The Radetzky March (7 page)

After the soup the
Tafelspitz
was served, boiled fillet of beef with all the trimmings, the old man’s Sunday entrée for countless years. The delighted contemplation he devoted to this dish took more time than half the meal. The district captain’s eyes caressed first the delicate bacon that silhouetted the colossal chunk of meat, then each small individual plate on which the vegetables were bedded: the glowing violet beets, the lush-green earnest spinach, the bright cheery lettuce, the acrid white of the horseradish, the perfect oval of new potatoes swimming in melting butter and recalling delicate baubles. The baron had a bizarre relationship with food. He ate the most important morsels with his eyes, so to speak; his sense of beauty consumed above all the essence of the food—its soul, as it were; the vapid remainders that then reached mouth and palate were boring and had to be wolfed down without delay. The beauteous appearance of the victuals gave the old man as much pleasure as their simplicity. For he set store by good solid fare, a tribute he paid to both his taste and his conviction; the latter, you see, he called Spartan. With felicitous skill, he thus combined the sating of his desire with the demands of duty. He was a Spartan. But he was also an Austrian.

Now, as on every Sunday, he set about carving the beef. He jammed his cuffs into his sleeves, raised both hands, set knife and
fork to the meat, and began, while saying to Fräulein Hirschwitz, “You see, my dear lady, it is not enough to ask the butcher for a tender piece. One must heed the way it is cut. I mean, with or against the grain. Nowadays butchers no longer understand their craft. The finest meat is ruined by merely a wrong cut. Look here, my dear lady! I can barely save it. It’s disintegrating into threads, it’s simply crumbling. As a whole, it can be labeled ‘tender.’ But the individual pieces will be tough, as you yourself shall soon see. As for the trimmings, which the Germans call
Beilage,
I would prefer the horseradish, which the Germans call
Meerrettich,
to be somewhat drier. It must not lose its pungency in the milk. It should also be prepared just before it reaches the table. It’s been wet far too long. A mistake!”

Fräulein Hirschwitz, who had lived in Germany for many years and always spoke High German, and to whose predilection for literary usage Herr von Trotta’s Germanisms had alluded, nodded slowly and heavily. It was obviously a great effort for her to detach the considerable weight of her bun from the back of her neck and induce her head to nod in acquiescence. This added a touch of reserve to her assiduous amiability—indeed, it even seemed to contain resistance. And the district captain felt prompted to say, “Surely I am not off the mark, my dear lady!”

He spoke the nasal Austrian German of higher officials and lesser nobles. It vaguely recalled distant guitars twanging in the night and also the last dainty vibrations of fading bells; it was a soft but also precise language, tender and spiteful at once. It suited the speaker’s thin, bony face, his curved, narrow nose, in which the sonorous, somewhat rueful consonants seemed to be lying. His nose and mouth, when the district captain spoke, were more like wind instruments than facial features. Aside from the lips, nothing moved in his face. The dark whiskers that Herr von Trotta wore as part of his uniform, as insignia demonstrating his fealty to Franz Joseph I, as proof of his dynastic conviction—these whiskers likewise remained immobile when Herr von Trotta und Sipolje spoke. He sat upright at the table, as if clutching reins in his hard hands. When sitting he appeared to be standing, and when rising he always surprised others with his
full ramrod height. He always wore dark blue, summer and winter, Sundays and weekdays: a dark-blue jacket with gray striped trousers that lay snug on his long legs and were tautened by straps over the smooth boots. Between the second and third course, he would usually get up in order to “stretch my legs.” But it seemed more as if he wanted to show the rest of the household how to rise, stand, and walk without relinquishing immobility.

Jacques cleared away the meat, catching a swift glance from Fräulein Hirschwitz to remind him to have it warmed up for her. Herr von Trotta walked over to the window with measured paces, lifted the shade slightly, and returned to the table.

At that moment, the cherry dumplings appeared on a spacious platter. The district captain took only one, sliced it with his spoon, and said to Fräulein Hirschwitz, “This, dear lady, is a paragon of a cherry dumpling. It has the necessary consistency when it is cut open, yet it nevertheless yields instantly on the tongue.” And, turning to Carl Joseph, “I advise you to take two today!” Carl Joseph took two. He wolfed them down in a flash, was finished one second earlier than his father, and gulped down a glass of water (for wine was served only at dinner) to wash them from his gullet, where they might still be stuck, down into his stomach. He folded his napkin in the same rhythm as the old man.

They all stood up. The band outside played the
Tannhäuser
overture. Amid its sonorous strains, they walked into the study with Fräulein Hirschwitz in the lead. There Jacques brought the coffee. They were expecting Herr Kapellmeister Nechwal. While down below his musicians fell in to march off, he came, in a dark-blue full-dress uniform, with a shining sword and two small, golden, sparkling harps on his collar. “I am delighted with your concert,” said Herr von Trotta today as on every Sunday. “It was quite extraordinary today.” Herr Nechwal bowed. He had already lunched in the officers’ mess an hour ago, unable to wait for the black coffee: the taste of the food was still in his mouth; he craved a Virginia cigar. Jacques brought him a packet of cigars. The bandmaster drew and drew on the light that Carl Joseph steadfastly held at the end of the long cigar, running the risk of burning his fingers.

They sat in broad leather armchairs. Herr Nechwal talked about the latest Lehár operetta in Vienna. He was a man of the world, the kapellmeister. He went to Vienna twice a month, and Carl Joseph sensed that the musician hid many secrets of the great nocturnal demimonde in the depths of his soul. He had three children and a wife “from a simple background,” but he himself stood in the brightest splendor of the world, quite separate from his family. He relished and told Jewish jokes with impish gusto. The district captain did not understand them, nor did he laugh, but he said, “Very good, very good!”

“How is Frau Nechwal?” Herr von Trotta would inquire regularly. He had been asking that question for years. He had never seen her, nor did he wish ever to meet the wife “from a simple background.” Whenever Herr Nechwal would be leaving, the baron would always say to him, “My very best to Frau Nechwal, whom I do not know!” And Herr Nechwal promised to give her the message and assured the baron that his wife would be delighted.

“And how are your children?” asked Herr von Trotta, who could never remember whether they were sons or daughters.

“The eldest boy is doing well at school,” said the kapellmeister.

“So he’ll be a musician too?” asked Herr von Trotta und Sipolje with a smidgen of condescension.

“No,” replied Herr Nechwal, “another year and he’ll be entering military school.”

“Ah, an officer!” said the district captain. “That’s good. Infantry?”

Herr Nechwal smiled. “Of course! He’s capable. Maybe someday he’ll join the general staff.”

“Certainly, certainly!” said the district captain. “Such things have happened.”

A week later, he had forgotten everything. One did not recall the bandmaster’s children.

Herr Nechwal drank two demitasses, no more, no less. With regret he stubbed out the final third of the cigar. He had to go; one did not leave with a smoking cigar.

“It was especially wonderful today. My very best to Frau Nechwal. Unfortunately I have not yet had the pleasure!” said Herr von Trotta und Sipolje.

Carl Joseph clicked his heels. He accompanied the kapellmeister down to the first landing. Then he returned to the study. Presenting himself to his father, he said, “I’m taking a walk, Papá!”

“Fine, fine! Have a relaxing time!” said Herr von Trotta and waved his hand.

Carl Joseph left. He meant to saunter slowly; he wanted to amble, prove to his feet that they were on vacation. But he “shaped up,” as the army term goes, when he encountered the first soldier. He began to march. He reached the town limits, the big yellow tax office broiling leisurely in the sun. The sweet fragrance of the fields came surging toward him, the throbbing song of the larks. To the west, the blue horizon was cut off by gray-blue hills; the first peasant huts emerged with shingled or thatched roofs; the clucking of poultry thrust like fanfares into the summery hush. The countryside was sleeping, wrapped in day and brightness.

Behind the railroad embankment lay the constabulary headquarters, commanded by a sergeant. Carl Joseph knew him, Sergeant Slama. He decided to knock. He entered the broiling veranda, knocked, rang the bell; no one answered. A window opened. Frau Slama leaned over the geraniums and called, “Who’s there?” Catching sight of little Trotta, she said, “Coming!” She opened the front door; the interior smelled cool and a bit fragrant. Frau Slama had dabbed a drop of scent on her dressing gown.

Carl Joseph thought of the Viennese nightclubs. He said, “The sergeant isn’t here, ma’am?”

“He’s on duty, Herr von Trotta,” the wife replied. “Do come in!”

Now Carl Joseph sat in the Slama parlor. It was a low, reddish room, very cool; this was like sitting in an icebox. The high backs of the upholstered chairs were stained brown and richly carved into leafy vines that hurt the back. Frau Slama brought in some cool lemonade; she sipped it daintily, her pinkie cocked
and one leg crossing the other. She sat next to Carl Joseph, turning toward him and jiggling one foot, which was trapped in a red velvet slipper, naked, without a stocking. Carl Joseph eyed the foot, then the lemonade. He did not look at Frau Slama’s face. His cap lay on his knees. He kept them stiff. He sat upright in front of the lemonade as if drinking it were an official obligation.

“You haven’t been here in a long time, Herr von Trotta,” said the sergeant’s wife. “You’ve really grown! Are you past fourteen?”

“Yes, ma’am, long ago.” He thought of leaving the house as fast as possible. He would have to bolt down the lemonade, bow nicely, tell her to give his best to her husband, and leave. He gazed helplessly at the lemonade; there was no finishing it. Frau Slama refilled his glass. She brought cigarettes. He was not allowed to smoke. She lit a cigarette for herself and drew on it indolently, with flaring nostrils, and jiggled her foot. Suddenly, without a word, she took the cap from his knees and put it on the table. Then she thrust her cigarette into his mouth. Her hand was redolent with smoke and cologne; the bright sleeve of her dressing gown with its pattern of summery flowers shimmered before his eyes. He politely puffed the cigarette, its tip wet from her mouth, and gazed at the lemonade. Frau Slama reinserted the cigarette between her teeth and placed herself behind Carl Joseph. He was afraid to turn around. All at once, both her shimmering sleeves were around his neck, and her face bore down on his hair. He did not stir. But his heart pounded; a huge tempest burst inside him, convulsively held back by his petrified body and the solid buttons of the uniform.

“Come on!” whispered Frau Slama. She sat on his lap, kissed him hurriedly, and eyed him roguishly. A tuft of blond hair accidentally dropped into her forehead; she peered upward, trying to puff it away with puckered lips. He began feeling her weight on his legs; at the same time new energy gushed through him, tensing the muscles in his thighs and arms. He embraced the woman and felt the soft coolness of her breasts through the tough cloth of the uniform. A soft chuckle erupted from her throat, a bit like a sob and a bit like a warble. Tears formed in her
eyes. Then she leaned back and with delicate precision began undoing button after button on his tunic. She placed a cool, tender hand on his chest, kissed his mouth with prolonged and systematic relish, and suddenly rose as if startled by some noise. He promptly leaped up, she smiled and slowly drew him along, stepping backward, with both hands outstretched and her head thrown back, a radiance in her face, moving toward the door, which she opened by kicking behind her. They glided into the bedroom.

As if helplessly fettered, he watched her through half-shut eyelids while she undressed him, slow, thorough, and motherly. Somewhat dismayed, he noticed his full-dress uniform falling slackly to the floor, piece by piece; he heard the thudding of his shoes and instantly felt Frau Slama’s hand on his foot. From below, a new billow of warmth and coolness swept up to his chest. He let himself go slack. He received the woman like a huge soft wave of bliss, fire, and water.

He woke up. Frau Slama stood before him, handing him his clothing piece by piece; he began to dress hastily. She hurried into the parlor, brought him his gloves and cap. She straightened his tunic. He felt her constant glances on his face but avoided looking at her. He banged his heels together, shook the woman’s hand while gazing stubbornly at her right shoulder, and went off.

A bell-tower clock struck seven. The sun was nearing the hills, which were now as blue as the sky and barely distinguishable from clouds. Sweet fragrance flowed from the trees along the way. The evening wind combed the small grasses of the sloping meadows on both sides of the road; he could see the grasses quivering and billowing under the wind’s broad, quiet, invisible hand. In distant marshes, the frogs began to croak. At an open window of a bright yellow cottage on the edge of town, a young woman stared at the empty road. Although Carl Joseph had never seen her before, he greeted her, stiff and reverential. She nodded back, rather surprised and grateful. It was as if he had said goodbye to Frau Slama only now. The strange, familiar woman stood at the window like a border guard between love and life. After greeting her, he felt restored to the world. He quickened his pace. At the stroke of seven-forty-five he was
home, announcing his return to his father, pale, terse, and resolute, as is appropriate for men.