by Linda Stift
*
She placed enormous trust in me by giving me the job of setting up a dairy in the Tyrolean Garden of Schönbrunn Park. The milk in Vienna did not meet her demands. A range of different breeds of cow from all over Europe were brought here, as well as goats and chickens. My rose was permanently on the hunt for the perfect milk that would best enhance her beauty and health. Inferior-quality milk could spoil her whole day. From her travels she would often bring back animals whose milk she particularly liked. If she ever went away without me, I had to describe to her at length all the new arrivals of cows that had taken place during her absence. She was interested in the minutest details. Her letters to the emperor were regularly accompanied by instructions for looking after the cows, which he then passed on to me. All the cows that lived and laboured here were scrupulously clean, vaccinated and brimming with milk. Every morning fresh milk, butter, thick cream and coffee cream were delivered to the palace kitchens from the court dairy. They produced soured milk and yoghurt. The emperor and Katharina Schratt, his lady friend, would taste the milk of new animals or new dairy products and had to report back to her. She herself came regularly to the dairy to have a cup of milk; she would sit alone in the rustic Hungarian-style parlour, on rustic red furniture. I’d had the colourful, flowery porcelain brought from Hungary, and was instructed by the milker about every process. The walls were decorated with photographs of Hungarian cows and drawings of various breeds of cattle. If she received guests here, the court confectioner had to serve in traditional Hungarian costume. That milk, that butter – you cannot find products of such quality these days. The members of the imperial family and even His Majesty’s lady friend, who received her daily delivery too, could not get enough of them.
*
In the grounds of the old hospital where the former asylum was, nothing had changed. I hadn’t been here in ages. The tall, overgrown meadow had not been manicured into a smooth lawn. In the days of the Monarchy the tower had served as a place of confinement for the mentally ill. There was no therapy, but sometimes cold water was tipped over the inmates or they were put on a diet, which meant they were left to starve to keep them calm. I found that very hard to imagine. You have to be severely weakened by hunger to be calm. Hunger tends to make you nervous. Nonsterile ropes made of horsehair or women’s hair were rubbed around the back of patients’ necks until the skin ulcerated and they developed a fever, which apparently produced a certain therapeutic effect. Although Charlotte had not been able to say what. The most troublesome cases, that’s to say the ones who were the most time-consuming and needed the greatest care, were chained up all their lives; for this the asylum even had its own smithy. Later the building was used as a store and workshop, as accommodation for doctors and nurses, and at some point in the 1970s it was turned into the Museum of Pathology and Anatomy, with its infamous exhibits. The smithy was also preserved as a display room. It’s said that the head of the anarchist Lucheni – Sissi’s murderer – was housed here for a while, before they decided, probably with reluctance, to bury it. The Fools’ Tower reminded me less of a Gugelhupf, as the Viennese used to describe it, and more of an oversized springform tin in which a cake had already risen. The roof was slightly curved and the chimneys around the ring on the inside looked like a raised pastry crust. I was sad that the tower was going to be destroyed. We’ll go straight in, Frau Hohenembs said. Ida bought tickets for the first floor, which you could only visit on a guided tour; afterwards we could look at the collection on the ground floor by ourselves. As the Fools’ Tower was unexpectedly open, clearly the plan was to make away with an exhibit, I was sure of that. Ida’s rucksack looked pretty full, which could be a cover; perhaps she’d put a box inside as protection for the stolen goods and so they wouldn’t show through the material. We joined a small group in the courtyard that was waiting for the museum guide. There were no security checks; Ida could go in unimpeded with her rucksack. The guide wore an unbuttoned white doctor’s coat, its tails wafting around behind him. He introduced himself as a medical student in the final stage of his studies. He was tall and fair, with a pointed beard projecting from his chin. You could tell that he must have given this talk hundreds of times already. He did not vary his intonation between facts and anecdotes; he reeled everything off in the same, faintly melancholic tone. I’d heard most of it already from Charlotte, who knew the history of all the spectacular preserved specimens. If this student had ever taken pleasure in his work, it was long in the past. I also knew from Charlotte that things had been stolen from here, all sorts of things: kidney stones, wet specimens, bones and bone fragments of all sizes, preserved appendices (taken by young doctors who, even if they weren’t surgeons, would proudly present their first one to friends). Even a foetus moulded in plastic had been pinched. Animal skulls, of course, the favourites being monkey skulls, which were turned into ashtrays. Charlotte had been interested in a swordfish skull, including the saw, obviously. There were hundreds of these, but she’d never found the opportunity to purloin one. I wondered what Frau Hohenembs was after. Perhaps a rickety child’s skeleton or a particularly ghastly moulage with a syphilis deformity, or the cast of a male head with bulbous tumours clustering around the skull like an eccentric bonnet. The facial expression at the moment the cast was taken was serious; a hint of bitterness at the corners of the mouth, the lips narrow and tightly shut, the eyelids lowered, almost submissive. The man seemed resigned to his fate, not at all in despair, although his fellow human beings must have made his life hell. It was the way they were mounted that made the head and face moulages appear especially gloomy. They were hung on the walls like shot and stuffed animals, or antlers. Where part of the back of the head was missing, the model was fixed to a board wrapped in material, making it look as if it was wearing a ruff. This pseudo-collar suggested a disproportionate care, a fake kindness that had been shown to the head or, more accurately, its cast. The face itself was slightly bowed towards the floor, strengthening the impression of humility, or perhaps evoking it in the first place. I suspected that there was something heavy in Ida’s rucksack. She was carrying it as if it had some weight. Perhaps the plan was to swap an item, so that the theft would not be immediately apparent. On the first floor, in the collection of moulages and wet specimens, a theft would have been fairly difficult. Our group was watched by two female doctors. When we were in one room, they made sure that everyone went in and everyone came out again; no one was allowed to linger on their own for more than a minute. If we were in a section of the ring-shaped corridor while the student was discussing an exhibit, the two of them opened a cell door at the front and back so that the group remained huddled together like a herd of sheep. This forced us to stand in close proximity; each of us had bodily contact with our neighbours to the front, back and sides. Nothing is worse than the bodies of strangers pressing continually against your own, and it’s even worse if these bodies deliberately barge into you, not yielding a single centimetre, but in their quest for space spreading further and further like an insidious cancer. I wiped sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. Whenever the group moved, we were bumped forward. I let myself fall back, which meant I had only a doctor and the cell door behind me, and I heard no more of the guided tour. Frau Hohenembs and Ida fell back too. They were not listening to what the student was saying, but whispering to each other. When the tour finished we could finally go down to the ground floor. The group slowly dispersed. I asked Frau Hohenembs which object we were going to take. She looked at me in surprise. What makes you think that’s what we’re doing? On the contrary, we’re going to leave them a nice present. I just don’t know which is the right room for it. Are you planning on blowing up the tower? I asked. What strange ideas you have! Be quiet. You’ll find out in good time. I wasn’t mistaken: there was a heavy object in Ida’s rucksack. We had to wander around the exhibition several times before Frau Hohenembs finally decided on a room. The cells on the ground floor were devoted to pictures of diseases and health-related
topics. The smithy was in one of the rooms, the old dentist’s practice was here too, as well as two alchemist’s chambers, filled with all sorts of items without which an alchemist is no alchemist: skulls, stuffed animals (from birds to crocodiles), teeth, snakes, skins, feathers, candles, cats, rugs, chests, jars, bottles, receptacles containing all manner of mysterious things. This mishmash curiously stood out from the rest of the exhibition; it looked like medieval magic. Not like the scientific documentation of disease and deviation from the norm which, according to the brochures lying around, the museum was dedicated to. This exhibition denounced the Middle Ages as a sinister and shady period. Frau Hohenembs had chosen the two rooms because she thought that among so many ominous exhibits a new one would not be so obvious; it could simply be left in a dark corner. The only potentially tricky moment was Ida placing the object swiftly in the right place without being seen. Frau Hohenembs told her where it was to go. Ida put the rucksack on the floor and carefully took out a cylinder-shaped glass container, having first made sure that there were no visitors nearby. In the glass container a human head was swimming in liquid. I clapped a hand over my mouth to stop myself screaming out loud. Frau Hohenembs instructed me to stand beside her so that Ida, who’d already slipped under the rope, would be screened by the two of us. Ida put the container between a skull and a stuffed owl, and draped a few feathers around the ensemble. The head was slightly behind the owl; you could easily miss it at first glance. I stared spellbound at the specimen. It was a male head; the liquid it swam in was cloudy, like green pond water, making the head appear deformed, widening it. The eyes were half open, the mouth twisted, you could see his teeth, which seemed to be in good condition. Capital! Frau Hohenembs was utterly delighted. She looked at the new exhibit. That’s exactly how I imagined it. Bravo, Ida! You’re the best. My one and only! Don’t forget Corfu! Ida said. Frau Hohenembs nodded with her eyes closed. Who is it? I asked, and Frau Hohenembs whispered that it was the head of Luigi Lucheni, Sissi’s murderer, now back in its rightful place. The head had been here once before, but not made accessible to the public; the museum hadn’t dared exhibit it. The idea had been to bury the head in the anatomical graves at the Central Cemetery, but fortunately this plan had been thwarted. I argued that the display was misleading if nobody knew it was Lucheni. We have to take that chance; if Ida were to put a label by the head then there’s little chance that the museum would let it stay here. No, they’d try to bury it again. Like this, it won’t stick out at all. We’ve seen what it’s like in museums; the staff don’t know every exhibit by heart. Maybe they’ll be delighted to discover they’ve been gifted a new specimen. What’s more, the management has changed since then; the new lot haven’t ever seen the Lucheni head, so they won’t recognize it. And as a preserved head is nothing unusual here, they’ll accept it without comment, to avoid any embarrassment. Lucheni fitted perfectly between the owl and skull; the new director was bound to think so too. I had my doubts. Even if the museum management had never seen the head in real life, there must be images of such a notorious specimen and a file that every museum director would consult upon taking up the post. After we’d left the museum I asked Frau Hohenembs how she’d got hold of the glass container. As usual when a question didn’t suit her, she gave no reply. According to Ida, the head had been hanging around in her flat for five years, to her persistent horror – she’d had to dust the container every week. The dog would stand in front of it and bark daily, always at the same time in the late morning, and for several minutes. Then he would turn around and leave the room, avoiding it for the rest of the day and not returning till the following morning, to perform the same ritual. Ida herself was fed up of looking at that face; she didn’t need to see it any more.
*
Once, for her name day, she asked the emperor for a Bengal tiger, a locket or a lunatic asylum. This last wish satisfied her desire to do something for the befuddled souls who in Vienna were housed in the so-called ‘Fools’ Tower’ in wretched conditions. Chained, left to vegetate on nothing but straw, no better than wild animals, and subjected to obscure, albeit not life-endangering, treatments. Of course, it was terribly prosaic of him to send her a locket by return; he did not even make reference to the other two requests. She used to visit orphanages and hospitals, never held back from touching cholera victims, even when going back to her grandchildren afterwards. She would always arrive unannounced and ask to sample food from the kitchen – my dear rose, who was always so careful about what she ate – thereby making the director despair. Most of all she liked the lunatic asylums; once in one of these institutions she met a woman who thought she was Her Majesty. Mein kedvesem was shocked, but kept her composure and later said to me, ‘That poor woman, if only she knew! That I live in a prison just like her.’
*
All I wanted was camomile tea. I sat on the sofa in the midst of my rubbish tip, a cup in hand. Something repeated on me; a vile taste flooded my mouth. Something was fermenting in my stomach. In the past this had only happened when I had eaten very heavy things in excessive quantities and was unable to vomit, or would not allow myself to as a punishment; because yet again I wanted to stop for good, I would not allow myself to puke a final time. I thought that was the only way I could succeed, by breaking the cycle and putting up with this digestive hell without resorting to the panacea. My stomach would stop digesting. Used to being emptied artificially on a regular basis, it couldn’t deal with these quantities any more. So the contents would ferment for days, not going down by a millimetre. As if a stinking lump had been deposited there. I’d have to burp continually, a foul eggy gas would pour out of my mouth and I couldn’t be among people any more. I would drink peppermint tea, or very seldom a schnapps, which sometimes helped. When the alcohol smell of the schnapps mixed with the stench of sulphur, I would belch in a devastating way. I felt like an ancient, sticky dustbin in which the rubbish was rotting away. If this condition lasted for longer than a couple of days, I would puke again after all, for fear of being poisoned by the sulphurous fumes, but also out of disgust: I couldn’t put up with such putrefaction in my body any more. After we’d left the Fools’ Tower, Frau Hohenembs had said to me, You did well back there, my dear. I’m very satisfied with you. Unlike Ida, who took advantage of her good mood, and rather than appealing to her generosity and asking her to let me go, I walked silently behind the two figures in black. Well, we were going the same way, which was particularly humiliating. It didn’t even occur to me to take a different route. When we got off the tram, Frau Hohenembs with her gloved hand and Ida with her empty rucksack both gave me a friendly wave goodbye. I’d never seen the two of them in such good spirits. I started heading towards my flat without really wanting to return home. I didn’t know where else to go. I couldn’t turn up at Charlotte’s. I contemplated what I ought to do and reluctantly came to a clear conclusion, one that had in truth been haunting my mind for a long time, but I’d been suppressing: I really had to talk to Frau Hohenembs. Exactly what I was most terrified of. Ringing and requesting to meet her, just the two of us. In front of Ida I’d find it too embarrassing to have to beg Frau Hohenembs, which is what it ultimately boiled down to. Ida probably didn’t care, but her presence would inhibit me. The phone call seemed the most difficult thing, which is why I postponed it till the following day instead of acting right away and exploiting the goodwill of the moment. I thought that if I slept on it and recovered from this day I’d be able to approach the project with fresh vigour and convincing arguments. I failed to consider that this strategy gave Frau Hohenembs time to think up new tasks for me. As soon as I was freed from the clutches of this woman I’d be able to resume my normal life. I could call Charlotte, could work, forget my relapse or see it as a warning that I must never regard myself as safe. I switched on the radio, turned up the volume to maximum, making the speakers buzz, and danced through the flat to the song ‘Caught by the Fuzz’ by Supergrass, cup of camomile tea still in hand. I twisted and swayed until I
was giddy; I was free! Suddenly I was struck by a bitter feeling of hunger. No surprise there. I hadn’t kept down the last thing I’d eaten. I rushed to the fridge, then warned myself to be restrained. I held on tight to the handle. Slowly, think about it first! The fridge was empty. I broke into a sweat. I had to watch out. What I ate now was extremely important. It had to be healthy and a normal portion that didn’t overburden my body, so better for it to be a smaller than normal portion. I was already so sick with hunger that going shopping seemed an impossibility. Around the corner was an Asian restaurant with an all-you-can-eat offer. Wasn’t that bold, in my condition? Shouldn’t the first meal in my normal life be something simpler? But equally, I could eat as little as I wanted to in this place. That seemed a good approach. Tiny morsels of each healthy dish or, even better, of two or three dishes, otherwise I’d lose track and get the fatal impression I was pigging out. In any case, I’d always felt inhibited in all-you-can-eat restaurants, so I was unlikely to go off the rails. A large part of the pleasure in eating comes from doing it in private; you don’t want anyone watching you. Apart from the quantity you can’t eat in the way you’d like to – everything on the table at the same time to avoid any interruptions while you scoff. You really want to immerse yourself in the process of gorging and not have to stand up; you want to be greedy and loud. Which is impossible in a restaurant where there are staff keeping an eye on how much you pile onto your plate, perhaps winking at you or pointing at a dish that you absolutely have to try. It’s precisely this invitation to eat – how do you know the waiter isn’t stuffing a napkin in his mouth to stop himself from bursting out laughing? – that is deeply shameful. In spite of this you take the risk of eating too much by accident. That could happen very quickly. And then having the willpower to stop at once, refusing to take another mouthful and resisting the feeling of having overeaten, not everyone’s capable of that, not even carefree eaters. The manager of Suzie Chang’s greeted me at the door and she pointed to the buffet. I nodded and went straight over without finding a table first. I didn’t deliberate for very long, taking the last three pieces of salmon sushi along with the parsley garnish – harmless and low in calories. With my plate in hand, only now did I peer around the restaurant; it was half empty and several tables by the window were unoccupied. I ordered a jasmine tea. Then I got a bowl of white rice with broccoli, taking plenty of time over it. After that, a bowl of fried noodles and two slightly chewy dumplings filled with mincemeat. I ate with chopsticks to drag the process out. Although they were chewy, the dim sum tasted excellent so I took three more. Then I was full and started to panic; I had planned to stop eating before I was full, hadn’t I? I turned over in my mind what I’d eaten. It wasn’t that much in fact, it only seemed like it: I just wasn’t used to keeping anything in my stomach. The sushi, rice and broccoli were innocuous, and the fried noodles and dumplings (fried too), oh well. A little fat, perhaps, and three dumplings rather than five would have sufficed, but it was still within the realms of normal. In any case, I was absolutely starving. I gestured to the manager for the bill. I drank my plum wine and went home with a full tummy, but not unhappy. Standing by my door were a woman and two men, one of whom was ringing the bell. My first instinct was to run away. They’ve got me now, I thought; who could they be other than the police? But it was too late to run away; the woman had already noticed me and was smiling. What do you want? I asked, my mouth dry and the snap of the handcuffs already echoing in my ears. The man who rang the bell turned around. Hello, I’m from Hustler Property Management. I’ve got a viewing in Flat 4. Are you the tenant? There must be some mistake, I’ve just extended my contract, the flat’s not available for rent, I said. I know nothing about that, I’ve got a viewing to do, so if you’d be so kind and let us into the flat. The couple clearly found the situation uncomfortable; embarrassment was writ large across their faces. Somehow they looked familiar. Maybe we should come back another time, the woman said. She was half a head taller than the man and quite skinny, while he looked as if he lifted weights. It hasn’t been tidied, I said, but by all means take a look around and come back in three years. I thought this would get rid of them, but it was a mistake. Hardly had I opened the door than the three of them were already in the hallway, inspecting the state of the walls. They could do with a lick of paint but otherwise they’re in good nick, the agent said. When they entered the kitchen the woman squealed with delight. Such a large window and that beautiful lime tree – fantastic! It’ll be like having breakfast in the country. All of a sudden I saw the lime tree through different eyes; I was so used to it by now that I no longer noticed it. Would you like a coffee? I asked. Please, the woman replied. I never say no to a coffee, the man said wittily, and the agent nodded happily. I hadn’t banked on that; my question had been rhetorical. They ought to have responded in the negative, with a shameful look on their faces. So on top of everything I now had to make them coffee! Ignoring me, they went into the living room. They were just as taken with the view of the park. As soon as the flat’s empty it’ll look quite different, I heard the agent say. I put the espresso pot on the cooker and when the coffee had brewed I took a tray with three cups into the living room. I was hoping that they wouldn’t sit on the sofa, it was strewn with papers and dirty crockery, but these people were capable of anything. They took the cups from the tray and measured the room in strides, nudging aside empty boxes with their toecaps, as if they already lived here. The agent stood by the window, gazing at the park. I’d love to have somewhere with a view like this, he sighed. As if an agent couldn’t have any flat they wanted. After a brief consultation the couple decided to take the flat. It’s quite strong, this coffee, but it’s good, the woman said. I normally drink lattes. For all I cared she could have a heart attack in this very room! Giving up such a gorgeous flat – I just don’t understand it! You must have found an even better one, she blathered on. Where had I seen this woman before? I’d heard her voice, too. The agent gave the man a form to sign, which he did immediately, without reading it. He wasn’t even given a copy. I was speechless. The agent coaxed the two of them to the door and shook my hand. Thanks for your help, you’ll be hearing from us about handing over the keys. The couple waved from outside. Bye, and thanks for the coffee! I banged the door shut, turned the lock twice and stormed to the phone to call the management company. The form the agent had given the man to sign made it clear that I urgently needed something in writing. Frau Savka must send me the extension to my contract immediately. I couldn’t get through; it was permanently engaged. Tomorrow morning, then, first thing. I lay down on the sofa, all around me the rubbish tip that neither the agent nor the couple viewing my flat had remarked upon. I was in the middle of a nightmare in which a strange dog was chained to the railings on my parents’ balcony. As he leaped towards the balcony door he froze, leaving him stuck in mid-air with a look of astonishment on his face – did one say ‘face’ for dogs, wasn’t there another word for it? I didn’t dare follow my first instinct, which was to untie the animal’s rigid body, bring him in, wrap him in a blanket and give him a rub, because I was worried that the dog would bite me once he’d thawed out, in revenge for what had been done to him. All of a sudden the telephone rang. I had the impression it had been ringing for quite a while. I tried to get up from the sofa but fell and crawled to the phone, pushing aside empty packaging and plastic bottles. Frau Hohenembs! Highly personal. She invited me to breakfast the following morning in her apartment, for a chat. She’d lay on everything you could possibly wish for at breakfast: real hot chocolate, runny and whipped cream, sweet and spicy pastries, eggs prepared all ways, bacon and ham, strawberries, oranges, coffee, tea. I know you have a weakness for good food, she added at the end. I hesitated. The invitation was a chance, perhaps. I had to relearn how to deal with such situations; I’d mastered the all-you-can-eat scenario, so it must be possible for me to get through a breakfast with my dignity intact. I accepted, even though I was annoyed that once again it was she who’d c
alled first. It made it look as if I was always waiting for something to happen. But this would be the last time! I stretched out on the floor, which compared to the sofa was agreeably flat. I laid my head on a TV magazine and fell asleep.
