‘A madam?’ Berthe said, now joining them at the table.
Salten pursed his lips in assent. ‘Frau Mutzenbacher is a rather amazing woman. Born in Ottakring, of course. Her father was a saddler. She herself was initiated into the world of Eros at a most tender age.’
He quickly cast his eyes Berthe’s way, not wanting to cause embarrassment. Seeing none, he proceeded.
‘They called her Pepi. She entered the brothels at the age of twelve, as a licensed prostitute. But by cunning, and sometimes sheer disarming honesty, she worked her way up in her chosen profession. Now, at the age of fifty, she operates one of the finest houses in the Empire. And what is most incredible about the woman is that she has not an ounce of bitterness about her hard life. On the contrary, she is quite humorous in the detailing of her various liaisons.’
‘And the victim is therefore one of the good lady’s working ménage, one assumes,’ said Werthen. ‘The person deemed of too low status by the police?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Does this have anything to do with that unfortunate girl found in the Prater on May Day?’ Berthe asked.
The death had made the headlines in an otherwise dull news climate, but had been just as quickly forgotten when supplanted by a much bigger news story: the death of Count Joachim von Ebersdorf several days later, victim of bad shellfish. An absurd way to die, Werthen thought. Eating oysters in land-locked Vienna.
‘Very good, Frau Werthen.’
Werthen waited for his wife to correct Salten. Instead, she smiled wanly at his compliment.
‘Meisner, actually,’ she said after a pause. ‘Frau Meisner. I kept my maiden name.’
This made Salten sit up in his chair. ‘My apologies, Frau Meisner.’
Werthen was tiring of all this toing and froing. ‘The murdered girl, Herr Salten. What is Frau Mutzenbacher’s interest in her, other than commercial?’
‘You’ll have to ask her that, Advokat. That is, if you accept the commission.’
‘Frieda, dear,’ Berthe said to their daughter. ‘Don’t pull the doggie’s ears. She doesn’t like that.’
‘Sof ears,’ the child said.
‘They are that,’ Salten said. ‘Like silk.’
Frieda, squatting by the rather impatient animal, craned her neck Salten’s way.
‘Sill,’ she said.
‘Silk.’
‘And how is it you have come to me?’ asked Werthen, redirecting the conversation once again.
‘Well, it was over a game of Tarock, actually. I enjoy a hand or two at the Café Landtmann now and again, and two days ago my usual partners and I were joined by Gustav Klimt.’
‘I would never credit Klimt with the patience for cards,’ Berthe said, but her eyes were still on Frieda and the dachshund.
‘True,’ said Salten. ‘It is my considered judgment that he would be better off with a more physical pastime.’
‘Such as lifting dumbbells,’ Werthen said. ‘I mean it quite literally. He is very much the one for exercise.’
‘And for cream pastries,’ Berthe added. ‘Please, Frieda. Not the doggie’s ears.’
Salten eyed his beloved Mimi warily. ‘Perhaps I should tie her up outside.’
He got up and did so. Meanwhile, Berthe took Frieda to another room.
Once Salten returned, the dog began whining outside.
‘Quite a social animal, the dachshund. They don’t like being left alone.’
‘I’m sure she’ll survive,’ Werthen said. ‘So it was Klimt that put you on to me?’
‘I mentioned quite casually the intentions of Frau Mutzenbacher, and he immediately came up with your name.’
‘Most kind of him.’
‘He also mentioned you are quite zealous in your billing. I don’t believe there will be a problem with Frau Mutzenbacher.’
‘Did you know the girl in question?’
‘Mitzi? I’d seen her about. As I say, I am engaged by Frau Mutzenbacher on her memoirs.’
‘I mean in a professional way.’
‘You are a direct one, aren’t you?’
‘I like to know where I am in a case.’
‘No. Not that I haven’t been known for dalliances. I am, of course, now engaged to Fräulein Metzel of the Burgtheater.’
Werthen nodded at this information, but remained silent.
‘She was not my type,’ Salten added.
‘How is that?’
‘I do not know how familiar you are with such establishments as Frau Mutzenbacher’s, Advokat.’
‘Educate me.’
‘Well, there are usually young women to satisfy almost every taste. Including the hard-pressed woman of good birth who takes up the trade to pay off her father’s debts.’
‘A fabrication?’
‘Generally so. At Frau Mutzenbacher’s, always. Her premises are the home of illusion. The high-class lady fallen low appeals to the sensitive trade – the talkers rather than doers, if you understand?’
Werthen nodded. He’d had some experience of the trade during his years of criminal law in Graz, but thought it better to let Salten play the magister ludi in this regard. No telling what a fellow might blurt out when in an educative mood.
‘Then of course there is the pale young thing who never says a word, the mute of the boudoir. And the tough woman with the heart of gold, the soft woman with the harsh voice and tendency toward discipline. I’m sure you understand.’
‘And what was Mitzi’s role?’
‘The child virgin. Don’t get me wrong,’ said Salten quickly, seeing Werthen’s look of disapproval. ‘She was neither. But she was quite young-looking, a diminutive young woman who could and did easily pass for thirteen. In point of fact, she was nineteen.’
‘So her clients believed she was a child?’
‘I would assume so, though I’m hardly privy to their thoughts. Really, you must put these questions to Frau Mutzenbacher. I only saw the girl in passing a few times. Bringing tea to us as we worked during the day. That sort of thing. She seemed to be a special favorite of Frau Mutzenbacher.’
The whines grew more insistent from outside.
In the end, Werthen, deciding prostitutes also deserve justice, agreed to the commission and set up a time for an interview with Frau Mutzenbacher the following Monday. The case was already over two weeks old, so there seemed no need for undue haste, and Werthen and his family had planned a weekend in the country.
Salten said his goodbyes to Berthe and Frieda and went off down the lane, with Mimi trotting along quite proudly in front.
That evening Berthe experimented with a new spaghetti recipe. They waited for these breaks from Vienna and their housekeeper, Frau Blatschky, and her traditional Austrian cooking, to try more exotic fare. Werthen had noticed that of late his wife had taken more of an interest in cooking. He doubted very much that it was merely a sign of increased domesticity. Instead, he supposed that she was finding variation, and a sense of discovery in whatever way she could, for as a new mother she had been tied more closely to home since Frieda’s birth.
Stein, freshly scrubbed after his day’s exertion building the tennis court, looked at his plate of pasta with a degree of suspicion. Then, watching Berthe twirl a bit round the tines of her fork, followed suit and was soon slurping along with the rest.
They had moved on to the meat course, veal, which for Stein was more recognizable, when he said, ‘The rye grass is experimental at best.’
‘Pardon?’ Werthen said.
He was watching Frieda, who was lingering over her pasta, busily painting her cheeks a brilliant orange with the sauce.
‘We’re not really too sure about how well it will do in this loamy soil. Your father and myself, that is.’
‘I did not expect you were referring to your own father,’ Werthen said with a smile. Stein senior had long since been pensioned off, though still living on the von Werthen estate. ‘Young’ Stein, as he was called although he was a bit older than Werthen, had taken
his place a number of years ago.
‘He still misses the work,’ Stein said ruefully.
‘Why the experiment?’ Werthen said at length.
‘Well, to see what grass will be best for your father’s new place.’
‘New place?’
Stein laid down his fork. ‘You didn’t know he is purchasing land near here?’
Werthen felt his entire face sag in dismay, then hurriedly got control of his emotions.
‘I expect he was planning it as a surprise.’
‘Yes,’ Berthe chimed in. ‘Very much a surprise.’
‘I must apologize,’ Stein said, his face reddening at his perceived faux pas.
‘Not at all, Stein,’ Werthen reassured him. ‘One assumes he is not creating a tennis academy to rival the All England Croquet and Lawn Tennis Club?’
A polite demi-laugh issued from Stein. ‘It’s to round out the new estate. I believe there’s to be an equestrian ground, as well. It is the sole topic of conversation at Hohelände.’
‘It’s only natural they want to be near their only grandchild,’ Berthe said.
They were lying side by side in bed, gazing up at the darkened ceiling.
‘Perverse, not natural. Stein says the property is near here. Just a bit of breathing room, that is all I require.’
‘They probably assume that now we have a summer home they would not see much of us at Hohelände.’
‘And they would be right. I do not have the fondest memories of that house.’
‘Even though that’s where we met?’
The bed boards underneath the cotton mattress creaked as Werthen rolled on to his side to face his wife.
‘You are being awfully conciliatory about this. It affects us both, you know. They’ll be constantly underfoot, or expect us to be their guests. This is my little piece of heaven and I do not appreciate interlopers.’
‘It’s the Burgtheater for you, Karl. So dramatic.’
‘Have you forgotten how difficult my father and mother are to be around? And I repeat, why are you suddenly the peacemaker?’
She said nothing for a moment. A fly had got into the house and was now busily buzzing in the dusk of the room.
‘It is only natural for grandparents to want to be near their grandchild.’
She continued staring at the black expanse overhead.
‘Is there something you’ve been wanting to tell me?’ he asked.
‘Father mentioned that he might be moving to Vienna. Well, not moving. Perhaps a pied-à-terre to begin with.’
‘Wonderful!’ Werthen groaned. ‘They’ve got us boxed in on both fronts.’
‘It doesn’t have to be like that,’ Berthe said.
‘Don’t you remember the argument over christening?’
‘That was settled amicably enough,’ Berthe said.
‘Yes. But I had to threaten to bring Frieda up a Buddhist unless they stopped intervening. The hypocrisy of it. We’re all Jews – it doesn’t matter whether they are assimilated or not, or if they were baptized Christians or not. Yet they go about playing at being German aristocrats.’
‘It’s their lives, their hypocrisy.’
‘Not when it has an impact on our lives. And let us not forget your father’s insistence on an aliyah naming ceremony for Frieda.’
‘But he finds her name so Nordic.’
‘Better Ruth? That is fine, though. I understand his position. After all, he is a leading Talmudic scholar . . .’
‘It’s not about religion. It’s more about tradition for him.’
‘Fine. So now he will be in Vienna part of the time to be close to Ruth.’
‘There is a silver lining,’ Berthe said, turning to him now and placing a kiss on his nose. ‘There is a certain widow he has met . . .’
‘Nuptials in the offing? Sorry. I don’t know why I am being so difficult about all of this. I enjoy your father. I even enjoy seeing my parents with Frieda now and again. It just feels suddenly like the world is crowding in on us.’
She moved against him, putting a soothing hand around the hair at the base of his head. Her fingers felt cool to the touch. Her lips touched his.
‘Not the world,’ she said, moving closer. ‘Just me.’
In the middle of the night Frieda woke them with a cry. Berthe went to her and then came back to their bed with the little bundle of their daughter cradled in her arms.
‘It’s still a strange room to her. She’ll get used to it.’
‘I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘A couple of hours ago, maybe. But now —’
‘There,’ Berthe cooed to the infant as she lodged Frieda between them. She was asleep again in a matter of minutes.
‘I’ve been wondering,’ Werthen began.
‘No more discussion about our parents tonight. Please.’
‘No. About Salten. Was he hiding something, do you think?’
‘You mean when you asked him about his personal contact with the unfortunate young woman?’
‘So you overheard our conversation?’
She ignored this question. ‘Definitely defensive.’
‘Why, one wonders?’
TWO
On Monday morning Werthen set off for the office first, and would leave from there for his eleven o’clock appointment with Frau Mutzenbacher.
The day was glorious: a shimmering blue sky overhead and a soft warmth already at eight as he made his way down the Josefstädterstrasse. On the opposite side of the street he noticed the same military man he had seen for the past few months. Tall and thickly built, his moustache finely waxed, the patent-leather visor of his peaked cap shiny and without a smudge, as if the fellow put it on only after he had donned the fawn-coloured suede gloves he invariably wore. The greatcoat had long since been relegated to mothballs, Werthen imagined. The captain – for the three stars on his stiff collar indicated that rank – looked resplendent in the green tunic of the General Staff. His meticulously creased blue pantaloons were tucked into low black boots, as gleaming as the visor of his cap. A sword swung from his belt, and on his chest he wore the 1898 Jubilee Medal presented by Franz Josef in honor of the Emperor’s fifty years of service to his country.
This General Staff officer had interested Werthen from the first time he had seen him during the dark grey days of winter. Like Werthen, the officer was an inveterate walker. He stood ramrod stiff yet moved with a seeming casual elegance despite his size. Werthen, who still fancied himself a short-story writer in the odd moment, thought this officer would make a splendid character in a tale of love and regret. He secretly looked for a flaw in the captain as they continued to make their way down towards the Inner City on opposite sides of the street. A gambler, perhaps? There were enough of those in the military; forced to live on impossibly small army pay, many a young dandy had ruined his career attempting to supplement his income at the vingt-et-un tables of Baden bei Wien.
Soon Werthen lost interest in this game, however; and also lost sight of the officer as they approached the Volksgarten, since the other man headed off to the Ministry of War offices in the Hofburg while he, Werthen, continued through the park to his law office on Habsburgergasse. He was in an elated mood, looking forward to a new commission, wondering what to expect from Frau Mutzenbacher.
His orders from Berthe before leaving this morning were clear enough.
‘Eyes forward, Karl,’ she had teased.
‘I’m sure the working members of the establishment will still be sleeping, dear,’ he assured her.
Prostitutes were not his style. He neither fancied them nor frowned upon them. They had their job, and he had his. Quite simple, really. He had never sought their services, though once, when Werthen was sixteen, his father had made a clumsy effort at initiating his son into the ways of the world by a visit to a Viennese brothel. One look at the ghoulish eye makeup, however, at the sullen expression of the woman his father intended for him, and Werthen ran out of the place and all the way back to the hotel where they we
re staying, up from the country for the ball season.
His father never mentioned the incident.
The Habsburgergasse was bustling with activity when he arrived at No. 4. Down the street, Waltrum, the booksellers, had wooden boxes out on the street with second-hand books for sale. The flower shop next door was alive with bunches of lilac in large metal buckets of water, the heavy scent attracting honey bees. The Portier of his office building, Frau Ignatz, was out sweeping the cobbled sidewalk in front. The day was so splendid that he would not allow her presence to dampen his spirits.
‘Good morning to you, Frau Ignatz,’ he said, tipping his Homburg as he entered the door.
‘I am not so sure what’s so good about it,’ she said. ‘The refuse that’s left behind on this street is something awful.’
He ignored her remark, taking the stairs at a fast clip until he reached his office. As usual, Fräulein Metzinger had preceded him. She was already at her typewriter, beating out a staccato rhythm on the keys. A far cry from the forefingered typing that was all she had been capable of when she first came to his office. She looked surprised when she saw him.
‘I thought you had an interview this morning.’
There was a small sound of reproach to her comment.
‘I thought I would get some work done here first. The Herbst trust is still in need of that codicil.’
‘It’s been taken care of.’
‘Wonderful. I’ll look at the papers, then.’
‘Sorry to be so curt,’ she said as he was about to walk into his inner office. ‘I feel rather abashed at being caught out.’
‘At what?’
She swept her hand at the typewriter and the stack of letters next to it.
‘This is not office work.’
‘Ah,’ he said, nodding his head. ‘You really do not need to explain, Fräulein Metzinger.’
‘It is for the cause.’
‘I assumed so. You do more than your share here. The Herbst codicil, for example.’
‘Still, it is perhaps not right.’
She was waiting, he knew, for his approval. ‘It is a noble cause,’ he said.
‘The keeper of hands . . .’
The Keeper of Hands Page 2
