The Silence vm-3

by J Sydney Jones

  The age-old complaint, Werthen thought: The younger generation is going to the dogs. Parents had been complaining of it since ancient Greece.

  ‘Perhaps I might speak with your wife after we are finished here?’

  Wittgenstein shook his head so violently that jowls, until now undetectable, shook.

  ‘Afraid she is indisposed. Worry over her son has brought on migraine.’

  Which, Werthen now understood, explains the straw in the street outside.

  ‘I must be blunt, Advokat Werthen. It is because of Poldi that I have summoned you. She needs the reassurance.’

  ‘And you, sir?’

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? The boy’s taken himself off for a fling. I did the same thing myself when my father insisted I go into his property management. Ran off to New York and played guitar in a saloon for a year before I came back home, tail partly between my legs. I hardly credit Hans with the temerity to run off to the New World, though. He’s probably holed up with some sweet young thing in the Inner City. Just trying to show his independence. But he’ll be back. In the end, he’s a Wittgenstein. We know our duty.’

  Werthen marveled at the man’s self-assurance. He could only imagine his own emotions were a child of his to go missing for a week.

  ‘Has your son been missing before?’

  ‘Skipped the odd lesson, I should say. My children are educated at home. The best instructors. Hans would hide out from Latin lessons to play his piano. Poldi, you see. She is a great one for the music. All the children play instruments. Other than that, no. .’

  The statement had the tone of uncertainty.

  ‘Nothing?’ Werthen pursued.

  ‘The blasted Theresianum. I blame that school.’

  The Theresianum was the most prestigious Gymnasium or preparatory school in Vienna. It was called the ‘knights’ academy,’ for Empress Maria Theresa had established it in the eighteenth century to educate the young aristocrats of the realm to become administrators and political leaders. The nobles were still the only ones admitted as boarding students; the bourgeoisie had been permitted admittance as day students for the last half-century. Jews, assimilated or not, rarely gained entrance. Werthen knew this only too well; he himself had been denied admission. In any case it had not been his wish to attend the snobbish Theresianum, but rather his parents’. He had felt great relief being forced to attend the more liberal and secularized Akademische Gymnasium leading up to his entrance to the University of Vienna.

  Werthen figured that Wittgenstein must have paid very dearly indeed to get his child into the exclusive school. He most likely pulled in debts of all sorts from influential colleagues and far-flung relations to win that coup.

  ‘You said your children were educated at home.’

  ‘Yes, well, Hans did mope about so that I relented in his case. Allowed him to study at the Theresianum for two years. He fell into bad company there. It was then he began digging in his heels about going into the family business.’

  Just as you had earlier, Werthen wanted to remind the man, but knew it was not his place to do so.

  Herr Wittgenstein paused for a moment, then said, ‘Ultimately, they chucked him out. Missed his lessons, forever playing the piano.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’ Werthen asked.

  Wittgenstein shot him an uncomprehending look.

  ‘The bad company Hans fell into.’

  ‘How should I know?’ Herr Wittgenstein said with sudden impatience. ‘I was engaged in business at the time. But it was then he started his campaign to become a composer. I told him to leave the composing for Sundays, but he became even more sullen than before. You would think the masters at the Theresianum would have knocked some sense into the boy. After all, one paid enough for the education.’

  There followed a momentary pause. ‘I don’t want to take up more of your valuable time, Advokat Werthen.’ Wittgenstein stood, smoothing down his trousers as he did so. ‘I’ll let you get on with it. I can pay a retainer now, or-’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Herr Wittgenstein. We will talk about fees after I find your son. I will, however, need to speak to other members of the family and domestic staff.’

  ‘Certainly. Meier will direct you. The servant who showed you in. Knows his way about the house, does Meier. Been with us since we moved here from the Schwarzenbergplatz in ninety-one.’

  Wittgenstein moved to the door and pressed a small ringer. The door soon opened, revealing the same liveried servant who had shown Werthen to the study.

  ‘Meier, please take our guest to Fraulein Mining. She should be in the conservatory now.’

  Then to Werthen: ‘That is my oldest child, Hermine. She is the family brick, the one to go to in times of crisis. She can give you the lay of the land here. Tell you who’s who and what’s what, if that is any help. She can show you Hans’s room and all that. There’s Kurt as well. A year younger than Hans and of a more sensible nature. Then Rudi, a younger brother. But he’s a dreamer, like Hans. Wants to be an actor. He’ll be a fine director one day. And I do not mean of the theatrical sort. I don’t know if they can help you in your inquiries. They tell their mother they know nothing of Hans’s whereabouts.’

  ‘Thank you, Herr Wittgenstein.’ Werthen was about to follow Meier out of the room, but decided on one final attempt to get through to the man.

  ‘You’ll pardon me for saying so, but you do not seem troubled by this disappearance,’ he said.

  Wittgenstein, about to sit again at his desk, seemed surprised by the statement, then irritated.

  ‘Troubled? Why ever should I be? Young scoundrel’s probably off with a pretty girl, like I said.’

  ‘There have been no ransom demands? No communication?’

  Wittgenstein’s face reddened. ‘Why should there be?’ He was like a patient diagnosed with cancer yet unwilling to take it seriously.

  ‘You keep mentioning some pretty young thing. Was Hans having an affair?’

  ‘I have no idea. That is Hans’s business. He is, after all, a young man. And please do not ask Mining such a question.’

  ‘This may not be the appropriate time for decorum, sir. Your son’s been missing for over a week.’

  ‘I really must attend to certain matters, Advokat. If you will excuse me. Meier, Advokat Werthen wishes to see my daughter now.’

  Four

  Meier led Werthen on an abbreviated tour of the house as they made their way back downstairs and past the famed Musiksaal, where the Wittgensteins held their fabled musical evenings, with everyone from Brahms to Mahler performing for the family and guests. Werthen caught a glimpse of it as they passed, the walls covered in hunting tapestries, the floor an intricate parquet pattern, two Bosendorfer grand pianos situated with keyboard facing keyboard in the center of the room, a large bust of Beethoven standing at one end. But Meier cleared his throat at Werthen playing tourist, and they continued via a large sitting room, its walls covered in paintings from Rudolf von Alt, Segantini, and more from Klimt.

  By the time they reached the conservatory, Werthen felt overwhelmed by material wealth. Meier remained quiet throughout their perambulation, and once they arrived at the door to the conservatory, he was obviously prepared to leave Werthen to his business.

  ‘You are well acquainted with young Hans Wittgenstein, I assume?’ Werthen asked as the servant was about to leave.

  Meier cast Werthen a questioning look. ‘I have been with the family for quite some time.’ He was a lean, slight man whose thin calves looked faintly ridiculous in the sheer white stockings he wore.

  ‘That is not what I asked,’ Werthen said.

  ‘Yes, I have known Herr Hans since he was a boy.’ But he offered no more.

  ‘Let us understand one another,’ Werthen said. ‘I have been employed by Herr Wittgenstein to find his oldest son. You can confide in me. The more information I have, the more effective I will be.’

  Still the servant remained silent.

  ‘Is he a
happy young man?’ Werthen asked.

  A slight trace of amusement passed over Meier’s wax-like face.

  ‘You find the question somehow humorous?’

  ‘Happiness is not the primary goal of the Wittgensteins,’ Meier responded in a monotone. ‘But if you are wondering if the young man has been exceedingly despondent of late, I am clearly not the one to ask. I am a servant here, not a familiar. Decorum is exercised. Fraulein Hermine can, I am sure, better aid you in your inquiries.’

  With that, Meier abruptly turned and left Werthen to make his own way into the conservatory.

  Which he did, meandering through rows of potted palms and giant banana and elephant ear plants, making his way toward brighter light. Eventually he saw a young woman standing at a table under an atrium light well, the stained glass above her an elegant Jugendstil design of geometric shapes and swirls. The table was covered in cut flowers, and the young lady was busy making arrangements of them. She was dressed in a white blouse with a high neck, and a green tweed skirt that reached to the floor. Her brown hair was worn on top of her head.

  ‘Fraulein Wittgenstein?’ Werthen nodded at her as he approached.

  She looked up from the red and white carnations she was arranging and smiled with quiet grace.

  ‘You’ll be the detective Klimt sent.’

  ‘Private inquiries agent,’ he said.

  ‘Comes to the same thing, doesn’t it?’ Another winning smile, but with an edge. Her greenish-blue eyes were flecked with gold.

  Werthen did not feel like quibbling. It seemed that even when the Wittgensteins were being friendly, they were difficult.

  ‘What do you think happened to Hans?’

  This abrupt shift did not throw her. She continued clipping flower stems with a pair of ivory-handled secateurs.

  ‘I think he just needs a little vacation.’

  ‘He couldn’t wait for August?’

  She shook her head, as if gently reprimanding his levity. ‘Hans is a sensitive young man.’

  ‘Your father mentioned his dreams of a musical career. Might that figure in his disappearance?’

  ‘He has not disappeared. He is somewhere, we just do not know where.’

  ‘He said nothing to his other siblings?’

  She shook her head, more adamantly this time, and resumed clipping stems.

  ‘Do you know any of his friends?’ Werthen asked finally.

  ‘I can’t say I do, Advokat Werthen. If you must know, Hans and I are not all that close. In age, yes, but not in temperament.’ Another shake of the head. ‘I am, in fact, closer to the second group.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Sorry. Family nomenclature. Six of us children were born between 1874 and 1882. Myself, then Hans — actually, Dora next, but she died at birth — Kurt, Lenka — that’s Helene — Rudi, and Gretl. Six years later Pauli was born, and then the next year, Luki — little Ludwig, the baby of the family. The little ones and I are very close.’

  ‘I see.’ But he did not at all. Or if it had any bearing on the whereabouts of Hans Wittgenstein. No nickname for him, Werthen noted. Or for brother Kurt.

  ‘Is Hans close with his brothers? Perhaps he mentioned something, anything, that might give us a lead?’

  ‘You’re free to ask them, of course. We all live at home still. None of us has taken the dreaded marital step. But I doubt it will do you any good. No one seems to know where he is.’

  She finished the arrangement of red and white carnations, laid down the secateurs, and took off her white gardening gloves.

  ‘I expect you will want to see his rooms.’

  ‘If I may.’

  ‘It’s back up the stairs again, then. We are a family that believes in exercise.’

  She moved off briskly and Werthen trailed behind as she led him on another route, avoiding the main staircase and instead taking a narrow circular flight of stairs to the second floor. He saw the door to Herr Wittgenstein’s study, but they turned the opposite direction, into a maze of hallways that totally disoriented Werthen. Fraulein Hermine finally opened the door to a corner room that was expansive and bright. A grand piano, yet another Bosendorf, sat in one corner. The room was simply appointed with oak furniture, but the walls were almost totally covered with framed posters announcing musical performances.

  She waited as Werthen went through the drawers of a writing desk, looking for loose papers, a journal, any clue as to where Hans might have gone. He inspected the books in a glass-fronted bookcase: Schopenhauer, Marx, even the disturbing German Nietzsche was there. Also bound volumes of the plays of Arthur Schnitzler, and surprisingly, several of the red-covered volumes of Karl Kraus’s review of popular culture, Die Fackel. Surprising, because Kraus had pilloried Karl Wittgenstein as a grubbing capitalist on more than one occasion in his review. Or perhaps it was not so unexpected if Hans and his father had little love for one another.

  Werthen thought momentarily of his own brother Max, six years Werthen’s junior. He was sensitive, unstable, and despairing of the fact that his parents demanded that he study law at the university rather than attend the Academy of Fine Arts, his fondest wish. Max had written to Werthen, then just beginning his criminal law practice in Graz and less than sympathetic with his younger brother’s dreams of becoming a painter. After all, he himself had entertained dreams of becoming a writer, but ultimately found time for scribbling before and after his day of legal work. Surely Max could balance his dreams with practicality, too.

  Early one autumn morning in 1888, while in Vienna with his parents for the university inscription, Max made off from their hotel near the Habsburg summer palace of Schonbrunn, climbed the slope of Maxingstrasse past the home of the Waltz King, Johann Strauss, and soon reached the Hietzing Cemetery. Before leaving Hohelande, the family estate in Upper Austria, Max had taken a revolver out of the gun cabinet. Now, in Vienna, he found the grave of the Austrian playwright Franz Grillparzer. Lying on the damp marble slab, he inserted the cold metal of the gun barrel into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  Had Hans sought the same way out? Werthen would need to check with the city morgue for recent corpses. Not something, however, that he would discuss with the family just yet.

  After a full half-hour, he was satisfied that there was nothing in the room to provide him with a clue as to the whereabouts of its occupant.

  ‘You really did not answer my earlier question, Fraulein Wittgenstein.’

  ‘No? What was that?’

  ‘About your own theory. A vacation. But any idea where? I assume your family has more than one abode?’

  ‘Yes. We have a villa on the Neuwaldeggergasse here in Vienna and a summer home at Hochreit, in Bohemia. We of course have inquired at both. The caretakers assure us that Hans has been at neither residence in months.’

  ‘Very good. And the siblings, are they at home now?’

  ‘Kurt is surely at the office. I can give you his address and telephone number. But I believe Rudi has come down with a slight grippe. You can find him in his room. Lenka and Gretl are at dance class this morning.’

  ‘And the second group?’

  ‘Oh, I hardly see how they can help.’

  ‘Perhaps you will let me decide that.’

  This comment set a muscle twitching spasmodically in her left jaw. Underneath her studied air of calm noblesse oblige, Hermine Wittgenstein seemed to be made of the same hard stuff as her father.

  ‘Shall we begin with Rudi, then?’ she offered.

  The brother’s room was removed by one hallway. She tapped at the door, but did not bother waiting for a response before she opened it to reveal a young man in a black and red silk Chinese robe lounging on a day bed, reading what looked to be the script of a play. The youth peered over the edges of the script and frowned to see his sister and a visitor. The expression made the wispy moustache he sported wrinkle like a troublesome caterpillar.

  ‘A fellow does like a bit of privacy,’ he said in a rather high voice.
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  As they drew nearer, Werthen could see a title on the script: Reigen.

  He had heard about this privately printed play by Schnitzler. Supposed to be extremely racy, all about the sexual goings on of ten different characters, five men and five women. The pairings go round and round from one character to another like a circle dance. His wife Berthe had been trying to find a pirated copy of the play, but with no luck. Hermine Wittgenstein was clearly oblivious of such things, and Rudi, for his part, seemed to count on this ignorance, for he did not bother to hide the script or its title.

  ‘You had better not let Father catch you reading such things,’ she said, as if she had read Werthen’s mind and wished to prove him wrong. ‘This gentleman is here to inquire after Hans.’

  She made introductions, and Rudi rose from his couch long enough to shake hands limply, exchange names, and then resume his sickbed.

  ‘Must forgive me, Advokat. It’s bronchitis.’ He coughed theatrically.

  ‘I thought you told Meier it was grippe,’ Hermine said in a brittle voice.

  He waved a delicate hand at the objection. ‘An illness of some sort. You may not want to get too close.’ Then to Werthen, ‘How do you propose to track your man, counselor?’

  ‘I was hoping you could be of assistance in that.’

  ‘Me?’ Rudi took great delight in this, cackling until an actual coughing fit overcame him. His sister went to his side, pounding him on the back with enough force to make the young man wince.

  ‘Jesus, Mining. Never go into nursing. I am not a lump of dough to be pummeled.’

  ‘Do you have any information that might help Advokat Werthen?’ She said this with not the slightest trace of humor or goodwill.

  ‘I am afraid I am not my brother’s keeper, Herr Werthen,’ he said, his voice trailing away in a languishing tone.

  Thereafter Werthen quickly ascertained that there was little information to be gotten from Rudi. He was much too immersed in his own human drama to notice what was happening with his older brother.