The Iron Bridge: Short Stories of 20th Century Dictators as Teenagers (24 page)

Paula returns with three Kronen, two for his ticket, one for his evening snack. His daily allowance. She hands the money to her mother, who in turn hands it over to her son. Adi nods and slips the bills into his pocket. Paula runs to the coat stand by the door and removes his summer overcoat, his ebony walking stick, and his silk top hat.

He takes the coat and slips it over his shoulders like a cape. “Thank you,
Fräulein
,” he says to his little sister, nodding formally. Paula beams. He removes black kid gloves from the pockets and makes a ceremony out of pulling them on. He lays the top hat on his head and gives it a little tap. Then, at
last, he takes his ivory-handled walking stick from his sister. Resting his weight upon it, he steps one foot forward and raises his chin, striking a dramatic pose. “Well?”

Klara presses her hands together, her face opening into a wide grin. Paula giggles beside him. Adi doesn’t hide his bad teeth.

“What’s tonight?” Klara asks.

“Lohengrin.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

He touches the rim of his top hat in parting, as befits a dashing bohemian. His mother closes the door behind him. He swings his walking stick in circles and descends three flights, down to Humboldtstrasse, clicking his heels on each step and humming Siegfried’s horn theme from
Götterdämmerung
.

Linz is warm and full of colours on this cloudless evening in early June. The street is crowded with horses, carts, and pedestrians. Civic workers plant flowers for the city’s annual summer festival. Children in knickers play with a ball. A drunk staggers and sings a garbled Hungarian song. Adi walks over to the Hauptplatz, where gentlemen sip drinks at cafés and eat early dinners of bratwurst and beer. Crowded streetcars rumble in their tracks. When two young lieutenants pass Adi at a leisurely pace, their sabres trailing like tails, he glares at the lazy Austrian oafs who don’t have anything better to do than loiter in the Hauptplatz. He leans against the fence at the large Trinity Column in the northern end of the square and checks his pocket watch. Just after five.
Right on time. He withdraws his small notebook from the inner pocket of his suit and opens it to his poem “Hymn to the Beloved.” With a pen, he marks little ticks beside a few words, as if he were still composing it, imagining the sight of his own forehead wrinkled in concentration. He’s a rakish figure, is he not, standing beneath the gigantic column with its cherubs and clouds and radiant sun, with his overcoat on his shoulders, his top hat and walking stick? He whistles as he waits.

The winning number will be in tomorrow’s newspaper, and then his photograph, an image of the victor, will appear the day after that. When the reporters come to him with their petty questions about money, he will unveil his great plans for the new bridge to Urfahr, for the lengthening of the marble frieze on the Landesmuseum, and for the cog railway climbing the Lichtenberg to a new hotel of Italian Renaissance style.

The square is alive with activity—policemen patrolling; civil servants returning from work in groups, laughing and packing their pipes; farmers loading their remaining flowers, vegetables, and leather goods into carts—but Adi doesn’t see Stefanie or her mother. They should have appeared by now. Realizing that he might have better luck if he wanders on the street, Adi leaves the towering column and approaches the old cathedral, scanning faces along the way.

Out of the square, on the Landstrasse, shoppers, diners, and amblers present themselves in their finery for their late afternoon strolls. Adi’s ebony walking stick clicks on the cobblestones. A horse and cart clomp by. He nods to
the driver. Still no sign of her. When he reaches the end of the commercial district, he crosses the street and marches back on the other side, his overcoat swishing behind him as if he were a count.

At last, as Adi nears Schmiedtoreck, he sees Stefanie approaching on his side of the street, walking arm in arm with her mother, as usual. No doubt the sight of young Adi in her peripheral vision has set her heart racing. Her seeming lack of interest is just an act of saving face. Adi stiffens his posture and tries to appear bored by the activity, as if he were, in principal, above the trendy fashion parade on the Landstrasse but had deigned just this once to enjoy its simple pleasures.

Stefanie is tall and slender, with dark brown hair pulled into a bun, chubby cheeks, pouty lips, and light blue eyes speckled with flashes of aquamarine, like opals. An ethereal motif could accompany this walk of hers down the Landstrasse. He can almost hear her pure and radiant voice singing of loneliness and salvation—
Einsam in trüben tagen hab ich ze Gott gefleht—
a prayer that leads to his arrival, just like the hero and heroine in
Lohengrin
. As she moves closer to him now, only a step or two away, Adi raises his chin and closes his mouth, smiling with his eyes. But now a horse neighs in the street and offers a half-hearted kick back to the loaded cart it’s hauling, and the stout driver clicks at the nag and mutters bland obscenities. Stefanie and her mother, both expressionless, with nothing more than the mild curiosity of any common pedestrian, turn to regard this amusing exchange between a beast of burden and its master. Adi
and the girl pass each other on the sidewalk without making eye contact, and now she’s behind him, moving away, and his stick is continuing to click on the stones as the distance between them grows.

Adi blinks rapidly. He’s marching past suited gentlemen and ladies in their finery, but the faceless figures all blur together in a stream of copious fabric. Adi stares up into the darkening sky, his cheeks stinging. It’s only one evening, of course, and it doesn’t matter. Their love can’t be obliterated by a single missed connection. The proof of their bond is in the way their glances have locked, here, on the Landstrasse. Not tonight, of course, but other nights, many nights, dozens of times, always in passing, sometimes with a short nod, sometimes a semi-smile. Although they’ve never spoken to each other, not even a simple hello, Adi’s body has quivered with the vibration of their kindred spirits united. The crests and valleys of Stefanie’s feelings are synchronized with his own musical emotions, albeit played in different octaves. He has heard the Wagner in her head, harmonizing with the Wagner in his own.

Adi’s glassy eyes stare at nothing, oblivious to his surroundings. If Stefanie does not hear their music tonight, that can only be because her mind has been poisoned, must have been poisoned, by the cacophonous Magyar influences in their cursed empire. All that Hungarian smugness. The spirits of the perfumed and arrogant lieutenants passing Stefanie in the street emit an awful white noise, a screech that accompanies their oppressive floral scents. How can a true Wagnerian soul be anything other than an undertone
in all that Magyar-Czech garbage? Stefanie’s spirit plays an optimistic and ethereal note, quiet and easily missed, but drawn long as it rises into a swell. Her tone is so pure it can fight through noise. And tomorrow, when Adi wins the lottery, when the spirit of victory merges with his own, he will be able to play his musical motif so loudly and clearly that it will obliterate the lesser tones played by inferior souls throughout the city of Linz. He will approach Stefanie’s mother and declare his love—and how can she not hear him then? The harmony played by the two Wagnerian lovers will ring out to the world.

He continues north on the Landstrasse then veers west onto the wide Promenade. The road narrows and transforms into the gloomy Klammstrasse, where the plaster facades are chipped and stained by ash and smoke, the street caked with dried dung. Adi pauses before his friend’s small and dilapidated Baernreiterhaus, the dangling sign above its storefront reading
Kubizek Upholstery
. He removes his kid gloves and sticks fingers into his mouth, emitting a high and short whistle Gustl will surely recognize. He pulls his gloves back on, wiggling his fingers for effect, and waits with his hands pulled behind his back. Only fifteen seconds later, he’s grumbling and kicking the cobblestones. At thirty seconds, Adi is pacing back and forth on the street in fury, prepared to kill his only friend for not responding. “Damn lazy Gustl,” he tells the spring air.

A small bell rings, the front door opens, and Gustl emerges from the shop, his clothes white with dust. He jogs up to Adi, who is now standing with his chin raised
and one foot forward like a statue. The powder has turned Gustl’s curly dark hair grey, which, coupled with his meek demeanour, makes him seem older and more distinguished than his sixteen years.

“Are you finished?” Adi asks, not bothering to hide his disgust at his friend’s appearance.

“I’m afraid not,” says Gustl. “I don’t think I can come today. You have no idea how busy it gets at this time of year.”

“No idea,” Adi scoffs.

“I papered five rooms this morning, and now I’m restuffing a horsehair mattress which has to be finished by—”

“Leave it for your father,” Adi commands. “He’s the upholsterer. You’re the artist.”

Gustl lowers his head in shame. His sleepy eyes have heavy lids that never open wide, which gives him a tranquil and satisfied appearance, as if he were an aristocrat incapable of being upset by common problems. “But I don’t think I can—”

“Lohengrin,”
Adi interrupts. He pounds the tip of his walking stick against the stone and then smacks it against his heel. “The performance will begin promptly at half past seven, whether you’re in the audience or not. I suggest you tell your father that you’re done for the day.”

Gustl nods, knowing there’s no choice but to comply. As Gustl scurries back into the store, Adi removes his top hat and uses his handkerchief to wipe away the sweat he’s generated while waiting. He grumbles as he folds it into a precise little triangle. He adjusts his overcoat and tucks the
handkerchief into his pocket. Gustl trots out again, brushing powder out of his hair and removing his dirty jacket.

“Come upstairs,” he tells Adi. “I need to change.”

Adi follows him through the side entrance and up the narrow and creaky staircase to the Kubizeks’ second-floor apartment. Frau Kubizek, who stands at the kitchen sink shucking beans for dinner, turns to greet them. The small apartment smells of boiled pork. As Gustl takes his one good suit from the bedroom and disappears into the bathroom to wash and change, Adi remains in the entrance, holding his top hat against his chest, bowing at Gustl’s mother.

“Greetings, esteemed Frau,” he says, as if the woman were a baroness.

Frau Kubizek wipes her hands on her apron and steps away from the pile of green husks to greet her son’s friend. She embraces Adi’s shoulders, kissing both of his cheeks. “How is your mother?” she asks.

“She is very well, thank you, Frau Kubizek. I will be sure to let her know that you have inquired into her health.”

“Yes, please do.”

“And how are you, Frau Kubizek?” says Adi, smiling with his lips pressed together. “Enjoying this lovely spring weather?”

“Yes, yes,” she answers.

“You must be looking forward to the flower festival and parade this weekend, are you not?”

“Why, yes, I am. Very much. But we’re all looking forward to it, Adolf, aren’t we?”

“Yes, Frau Kubizek, we are.”

The squat, heavy-set woman stares into Adi’s huge blue eyes. She smirks and shakes her head. “My, my,” she says. “Always the polite young man, aren’t you, Adolf?”

Adi smiles and nods in agreement, although he can’t help but feel she’s making fun of him.

Gustl emerges from the bathroom, wiping the furniture dust off his face and out of his ears with a wet washcloth. He’s wearing his black suit and pale yellow tie, but he hasn’t put it on straight. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Almost ready.” He throws the washcloth into the sink and fidgets with his tie while moving towards the door.

“And how’s your father?” Frau Kubizek asks her son with a glare.

“Fine,” whispers Gustl.

“Are you certain he doesn’t need any more help tonight?”

Gustl stutters as he stands by the door, but can’t give her a definite answer. The weight of his mother’s stare, combined with her question’s sharp tone, seems to press down on his shoulders and hunch him forward.

“Pardon me, Frau Kubizek,” Adi interjects, stepping forward into the centre of the small space, which the Kubizek family use as their dining room, entrance, and kitchen combined. “It’s
Lohengrin
tonight. Of course, you understand it’s absolutely essential for your son’s development as a musical artist to see that particular work by the Bayreuth master as many times as he possibly can, whenever and wherever it might be performed, no matter the cost to his friends or family.”

“My son’s development as a musical artist?” Frau Kubizek says, her smile growing wider.

Adi steps closer, his eyes so intense and full that Frau Kubizek retreats a couple of steps, her bum pressing against the sink. She closes her mouth.

“I need not tell you, Frau Kubizek,” says the fiery but still scrupulously polite guest, “that our dear Gustl has talent, which does not appear with any frequency in men. When a person has that blessing, he also has a certain responsibility to seize and develop it. It would be criminal of you, Frau Kubizek, and criminal of Herr Kubizek, and even criminal of Gustl himself, to forsake or ignore such a gift. It would be like spitting into the face of fate, would it not?
Lohengrin
is about to be performed in our fair city. That is more important than upholstery. Gustl will benefit by attending the opera this evening. He will grow and mature immeasurably from the experience, and I am sure he will then learn to seize his spirit and harness his considerable power of creation. You must let him go.”

Frau Kubizek is holding an unopened bean husk with two hands as if it were a life preserver. Her eyes are wide and her brow is raised. “My, my,” she says, amazed. “In that case.”

Gustl lingers in the doorway, pale and terrified. Never in this lifetime would he speak to his strict mother in such a manner. If he did, Frau Kubizek would darken with fury and, in a single phrase, banish her son to his bedroom for the rest of the night. But when words of bald defiance originate with Adi, they never seem rude, rather they have the persuasive
force of truth. His tone is firm and clear and direct. His phrasing exudes confidence. When Adi speaks, his gigantic eyes seem to draw in and hypnotize Frau Kubizek Still, his friend’s audacity makes Gustl uncomfortable.