we already have. You needn't come. You deserve a rest for now. There's something else you can do for me in a couple of day's time, a solo mission."

I made no reply: I was flicking dumbly through the book in my hands. It was in perfect condition, the pages crisp and supple with neatly printed Magyar words galloping incomprehensibly down them, fabulously adorned in accents and umlauts. They looked so wonderful, so exotic and fantastical, that I had to wonder how anyone could bring himself to ban them and burn them.

"Last night's mission was atypical. I can't ask anyone to go handing in essays and diving into the Danube every week. Our work is actually rather dull, usually. Dull but rewarding, I hope."

I nodded vacantly: I was somewhere on the Pannonian plain, in the wake of the Magyar horde.

"Geothe told me about your misadventures. I'd rather you got arrested than that you drowned, to be honest - but I need brave boys, quick-witted ones. You'll go far, Sts. C&M."

That was the third person to call me brave. Nobody had ever called me 'a romantic soul' in quite those words before, either (the phrasing had usually been closer to 'refuses to pay attention in class'; I had heard 'quick-witted' from some teachers, but others preferred 'his results are not consistent with his display of effort and discipline; cheating is probable'). It seemed that Sts. Cyril and Methodius was a rather more interesting, exciting person than Ottokar Jánkovač ever had been.

"...Thankyou, sir."

"Are you up for this solo job?"

I nodded: Sts. Cyril and Methodius, being brave, quick-witted, and a romantic soul, obviously took solo missions whenever they were on offer.

Macebulski nodded once in approval. "These are all Hungarian. Most of them are manuscripts needing publication, but there's a cluster that I took as a commission from an old colleague of mine. He lives just over in Wieden, and you can drop them round for me. I think you'll get on well with him."

"I hope so, sir."

"Good lad. You can do that after your lecture on Friday." He eased the book from my hands. "Off you trot, then! You've got required reading."

I stood on the spot for a moment: the abruptness of my dismissal had taken me aback. But then I recovered and darted away. After all, I did have required reading. I tried to stifle my sense of adventure for a while.

Partly it was conscientious obedience to the professor's parting words, partly it was a feeling that after all this smuggling I deserved some loot, and partly - though I would not admit it even to myself - it was a desire to dodge the urgent business of the day: but whatever the cause, I felt anxious to get my hands on a book. I told Jan and Christian, as we put on our winter gear in the Rabbi's cloakroom, that we would have to make a raid on the bookshop.

"Ah, splendid! Haven't been in a while, have we, Christian?"

"As you advance in life, the books get fewer and fatter," said Christian, attempting to work out which end of his scarf was which.

"Do you mean life or do you mean law?," I said with a smile. "Or can you not tell any more?"

The scarf was knotted into submission with a few sharp tugs. "You're developing a tongue there, Ottokar. Jan's been a bad influence on you, clearly."

"I try!," said Jan.

I grinned. "I try, too."

It was all too easy to slip back into carefree banter and to imagine - insofar as I considered them at all - that all my problems would vanish if I only ignored them for a little longer. I was soon chattering away, happy and voluntary oblivious to the immediate future; before I thought to wonder where we were going, we were hanging up our caps in the bookshop. It was a tiny place, sandwiched between the buildings to either side like mortar between bricks. 'Gustav Waechner, Bookseller', a creaking sign proclaimed.

"Right, what do you need?," said Christian as we kicked the snow off our boots.

"None of that! What do you want?," said Jan the professional hedonist.

I barely heard them. Shelf after shelf... I'd never seen so many words in such a small space! There was something electric in the hot, still air; something made every hair on my body stand up keenly, nervously. All sounds were muffled. I listened to the rustling noise my hand made on the nearest spine as I ran my fingers along it: I could tell the golden lettering from the leather with my fingertips, almost read it.

I wanted to run through the place, grabbing at books as the light fell on their titles, searching frantically through them, tossing them into my bag if any phrase, any single word could catch my imagination! Fancy making people pay for books...

"I... good God, go back to what I need! I want the whole damn place!" I looked up towards the ceiling. The shop had one of those ladders on rails used to traverse high shelves. I laughed nervously: I wanted to climb to the top of it and scoot along. I felt like a little child. "...I say, how are you for money?" The adult world returned, nastily.

"Well, we work: I tutor rich kids when I can, Jan translates if anything comes up. But some of that we send to my family: Jan's father makes him a big enough allowance. We live humbly. We don't eat to excess, and we don't drink to excess every night."

"I wouldn't expect you to follow Christian's brambly path of scholar-monasticism, though. I have money to spare. For now, go mad." Jan had read my hidden meaning with such ease that to him it surely wasn't hidden; I reddened a little, but nonetheless forgot my qualms and buried myself in amongst the bookshelves.

Even gathering up my required reading was a visit to the garden of temptations: I bade several Satans get themselves behind me, thinking sternly that studies had to come before leisure. But I was looking forward to the course-books themselves, and so felt greedier still in going after anything else. But I couldn't help myself: all around me were books whose titles had once caught my, that old schoolmasters and eccentric uncles had mentioned to me, books there hadn't ever been the money for...

That's Vienna: the place where the stuff of memories and dreams can be found in some stuffy little shop down a back-street somewhere near the Danube canal, so long as you can pay up. In the end I allowed myself one book beyond requirements, and made it a fat one.

Then we headed home, bantering again. Between that and the walk, we were short of breath when we reached Spittelberggasse: our bags were weighed down heavily. How much does this much leather and that much paper weigh? Not this much, surely? Knowledge has a weight of its own.

It was about time for lunch when we got home, but we'd eaten well enough with the Rabbi. Ottokar the schoolboy had eaten breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the same time each day (sometimes - painful recollections! - the exact same meal each day). Ottokar the student was to eat what he could when he could, ducking into cafes and pinching fruit whenever he found himself in someone else's kitchen. If he had to miss dinner at the boarding-house, well, he had to miss it. Eating, sleeping, Christianity: things that were strictly scheduled in Brno happened where I could fit them in Vienna.

We first went to hand back to Madam Gottlieb the key that had admitted us, which I had forgotten all about.

"You boys have had a long night. No trouble, I should hope?"

"Nothing that will touch the spotless reputation of Vienna's finest boarding-house, madam," said Jan with his signature upward-flicking grin. She smiled warily back at him.

Then we heaved our loads up to our room ('Good afternoon, Herr Kaestner!' 'Fall in a hole and catch the pox!') and released the books into the wild: Jan and Christian's purchases would soon join the swirl on the floor. I made a little pile of mine by the sofa and sat down heavily, ready at last to confront fate.

"Look, chaps... I need to go and get my things back from my uncle. I..."

"I thought my nose was trying to tell me something!"

"Oh, be nice, Christian."

"We'll do it after dinner."

And that was it; they hadn't even looked up from unloading their books. I'd expected something more, I don't know what. After a moment of stunned reflection, I stretched out on the sofa and reached for the topmost book of my pile. What was I so afraid of, after all? In all likelihood I'd go, get the luggage, come back. I might never see my uncle. Every law in the empire was on my side - for a change! Was it that terrible strength of his that I feared, that made his coat strain at its seems? Hah! Where did I think I was? Somewhere where muscles and money were all that made the man? I was in Vienna now!

With this happy thought, I settled down to read.


Jan and Christian had practically to hoist me up between them and carry me down to dinner: my nose was stuck between pages. I was finally persuaded to pull it clear by the smells wafting from the kitchen. They were too hot and heavy and intermixed for me to identify them with any certainty, but whatever they were they made me slaver like a dog: that's the German way in cookery.

Dinner began cheerily: Rudi von Weilheim led an inquiry into our last night's exploits, and I found that Jan and Christian did nothing to keep them secret. We were even something in the nature of local heroes. Everyone at that dinner table had something to blame on some authority: that was what had brought us there and united us. There was respect for those who defied, however furtively, the greatest authority of all, the stern stony palace of Hofburg. The tale of our escape on the canal, narrated (and tarted up a bit) by Jan with an instinct for comic timing like the wolf's instinct for the hunt, provoked applause and laughter. Madam Gottlieb offered us all a complimentary glass of Rhine-wine for a toast.

But here came a distressing turn: one of the guests had stayed very quiet throughout his history of our adventure. She was one of the girls who came up to dine with us from out of those dark dens in the south of the city, reeking of cheap schnapps and cheap bodies packed together tight, their faces always wearing the residue of their paint and a look of profound exhaustion. Some of them were angry and given to bristling; some were timid, almost unnervingly timid. She was one of the latter sort, and Madam Gottlieb's eyes soon settled on her.

"Are you quite alright, Greta?," she asked in the lull after our toast.

The poor girl lowered her eyes as if ashamed of something. Unintelligible noises struggled out of her throat.

"Bad day," said one of the angry girls.

"I..."

Greta got no further before she began to cry. It would be wrong to say that she 'burst into tears' or 'broke down crying': a few tears simply dribbled from the corners of her eyes into her lap.

"Now, Greta. Come with me, now. We'll soon sort you out." Madam Gottlieb spoke softly, but with an edge of steel as she steered the modestly sniffling young woman up and over to the door of the only bedroom on the ground floor, the landlady's own.

There was a moment of silence. Mr. Kaestner reached for the bottle of Rhine-wine, but Frieda Reiniger froze him with a stare. It took some time before conversation began again, and it stayed hushed.

"This happens sometimes," Christian said to me. "People aren't made for that life. Some of them go hard, some of them crack. Like soldiers."

"But a girl who goes to pieces at this table never gets sent back the next morning. We find a room for a while..." Jan smiled weakly, "Christian and I once had to sleep in the university library for half a week. Room was a damn sight neater when we got back, too. And then a place somewhere. A cook or a maid in some place a bit fancier than this. No questions asked if you've got Mrs. Gottlieb's reference and none expected, either."

Christian nodded. "There's no cash to chuck around, and you may not see it win any medals, but this place is a damn charity."

After that, I had no stomach for the remains of my meal, and it was in troubled spirits that I left the boarding house at the same hour as I had the night before. I told Jan and Christian I would take care of my business alone, and as soon as I was down the street I regretted it.

It was a windy night, and snowing: I steered a zig-zagging course through the little residential streets of Neubau to keep side-on to the wind, and passed below row after row of houses with their doors locked and their windows alternately dark and lit. Was I mad with cold and fright, or was there a figure silhouetted against each lamp, statue-still?

I shivered as a gust pushed past me. It whispered to me.

Now, I certainly didn't believe (then) that the wind was capable of speech, least of all in Czech. I knew that I had, of course, imagined it. But I have always been a man who pays due attention to what his imagination tells him.

"You shouldn't have come alone," said the wind.

Why not? I am not a lunatic and didn't say this out loud: I merely thought it with unusual volume.

"You oughtn't to be out alone on a night like this, or out at all. This isn't your place. This is the way the world was before you ever thought of taming fire. Tonight belongs to others."

Nonsense. This is Vienna. The imperial city.

"What if it is?"

There are police. There are courts! There are streetlights, aren't there?!

"They're miles away - they might as well be further, you don't know where they are - and they've never heard of you and don't particularly care. Here on this street, our street, you're by yourself. And can you even know what's a few feet away from you in the dark."

Shut up!

And shut up the windy voice did; confirming me in my opinion, which was probably, in hindsight, more-or-less correct, that it had been but an invention of my timid side. And Ottokar might be timid but damn Sts. Cyril and Methodius if he was! I quickened up as I crossed the old killing-field to the walled city, feeling an urge to be inside fortifications; and then willed myself to walk at a normal pace and be calm.

I had another fright by the gate: I heard, quiet but clear through the wailing of the wind, a rhythmic click. All my muscles tingled and tensed; my senses strained to find the source. A man was walking towards me along the path, hidden in the shadows of his greatcoat and hat. He looked a little like a crow, dark and hunched and ragged, and neither sped nor slowed his terrible, regular steps. I tried at once to look at him and look away.

And as I passed him, breath bated, I saw that his shapeless rags were what was left of an army uniform. I could make out the faded Hapsburg emblem on his cap. The clicking sound was his knobly walking cane, and the pace he kept up so relentlessly was a good one, for a man with one-and-a-half legs.

I felt overcome with guilt, guilty for having been afraid. I called out to him, fished some money from my pockets and silently handed it over, face red in spite of the chill; he tapped his hat, and his click receded behind me. I carried on, back in the real world, cold and callous place that it was - and forgetting for the time being the sense I had had that things older than the city, and cities, were abroad on the streets in the winter night.

At last, I was back on the street that I had bade farewell three mornings ago as the bells were tolling - and now the bells tolled again. I was so nervous now that I lost count of them.

I stood for a long time by the door of my uncle's house, lurking in the shadows like a thief to evade the notice of anyone coming or going. I was reluctant to leave the streets, however eerie, chilly, and slippery there were. The air at least was pure out here, and I didn't want to trade it for the smell of muggy perfumes mingling, rich food cooking, rich food going off, cellars full of wine corking, varnish on furniture, Cuban tobacco, and enough snuff to choke a man: the smell, in short, of wasting money. If gold could rust, that would be its smell.

In the end, I went round to the servants' entrance. I was no servant to that house, but other people used that route, I reminded myself: people with secret business to attend to. I wasn't sure quite when going to recover my legal property had become 'secret business' in my thoughts, but it had.

Even the servants' door was a grander affair than that of 36 Spittelberggasse: it was heavy-set, darkly-painted, and had a fine brass knocker. With a deep breath, I gave it a pull: its sound was both sharp and heavy. I shivered involuntarily, steeled my nerves, and stood my ground.

The door was eventually opened by a maid. In her white aprons, she reminded me of a snowdrop which had been repeatedly trodden on.

"Who is it?," she said uncertainly to the shadows in the snowy night.

"I'm here to collect some property left behind by my employer." I am not an easy liar, but this one came naturally, so fast I wasn't conscious of inventing it: when the question of my identity confronted me, I stepped aside as naturally as I would have sidled away from the barrel of a gun. I felt arrogantly sure that 'Ottokar Jánkovač' was a wanted man here, and cherished the anonymity of the night. "May I please speak to the lady of the house? Just for a moment."

"What was it?"

"A trunk. Please, I need..."

Alright, alright. She's entertaining. You'll have to wait."

Entertaining! The word lied by itself.

I was led through whitewashed, claustrophobic corridors until we reached the little room that had, for one night, been my residence. Not a thing had changed: even the dust had settled back in its place, and my trunk was where I had left it. I settled down with it to wait, and to calm my jangling nerves I took down a book. It was one of the ones about gardening. I read aloud under my breath and understood nothing, wondering whether I should steal away. But I had asked to see my aunt. Why? Well, I might as well see it through.

At length she arrived. I could only detect the traces of her black eye under her powder because I knew it was there.

"...Hello, Ottokar." I felt ashamed of myself for no very obvious reason. "You've taken care of yourself?"

"Yes. Thank- ...I'm sorry. I came back for my things. I hope..."

Without thinking, I laid a protective hand on the trunk.

"Ottokar?"

"...Yes?"

"Tell your father he was right."

I was silent for a moment; then I nodded, and with the nod started to gabble. "My letters will be addressed here. I'll write to change it but I'm sure mother will have already posted one and... you could... write back. To my parents. We're not rich, but I remember my father always said that it was foolishness not to have any money for yourself and I'm sure if he thought he could... help..."

She nodded slowly back; and with a rude haste I hefted one end of the trunk and left. I bumped down the servants' passageways, and felt a bizarre sensation of freedom. This box contained all that was mine in the world, excepting a suit of clothes and a pile of books. There was no money to worry me but that in my purse: nothing to govern where I went and what I did but me. The poor woman...

I forgot to close the door behind me as I skidded onto the street. "You oughtn't to be here," said the wind. I couldn't help agreeing.


I had to knock repeatedly before I was re-admitted by Madam Gottlieb. I fell almost to my knees on the threshold, panting.

"Lord, Ottokar, I hope you're alright."

"Fine, fine. Came back here at quite a whack, and this trunk's not light.

"You're not being pursued by anything, are you?”

I wiped my brow. The fire was low, mercifully: I needed to cool off.

"Just the wind."

I passed through to the stairs, and saw Rudi von Weilheim stretched out on a trio of chairs; he must have donated his room to Greta. His repose didn't look comfortable, but he was smiling gently in his sleep. I felt better for the sight.

It took a titanic effort and a few precarious wobbles to get my trunk upstairs. The first room - my room, I thought with new certainty - was dark and empty; the door to Jan and Christian's was tight shut. I lit a candle, and by its light sorted through my meager estate. By bulk, it was mostly books of poems and those rough Indian shirts, but I'd had the foresight to pack a blanket.

I took off my rabbinical boots and arranged them neatly at the other end of the sofa; I made a pillow of my coat; I blew out my candle, and it was as if that little expiration of breath cost my body the last of its strength.

I fell instantly asleep, a free man.


Author's note:

This one marks the end of the story's first phase. I wasn't much inspired writing it - it is of course a compendium of administrative loose-ends in the story - but now I've cut out a lot of the idle chatter I think it does an alright job. Hopefully there is now a reasonably clear sense of who Ottokar is; that taken care of I can launch him on his career. The poor bastard has no idea what's coming to him, hehe.