The Hanging Artist

by Jon Steinhagen

  “What may I do for you?” he asked.

  She could not speak, but nodded at the cushion. He returned it to its place. She made a twirling gesture with her hand, and he puts his arms around her.

  “A thousand pardons,” he whispered.

  She clutched his arms as he rotated her until she was seated upright. He released her and stepped away, as if repulsed by her frail, corkscrew body.

  “Thank you,” she said, regaining her breath and waiting for the throbbing in her back and hips to subside.

  At last she smiled.

  “We pay for our sins,” she said. “Let’s have that drink now. I could certainly use it.”

  He gave her a glass, and he raised his to her. “Your good health,” he said, and drank.

  “Merci,” she said, raising her glass as well, “although I haven’t known good health for quite some time.”

  She drank. He took another sip from his glass.

  “It’s delicious,” he said. “It doesn’t taste metallic at all.”

  “The gold flakes make no difference whatsoever.”

  “And they don’t affect the… er…?”

  “No,” she said. “All they do is make it pretty. Have you never had Goldwasser before?”

  “I confess that I always thought that, because of the gold flakes, one glass would be obscenely expensive.”

  “That’s charming,” she said. “Your naiveté is arrestingly winning.”

  “You called it something else, though.”

  “Did I? Oh, yes. Schwabach Goldwasser.”

  “What does Schwabach mean? Is it a flavoring?”

  She lowered her eyes then, feeling as though a shadow had crept upon her. She studied her empty glass.

  “It was my home,” she said. “In Germany, near Nuremberg. This particular Goldwasser is made there. Schwabach is tiny, but it’s there. Are you at least familiar with Nuremberg?”

  “I am.”

  She looked at him.

  “You are?”

  His attitude changed at that, similar to the way it had when he had forgotten his name. “By name, I mean,” he said. “I… well, of course, I must have passed through it on the journey to Vienna. Wouldn’t I?”

  “It would depend on where you were coming from, of course,” she said.

  “Of course.” He took her glass. “Another?”

  “As the first was offered to my health,” she said, “it’s only fair the second be offered to yours.”

  While he poured, she tried to retrieve the book from the floor. Seeing her difficulty, he picked it up and handed it to her. She thanked him.

  They toasted his health and drank.

  “I happened to notice the military paraphernalia. Are they collectibles as well?” he asked.

  “The what?”

  “In the dining room, on the little table next to the sideboard. Are those old things as well?”

  “Oh,” she said, handing her unfinished drink to him. “I’ve taken too much, would you mind? That extra sip… thank you. You were saying?”

  “Asking. About the medals.”

  “Yes, the medals.” She smoothed her dress. “Those are my brother’s.”

  “He served in the war.”

  “He did his duty.”

  “Admirable. And so many medals.”

  “Yes.”

  “Light cavalry?”

  “Engineers.”

  “He must have plenty of hair-raising stories.”

  “Yes, he must.”

  “You must have been worried sick while he was away.”

  She attempted to straighten herself and give her visitor her full gaze. “I served, too,” she said, a hint of steel in her voice. “Nurse. Red Cross. I wasn’t about to let him go off on his own, even if our country required…” Her voice trailed away. “I wasn’t always like this, monsieur, the way you see me now.” She clutched the book as she spoke. “My current state isn’t the result of childhood disease or a birth defect. I wish it was. I could accept that. No, my ruined body is… was… the cost of helping humanity.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Which? My disfigurement, or helping humanity?”

  “Both, perhaps. I didn’t mean to pry. If you’d rather not discuss it…”

  “You weren’t prying,” she said, and sighed. “To make a long story short… and vague… Let’s just say that my brother survived the war without as much as a scratch. Well, perhaps he was scratched once or twice, but you know what I mean. I, however, stuck my neck out just once, and… Well, I was nearly killed.”

  He finished his drink and collected the glasses.

  “May I wash these for you?” he asked.

  “Leave them,” she said. She heard the harshness in her tone, and tried to correct it. She smiled at him.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said. “You’re very kind, and attentive. I appreciate that very much. You also listen extraordinarily well, although I don’t know if that’s just your nature or if you’re only being gracious because I gave you those old goblets.

  “Don’t answer, please. I’ll choose the reason that pleases me. Our family has always done that, you know. Chosen things that please us—fine things, elegant things, old things, things that have history. Do you know what I mean by that? Perhaps you don’t.”

  “Things that have passed from person to person over the decades?” Monsieur Choucas asked, sitting. She nodded.

  “That’s partly it,” she said. “Not just decades, centuries. Those goblets I gave you supposedly date to the early nineteenth century.”

  “I could never use them, Fraulein! I’d be too self-conscious that, clumsy mess I am, I would destroy them—just as I ruined my own set this morning.”

  “I don’t think you’re clumsy at all,” she said. “At least, not from what I’ve seen. You’ve been unnervingly delicate and careful around me and my things during your brief visit, and your manner is so gentle that… well, if your glasses were broken this morning, it’s because of a rare and unfortunate accident, not because of clumsiness. Else you wouldn’t do what you do.

  “What I mean by ‘history,’ monsieur, is a palpable connection. I don’t know if I can describe it to you, but perhaps you’ll understand. Take, for instance, those wine goblets I gifted to you. Whenever I would touch one, I would immediately get a sense of those who had used them before me. I see lords and ladies at sumptuous banquets. The walls are hung with beautiful tapestries, a generous fire blazes in an enormous hearth. There are lovers’ secrets, whispers, compromises, dark dealings, celebrations…”

  “I do understand,” Monsieur Choucas said. “We imbue our belongings with our personalities.”

  She blinked at him.

  “Yes,” she said. “I believe that.”

  “And perhaps one day whomever gets the goblets you have given me will sense… oh, I don’t know…”

  “The music that was once played upon them.”

  “Yes.”

  She gathered her canes. “And if someone, someday, should get hold of these,” she said, “perhaps they will sense… oh, I know not what.”

  “They are quite beautiful.”

  She regarded the pair as if for the first time. “That is the first time a stranger has ever said that. I suppose they must be, to anyone who doesn’t have to rely on them.”

  “Were they made especially for you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Her eyes clouded over somewhat as she drew one of the canes to her cheek and absently caressed it. “My dear father,” she said. “He was a magician.”

  “A conjurer?”

  She shook her head. “Not in that sense,” she said. “He was one of the finest craftsmen in Europe, monsieur. These canes are fashioned from South American snakewood, which is one of the hardest, strongest woods in the world. It takes a wizard to work with snakewood, and my father… well, my father could work with anything, and he wanted… at any rate, they’ve saved my life.” She looked sharply at her visitor a
nd returned the canes to her side. “I’m being melancholy now. Do forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  “I very much doubt anyone will sense anything if they hold my canes some distant century from now.”

  “They will sense your determination.”

  “My determination?” she asked.

  “Your strength.”

  “‘Strength,’ the man says!”

  “That’s what I see, at any rate.”

  “Based on what? This brief meeting?”

  “It doesn’t take long to get a feel about people,” he said.

  “And what else do you see in me, monsieur?”

  “Well, now I’m embarrassed,” he said. “However, aside from the determination, I feel that you…”

  “Oh, Hansel! You startled me!”

  Her brother stood at the door.

  “I didn’t know you had a visitor,” he said. “How delightful.”

  Mathilde introduced the Frenchman.

  “Pardon the gloves,” Henker said as they shook hands. “Psoriasis.”

  “Say that again?” Choucas asked.

  “I suffer from psoriasis vulgaris,” Henker said. “Are you familiar with it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And don’t describe it to him, Hansel,” Mathilde said. “Not before dinner.”

  “Let’s just say that it’s far more pleasant for everyone if I leave these gloves on,” Henker said. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, monsieur? No, wait—my mind is elsewhere. The goblets. Of course. I hope you enjoy them.”

  “I’m sure they will make exquisite music,” Choucas said.

  Henker went and stood by his sister. “We can’t wait to hear it,” he said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you. I had some new business to see to.”

  “And?” Mathilde asked, now entirely focused on her brother.

  “They will have an apartment ready for us by Monday noon,” Henker said, kissing one of her misshapen hands. He looked at Choucas. “We will be moving to the Hotel Das Gottesanbeterin,” he said. “I do hope you’ll visit us.”

  “It would be my pleasure and privilege,” Choucas said.

  They heard a bell being struck three times somewhere in the depths of the old house.

  “Frau Alt summons one and all to the dining table,” Henker said. “Don’t let us keep you from your dinner.”

  “You won’t be joining us?” Choucas asked.

  “It isn’t convenient for Tillie,” Henker said. “I’d ask you to share ours, but our repast is typically frugal, and…”

  Choucas made a polite bow. “I wouldn’t dream of intruding,” he said. “I’ve already enjoyed a surplus of your generosity for one day, and while it would be an honor to dine in the presence of such a great artist…”

  “Oh,” Henker said, “you’ve heard of me?”

  “And seen you, sir.”

  “You have?” Mathilde asked. “You hadn’t mentioned that you’d seen Hansel’s performance.”

  “Last night,” Choucas said.

  “Oh?” Henker asked. “And what was your impression, monsieur?”

  The Frenchman, unsmiling, said, “It affected me greatly, sir. In fact, so profound was its effect upon me that I still remain unsure as to what it all truly means.”

  “Must it have meaning?” Henker asked.

  Choucas nodded to the book on Mathilde’s lap. “One never knows what will have an effect on anyone,” he said. “Take Goethe and his Young Werther,” he continued. “What effect had he hoped for when he wrote that book? Who can say?”

  Henker smiled. “He made suicide fashionable,” he said, “for a little while, at any rate.”

  “And you might do the same,” Choucas said, and, bidding his hostess a pleasant evening, left the room.

  “What news is there?” Mathilde asked. Henker sat next to her.

  “Two dead,” he said, his smile gone.

  “Two?” she asked. “How?”

  Henker shook his head. “I don’t know. How was your visit with this Monsieur Choucas?”

  She hesitated. “Lovely,” she said.

  “Oh? What did you learn?”

  “Nothing, oddly,” she said. “Only that if he’s a Frenchman, I’m an Olympic athlete.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE LANDING

  FRANZ PAUSED OUTSIDE The Hanging Artist’s rooms and wondered if he had botched everything. He felt as if he’d managed to somehow gain entrance to a secret tomb, yet not make any discoveries whatsoever, and to depart without so much as a trinket. He shook off the sense that he had been ‘caught’ when Henker had suddenly appeared, and descended the stairs to his tiny room off the upper landing.

  He hadn’t gone four stairs when the door above him opened and Henker called down to him.

  “I don’t know your plans for the evening,” Henker said, “but as you expressed such fascination with my performance and I always make a habit of walking to the Traumhalle in the company of one person or another, would it be too bold to suggest you accompany me this evening?”

  Franz didn’t know what to say. On the one hand, he was a bit at a crossroads as to how to proceed with his investigation, as he didn’t know for certain if his services—such as they were—were still required. On the other hand, if he chose to satisfy his own curiosity and travel to Schwechat, he wouldn’t be able to catch a train until well after the dinner hour, and even then, a nighttime investigation was not likely to yield much in the way of anything useful.

  “I’d be delighted,” Franz said.

  “Excellent,” Henker said. “I’ll meet you at the front door at seven. It will be such a pleasure to have intelligent, cultivated company for a change.” He waved a hand and entered his rooms, shutting the door behind him.

  Franz noticed a woman standing on the landing below him. She, too, had been looking up at The Hanging Artist. Franz recognized her as one of the four singing sisters who only billed themselves as a trio. How long had she been standing there?

  It took her a moment to notice Franz, and when she did, she bid him a good evening.

  The bell below sounded once.

  “We’d better hurry,” she said. “She’s very strict.”

  She turned and trotted down the stairs, her blue chiffon evening dress trailing after her like a delicate parade of banners.

  Franz decided not to risk taking the time to change his shirt. The gorgeous aroma of the waiting goulash was too much for him. He hurried to the landing and down another flight of stairs.

  He was about to enter the dining room when a deep, rich voice said, “Kafka, you old son of a bitch!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  AN ACTOR ARRIVES

  BY NOW, FRANZ had lost count of the times he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  And yet Yitzchak Lowy stood in the hall, every bit as impressive and grand as when his revered figure still graced the stages of Europe.

  “Lowy?” Franz said, not because he doubted his friend’s identity, but because he wanted to rule out a hallucination brought on by acute hunger.

  Lowy approached Franz in two strides and took him firmly by the shoulders.

  “By God, man, you look like shit!” he said, and embraced Franz with such force that Franz knew he’d find bruises on his arms later.

  “What are you doing here?” Franz asked.

  Lowy laughed one of his glorious laughs, famous for ringing in the upper balcony.

  “It’s just like you to say something innocuous like that,” he said.

  “No, seriously. What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you to tell me,” Lowy said.

  “To tell you what?”

  “What I’m doing here.”

  “That’s what I asked you.”

  “Feydeau dialogue,” Lowy said, removing his hat, “is best left to Feydeau. Now, come on, Franzel, I came as fast as I could, just as you instructed, and now I’m here, I’m at your service, I’m surp
rised you’re still alive, we’ve all been worried sick about you—well, not literally sick, you’re the one who’s supposed to be sick—now what’s this matter of life and death?”

  “Matter of life and death?” Franz asked.

  “That’s what you wrote in your radiogram. And precious little else.”

  “I never sent you a radiogram,” Franz said.

  Lowy began a search of his pockets.

  “It’s to be a joke, then, eh?” he asked. “Well, God knows we’ve played plenty on you over the years, so… no, that’s not it. This morning, Kafka. Radiogram. It said ‘Come at once. Life and Death. Will explain.’ And it gave this address. I’d’ve been here sooner, but those wretched trains, and it’s four hours from Prague, and…”

  He came up empty-handed.

  “Well,” he said, shrugging, “I’ve misplaced the damn thing. But what difference does it make? Did you or did you not send for me?”

  “I don’t know,” Franz said. “And the reason I don’t know is because while I know for certain I never sent you a radiogram this morning, I also know that I had been wishing you were here, because I needed your expertise on something, but… Oh, Lowy, it’s all so confusing. Everything’s been at sixes and sevens since I left Hoffmann’s.”

  “Yes, that’s one of my first questions for you,” Lowy said, grasping Franz by the arm. “But first… what is that ambrosial smell? Goulash? I’m ravenous!”

  “So am I,” Franz said, “but this is a… I’m ashamed to say it… a theatrical boarding house.”

  Lowy nodded vigorously. “The establishment of the estimable Frau Alt!” he said. “Know it well. Roomed here in ’13 when I was touring with Broken Sabbath. She’s a wonderful cook. Well, then, let us stuff ourselves and I’ll get reacquainted with that fine lady.”

  Franz pulled away and grabbed Lowy by the lapels, steering him away from the dining room. “Listen, Yitzy,” he said, “I’ve so much to tell you now you’re here, but this isn’t the best place for it; in fact, it’s the worst place in the world, not at a dinner table in front of who-knows-how-many people, and… listen, let’s find ourselves a restaurant and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “I’m not dining at one of those vegetarian places you favor,” Lowy said, pushing Franz away. “I don’t begrudge you swilling down that muck, but I need meat, man, great slabs of—”