Thomas Ochiltree

by Death Waltz in Vienna

  “It’s idiotic,” he whispered, leaning over the railing of the bridge. But saying that did not help any more than protesting his innocence to the colonel and Major Becker had helped. Von Falkenburg had been raised in a world where a gentleman’s honor was thought to be more precious than life, and where that was not just an empty phrase, but a principle for which the finest men actually gave their lives, as his father had, as Endrödy had…. That principle had been content to let him play the rationalist, as long as in the meantime it could send roots deep into his soul.

  So it was death, then, though he did not want to die. No desire he had ever felt could compare in strength with his overwhelming longing to keep on existing, for there still to be an Ernst von Falkenburg. He swallowed hard and stared desperately at the glittering reflection of the bridge’s lights on the frigid water sliding beneath him. They offered no comfort.

  The icy wind that blew up from the Hungarian plains forced von Falkenburg into motion. He walked towards the far end of the great bridge, where the desolate “overflow area” of low-lying marsh waited for the spring flood.

  Annie. Endrödy. Now him, von Falkenburg thought as he passed slowly from one pool of dazzling arc light to the other. Annie had said she did not mind having only a few months to live if she could live them with him. At the time he had been touched, but like a spectator at the theater. No one, he realized now, can know what it means to die except those who are dying. And they do not really know either.

  If that professor had not pulled him back from in front of the streetcar, he would actually be dead now. Von Falkenburg looked at the massive girders of the bridge, the blinding glare of the arc lights, and the lonely blackness of the Danube. He tried to imagine them still existing on the supposition that he had been run over by the streetcar and was now dead. He did not succeed in the attempt.

  The inky waters fascinated him. He felt his muscles tense for a moment as if to propel him over the railing, but he knew that he would not jump. If he was going to play the military honor game, he would play it to the end. Besides, he thought with amused bitterness, he had always wanted to fire his revolver at least once.

  With a sudden surge of resolve he decided to shut the mystery of death from his consciousness. He pulled out his watch and looked at it. 9:10 P.M. He had less than eleven hours to live.

  But those were eleven hours in which he could sample existence one last time, in which he could put behind him this nightmarish bridge and river. He had come here to make a decision, and the decision was now made.

  Suddenly frantic not to waste any more of the precious time remaining to him, von Falkenburg strode as fast as he could back across the seemingly endless bridge. He had dismissed the cab earlier because he had wanted to be completely alone. He earnestly wished the cab back now, but wishing would do him no good. It was an hour’s walk back to the Praterstern, and an hour was far too much time to waste.

  Ahead, though, was the end of the line where a streetcar was waiting to head back to the center of town.

  Von Falkenburg broke into a run, shouting for the car to wait. That was in flagrant disregard of the regulations regarding the public demeanor of officers of the Austro-Hungarian army, but von Falkenburg did not give a damn.

  The conductor looked at him with astonishment as he got aboard, panting for breath. That was also something von Falkenburg could not care less about. Besides, he was at least now in out of the cold.

  Thirty minutes later he got off at the Opernring, and walked quickly behind the Opera House to where the Hotel Sacher stood. He wished he had a woman with him, but it would be hard to find a presentable one before the dining room got empty and depressing. The astonishment of streetcar conductors such as he had just witnessed could be amusing, but von Falkenburg had far too many good memories of the Sacher to want to spend his last meal there with some poor embarrassed girl who was blushing at the thought of how out of place she looked. If nothing else, it would not be fair to the girl. If all he could find after dinner was a shop assistant – and that would be fine, for in his experience some of them were a damn sight more charming than duchesses – he could take her to a champagne midnight supper in one of those two-person private dining rooms which his fellow Austrians absurdly insisted on calling chambres séparées in what they thought was French. But at present, he wanted to be surrounded by the subtle life of an elegant restaurant, where beneath the impeccable, soft-spoken refinement of the diners, all emotions, from the most deliciously idiotic love to the most implacable hatred, could lurk.

  He was hated by someone and had to die on that account. Like someone drowning a dog, von Falkenburg forced the thought back down beneath the surface of his mind. It would never do to balance the pleasures of tonight against the reckoning of tomorrow.

  “The captain is dining alone tonight?” the headwaiter asked him with a bow.

  “Yes, Herr Schultz.”

  Then as he ran his eyes over the assembled diners, von Falkenburg saw a stunning-looking woman sitting with a cavalry officer whose back was turned to him. She was dressed with impeccable taste, but the depth of those eyes, and the high cheekbones, suggested that if she had the elegance of a great lady, she might combine it with the sensuality of Eve after the apple.

  “Herr Schultz, who is that lady?”

  “Princess Helena von Rauffenstein, Captain,” the headwaiter answered.

  “Born princess?” von Falkenburg asked. From what he knew of most princely families – the highest level of Austrian aristocracy but not part of the Imperial Family – they were only likely to produce a woman that sensual every hundred years.

  “No, Captain. Married. The old prince saw her perform in Budapest, where she sang operetta.”

  “I expect he finds her hard to handle.”

  “He’s past anything, Captain. He has been in the family vault for the last three years.”

  The sight of Princess Helena’s perfect features and the gentle rise and fall of her bosom put von Falkenburg in a state of excitement that rendered the words “family vault” harmless, even though he would be in one soon.

  Women had always obsessed von Falkenburg; not just on account of their physical charms, but because of the glimpse they offered of the utterly different and exotic world of femininity to which they belonged.

  God! To sample this one’s body and soul before morning!

  Tomorrow: the cold muzzle pressed against his temple, the successive moments of hesitation (“I’ll do in another five seconds,”) the sudden contempt for his cowardice, followed by a convulsive jerk on the trigger…and the inconceivable Afterwards. Von Falkenburg could foresee all this clearly, but at the moment it seemed nothing more than a tiresome obstacle between him and his operetta princess.

  One Last Woman.

  “Herr Schultz, who is the lady’s escort?”

  “Major Count von La Ferté-Picquet of the…”

  “Of the Ninth Dragoons. I know. Here, Herr Schultz, take him this.”

  Von Falkenburg took a small leather-bound notebook from his tunic and wrote on a blank page, “Albert, please come at once. I’m waiting at the entrance to the restaurant. Ernst von Falkenburg.” Then he ripped the page out and gave it to the headwaiter.

  As soon as he received the note, the officer got up, made a little bow to the princess, who smiled graciously, and headed across the dining room towards von Falkenburg.

  “Ernst, old man, I haven’t seen you in ages. You’ve no idea how lucky you are to be stationed in Vienna instead of Galicia.”

  “You didn’t meet the lady in Galicia, I trust,” von Falkenburg said with a grin.

  “No, but that’s a long story.”

  “Known her long?”

  “This is my first evening with her. Charming creature.”

  “Can I borrow her?”

  “Are you serious?” It was a strange request even for La Ferté-Picquet, who had heard some strange ones.

  “Perfectly,” von Falkenburg said. “Look, Albert, i
f you’ve already fallen for her, say no to me. But if you are still at the stage of common sense and straight desire, let me have dinner with her in your place. Tomorrow you can have her back, and you’ll know why I need her company so badly now.”

  Certainly he could not explain in a few words at the entrance to the Sacher’s dining room that he was going to shoot himself in the morning.

  There was a moment’s silence, then La Ferté-Picquet mastered his irritation and said, “fine, but what if the lady doesn’t like the idea of the switch?” He smiled and added, “don’t forget that we La Fertés had been chased out of France long before the first von Falkenburg won his spurs. Besides, I’m more handsome and charming than you, and I’m cavalry while you’re just infantry.”

  “You’re a good man, Albert, but like all cavalry officers you simply don’t understand tactics. In the infantry we don’t have red pants with which to impress the ladies, so we have to use our brains. Just go back to her, bow, and say that to your terrible regret a friend of yours – who would be honored to escort her for the rest of the dinner – has brought an important message requiring you to report at once at the War Ministry.”

  “At almost ten o’clock at night?”

  “The Emperor’s service never sleeps. Wait and see: she’ll be so impressed by the idea of your having some kind of secret mission to perform that tomorrow you won’t even have to take her to dinner to get her in bed.”

  La Ferté-Picquet, who was still far from reconciled to the idea of allowing his evening to be spoiled, was about to raise a further objection when he suddenly changed his mind.

  “Are you in some kind of trouble, Ernst?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Bad”

  “Bad enough that I need a woman to take my mind off of it.”

  La Ferté-Picquet opened his mouth and shut it again. If von Falkenburg wanted to confide in him later, he would. He turned and headed back to the table, where the princess had been watching the two of them with interest, although she had not been able to hear what they had been saying. Von Falkenburg followed him.

  “Prinzessin,” La Ferté-Picquet said to her, “allow me to present Captain von Falkenburg to you.”

  Von Falkenburg bowed. The princess replied with a smile which was both charming and inquisitive: the confident and mysterious smile of a very beautiful woman convinced of her natural superiority over the members of the indispensable but slightly absurd male sex.

  “What,” the smile seemed to be asking, “have the two of you cooked up?”

  As La Ferté-Picquet told her of his “urgent business,” von Falkenburg realized that she did not believe a word of it – but was quite willing to hold any possible resentment in abeyance until she knew more.

  “The captain would be most honored to be your escort for the remainder of the evening, Gnädigste,” La Ferté-Picquet said.

  “If the captain would be honored, I would be delighted.”

  There was a hint of amused malice in her voice, and La Ferté-Picquet stiffened slightly as he realized that the remark could be interpreted to mean that she was delighted to be rid of him.

  “Poor Albert, I’ll leave him my case of thirty-year-old cognac,” von Falkenburg thought. Delight at the princess had made death seem very unreal.

  “The Emperor’s service is hard,” the princess said after La Ferté-Picquet had departed. “He had to leave some perfectly delicious pheasant.”

  “Something far better than pheasant, Prinzessin.”

  “He left quickly enough, anyway.”

  “Only because he owes me a lot.”

  “Of money?” she asked, sharply arching her eyebrows.

  “His life. I was his second once in a duel and…. But it’s a long story.”

  “Do you usually call in your debts at dinnertime, Captain?” the princess asked, quite unsurprised to learn that it was von Falkenburg who had arranged the switch, and not La Ferté who had wished to be rid of her.

  “No. There are two special circumstances which make tonight unique.”

  “Namely?”

  “The first one is that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever met.”

  “Ah, but you’re original, Captain.”

  “Secondly, tonight is the only night I could ever meet you.”

  “But surely you’re stationed here in Vienna, Captain,” she said, looking at the pale blue facings and smooth gold buttons on his tunic which marked him as belonging to the Deutschmeister Regiment.

  “I’m going away tomorrow morning.”

  “Where?”

  “Into death.”

  In den Tod hinein. Von Falkenburg was gratified to see that the words made an impression on her. She paused for a moment and looked pensive.

  “You men and your honor,” she said with a touch of sadness, and of puzzlement, too.

  Clearly she realized that if the visibly healthy von Falkenburg had told her about his impending death, it had to be a matter of either suicide or a duel, but she did not ask which.

  “So you would rather spend your last dinner on earth with me than any other way?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said simply and truthfully.

  The princess pressed her beautiful teeth against her lower lip, and a dreamy look came into her eyes. She had received many compliments in her life, but this one was exceptional.

  “I suggest that you have some of the pheasant, Captain. It really is quite outstanding,” she said softly.

  Chapter Three

  The bed was deliciously warm and soft. Von Falkenburg smelled Princess Helena’s perfume and listened to the sound of her breathing as she slept.

  It had been a marvelous night. As marvelous for Helena’s wit, charm and intelligence as for her magnificent beauty and the eagerness with which she had received him. His operetta princess.

  There was a soft knock on the door. Helena’s maid entered.

  “The captain said he wished to be called at six.”

  “Thank you. I’m awake.”

  Von Falkenburg wondered if the sky outside was as bleak and overcast as when he left Endrödy. A sudden revulsion swept through him at the thought that he had only two hours to live. To stay in this bed forever with Helena! Or if that was not possible, to go elsewhere with her! There was a 7:30 A.M. express for Munich! To keep on living with her!

  Or to keep on living without her, if need be.

  The realization that that was the underlying desire brought von Falkenburg up short. The equation was still the same as last night on the Rudolfsbrücke, and bitter though it was to admit, he knew that he had solved it correctly then.

  And yet Helena was very beautiful, and the bed very warm….

  That made it a place of dangerous temptation, and he eased himself out of it so as not to wake her. Carefully he dressed in the half-light. He finished buttoning his tunic and then hitched his sword into place.

  “So you’re going, then?” She had obviously awoken in spite of his precautions.

  “Yes.”

  “Really into death?”

  “Yes.”

  “You hitch on that silly symbol of your honor and go off to die?”

  “Yes.”

  He realized that for a woman, the gentleman’s concept of formal honor was as incomprehensible as the maternal instinct is for a man. Except that the maternal instinct was not, or so he assumed, completely idiotic. Both were irresistible, anyway.

  “Goodbye, Helena, I love you.”

  As he walked out the door, he heard the word “imbecile!” It was followed by sobbing.

  The morning of his death, von Falkenburg realized as he stepped into the dawn, promised fine weather, though not to him. He was surprised to find that his mind had anesthetized itself. The frightful thing that he was going to do suddenly seemed completely abstract and unreal; oddly acceptable and even interesting. Fear had been replaced by puzzlement; depression by a warm, self-pitying melancholy.

  As von Falkenburg walked past St.
Stephen’s Cathedral and down the Graben, he looked at the city and the early-morning passersby with the same fascination he would have had if they had sprung from the ground after a spring rain. He felt strangely superior, as if he were the only person going anywhere on truly important business.

  Here was the Burgtheater, of many happy memories, and here the Café Landtmann, of which he had always been fond. Von Falkenburg entered the room off the terrace and ordered breakfast.

  The coffee was hot and the croissant deliciously fresh, and von Falkenburg was able to enjoy both, even though they would be the last he would ever have.

  He pulled out his watch. He had forty minutes left. Not long if he was to write a letter of farewell to his mother and sister. He left the Café Landtmann and crossed the Ring, remembering his near accident of the night before and looking carefully in both directions.

  The first spring flowers were blooming in the Rathaus Park. He figured that he had time for a quick detour to enjoy them. “My last flowers,” he said to himself. He wondered if everyone who was about to die benefited from this strange feeling of indifference.

  “Good morning, Schmidt,” he said to his orderly as he entered his quarters. Schmidt looked like he had not gotten very much sleep, so von Falkenburg added, “how was she?”

  “I report most obediently, Captain, she was most satisfactory.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, Schmidt. Did you have to pay?”

  “I report most obediently, I did not.” Schmidt was grinning with pride. He was a plain enough fellow, and von Falkenburg guessed that it was probably rare enough for him to find a girl willing to go to bed with him for free.

  “That’s good, Schmidt: cheaper, healthier and more fun. Now go to Humpmeyer’s and see if my new trousers are ready.”