From the Teeth of Angels

by Jonathan Carroll

  But twenty minutes after the lights went down and the howl went up, I got totally claustrophobic, and I was out of that seat in seconds, shoving to get outside. I didn’t give a damn who I was disturbing—I had to get out of there before the top of my head blew off. Ever had a panic attack? I never did, and, boy, it scared me right down into my soul. You have absolutely no control over yourself. None! Everything’s pushed aside by fear like hot lava bubbling up and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. I charged out of the theater and right into a woman in front of the building who luckily was happy for my ticket when I offered it to her.

  You remember where the Opera is—right at the end of the Kartnerstrasse, that snazzy walking street downtown? In nice weather, street musicians and other performers play for passersby. I was so glad to be out of that airless, stifling place that I felt like dropping money in every hat or violin case that I passed.

  Ambling down the street, I stopped and watched two or three groups play. With no plan in mind, I kept walking and ended up at the Danube Canal. It was a beautiful summery evening. People were wearing shorts, eating ice cream cones, and walking slowly. Whole families were out on their bicycles, and groups of teenagers sat around on the benches by the water, smoking and laughing ten times too loudly.

  At Schwedenplatz there’s a permanently docked old Danube steamship named the Johann Strauss that’s been turned into a restaurant. I’d never been on it, but it looked great that night: warm lighting, people all dolled up and excited to be there, women holding their husbands’ hands. The men acting like big shots, squiring their ladies on board. Ahoy, mateys! It was so nice. I stood around and watched. I wasn’t jealous or sad. I felt like a kid watching her parents get ready for a big night on the town.

  I don’t know how long I stood there before this friendly woman’s voice came up behind and over me like a sonic boom. “Are you with the A.I.S. prom party?” she asked in pure New York City English.

  I turned, and there was the face to match the voice—a big smiling woman in an ochre party dress.

  “This is the boat, isn’t it? I’m confused. My husband shooed me out of the car and said, ‘Just go down the stairs and there’s a big boat. Get on it and you’ll find them.’ Easy for him to say; he’s parking the car. But look—there’s another big boat down there. I know one is the sightseeing boat and the other’s the restaurant. We want the restaurant, right? Which do you think it is?”

  Now I wanted to know how she knew I understood English. Then it hit me: I was standing in a formal dress next to a big boat, so of course she assumed I was with her group, whatever it was. I played along and asked for the name of our boat.

  She squinted at the boat, then started waving at someone up there and said, “The Johann Strauss. Oh, look up on deck! There’s C. J. Dippolito. This’s got to be it. If that’s C.J., then my son’s gotta be nearby. Come on. I didn’t catch your name. I’m Stephanie Singer.” We shook hands and I mumbled something, but Stephanie was already moving and I was part of it. She swept us both onto the boat and right into the middle of the senior class prom of the American International School of Vienna.

  I didn’t go to our school prom and was always secretly sorry, although I never admitted it to you. Every girl should be granted one magic night in spring with a date wearing a new haircut, English Leather cologne, and a white dinner jacket. You get to wear something silk or floor length, a corsage, and you have your hair done. The way I see it, after that life’s all downhill. I never had that midsummer night’s dream, and it terminally deprived me. But now by some marvelous fluke, my opera dress and Stephanie Singer were giving it to me. A prom in Vienna on a boat on the Danube!

  The Johann Strauss was a vision of goofy-looking boys in white dinner jackets and girls looking like angels with cleavage. You could tell under their dresses many still had baby fat around the edges, but they looked happy and proud to be with their guys. Stephanie found us a table, but before settling in with her, I excused myself and wandered around looking at the kids. Some of the couples were in love, some were showing off, others were terrified to even look at their partners. But this was their big night and they were all trying to do it right. It turned out that the reason Stephanie and her husband, Al, were there was that the school needed some parents to help chaperone the dance and the Singers had been volunteered by their son. A girl about sixteen told me this later. While she spoke, I realized she thought I was a parent too. That shook me up until I realized, hey, I am old enough to be mother to some of these kids. And that was okay because it was a special night and everyone there was looking as good as they ever will.

  So Mama Arlen walked around with a glass of cheap champagne, having a great time. One of the things that impressed me was the international mix of the students. Although it’s called the American International School, these kids weren’t only American. Arabs and Africans in djellabahs and dashikis, girls wound in saris… A California blond boy had his arm tight around an exquisite Indian girl named Sarosh Sattar. Isn’t that a beautiful name? There’s a branch of the United Nations in Vienna and it would have done all those bureaucrats a lot of good to be there and see how diverse people really can get along.

  I’d been on the boat about fifteen minutes and was sitting with the Singers when a girl came up and asked very hesitantly if I was Arlen Ford. When I said yes, things changed a little but not much. Some of the students wanted autographs, and a couple of the boys asked me to dance, but generally I was just another chaperone having a good time watching the dancers having fun and acting like adults for a night before they went back to their last days as kids.

  Everyone had a camera and was taking pictures. Flashbulbs popped and kids shuffled their friends together for shots of them laughing and holding their fingers up behind one another’s head. Guys stuck flowers down the front of the girls’ dresses or made silly faces. Photos you find curled in the back of a drawer twenty years later when you’re doing a thorough spring cleaning. You pick ‘em up, blow the hair out of your eyes, and the nostalgia from the pictures hits you so strongly you have to sit down. You remember the smell of that night in the car, driving over to the party, and the way your date kissed you when it was almost over.

  I hung around another hour and was interviewed for the school newspaper by a boy named Fadil Foual. All Fadil really wanted to know was whether I’d ever met Billy Joel or Stephen King, so it was a comfier interview than the one I did with the Italian journalist.

  I went back to my car feeling much younger at heart and very grateful to the Great Powers for allowing me to have the night.

  A few days later, the Easterlings called to ask if I’d like to go on a picnic with them and Nicholas, their little boy. We met at their place and drove to the Lainzer Tiergarten, way out on the edge of town. It’s a big forest reserve that used to be a royal hunting ground. But it was turned over to the people of Vienna and is a nice place to go if you’re in the mood for an afternoon of back to nature. Animals run free, and you can take it for granted you’ll see deer or wild boar somewhere along the way if you spend a couple of hours there. When we drove up, I thought that’s where we were going, but Walker strapped on the carrying bag with the baby and led us on a path alongside the park to a staircase that went straight up forever. When I asked if the top was worth the climb, Maris and he said yes. Unconvinced, I asked what was up there. Maris said, “The Happy Hill.” I couldn’t very well say, “I’ll wait down here,” so I took a deep breath and followed.

  The staircase did go on forever, and when we finally got to the top, the two of them kept going. I thought we’d at least stop for a cigarette break, but no way. We walked through woods a while until Walker veered left, and suddenly we were out on a huge open meadow with a great view down over the city. They called it the Happy Hill because it was one of the first places Walker brought Maris to when they first met. They made me promise never to go up there unless it was a great and special occasion. This was only the third or fourth time they’d bee
n there together, and they’d decided to go there that day because they wanted to bring their baby and show him.

  Their Nicholas is a cute kid, fat and robust, but he was born with a big hole in his heart. Maris said that’s a relatively common occurrence and he’s in no real danger. Surgery will have to be done to correct it in a few years, but now he’s just a big happy baby who can’t sit still and who laughs all the time.

  I’d brought the wine and dessert; they had everything else. Cold chicken and salad, three kinds of cheese and crackers, fruit. Just seeing all that food spread out in the bright sun on a blue-and-white tablecloth, a breeze flicking its corners, and holding Nicholas in my lap while he patted my face with one hand and drank his apple juice with the other… it was sublime, Rose. I had a baby in my lap, nice people sitting near, food… I must have sighed fifty times, I was so glad to be there. I kept thanking Maris and Walker for inviting me, but how do you thank people for giving you peace, even if it’s only for a little while?

  After lunch, Walker got out a Frisbee, and we put Nicholas on the cloth while the three of us spread way out over the field. We threw it back and forth and watched it go crazy in the gusts. Right when we were growing tired, a man appeared with a beautiful Viszla that looked very much like my Minnie. Only this was a male named Red and his specialty was playing Frisbee. He caught it no matter where or how far you threw it. He was amazing. The baby was asleep by now, the dog was leaping ten feet off the ground to catch, Maris and Walker held hands… it was bliss. Life doesn’t get better than that. I didn’t want to walk down that hill again.

  But things weren’t finished. When we got down, Maris suggested we walk into the Tiergarten a few minutes to see if any wild boars were around. And almost as soon as we were through the gates we saw a small pack being fed stale bread by one of the gamekeepers. Have you ever seen boar up close? They’re adorable, ancient-looking beasts; they remind you of what animals must have looked like in cavemen times. These guys were not exactly tame, but they’d come close for dinner. The keeper called them by name—Mickey Mouse was the biggest, the head of the clan. He got first dibs on whatever was thrown. A crowd had gathered to watch, and the gamekeeper came over and handed me a loaf of black bread. I was wary, but went close enough to smell them. Indescribable. Talk about the forest primeval! Their snorts and tusks were enough to knock you over. When I turned around, I noticed lots of people were taking pictures, but assumed they had Mickey Mouse in mind and not me. I was wrong. You’ll see why in a minute.

  Okay, I took a little break and now I’m back for the next installment.

  Walker was going out of town for a week, so before we said goodbye, I invited Maris and Nicholas to spend a day at my place. It gave me a good excuse to do something I relish these days—clean the house. I know, I know, I used to be one of the world’s great messes, but this is my new phase. Or else cleaning my house is only good therapy now when I don’t have a clue about how to clean up the rest of my life. Whatever, I went at it hammer and tongs even though it was already tidy. I mean, how much is there to do when you own five pieces of furniture? The answer is if it’s already okay, then polish it or get down on your knees and attack, swab, scrub it to death. Or maybe my obsessive ground assaults result from not having slept with anyone since moving to Europe. That’s the truth! I told you I was going to refrain, and I have. I am gradually regaining my virginity. Someday my prince will come and this time I want it to be an event.

  After cleaning, I went into Vienna to shop at the Naschmarkt. I’m a sucker for open-air markets. Seeing all that variety laid out in front of me, smelling the sexy spices, the spreads of strange foods you can only guess at. It makes me want to cook colossal meals that take forever to prepare. I never enjoyed cooking till I moved here. Then Weber started sending over great cookbooks, and the last few times he came we spent whole days in the kitchen while he taught me how to do things right and well. Another thing I’m grateful to him for. I’m lucky to have you all as friends.

  Anyway, I drove to Vienna with a shopping list a mile long. Besides the Austrian stands at the Naschmarkt, there are Turkish bakeries, shops of natural foods, an Islamic butcher, and a store that sells the world’s most wonderful peanut butter from Indonesia. Fresh fruits and vegetables from Bulgaria, Israel, Africa. Big tomatoes from Albania, Emmenthaler from the Alps… it’s a place you get lost in for hours.

  I was so involved in shopping that I didn’t notice the sound till my bag was almost filled. The Naschmarkt is all noise anyway, so it’s hard to pick out one as small as a camera click. But as I was squeezing a melon, I heard the sound and looked up. The woman who ran the store was smiling at something over my shoulder. I turned and saw a big man aiming a camera at me. I was in a good mood and mugged for him, putting a melon to my cheek and making a face like a girl in an advertisement. He smiled and took a few more shots. I put the melon down, waved at him, and moved off. Vienna’s a town full of people taking pictures. I paid no attention.

  Until a few minutes later, when I heard the sound again and saw him still aiming it at me. That time I frowned and turned away. I have too many bad memories of people who didn’t give a damn about how I felt and only wanted to take pictures. At least ask, damn it. Remember when we were at the Sundance Festival and the lunatic from Japan did that crazy thing with his camera bag? Even if this Naschmarkt guy was harmless and just liked the way I looked, I didn’t want it. I turned and walked away fast.

  About halfway down the market on the other side of the street is a funky old café called the Dreschler. A lot of heavy-duty characters and low-rents hang out there, mumbling into their beer. But the place has a real Vienna-1950s feel to it and I often stop in for coffee before heading home; take a window seat and watch the action at the market. I did exactly that, and instantly realized I was being watched right back by my new nemesis, Mr. Camera Head. He made no attempt to hide—he stood directly across the street and pointed his Nikon at me. It was equipped with a telephoto lens as long and wide as a weightlifter’s arm.

  I tried to ignore him but couldn’t. And he wouldn’t go away. Exasperated, I started to move to a table back from the window but then thought, The hell I will! Why should he ruin my peace? I was on the verge of giving him the finger but got up instead, told the waiter to leave my coffee where it was, and marched out. To his credit, the guy didn’t move. Most photo creeps have no guts when you confront them. They’ll take pictures of you in the nude or having sex or committing suicide, but face them off, and they run like chickens. This guy saw me coming but held his ground. In fact he kept shooting as I steamed across the street, battle flags flying.

  I know I live in a Germanic country and am trying hard to adapt, but I still jump into English when I get mad.

  I said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He had a nice face. Mad as I was, I couldn’t help noticing that. Plain, but alive and amused.

  “Taking your picture. I don’t often see movie stars.”

  “Goody-goody. You’ve got enough, so stop now and leave me alone. Stop sticking your lens in my day.”

  His face fell. No, it collapsed in confusion. Then he asked if it really bothered me.

  “More than you can imagine. If you know who I am, then you know I’m retired. No more movies, no more public face. No more pictures, okay? Be nice and go away.”

  He did something strange: put out his hand as if we were being introduced. He said, “My name is Leland Zivic. I’m very sorry, Ms. Ford. I’ll stop. I only thought—” He was on the verge of saying something more but stopped and shook his head.

  “Thank you, Leland. I’d be grateful.” I started to leave, but an ugly thought stopped me. “What are you planning to do with them?”

  He held up the camera. “With these? Oh, don’t worry! They’re only for me. I’m not going to sell them or use them. Please don’t worry about that.”

  “Good.” I turned and walked back across the street to the café without looking again. When I sat d
own at my table, I glanced at where he had been standing, but he was gone.

  I had so much to do at home that I didn’t think about him again until that night in bed. I hoped he was telling the truth when he said he wouldn’t use them for anything more than a souvenir. But there was nothing I could do about it. Anyway, what difference did pictures of me shopping make?

  The next morning I got up early and went outside to walk the dog. Usually we have a good long walk then because Minnie’s full of energy, and if I keep her outside for a while, she’ll race around till she’s exhausted. Then we come back home and she curls up in her bed and sleeps for hours. We went over the vineyards and into the forest where you and I sat that day and talked. Remember?

  When we were coming back up the path to the house, I saw a large manila envelope propped against the front door. I live so far away from the main routes that the postman leaves packages out in the open like that without worrying they’ll be stolen. But it was eight in the morning, too early for him, so it had to be either Federal Express or special delivery. But they required signatures when they bring anything. I picked up the envelope, sat down, and opened it on the spot.

  There were seven large photographs inside. The first one stopped the air in my throat. The second made me curse, and the rest were so startling that they zipped both my mouth and mind totally shut.

  The first was of me through the dirty window of Café Dreschler. One hand’s in my hair pulling it back off my face. That sounds like nothing special, I know, but the art of the picture’s in the framing of the scene and the expression it’s caught. You know me, Rose: when it comes to visual images of Arlen Ford, I’m the world’s coldest, cruelest critic. What was so stunning here was the look on my face and the way the hand was pulling at the hair. It made you think this woman, whoever she was, was going through some heart-searing pain. The head’s thrown back, eyes closed tight. The mouth’s so twisted that it makes you think she’s either crying or snarling. She’s just found out someone she loves has died. Or the man she adores just said fuck off. She looks as if she’s tearing her hair out and being killed by whatever she’s heard. Even crueler, behind her in the café is an old woman walking by with a deadpan face. Outside on the street, directly in front of the window, is a couple passing in the other direction, laughing. Mystery, isolation, and pain all together in one photo! It was so haunting. If you saw it in a gallery you’d want to go forward and recoil at the same time. You’d wonder, Oh, God, what’s happened to her? How was the photographer able to catch that moment of agony and the world’s indifference to it?