The Empty Mirror (17 page)

She grabbed his hand suddenly. “Bravo for you. See, there was nothing stuffy about that speech. Just plain, honest talk.” She grew suddenly embarrassed, letting his hand go. “Forgive me.”

“No … I mean, there is nothing to forgive. In spite of your quick tongue, I find you-”

She put an index finger to his lips, and shook her head. “Bad luck. Let’s just enjoy the morning. Tell me about that bird over there. The one with the rusty crown of feathers.”

They met by “accident” the next two mornings, each enjoying the company of the other, but for Werthen it was becoming more than a mild flirtation. Fräulein Meisner had a solidness, a being in the here and now that appealed to him. Yet this was combined with a sparkling intellect that challenged him. She teased Werthen and made him laugh, and she also surprised and sometimes shocked him with her opinions on everything from Richard Wagner-“an overblown, self-congratulating anti-Semite”-to the new field of psychology-“sex, sex, all nerve disorders caused by sex; Freud theorizes like someone who gets too little of it.”

The third morning, however, Fräulein Meisner was not to be found on the path to Lake Iglau. Werthen felt disappointed and was amazed at the feeling. He picked up his pace in hopes of meeting her at the breakfast table. Ariadne was there, but no Fräulein Meisner.

“Karl,” Ariadne said with a chiding tone, looking up from a
plate full of cheese, wurst, and breakfast rolls. “You have been treating me very badly.” She smiled archly to show she was playing with him.

Werthen was in no mood for play; neither did he like her using his first name. It assumed an intimacy they would never share. However, it was his parents’ house; he would be polite.

“I did bring a deal of work with me.”

“Oh, you men,” Ariadne gushed. “Work is all you ever think of. But of course I respect that, too. A man should have goals and a proper position.”

He smiled, pouring himself a cup of coffee and pointedly not taking a seat. “Where is your friend this morning?”

Ariadne chewed on a piece of breakfast wurst, her little, sharp teeth making distinct clacking noises. After swallowing, she wiped her heavily painted lips with a damask napkin.

“Oh, she is busy packing. No one to keep me company, it seems.”

“Packing?” He hoped the urgency did not sound in his voice.

“Called away to her father in Linz, it seems. She leaves on the midday train. So tiresome. And I thought we were all going to have such fun here together.”

He excused himself and fled to his room. The news of Fräulein Meisner’s departure had, in fact, upset him. Just as her absence this morning on his walk had left him feeling a bit empty. My lord, he thought. If I were a doctor, I’d prescribe a bromide. He had not felt this way since the death of his fiancée, Mary, and was not sure he wanted to feel like this again.

By eleven, however, he had made his decision. When he told his parents that he had to return to Vienna to take care of a suddenly remembered legal matter, they visibly paled.

“But, Karlchen,” his mother complained, “you need this annual holiday. The air of Vienna this time of year is poisonous.”

“A nuisance,” his father spluttered. “Riding party all arranged for this weekend. Splendid new mare for you.”

He made his apologies but was adamant.

“And what about Ariadne?” his mother said.

“I am sure you can explain matters to her.”

“Whole house is leaving,” his father mumbled. “Coming and going like moths at a light.”

In the event, Werthen was just in time for the midday local to Linz, with a transfer to Vienna. Steam vented from the undercarriage of the train as he boarded, valise in hand.

It took him fifteen minutes to find her, seated by herself in a second-class compartment; he joined her, tucking his own first-class pass into his inside jacket pocket.

“Herr Werthen.” Her eyes widened in surprise as he entered the compartment.

“May I?”

“But of course.” She swept her hand to the row of empty seats across from her.

“Quite a coincidence,” he said, reddening at his lie.

“Yes.” She closed the book she had been reading,
Lay Down Your Arms
, by Bertha von Suttner.

“Good?” He nodded at the book.

“Oh, this. I’ve read it so many times I could no longer say if it is good in the sense of a good story. It is rather like an old friend.”

Neither said anything as the train suddenly lurched and then began pulling out of the little station.

“I thought you were home for a week,” she said as the train began to pick up speed, creating a gentle rocking motion.

“That was the plan. Business,” he said importantly. “Some papers to prepare.”

She nodded at this.

“And I thought you were to remain with your friend Fräulein von Traitner for rather longer,” Werthen said.

“Well, family business, you see.”

“Yes, quite.”

He was beginning to think this was all a terrible mistake on
his part. Clearly his feelings were not reciprocated; how could he have been so stupid as to chase after the woman when she plainly found him a dullard or worse?

“We aren’t being honest, are we?” she suddenly said.

And then everything was fine.

“No. Not at all,” Werthen told her. “I heard you were leaving, and …”

“Ariadne is an old friend. She comes across as a dithery, superficial person, but I’ve known her for years. She is different underneath. Can you understand?”

Perfectly, for his relation with Gross was much the same.

“It was becoming too uncomfortable,” she pressed on. “Your parents invited her to their home to meet you.”

“Then you feel it, too?”

“Yes. Oh, yes, Herr Werthen. I feel it.”

It was as if they had gone too far too quickly; both were silent for several more moments as the train trailed through pleasant greenery, passed by sudden lakes.

She again took the initiative.

“Come, Herr Werthen. No awkward silences now. Shall I tell you more about myself?”

Thus, as the train dawdled through the countryside toward Linz, Werthen discovered that she, like him, desired to be a writer. For Fräulein Meisner, however, journalism was the apex. She was already contributing articles on social issues to Viktor Adler’s socialist newspaper, the
Arbeiter Zeitung
.

“But I can hardly call myself a socialist,” she said. “After all, I live on the allowance my father gives me, which is made from his shoe manufacturing, a business made possible by the sweat and toil of mostly underpaid workers. We all live with varying degrees of hypocrisy, I fear.”

Which explained her volunteer work in day-care centers, Werthen figured, but did not ask. Which also explained the second-class carriage when she clearly had the money for first.

“And now your turn. Why wills and trusts?”

He was about to make his standard reply when she said, “And don’t tell me it’s because of your parents’ sense of propriety.”

He was taken aback by her insight, by her honesty, but at the same time he bristled at the implicit criticism.

“Someone must do it. It’s an honest enough profession.”

“No,” she hurriedly said, noting his defensive tone. “Don’t misunderstand me. I am not disparaging the profession. But for you … I sense something else.”

He was about to boast of his recent success with Gross, but instead decided to trade confidence for confidence. “I was once a criminal defense lawyer.”

“Aah.” She looked at him closely. “You lost a case…. Or was it that your passion for the law came between you and someone you loved?”

Again he was struck by her prescience, as if she could see right into him. And then he told her of his fiancée, Mary, and how he blamed himself for neglecting her in her final illness.

“She always wanted me to go into a tidier field of law,” Werthen said. “I granted her that final wish.”

Fräulein Meisner said nothing after this confession, merely put her hand across the space dividing them and gently patted his knee.

The train pulled into the Linz station. They descended, and as Werthen headed to platform three for the Vienna connection, she suddenly stopped.

“This is as far as I am going.”

He was suddenly downcast; he had been enjoying the company. He could not remember the last time he had enjoyed the company of a woman this much. It showed on his face.

“My father really is expecting me,” she explained. “A bit of family reunion before I return to work in Vienna.”

“How nice for you, and him.”

They stood for a moment in the middle of the busy platform as people rushed past them on each side.

She was the first to extend a hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Herr Werthen.”

“All mine, to be sure, Fräulein Meisner.” Her hand felt smooth and warm in his, like a sturdy little bird.

“Simple words, counselor. This is not the mayoral race.”

Again he blushed.

“And you really should, you know.”

He shook his head, not understanding.

“Return to criminal law. It’s quite clear you are smitten with it.”

“Yes,” he said, flustered and again put off-balance by her keen perception of him.

The stationmaster called out the train for Vienna. He made no move to leave her.

“Your train,” she said finally.

“May I see you again?”

She thought for a moment. “Ariadne,” she reminded him.

“She will find a much more suitable young man than I, never fear. May I?”

A second call was made for his train.

“Hurry, you’ll miss it.”

He lingered.

“Yes,” she said. “I would like that.”

He beamed at her like a schoolboy. “Fine. Good.” He began to feel a fool. “That’s wonderful, Fräulein Meisner.”

“Go.” She pushed him off, calling after him, “And it’s Berthe, not Fräulein Meisner.”

He tipped his city bowler at her as he hurried to his train, getting on just as it was departing.

As he took his seat, he realized he had not got her address.

He fretted about this all the way back to Vienna, trying to figure a way to track the young woman who had made such a large
impression on him. He could hardly ask the von Traitners for the address of their daughter’s best friend. By luck she might be on the telephone exchange, though he highly doubted it. More likely she was taking a room somewhere with some formidable landlady who would do her all to protect the morals of her renters. What was that school she worked at? But he could not remember the name. Then he did remember that she was a contributor to the socialist newspaper the
Arbeiter Zeitung
. Perhaps a visit to those offices would secure him the address of one of the correspondents.

He mooched around Vienna the first hot days of September, even opening his office, to work half days. His assistant, Dr. Wilfried Ungar, was not back from his vacation-if you could call it that-to Rome, there to study thirteenth-century documents at the Vatican library on the Albigensian heresy. Quite keen on mental improvement was young Ungar, and a stolid, practical clerk and assistant. Werthen was happy to be working with him out of the office, and as the practice had grown, Ungar had become invaluable.

Once the mahogany furniture, green wallpaper, and tasteful prints of flowers and animals had pleased Werthen; surely the surroundings were meant to reassure his clients of his eminent respectability. Now, suddenly, he felt choked by the walls, the pretense.

He finally tracked down her address by the end of the week; a journalist friend who sometimes submitted articles to the
Arbeiter Zeitung
(under a pseudonym, of course) secured it for him.

It was in a well-kept baroque building in the Seventh District, not all that far from his own residence. That they had never run into one another on the streets amazed Werthen. Or perhaps they had crossed paths and neither had noticed the other.

He rang the
Portiers
bell. A sallow-faced woman in a long, white canvas housecoat came to the door, eyeing him suspiciously.

“What is it?”

“Fräulein Meisner.”

“Not home,” the lady said.

“Do you perhaps know when she is expected?”

The woman puffed her lips. “Can’t say. Went to visit her father. Imagine. A young lady like that having a whole flat to herself. In my day, girls stayed home until married. The world we live in.”

She looked to Werthen for confirmation of her outmoded beliefs, but he merely tipped his bowler.

“I will try again later in the week then.”

He was just about to turn the corner when someone called his name. Turning, he saw Berthe, suitcase in hand.

“Aren’t you clever,” she said as they approached. “And all this time I have been trying to figure out how I would be able to track you down. A rather more simple task than yours. After all, a lawyer surely has an office and surely is listed with the professional societies if not with the telephone exchange.”

They stood in the street for a time, smiling at one another.

“We can’t simply hang about here,” Berthe said. “Come on up while I put my things away. I can make you a cup of coffee.”

The suggestion startled Werthen; he had never been in a young lady’s rooms unchaperoned. Despite his best efforts at keeping such surprise off his face, Berthe felt his discomfort.

“Don’t worry, counselor. I won’t try and seduce you.”

She took his hand and led him past the scandalized glances of the
Portier
. Berthe’s suite of rooms were simply and elegantly furnished with Jugendstil pieces. She made coffee as he looked at the Japanese wood-block prints on her wall and glanced at the writings of Karl Marx and John Ruskin in her bookcase. She served coffee in an earthenware jug and they talked for at least an hour.

As he was leaving, she leaned toward him perceptibly. He
took her in his arms and kissed her warm lips. She smelled like fresh linen and a new day.

After that, they had been apart little. And now, here they sat in the sunshine of the outdoor café on the corner of Graben and Kärntnerstrasse.

Berthe and he were freshly returned from his parents at Hohelände, where they had announced their engagement.