by Magnus Flyte
“I’m not going to have to waltz, am I?” Sarah asked, stumbling slightly in the overlarge shoes. “I don’t exactly have the moves like Ginger.”
“I will lead,” Alessandro said with a mildly sadistic smile. “Marie!” An exceptionally tall woman surrounded by a group of young ballgoers turned and then strode toward them, smiling, her wide shoulders and the stiff flounces of her many petticoats cutting a swath through the crowd. “Sarah, this is my friend Frau Professor Marie-Franz Morgendal. Marie-Franz teaches history of science at the university. She is also big Beethoven lover.”
“Frau Doktor Weston,” said Marie-Franz in careful, accented English. Her voice was deep and warm. “I read your book on Beethoven and enjoyed it very much. It was wonderfully insightful!” Sarah’s university had published her doctoral thesis on the correspondence between Beethoven and the 7th Prince Lobkowicz. Sarah had not mentioned in her book that some of her insights had come while she was on the drug Westonia, which had allowed her to actually see Beethoven and hear him play. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could tuck into a footnote.
“Please call me Sarah.” She had heard that Austrians were very big on titles, but “Dr. Weston” still sounded very strange to her.
“Yes? Then you must call me Marie-Franz. Sarah, I see that you have also tied your apron strings to signify you are an unmarried lady?” Sarah looked down at her apron, bemused. She hadn’t known she was sending a signal about her marital status.
“What is the tying that signals ‘troublemaker’?” asked Alessandro. “Sarah should have this.”
Marie let out a booming laugh as they were joined by a tiny, beautiful girl, whose pink hair and tattoos gave the whole dirndl thing a punk twist. Alessandro introduced the girl as Nina Fischer and explained that she was one of Bettina Müller’s grad students. Nina seemed fully aware of Alessandro’s plan and offered Sarah some advice.
“Play it cool, yes?” she said to Sarah. “Frau Doktor Müller is brilliant, but she can be a little . . . I don’t know if you have this word in English.” Nina switched to German, in which Sarah was fluent, and Sarah learned that Doktor Müller was “tricky.” Nina then introduced her escort, who must have been at least twenty years older than Nina and had the half-avaricious, half-desperate look of someone who knew his dates with young women were numbered, and he needed to make the most of them. “This is Heinrich von Hohenlohe,” said Nina, managing to look both proud and a little embarrassed as she pronounced the aristocratic “von.” But the name caught Sarah’s attention for a different reason. She remembered that Nico had said the von Hohenlohe family had the healer Philippine Welser’s papers and was highly possessive of them. Given the too hungry look of this guy, Sarah was glad that Nico already had the recipe he needed.
“Is she here?” Sarah asked Nina. “Doktor Müller?” There were hundreds of people milling about. This was going to be difficult.
“She will be late,” Nina said. “She always is. In the meantime, you should enjoy yourself.”
Sarah was just hoping not to split a seam before Dr. Müller showed up.
Heinrich touched her shoulder. “Do not be offended,” he shouted over the din, “if no one outside of our group asks you to dance. It would violate tradition. People come in couples or groups, and it would be considered ill-mannered to prey on a member of someone else’s party, although ogling is allowed.” Heinrich ogled Sarah, as if to demonstrate its acceptability.
When the orchestra leader announced, “Meine Damen und Herren, alles Waltzer,” and “Tales from the Vienna Woods” began, Sarah begged Alessandro to let her just watch the dancing for a moment. Each couple made their own swirling little circle while at the same time the entire crowd swirled counterclockwise, like an elaborate clockwork mechanism with hundreds of gauzy, glinting, moving parts. It was beautiful, it was romantic, it was slightly absurd, and it was fabulous.
When Alessandro led her into the next dance, Sarah had a moment of panic as she tried to recall where her feet were supposed to be, and then, to her great surprise, she was doing it, waltzing. Not perfectly, but definitely waltzing. She had to splay out her toes to keep the shoes on, and had an ongoing fear that the laces holding in her bosom would snap and release the hounds, and yet it was fun. Alessandro handed her over to another university colleague, who was more precise, and her technique improved. Then she danced with Heinrich, whose hands were predictably sweaty. But still no sign of Bettina Müller.
Marie-Franz suggested they go up to the gallery, where the view of the dancers would be particularly lovely. “Vai. I will wait for Bettina,” said Alessandro. Sarah and Marie-Franz made their way to one of the grand staircases, a marble and wrought-iron affair with columns supporting pointed-arch vaults. Their progress up was slow, as Marie-Franz continually stopped to introduce Sarah to more people. On the mezzanine they looked down on the swirling couples in costume and Sarah tried to remind herself which century she was in. Taking out her cell phone to snap a few pictures helped.
“Adele!” Sarah turned and Marie-Franz introduced her to a man she named as Herr Kapellmeister Gerhard Schmitt, and then to his wife, Adele, a willowy blonde who clung briefly to Marie-Franz as the taller woman stooped to kiss her cheek. “Frau Doktor Weston joins us from Boston. She’s only just arrived.”
“Frau Doktor Weston, I kiss your hand. I hope our meager entertainment is not a bore,” said the man, as his wife rolled her eyes theatrically. Sarah couldn’t tell if the woman was unimpressed with the splendid scene or her husband. The Kapellmeister had a mane of very blond hair, and Sarah thought the name was familiar.
“Not at all,” said Sarah. “It’s—”
“In the regular season,” the blonde interrupted, “it is not uncommon for women to get fat injected into the balls of the feet, so they can dance all night long.” She spilled some of her drink on Sarah’s dirndl and lurched sideways into the professor. “I wish I had your sense of humor, Marie-Franz. I wish I could laugh it all away.”
Before the professor could respond to this, the man said, “Enjoy your evening,” and led his wife away, his eyes lingering on Sarah’s breasts.
“You recognized him perhaps?” asked Marie-Franz after the couple were out of earshot. “Gerhard Schmitt is a composer, and director of the Vienna Chamber Orchestra. He has taken the old title of Kapellmeister, though he is known in the press as ‘the Lion of Vienna’ on account of the hair. Ha! Adele is a harpist. I’ve known her since we were children. She’s not always so . . . unstable.”
“You seem to know everyone.”
“Oh, we’re terrible gossips here.” Marie-Franz laughed her infectious, booming laugh. “And it is more that everyone knows me! Not that I am famous. But you see, I used to be Herr Professor Franz Morgendal. And now—” Marie-Franz gestured modestly to her dirndled bosom and flipped up the ends of her thick, wheat-colored hair.
Sarah put the deep voice, the height, the hands, and the slight hint of Adam’s apple together.
“Some people think I should drop the Franz from my name, because it is confusing,” the professor explained. “But I just like the way Marie-Franz sounds.”
“It’s very musical,” Sarah agreed. “And why not please yourself?”
“Yes! I did not take the hormones or do the surgeries so that I could make people uncomfortable or comfortable. I did it so that I could live my life as it was intended in my soul. Yes! I use the word ‘soul’ even though I am a professor of the history of science and in the history of science they have never proved the soul. Only its expression.”
Sarah raised her glass in salutation. She rarely used the word ‘soul’ herself, but she was definitely in kinship with living your life as you feel it was intended.
“Geniesse das Leben ständig! Du bist länger tot als lebendig!” said Marie-Franz, clinking glasses.
Constantly enjoy life! You’re longer dead than alive!
They returned to the main floor. A tall man, resplendent in a Tyrolean uniform, had joined their
group and stood chatting with Nina and Heinrich. The man’s hair was dark, but his mustache and beard, groomed to a point, were red. His entire bearing and grandeur were very like the statue of the fifteenth-century Viennese notable he happened to be standing in front of.
“My brother, Gottfried,” said Heinrich. Gottfried bowed stiffly.
“Gottfried is a rider at our famous Spanish Riding School,” said Nina. “He’s also a terrible snob, so don’t expect him to ask you to dance.”
Gottfried looked at Nina coolly, then offered his arm to Sarah. By this time, Sarah felt as though she had had enough of the waltzing already. Her toes were aching, her ribs felt oddly numb, and she was anxious about the continuing no-show of Bettina Müller, but she took his arm.
Gottfried, Sarah noted as they danced, smelled like an intriguing combination of oiled leather and fresh hay. Her sensitive nose also picked up an interesting crackling energy. And the beard was very sexy. Under different circumstances, this would all be worth exploring (and it would be one way to get her mind off Max), but Sarah was at the ball to find Dr. Müller, not pick up hot guys, no matter how Tyrolean. Still, she tried making conversation with Gottfried, asking him about the Spanish Riding School.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I do not speak your language.”
“I’m speaking to you in German,” Sarah pointed out.
“Yes. You are speaking German as the Germans do. The accent is unpleasant. You must learn to speak like an Austrian.” Sarah had noticed a difference herself, with Nina and Marie-Franz, but it was mostly intonation and cadence. They had understood her perfectly. Nina had been right; Gottfried was a snob.
As they pirouetted past Alessandro, she saw that he was now talking to a small brown-haired woman with enormous glasses. Bettina Müller at last? She got rid of Gottfried by claiming waltz-induced dehydration and asking if he would mind getting her something to drink, which he seemed to be able to follow without her resorting to mime. She moved quickly over to Alessandro and the woman.
“Frau Doktor Müller, please allow me to introduce my dear friend Frau Doktor Sarah Weston,” said Alessandro.
The woman’s small hand was quite strong. Her glasses obscured most of her delicate features and magnified her eyes strangely. “So nice to meet you,” said Sarah, flashing her most charming smile, the one she used for job interviews and talking her way out of speeding tickets.
“Yes.” Bettina Müller looked intently at Sarah, who held the woman’s gaze. She felt a surge of adrenaline course through her body. Sarah had met a few geniuses in her life. Pollina. Her first mentor in neuromusicology, Professor Sherbatsky. Beethoven, when she had been close to him on Westonia. This, she felt certain, was another. Here was a woman who could help her friend.
“Sarah just arrived today from Prague,” Alessandro said. Bettina Müller was still holding Sarah’s hand, and now the pressure increased, but the woman was no longer looking at Sarah. She seemed to be transfixed by something over Sarah’s shoulder.
“Yes. Excuse me. I must go,” she said abruptly.
“But I insist you allow me a dance! If you have another partner I will wait. Or challenge him to a duel.” Alessandro said this with the full weight of his considerable charm, but the woman was backing away, still staring at something past Sarah. Sarah turned, but the ballroom was crowded. She was losing her chance.
“I’m so sorry, Dr. Müller,” said Sarah, moving forward, “but I came all the way to Vienna to see you. I must speak with you; it’s very important. Perhaps we can arrange a meeting—”
“I know who you are,” the woman muttered. “I reviewed your friend’s records and turned her down. She is too young.”
“You don’t know her,” said Sarah. “She has an iron will. I think she can take the treatment. I know she can. Please. You may be our last hope.”
The woman was pale, Sarah noticed, and her hands were shaking. Sarah could smell the fear on her.
And suddenly Sarah felt it, too. Danger. It was incredibly powerful. All the hairs on Sarah’s neck went up.
But just then a group of ballgoers surged in between Sarah and the doctor as the orchestra struck up a new tune. Sarah tried to push past them, muttering “Bitte. Bitte. Entschuldigung,” but when she finally did, Bettina Müller had disappeared.
“Merda,” Alessandro said, appearing beside Sarah.
“I’ll go to her lab tomorrow.” Sarah’s brief sense of danger was gone, replaced with determination. Pols wasn’t the only one with an iron will. “I’ll find her home address and wait outside.”
Nina joined them.
“What happened?”
“She left,” Sarah said. “It seemed like something spooked her, actually. Not me. She wasn’t really looking at me. Something was . . . wrong.”
“I told you she was tricky,” said Nina. “We’ll think of something else. Now, come on. I’m trying to ditch Heinrich. Let’s get something to eat. But not here. Only old rich people eat at balls. The rest of us go to a Würstelstand.”
“Beer and hot dogs.” Alessandro sighed. “Schifoso.”
Nina rolled her eyes and laced her arm through Sarah’s.
They moved through the crowd, passing Gerhard Schmitt—the Lion of Vienna—and his unstable harpist wife, apparently in the midst of a fierce argument. Sarah looked around for Gottfried, but couldn’t find him in the crush.
At the Würstelstand, Nina insisted Sarah sample her favorite, a cheese-filled hot dog known locally as “sausage-with-pus.” Sarah decided at this point it was safe to risk dirndl failure and ate her hot dog and talked with Nina, trying to come up with another strategy for getting a meeting with the skittish doctor.
“I can mention the case again,” Nina offered. “Not that she listens to me. Ah, shit—” She looked at her phone. “It’s Heinrich. I suppose I better go back or he’ll be pissed.” She tossed down the rest of her beer and headed back to the Rathaus.
“You want to dance more?” Alessandro asked, but Sarah was way too frustrated to waltz. Also, she was ready to de-dirndl.
“I’ll go with you to the university tomorrow,” Sarah said to Alessandro in the cab back to his apartment. “Do you know where Bettina has her lab? Maybe if I can catch her on the way in or out—”
Sarah’s phone beeped and a text appeared. The number was blocked, but the message was clear. Sarah leaned forward and addressed the driver.
“I’m sorry, but we need to change our destination!” She handed her phone to Alessandro, who read the message out loud.
Sarah—can you come to my lab now? Must talk. Alone. —Bettina
SIX
Alessandro directed the cab to leave them at Borschkegasse, and he pointed out the building where Bettina Müller’s lab was located, a newer, modern edifice tucked behind yet another row of Vienna’s white Neo-Baroque giants. Alessandro wanted to come with her, but the doctor had specifically stated that Sarah should come alone, so he loitered near a fountain on the campus Platz, nervously smoking a cigarette. By the time she returned, Sarah figured, he would probably have picked up a sophomore. Or three.
There were still a couple of lights on in the laboratory building. Someone had put a piece of tape over the lock on the front door and left a card directing a pizza delivery to the third floor. Dry-erase boards and posters lined the walls of the entranceway, bearing testimony to the work being done in the building: schedules, reminders about safety precautions, a challenge from the Molecular Medicine team for a night of disco bowling.
Bettina’s lab was on the second floor, at the end of a long hallway. Sarah had to use the flashlight app on her phone to navigate, as the overhead fluorescents were off. This made her a little uneasy. The previous night was bullets in a river, and Nico had said she should remain en garde. Difficult to do when dressed like a naughty beermaid. Sarah reached into her purse. Her choice of weapons was either a pen or the plastic sword from Nico’s Barbatini, which had somehow ended up in her evening bag. She wondered what he had taken in e
xchange.
The door to Bettina’s lab was standing open, but the lights were off.
“Hallo?” she called. “Frau Dr. Müller? Es ist Sarah Weston.”
No answer. Sarah felt for the light switch inside the door and clicked it, but nothing happened. She shone her phone around the room, getting partial glimpses of long tables, stools, cabinets, sinks, lab equipment. The room smelled powerfully of bleach.
She jumped at the sound of scratching and a mechanical clink. She directed her light toward the noise and discovered a row of numbered cages. Sarah had seen plenty of white lab rats, but these were all gray, some drinking water, some sleeping, one little guy starting to exercise vigorously (or neurotically) on a wheel. Sarah stepped backward, slipping on a laminated poster depicting two soapy hands and the injunction Waschen Sie Ihre Hände! that had fallen to the floor. She heard a distinct tearing sound.
Then she heard the elevator door opening and the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall, several voices speaking at once.
“Hallo? Hallo?” Sarah stepped outside the lab and was momentarily blinded by the beam of a powerful flashlight hitting her directly in the face. For the second time in as many days, she heard the click of a gun being cocked.
• • •
At least, Sarah thought, she wasn’t the only one at the police station in a dirndl, though hers was the only one with a side seam busted open. She counted a half dozen people in ball costumes, two of them in handcuffs, singing a spirited version of “Das Schönste auf der Welt” at the tops of their lungs. The officer who was transcribing Sarah’s statement looked up at the serenaders, frowned, then informed Sarah that the song was a fine one if sung properly, in tune.
