Who Is Martha? (16 page)

“Stop it!” Levadski interjects, “it’s not funny.” Habib apologizes, he only meant to help. Hips swaying, he prances toward the door and leaves the room.

“Tramp, tramp, trampaloo …” Levadski hears Habib singing in the corridor.

I can’t chop off the hoof, Levadski concludes, I can only affirm my cosmetic defect. And I can wash it. Levadski stomps into the bathroom and dips his hoof into the full bath. Thick steam rises towards the gilded domed ceiling.

“Hell, hell, hell!” Habib is singing in the bedroom.

“Why has he come back?” The steam is growing thicker and thicker, the water is spouting green bubbles that glisten for an excruciating moment before they burst. But Levadski does not allow himself to be led astray. He sits clinging to the side of the bath, letting his hoof dangle in the soup.

“Hell, hell!” Habib sings. The bursting of the bubbles grows louder and louder. It swells to the sound of thundering cannons.

“Damn, it’s wartime!” Levadski tries to pull his hoof out of the bath.

“For the Fatherland! For the Fatherland, from the mountain and from the valley, up and onward, fresh and cheery!” utters Habib from the bedroom.

Levadski is shivering with exhaustion. He cannot lift his legs any more. In a green bubble he suddenly recognizes the meticulously shaven face of his new acquaintance from the elevator. “Mr. Witzturn! It’s wartime!” Levadski moans.

“Come, brother, give me your hand!” he hears Mr. Witzturn say in a mosquito voice from inside the bubble.

“For the Fatherland! For the Fatherland!” Habib yodels through the bathroom door, “the land where our cradles stood …”

Levadski stretches his finger out towards the greenish bubble. “And what if you burst?”

“Don’t worry, soon the days of ice and powdery snow will be over. Please!” Mr. Witzturn pleads from his filigreed hiding place. Levadski hesitates. The blister of water is trembling precariously. “Quick, brother, give me your hand!” Levadski moves his finger in the direction of Mr. Witzturn’s plastic nose, coming closer and closer. “For the Fatherland, for the Fatherland!” Habib shouts in Levadski’s ear. The finger twitches and bursts the bubble.

“Mr. Levadski!” Habib’s kid glove holds on tightly to Levadski’s wrist while Levadski is racked by a coughing fit. “You were snoring,” Habib tells him between coughs, “and then you choked in your sleep. Do you want me to thump you?” Levadski shakes his head.

“Do you think you could, ahem, get me two tickets for this evening?”

“But of course. A lady?” Habib rolls his eyes gallantly.

“Ahem,” Levadski clear’s his throat, “the gentleman from the elevator. I have always, been, ahem, suspicious of women, people too by the way. Humans on the whole, I mean.”

“I understand.” Veils of clouds drift across Habib’s moon-face. “Don’t get me wrong, hehemm. Habib, I am not a ladies’ man, and where I worked, I only drank with colleagues, he-hem-aheeheem, because I was forced to.”

“I understand,” Habib repeats even more softly.

“And now I am here, Habib, the
Musikverein
is behind me. On one of the upper floors, my acquaintance from the elevator, a particularly amiable gentleman, is enjoying a nap, isn’t he? Tomorrow he is leaving. I will never see him again. Why, for God’s sake, should I not invite him to a concert and give him some pleasure?”

“I will arrange the tickets for you.”

“Music,” Levadski adds, eyes screwed up in delight, “wipes away all misunderstandings. It sweeps across the world!” Habib takes a peek at his watch. “It sweeps across the world as the only, the only truth, Habib!”

“Yes,” The butler sighs.

“I do not know the gentleman. But that is beside the point. We are,” Levadski searches for the words, “we are symbols.”

“Of what?”

“Well, symbols of, ahem, of those, of those …” Levadski scratches his bald head, “of who we might have been. Of who we are!”

“Let’s hope that your friend can make it,” Habib remarks carefully.

“Why shouldn’t he be able to? After all we have arranged to meet in the Bar Maria Theresia this evening.” Levadski throws a glance at the telephone. “Would you be so kind as to find out which room Mr. Witzturn is staying in?”

Habib calls the concierge. “The name is Witzturn. Witz …”

“Turn!” Levadski adds.

“Turn, Witzturn, yes. Yes. Thank you. We’re joining forces.” Levadski struggles out of the armchair.

“Oh, Habib, please ask him whether he would like …”

“Yes. Good day, reception. I apologize for disturbing you around …” Habib looks at his watch, “lunchtime. The gentleman you arranged to meet this evening in the Bar Maria Theresia would like to know whether you would care to go to a concert with him instead. Yes. Yes. Classical music. Yes. Vienna Symphony. We will let you know in a minute what time it starts. Thank you. Yes, thank you. Yes, I will pass that on. Thank you. I will. I will. Goodbye.”

Habib raises his forefinger. “He would be delighted to join you, but he wanted me to tell you that the concert does not get you out of paying a visit to the bar!”

“Did he really say he would be delighted?”

“Yes, absolutely delighted!”

Levadski taps his scrawny thigh. “That’s the kind of man I met in the elevator!”

“Here, the program,” Habib waves a magazine. “Where To Go In Vienna,
Musikverein
, November. Today … Wednesday, November 10, 2010, 7:30, Fe-do-se-yev. Vladimir Fedoseyev, conductor, Alexander Glazunov, there he is, your Glazunov, Concert Waltz No.1 in D-Ma-jor, Op. 47 and Concerto for alto saxophone and strings in E-Flat Major, Op. 109, and after the intermission, Hector Berlioz,
Symphonie Fantastique
, Op. 14, Episode in the Life of an Artist …”

“That sounds good!” Levadski says happily, “please call!”

“Yes. Good day, reception again. It starts at 7:30. Vladimir Fedoseyev, Conductor, Alexander Glazunov, Concert Waltz and Concerto for saxophone and strings, Hector Berlioz,
Symphonie Fantastique
, Episode in the Life of an Artist. You could think about setting out slowly at 7:00. The
Musikverein
building … Yes, seven o’clock, it’s right behind the hotel. You know. Certainly. Seven in the lobby,” Habib repeats and nods at Levadski on the opposite side of the room. “Enjoy yourself. Goodbye.”

“Why did you say reception? You called from my room.”

“Your friend, Mr. Witzturn, he does not have butler service.”

After several failed attempts, Levadski hoists himself out of the armchair. Smiling and serious, he is now standing before Habib, who makes himself smaller by lowering his gaze to the parquet floor. “You are a wonderful person, Habib.” If the butler were to raise his gaze from the parquet floor now, he would be looking into Levadski’s watery eyes.

“Have a rest before the concert,” Habib advises and takes his leave so that he can arrange the tickets.

Such a tactful young man! Levadski looks at himself in the mirrored door of his bedroom. The suit was a good buy. And the walking stick too. I will take a discreet look at Mr. Witzturn’s cane through my magnifying glass this evening when the opportunity arises. Levadski trots over to the window: a streetcar, red, light gray and gray, swims along the tracks.

Want a real vacation?
the advertisement on the first car reads.
Tunisia, only two hours by plane. Live your dreams!

When Mr. Witzturn is clapping this evening, I will seize the moment and take a look at his walking stick, thinks Levadski.

I am moving ahead
, reads the ad on an older red streetcar on the other side of the road,
Vienna-businesschool.at
.

It is impossible for a human being to have as much tact as this Habib, thinks Levadski. Like an animal, yes, like an animal he holds up a mirror in front of me, the mirror of my own wretchedness.

Toifl Textile Care
is waiting in the middle of the street, blinkers on, and turns off in the direction of the back entrance of the hotel.
15 Years Gruenfeldt Insect Screens
breathes in the exhaust from the little Nordsee fish delivery van.
Fall in love with fish
.

If I were Habib, it would never have occurred to me to announce myself as the reception desk, such thoughtfulness, so tactful, such genuine sympathy! Just so that Mr. Witzturn is not reminded that there are people who are even more privileged that he is in this hotel. Or perhaps so as not to make me seem like a showoff? Levadski stares at the writing on the streetcar that slowly comes to a halt in front of his window.
Nobody chooses where they are born.
Mr. Witzturn probably has sufficient dignity to not feel one iota smaller in a Classic Room and without a butler. But you never know. At our age.

The ringing of the telephone gives him a start. Habib is on the line, he has got the tickets. Row 1, seats 3 and 4, ground floor box on the right, sparkling wine in the intermission ordered in Levadski’s name.

You are a treasure, Habib, Levadski wants to say. “You have done me a tremendous favor,” he slurs into the receiver and hangs up. My goodness, hard to believe.
Musikverein
. Great-aunts! Suddenly he feels a shiver run down his crooked spine. His great-aunts, what if they are still alive! He never received any death notices. Oh come on, Levadski thinks, they passed away long ago. Both of them. Their graves must have been leveled at least fifty years ago to make room for new great-aunts. Nobody who has ever made inquiries about reserving a plot in a cemetery believes in the fairy tale of eternal peace. All a sham. I won’t be bumping into them in the
Musikverein
, thinks Levadski, unsure of whether to be sad or relieved, but I will raise a glass of sparkling wine to the darling dead. And to mother, who never managed even once to come along, as she was always working. The poor thing. I will drink to mother later, at the bar.

Flight PS 819

Non-Stop
Flight time 2 hours

A
T 7 P.M. ON THE DOT
L
EVADSKI SEES THE GLEAM OF
MR.Witzturn’s silver cane handle on the stairs. His steps are muffled on the red runner and echo on the marble of the lobby. Leather shoes, thinks Levadski, extending his hand to Mr. Witzturn. “I thought,” he joked, “that we would bump into each other in the elevator again.” Mr. Witzturn pants and laughs, he had wanted to get a bit of exercise and decided to take the stairs at ten to seven in order to arrive in the lobby on time.

“Five floors,” he says, fluttering his eyelashless lids as if he himself refused to believe he had just managed to master them. Levadski doesn’t believe it either. I bet he got out on the second floor and then took the steps, the old windbag.

“Impressive, impressive,” Levadski praises Mr. Witzturn. “So your room is on the top floor.” Mr. Witzturn nods and whispers meaningfully:

“Above the tops of the trees!”

“Let’s go,” Levadski suggests, waving two tickets printed on shiny black paper. Only after Levadski has politely nodded at a doorman with gray hair at the temples does Levadski realize that Mr. Witzturn has followed him through the revolving door, rather than him going first. “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Witzturn, please forgive me!” Mr. Witzturn’s mouth is twisted, he is trying to suppress a laugh.

“One doesn’t get any younger,” he says coughing. “As an old man I am used to the youngsters being in the fast lane.”

A flock of perfumed matrons with fat ankles noisily totter past the two of them. “In the old days,” Mr. Witzturn recollects enthusiastically, “if you were a lady, you had a feather boa and moved as proudly and silently as a marble column.”

“Hhm, hhm,” says Levadski in a huff.

“One let oneself be worshipped like an icy mountain peak,” Mr. Witzturn says, waving his hand in its leather glove. Levadski grumbles and looks into the illuminated window of the restaurant, where yesterday he nearly dislocated his jaw on the Iberico. “For the conqueror,” Mr. Witzturn skips on, “the air grew thin around them, and some lost their lives in the ascent, isn’t that so?”

“You probably know better, I have never been a ladies’ man,” Levadski shrugs his shoulders.

“And those long languishing lashes, double rows of pearls, those scamps!” Mr. Witzturn says intoxicated, his voice sounding increasingly tender, as if a sharpedged sliver of candy were melting beneath his tongue. “And now this,” he says dryly, signaling with his head in the direction of the matrons in their clodhoppers hurrying away.

“Do you like classical music?” Levadski asks while crossing the street.

“Oh!” Mr. Witzturn exclaims, “I wanted to thank you so much for taking me with you today. I love music.”

“Wonderful,” Levadski says pleased, “I also love music, and Glazunov is one of the greats. A drinker!” he murmurs, causing the two women wearing trousers in front of them to turn around in alarm. “A drinker and a genius!” Levadski adds decisively, “one of the Russian greats!”

“Those two gentleman are showing us the way,” Mr. Levadski says to the backs of the trouser wearers, “the entrance must be there.”

“Have you ever been in the
Musikverein
before?” Levadski asks, keeping an eye on the steps, which he takes elegantly, according to his strength, one after the other.

“Yes, a hundred years ago,” Mr. Witzturn laughs, overtaking Levadski. “This evening, with your permission, I will lead the way.”

“That suits me fine. You are also the taller of the two of us,” Levadski cheerfully hurls at his back. “I almost feel like a female blackbird during the breeding season beside you!” he admits, breathing laboriously in the lobby.

The few steps have also taken their toll on Mr. Witzturn. “I like you,” he splutters, leaning against a column, “I like you, Mr. Levadski, although you have a lousy character.” Levadski expresses his horror by letting out a low whistle. “But I presume,” Mr. Witzturn adds, “that the lousiness of your character has gotten worse with age.”

“What a consolation,” Levadski says by way of thanks, looking around.

In the meantime the clodhoppers have dropped off their coats and are assessing – so it seems to Levadski – each other’s miserable festive attire. “Very shabby.” Mr. Witzturn confirms, following Levadski’s gaze.