They are well out of the Stadtheatre when Adi finally speaks. “Let’s go for a walk in Urfahr,” he says. “I want to see 2 Kirchengasse.”
Gustl stutters the first syllables of a refusal but decides to suck his protest back. It’s nearly midnight and he’s exhausted. He’ll have to rise early in the morning to upholster with his father, but any excuse would be read at best as a meaningless annoyance and at worst as a grave insult.
“Come on,” Adi says, pointing his ebony stick at the suburb and swishing his overcoat behind him. He marches north towards the iron bridge. Gustl abandons resistance and follows in his wake.
Now Adi has sufficient distance to discuss the production. “Several of the singers were miscast,” he begins. Gustl, who readily agrees, is eager to delve into the criticism with his friend, as he has harsh words of his own about the woman playing Ortrud, but just as he’s opening his mouth to speak, Adi starts to rant. “In Vienna,” Adi says, waving his walking stick in the air, “Anna von Mildenburg was near perfect as Ortrud. And Erik Schmedes was a genius who put our town’s Lohengrin to shame. And until I hear my dear Stefanie’s voice—which, I can assure you, Gustl, will have the right ring to it—there will be no singer worthy of Elsa other than Frau Lucy Weidt.” Gustl murmurs tepid agreements and follows him onto the bridge, envious of Adi’s glamorous stay in the capital but not eager to hear about it. Other than a couple, walking arm in arm in the distance, they’re alone.
The Danube flows black beneath them. Were it not for the river’s gurgling, and the nutty-sweet scent of the cowslips sprouting along the banks, it would feel as if they were traversing a bottomless pit. There are several lit windows and bright street lamps on the other side, but otherwise Urfahr is darker than Linz. Adi lowers his stick. His voice loses its screech. He releases the tension in his shoulders and stops talking about the production. “Yes,” he says, his voice quiet and calm. “It’s good, out here, in the open.” They cross the midpoint of the bridge. “It’s better over here.”
Gustl understands that their conversation about Lohengrin is finished, even though he hasn’t had the opportunity to say a single word. In silence, they leave the bridge and turn right on Linke Donaustrasse. Adi quickens his pace and removes the folded drawing from his inner jacket pocket. He takes a left and then a sudden right down the sleepy Verlängerte to arrive at Kirchengasse, with Gustl trotting behind him. Frogs croak nearby on the grassy shores of the Danube. There is not another person on the street.
Adi and Gustl are standing across from number 2 Kirchengasse, regarding the darkened apartment windows on the unlit second floor. Adi unfolds his sketch and holds it before him. He shrugs off his overcoat, which falls in a heap on the cobblestones beside his ivory-handled cane and top hat. “There,” he says, a nod of his head indicating a corner room. “That’s my studio. And here it is, fully furnished.” His thumb smacks the drawing. He’s designed, for the parlour, a matching gilt wood armchair and sofa with low-relief classical scrolls, claw feet in front, sabre legs in back. Adi has forgotten the source material of the design and now considers it entirely his own. “We’ll have bucolic murals in the hall and the main sitting room. I’ll paint them myself.” He marches towards the other side of the building. “That’s your studio there,” he says, indicating a window with his chin. “I’ve put in a Bechstein grand, unless you’d prefer a Bösendorfer.”
“You prefer the Bechstein?” asks Gustl.
“Yes, of course,” says Adi, annoyed. “German pianos are superior.”
Gustl studies the window of his future studio. Its northeastern exposure will give it the inferior view of a few green fields in the distance and, if he stretches his neck, a thin slice of the Danube cutting north. Adi’s view, in contrast, will be magnificent. From his northwestern window, he’ll survey the nearby Pöstlingberg mountain and the more distant, larger Lichtenberg. From his southwestern window, he’ll gaze out over the Danube and most of downtown Linz, including the cathedral, the iron bridge, and the train station.
“Once we move in,” says Adi, “the city will have no choice but to build my new bridge. And expand the sidewalks on Kirchengasse. We’ll need a fixed procedure to manage our guests. They can’t just come whenever they fancy to disturb us while we work. Our chatelaine must be schooled in handling interruptions. She’ll have to be our watchdog.”
Gustl nods and tenses his lips. “And where will she live?”
“Her room’s right here.” On the drawing, Adi shows Gustl the space he’s reserved for a live-in caretaker and patroness.
“The maid’s quarters?”
“Look at the bed I’ve designed.” Adi indicates a standard piece of neoclassical furniture, with each of its four posts resembling a Roman column and a large painting of cherubs on the headboard. “Women prefer pieces in this style.”
“Mmm,” says Gustl.
“An older lady, don’t you think?” Adi is searching the starry sky for an answer.
“I would think,” says Gustl.
“Someone who’s already seen it all and wants nothing more from life now that she’s reached her later years than to care for and protect her two young artists, her two national treasures. Hitler and Kubizek, the jewels of Linz!” Adi laughs and shakes his drawing at the apartment building.
“Shh,” whispers Gustl. “People are trying to sleep.”
Adi flashes him a stunned and furious glare. “And they should be proud to wake for us!” His lips are quivering, and he’s on the verge of tears. “My God, Gustl, if you aren’t willing to commit and embrace our gift—”
“No, no!” Gustl cries, waving his hands. “That’s not what—”
“I’m sure I’ll have no trouble whatsoever finding another young musician with the courage to accept—”
“I’m committed. I’m committed.”
“Maybe without your talent, but still—”
“I assure you.” Gustl grabs Adi’s hands and presses them together, crumpling the drawing. Gustl’s head is bowed towards his shorter friend.
Adi sighs and blinks, managing to fight off the tears. He yanks his hands away from Gustl’s, folds the drawing, and returns it to his pocket.
“I’m sorry if I offended,” whispers Gustl.
Adi has already picked up his walking stick, overcoat, and top hat. He turns from Gustl and cuts north on Schulstrasse, weaving through the sparse buildings in the centre of Urfahr until he reaches the semi-rural Aubergstrasse, all the while muttering under his breath. Gustl, who’s running beside him, catches only a bit of his tirade—a quick reference to Stefanie, a blanket curse against humanity. He has followed Adi many times on this route to the foot of the Pöstlingberg, and knows better than to speak until his friend has calmed down.
They pass a field of sleeping cows, their bells clanging in the light breeze, and a villa with white flowers in boxes, visible in the moonlight. There is a patch of uncut forest, thick with Norway spruce, silver fir, beech, and giant oak. When the incline suddenly steepens, Adi stops muttering. He slows his pace and relies on his walking stick. Now they have left the farmhouses and picturesque villas behind. The path narrows and roughens, winding through groves and copses. They are climbing the mountain in single file, Gustl huffing and wheezing behind Adi, his bad lungs almost unable to handle the work. He clutches his ribs and sweats, trying to keep up. Adi plods steadily, refusing to slow for his struggling friend, his legs churning and his overcoat swishing behind him. The steepening path turns rocky and unstable, with tree roots and stones as their steps. The moonlight is all they have to guide them. Adi, who has been whistling the wedding march from act three, stops and removes his top hat, and wipes the sweat away with his handkerchief. He puts the hat back on and drives himself forward. Gustl loosens his tie and opens his tall collar, his shirt drenched with sweat. In the darkness of the forest, Gustl trips on a rock and tumbles, bracing himself with outstretched palms. He yelps and curses as he lies on the ground, shaking his raw hands. Adi stops and peers over
his shoulder.
“Are you all right, dear Gustl?” he asks.
His friend, blowing on his scraped palms, nods solemnly. When he realizes he can’t be seen, he mutters, “Yes.” Gustl grins in the darkness, surprised and pleased by Adi’s unexpected change of mood, his sudden concern for his dear friend.
Near the top of the Pöstlingberg, Adi veers off the main path and cuts down a less worn route, a short, steep decline through coniferous trees. The forest ends at a rocky cliff. Adi takes off his hat and lays it on the rock. He puts down his walking stick and exhales loudly, his hands on his hips. “Our city,” he tells Gustl, who has pulled up beside him. “Our magnificent Linz!”
Darkness limits the panoramic view, but with sporadic lights in windows and moonlight reflecting off the river’s prominent curve they can make out just enough of the city for their trip to have been worthwhile. Adi sits on the rock ledge, his legs dangling over the side, and Gustl sits beside him. An owl hoots and bats dive at the boys’ swinging legs. Adi stretches his arms into the air and sighs. Mountains seem to have a calming effect on him.
“It’s not just for me, you understand,” Adi says, a few long minutes after their arrival, “that I encourage your musical study. Persuade you to play the truant with your father. Or move into Urfahr. Of course, I’ll benefit, but it’s not for me. I don’t think I’m wrong to say I’ve detected in you, Gustl, the overwhelming desire to dedicate yourself to art. But you lack the will to do it on your own.”
“I have the will,” Gustl protests. “I am always studying. And I play everywhere I can. The Music Society. The Symphony Orchestra.”
“But there’s a line, you must admit, between the hobbyist and the artist. You haven’t the will to cross it on your own.”
Gustl broods for a moment. There’s some truth to what Adi says. Although Gustl has felt bullied all night by this frothing and belligerent dandy, and although he didn’t want to follow Adi up the mountain, or hear his lecture on Linz architecture, or his criticism of the opera, now he’s strangely touched. Gustl’s anger abates as he remembers that Adi thinks well of him, and often considers his dreams along with his own.
“I am correct, of course.”
“Yes,” whispers Gustl.
“You should study in Vienna. The conservatory there is the best in the world.”
“Believe me, I know that.”
“Well, then? You should go.”
“My parents would never let me.”
Adi chuckles at his friend’s timidity. “Leave that to me,” he says.
“They won’t let me go, I promise. They’ll think it’s foolish and frivolous.”
“You don’t understand.” Adi removes the lottery ticket from his pocket and hands it to Gustl. “Remember, I will win the lottery tomorrow. My destiny will be fulfilled. No one will be able to say anything against me. The victorious spirit will be in my blood.”
“The lottery,” Gustl says quietly, turning the paper over in his hands.
“You’ll join me in Vienna when I am at the Academy,” says Adi, snatching the ticket back from his friend. “Unless, of course, that’s not what you want …”
“Oh, it is,” Gustl cries. “It is.”
The heels of their shoes click against the rock. A cool breeze sweeps across the mountain, shaking the needles on the trees behind them. A few crickets chirp in the fields far below. Gustl opens his mouth to speak, but stops himself and looks at his hands.
“One thing’s certain,” says Adi. “That bridge to Urfahr is an ugly blight. A triviality planned by idiots. It will have to go. That will be my first task.”
“But Adi,” says Gustl, “what if there’s no money?”
“There will be plenty.”
“The lottery was today,” Gustl blurts, pulling a small piece of newspaper from his pocket. “It was today. I forgot to tell you. I’m sorry, I … I clipped the number from my father’s paper, and I meant, I … Here, I have it, here.”
Adi snatches the paper from Gustl’s hand. He reaches into his pocket for his lottery ticket and hunches over, comparing numbers. Back and forth Adi’s eyes travel between the paper and the ticket, the veins on his neck bulging.
“Well?” asks Gustl. “Did we win?”
He hears his own question, hears its pessimism, and trembles at the inevitable consequences. It was a reckless inquiry. His stomach drops and blood floods into the space behind his ears.
For a moment, Adi sits motionless and stunned. When he revives, he tucks the piece of newspaper and the ticket into his pocket. “You,” he whispers, beginning to shake a fist. “You and your money. To hell with it, and with you!”
“Me?” says Gustl.
“Why must you try to defeat every project of mine before it’s even had a chance to blossom?” Adi’s standing now, snatching his accessories off the rock. “I won’t listen to you for another moment.”
Adi drops the top hat on his head, wraps the coat around his shoulders, and grabs his walking stick. Gustl wants to speak, wants to say something, anything, to appease his friend, but Adi is already marching up the incline to the main path.
“Adi!” he cries.
“Get away, Gustl. Go back to your damn upholstery!”
The hint of abandonment is enough to pull Gustl off his perch. He ascends the hill and catches up to Adi. “I didn’t mean to suggest it isn’t possible—”
“Oh, but you did,” interrupts Adi, halting on the spot, his enraged blue eyes bugging out of his head. “You did! And I’m telling you right now that not only is it possible, this plan you think so funny, not only is it possible, but I can also guarantee you that it will happen. Yes! It will happen! It will happen!” With each repetition of that phrase, Adi whacks his foot with his walking stick. Gustl squints to prevent the shower of spit from getting into his eyes. “Go home, Gustl. I have ten thousand plans to prepare this evening, and I can’t do any of them with your incessant comments of money this and money that.” He is pointing the walking stick down the mountain towards the city.
Gustl wipes the spittle off his face but doesn’t move. “Will you come tomorrow, after work?” he asks.
“Why should I?” Adi adjusts his cravat and twitches the few sparse hairs sprouting from his upper lip. “Go.”
Gustl nods, knowing that it is best not to speak, best to avoid Adi altogether when he’s worked himself into this mood. Gustl should fly down the hill, rush back into the city, and climb into bed as soon as possible. He has to get up early. He can only hope that by tomorrow Adi will have forgotten about the lottery, forgotten his friend’s indiscreet comment and question, and that maybe they can start afresh. “Good night, Adi,” he says.
Adi strikes a practised pose, his two hands resting on the ivory handle of his cane, his right foot placed forward, his cheeks taut, and his top hat tipped back to expose his prominent forehead. He coldly watches Gustl disappear down the path.
All is lost. He will not be able to rent that apartment on Kirchengasse. None of his architectural plans will come to fruition. And how can he go home to face his mother after all that he’s said? No, she’s too fragile to withstand it. Adi’s despair is so intense at this moment that he wants, under its dark spell, to rip the flesh off his bones, to toss chunks of it into the dirt, to grind it with his heels and pulverize it into pulp. Anguish clouds his vision, narrows it to a single point. A rabid impulse pulls at him: to run down the mountain, climb the rail of Linz’s iron bridge, call out his love for Stefanie, and hurl himself into the Danube.
Adi snorts. “Well, then,” he whispers.
He charges down the mountain. He has been abandoned and forsaken by the spirit of victory. Halfway down the path, he veers onto an alternate route that will take him west to the Danube. It’s rockier and steeper at first, but the road at the bottom of this path crosses through the countryside, avoiding the buildings of Urfahr. Adi will follow the riverbank all the way to the iron bridge. He refuses to be calmed by the crunch of sticks beneath his f
eet, by the way the moonlight, cutting through trees, streaks into beams and pools of brightness all around him. The path levels off, the trees open into a field. He rushes down a long dirt road towards the Danube, the full moon and the mountain rising behind him.
Adi reaches the narrow dirt path that winds through long grasses, unkempt bushes, and wildflowers lining the undeveloped north shore of the river. The water gurgles and flows nearby. The iron bridge spans its breadth in the distance. He will end this life of defeat. He will damn Stefanie with his final words.
He catches a whiff of something sweet, an odour he recognizes, which flares his nostrils and bites his eyes. His throat constricts and he sniffs quickly, like a dog. The odour reminds him of that night, on his recent trip to Vienna, maybe his second or third day in the city, his secret adventure at three in the morning before he returned to his godparents’ flat. He’d just witnessed a glorious production of The Flying Dutchman at the Hof, and had passed an extremely happy hour studying the new buildings constructed around the Ringstrasse. Curiosity got the best of him. That district was nearby. He ventured into the dark and narrow Spittelberggasse, thinking it important for a man to see the Sink of Iniquity for himself. Prostitutes stood with arms on their hips in dimly lit doorways of single-level houses. Others sat at vanity tables in well-lit rooms, perfuming themselves with flowery odours. That same smell. This smell. Men watching them paint their faces through giant windows. They wore stockings on their long legs, partially open corsets, and scarlet dresses with shoulders exposed. Up and down the Spittelberggasse, Adi walked, three times, watching gentlemen in frock coats stopping at the windows—so much for dignity! the frauds! the charlatans!—to chat with the ladies as if they were grocers, as if all those men were there to buy nuts or potatoes. He saw the men disappear into the houses and the windows blacken after them. The so-called gentry of a decaying Hapsburg state.
The Iron Bridge: Short Stories of 20th Century Dictators as Teenagers Page 20
