‘Mmm…’
‘Feeling better?’
‘Yes. Much better.’
I turn my attention to the cake. Anneliese has ordered Esterházytorte; it has fondant icing on top, in an intricate chevron pattern. I pick up the silver fork and take a little bite. I can taste almonds, hazelnut buttercream, a subtle apricot glaze.
Anneliese watches my face. She grins.
‘I thought you’d like it,’ she says. ‘Vienna is the world capital of cake, no question. One day I’ll take you to Demel’s – it’s a temple of confectionery. They used to supply the Imperial household. The marzipan decorations for the Imperial Christmas tree. And Empress Sisi’s violet sorbet…’
This sounds like a fairytale to me – a sorbet made of flowers. I’m dazzled.
‘So – tell me all about you,’ I say.
‘Well, there isn’t that much to tell, really. I come from Bad Ischl. It’s boring. To be entirely honest, I don’t go back very much … I go to Berlin when I can. Caspar’s there – he’s my boyfriend. He’s in the army – an Untersturmführer,’ she says.
A soldier boyfriend – this sounds so glamorous.
‘Tell me about him,’ I say.
She muses for a moment.
‘He’s very patriotic.’ She smiles. ‘And he has wonderful biceps,’ she says. ‘As I told you, I’m rather shallow…’
‘He sounds very nice,’ I say politely.
‘What about you, Stella? You must have a boyfriend,’ she says.
I’m surprised by the directness of the question.
‘No, not really.’
She raises her elegantly pencilled eyebrows.
‘This can’t be true, surely. Looking like you do, you must have all the men at your feet. I give you a couple of weeks, now you’re here in Vienna. You’ll only have to bat those pretty eyelashes,’ she says.
I don’t want her to think I’ve been totally sheltered – though to be honest, that’s true.
‘There was someone I went out with a couple of times,’ I tell her – thinking of Alan Soames, an insurance clerk in Brockenhurst, who gave me my first and only kiss. It was rather wet and imprecise and depressing. ‘But we aren’t in touch any more.’ I sip my coffee. ‘It’s only my second day here, but England already feels so distant. It’s strange…’
‘It sounds so glamorous,’ she says. ‘England. And of course you have the King and Queen and London and everything. That must be so exciting.’
I shrug. I’ve never really thought of England as exciting. And I’ve only been to London once, on a school trip. We went to St Paul’s Cathedral and the museums. I remember me and my friend Kitty Carpenter at the Victoria and Albert Museum, and a museum attendant who took a rather salacious interest in us – two prim, lost-looking grammar-school girls in candystripe summer frocks. How he told us there was a room we really shouldn’t enter, because there was a great big statue of David, naked, in there …
I tell Anneliese the story.
‘It’s a copy of the Michelangelo sculpture?’ she says.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve seen the original in Florence … I suppose you dashed straight to the room?’
I nod.
She grins.
‘And I bet you were horribly disappointed, after all that build-up. Michelangelo’s David is far too small where it counts.’
Does she really mean what I think she means? I feel the heat rush to my face.
Anneliese raises her cup to her lips. I notice that she has long French-manicured nails. My own hands with their bitten nails look so immature beside hers. A child’s hands. I remember Dr Zaslavsky. You play like a talented child, not a woman. That’s all I am, I think – a talented child.
She leans towards me across the table.
‘Well, here you are – in Vienna, the city of dreams. So what’s your dream, Stella? To be a concert pianist?’
‘Well, yes, that’s what I’d love. Or maybe not a soloist – an accompanist, perhaps. I love accompanying.’
‘Oh Stella, how lovely. I can just imagine that you’d be brilliant at that. You seem very empathetic.’
I’m not used to this kind of flattery.
‘I don’t know … But music is very competitive, of course. And to be honest – after that lesson I’ve totally lost faith. I just don’t think I’m good enough.’
She puts her hand lightly on mine.
‘You mustn’t do that. You mustn’t ever lose faith,’ she tells me. ‘That’s where everything starts – with that belief in yourself.’
‘And you? You’re studying dance?’
She nods. ‘I’ll probably be a ballet teacher. But, the thing is, Stella…’ Her voice is hushed, conspiratorial. There’s an ardent gleam in her liquorice-dark eyes. ‘What I’d really love would be to be a film director,’ she tells me.
‘Really? To make films?’ I’m so impressed.
I take out two cigarettes, give her one. As I lean towards her to light it, her warm peach scent licks at me.
I lean back, breathing in smoke. I realise I am happy – the misery of the morning all behind me, the world spread out before me like a banquet again.
‘There’s a film-maker in Germany,’ she tells me. ‘Leni Riefenstahl. That’s the kind of thing I dream of doing,’ she says.
The name sounds slightly familiar, but I don’t know where I’ve heard it before. I decide it’s best to be honest.
‘I don’t really know about him,’ I say.
‘Not him,’ she tells me. ‘Here’s the thing – Leni Riefenstahl’s a woman. Isn’t that grand? It’s so wonderful to see a woman doing so much. That’s my dream – to be like her.’
I resolve I will find out all about Leni Riefenstahl, so I can discuss her intelligently.
‘You should really try to see her films, if ever you get the chance,’ she goes on. ‘They don’t get shown in Vienna – they’re not very keen on them here. It’s such a shame. They can be rather narrow-minded here. Rather conservative. I mean, times are changing, for goodness’ sake … Her films are art. Visually wonderful. She has a real artist’s eye.’
‘Oh.’
I didn’t know films could be art. I’ve mostly seen Buster Keaton films, which my father used to enjoy. I can’t think of an intelligent question to ask.
‘I can tell you’re very artistic, Stella,’ she says. ‘Very sensitive. You’d love her work, I know you would.’
I want to ask Anneliese more about why they don’t show these films in Vienna – but she beckons to the waiter.
I reach for my purse.
‘No, I’m paying,’ she says. ‘You rescued my hat, remember? You’re my good fairy … We’ll do this again?’
‘Yes, I’d love to.’
I take the tram home, happy, thinking about Anneliese. She’s everything I long to be, walking so lightly through life. So assured and bold and knowing: a woman of the world. I shall model myself on Anneliese. I shall buy a shapely little suit and a scarlet lipstick, like hers. I shall dream extravagant dreams, as she does.
As I step off the tram at Maria-Treu-Gasse, I suddenly recall where I think I saw Leni Riefenstahl’s name. It was in an article I read in my mother’s Daily Mail, about Hitler’s rallies in Nuremberg. I feel briefly uneasy. But I’ve probably misremembered, and I push the thought from my mind.
7
Marthe calls out to me from the laundry room.
She’s stacking clean linen napkins on shelves in front of the hot-water pipes. As I watch, she unfolds one, then folds it again, to make the crease perfectly straight. I see how red and raw her hands are.
‘So, my dear, how was the lesson?’
Tears prick at my eyes as I think of it. But I don’t feel entirely comfortable telling Marthe how I feel, when I scarcely know her.
‘It was difficult, really. But then I’ve only just started…’
‘Yes, of course, my dear,’ she says. ‘You need to give it time.’
She turns on the tap at
the sink and rubs soap all over her hands, washing them fastidiously. In the slice of light from the window, I can see all the grey in her hair and the sharp little lines in her face. Briefly, I’m aware of a sadness that seems to hang about her, like a scent of dying flowers.
‘Now, this is what I was thinking, Stella. Lukas goes to kindergarten in the mornings. So I’d like you to give him his English lessons in the afternoons.’
‘Right.’
She shakes the water drops from her hands. She examines her fingers and dries them; then she turns on the tap and starts to wash them again.
‘It won’t be every afternoon,’ she says. ‘There will be times when I’m out visiting, and I’ll sometimes take Lukas with me. Usually on Mondays. But whenever he’s home, I want him to spend the afternoon with you.’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ I say.
It sounds as though my duties won’t be too onerous.
‘But today the weather’s so beautiful. And I was wondering whether you’d like to take him for an outing? So you could get to know one another?’
‘Of course. That would be lovely. Where should we go?’
‘Lukas likes the Prater,’ she says. ‘There’s a funfair and a Ferris wheel. All the children enjoy it.’
She tells me how to get there.
The Prater is a vast, bright park, busy with women and children: boys dressed like Lukas in shirts and short trousers, playing with bats and balls; girls in pale cotton frocks, skipping, doing handstands; nannies and mothers gossiping on benches. A wide avenue leads towards the funfair.
‘This is the Hauptallee,’ Lukas tells me, rather proud that he knows.
The avenue is bordered by tall horse chestnuts, their leaves all gilded with autumn, a few bright leaves spiralling down. Everything looks so foreign to me – even the birds and animals. The rooks have tatty grey waistcoats, and there are small black squirrels scrabbling around in the grass, quite different from the familiar red squirrels of Hampshire. The wind has dropped since this morning, but the leaves of the chestnut trees whisper and sigh in a little movement of air.
Lukas is quiet. He looks yearningly at some boys playing ball, but he holds very tight to my hand. I know he doesn’t trust me yet; and he’s almost too anxious to please. I’d like to see him careering around, grubby, his shirt hanging loose. A bit less dignified and solemn.
We come to the funfair, with its kaleidoscope of colours, everything spinning and sliding and turning – the helter-skelter; the high Ferris wheel, its little red-painted carriages moving slowly around. There are children eating toffee apples; there’s a man with balloons on long strings. The shiny colours of the balloons make me think of my favourite sweets, the sarsaparilla drops and sherbet lemons that I’d buy from the sweet shop in Brockenhurst.
‘Can we go on the Ferris wheel, Fräulein Stella?’ Lukas asks me.
I look up at it. It’s very high.
‘Is it scary?’ I say.
‘Girls would be scared. But I’m not scared,’ he tells me, a little defiantly.
I give the man at the gate my money, counting it out very carefully; Austrian money is so new to me. We step into the carriage with a handful of other people. The wheel lurches upwards. I have a sudden sharp sense of fragility: it would be such a long way to fall. But I smile encouragingly at Lukas.
We’re up as high as the birds now; pigeons swoop and glide past the windows. Below us, a great expanse of dizzying empty air. But the view takes my breath away – the dreaming city spread out like a tapestry, caught in a gold autumn haze, the red-tiled roofs, the palaces; and far far off, away on the hem of the sky, blue mountains.
Afterwards, Lukas is proud of himself.
‘I wasn’t scared, was I, Fräulein Stella?’
‘No, you were such a brave boy.’
I kneel and give him a hug, breathe in his warm, clean smell, of biscuits, soap and apples. He puts out a hand and touches my hair, the lightest, most tentative touch.
‘You’re got pretty hair. You’re like Fräulein Verity. Her hair was all curly like yours,’ he tells me.
I feel a warm surge of gratitude towards Verity Miller, who may have left in mysterious circumstances, but who by leaving has made my life here possible.
I straighten, take his hand. He leads me to the carousel, which to my surprise has real horses – six piebald ponies, cream and chocolate-brown, which trudge around a sawdust ring to a sound of martial music. The children riding them wear determined and rather anxious smiles.
‘Would you like a ride, Lukas?’
‘No thank you, Fräulein Stella. Sometimes I don’t like joining in. Sometimes I just like to watch.’
We sit on a bench. He’s more talkative now, after the thrill of the Ferris wheel.
‘Fräulein Verity used to bring me here, to the Prater,’ he says.
There’s a touch of yearning in his voice. I can tell he really loved her. I will have to work hard to replace her.
‘Did she, Lukas? So what did you do when you came?’
The music stops; and mothers and nannies lift the children down. The ponies stand round, heads drooping, with a rather disconsolate look.
‘We used to go on the Ferris wheel,’ he says. ‘And we sometimes played catch with a ball.’
‘You must have enjoyed that,’ I say, remembering how longingly he looked at the boys with the football. Next time I’ll bring a ball to play with; perhaps a cricket bat too.
It’s so pleasant sitting here with him. The air has a wonderful scent, of caramel and woodsmoke and the rich farmyard smell of the horses – a scent of autumn and nostalgia. I lift my face to the sky, and the sun washes over my skin.
The martial music starts up again, hollow, tinny, cheerful.
‘Look, Lukas. Off they go again…’
But he isn’t paying attention.
‘Fräulein Verity was nice to me. I was ever so sad that she left.’
I can hear all the misery in his voice.
‘Oh, Lukas, I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘She was going to write me a letter,’ he says. ‘A letter just for me.’
‘Was she?’
‘That’s what she always told me. One day I’ll write you a letter. If ever I go back to London. A letter all about London, with a picture of Big Ben. Just for you, my best boy. I’d have liked that, Fräulein Stella.’
‘It’s always lovely to get a letter,’ I say lamely.
‘One day Fräulein Verity wasn’t there, and Mama said she’d gone back to London. So I looked on the mat every morning. But the letter never came … I wanted that letter,’ he tells me. ‘A letter just for me. A letter with my name on.’
His voice is shrill, and there’s a catch in it. I glance down at him. To my surprise, his eyes are gleaming with tears.
‘Poor Lukas. Don’t cry.’ I put my arm around him.
He pulls away.
‘I’m not crying, I’m cross. I wish people didn’t leave you. Why do they, Fräulein Stella?’
‘It’s just how life is, Lukas. And it can make you feel terribly sad…’
I know I’m not handling this well; I can’t find the words to comfort him. I feel rather mournful and tired suddenly, overwhelmed with the day – the bright fairground colours, the brilliant sunlight, everything foreign and new. As though his sadness has infected me.
He turns from me, and surreptitiously wipes the tears from his face.
‘I wish they didn’t,’ he tells me.
8
When we get back to Maria-Treu-Gasse, Lukas goes to play in his room.
I’m hungry: in England, it would be tea time. I’m not sure what I should do. I go along to the kitchen.
It’s a wide, airy room, full of yellow afternoon light. Janika is kneading dough at the massive oak table. She pauses in her work and looks up as I go in.
‘Janika – I was feeling rather hungry – I wondered…’
Her smile is spacious and kind.
‘Do you like hot chocolate, Fr
äulein Stella?’ she says.
‘I love it.’
‘I’ll make you a cup.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’
I don’t know quite how to behave. My mother didn’t have servants. I sit at the table, feeling a little unsure.
She takes a slab of chocolate from the larder, and breaks it into a bowl, which she heats in a saucepan of water. In another pan, she warms milk. The heat of the range wraps around me, like an embrace.
‘So how do you like Vienna, Fräulein Stella?’
‘Well, it’s very splendid, of course. But I used to live in the countryside. The city feels so busy and big, it can all seem quite overwhelming…’
Her eyes are on me, brown as autumn leaves.
‘That’s how I felt too, when I first came here,’ she says.
I can smell the chocolate melting, its rich, dark, tropical scent. My mouth fills with water.
‘So – you come from Hungary, Marthe said?’
Janika nods. ‘From a village in the Zemplén Hills. A quiet place. It’s not so far from Tokaj, where the golden wines come from,’ she says.
I’ve never heard of the Zemplén Hills, or the golden wines of Tokaj. This all sounds so exotic.
‘Oh. Tell me about it.’
She thinks for a moment.
‘Well – it was just a little village,’ she says. ‘There were vineyards, and forests beyond. And everyone had a garden, and you’d see the peppers on wooden frames, hung out to dry in the sun.’
‘It sounds beautiful.’
She stirs the chocolate into the warm milk. She spoons in sugar, pours the liquid into a cup, hands it to me. I breathe in the scented steam that rises from the cup. I sip. It’s delicious.
I notice how she talks about her village in the past tense.
‘Do you ever go back there?’ I ask her.
‘Yes, every summer. I go for a fortnight. Frau Krause is very good to me,’ she says.
There’s a note of yearning in her voice. I wonder how old she is – perhaps in her early fifties, well past childbearing age. I wonder what she’s had to give up, in living here, in working for the Krauses.
The English Girl Page 4
