The Long Drawn Aisle

From Part II, Chapter XIV (Vienna, autumn 1913)

“Friedrich!” said Kashia, waving her spoon in his face.

Friedrich cowered as he said with mock gravity:

“Ah, you are going to beat me like an egg, no?”

“It does him good,” said Oriana. “Maybe it stops him talking.”

“I don’t care if he talks, only that he buys me a new table when he breaks this one.”

Friedrich gave it a vigorous shake.

“It is not breaking. It is a good table, see.”

“Give me the spoon,” said Oriana, extending a hand.

Kashia smiled, but did not give: Oriana would use it.

“A good table should always be hit,” Friedrich continued imperiously, sitting down; “You see all the time in plays men banging tables and the heroes standing on them to give their great speeches. That is how a table should be used.”

“After dinner I get a spade,” said Oriana. She turned to the sideboard and jerked open the doors, rattling the china inside.

Kashia thought about denouncing Friedrich’s stupidity. Then, shaking her head, decided against. Not long after Oriana had laid the plates, Kashia lifted the pot from the stove and set it down on the table. The moment she did Friedrich stood up and peered into it.

“Ah, we are having an imperial dinner tonight, Edward. There is something from every country in there.”

“It’s goulash,” said Kashia; “With goulash ingredients.”

Friedrich examined the contents sceptically. “Czech goulash,” he concluded, sitting back down. “One day I think I will eat proper Austrian food when I come to your house. Why is Oriana never cooking when I come?”

Oriana sat next to Edward.

“You are always here,” she said.

“And you are never cooking for me. Why?”

“I do not invite you.”

“Ha! Excellent. You see, Edward, this is the truth you get from a real Austrian. There is no – Kashia, the wine,” he interrupted as she started to sit. She rose, took a green, label-less bottle from the counter and plonked it in front of him. He picked it up instantly. “Yes, there is no – ” This time he stopped with the bottle half-tilted, Edward’s flat hand barring entry to his glass.

“No thank you.”

“It is wine,” explained Friedrich.

“I don’t drink.”

“Don’t drink?”

“I mean I…I don’t drink,” Edward repeated, with resolve; for that was the tenet. And although the subject had never arisen before, and although his father had never preached on it, still, that was the tenet.

“A Protestant?” said Friedrich, as if something unpleasant was on the tip of his tongue.

“Yes…aren’t all English people?”

“Maybe – but it is for sure they are drinking.”

“Not Methodists.”

“Aha – a Methodist!” Friedrich laid down the bottle and looked up. Then, as if revelation were found in the contours of steam, he said in a heavenly tone: “Yes, of course – of course! You are having as your very bad teacher Herr Braunthal. He knows many people like Methodists, for sure.” He picked up the bottle and tipped it towards Edward’s glass. “But that is a very bad reason not to drink, no?”

“Friedrich!” cautioned Kashia, ladling the food onto the plates.

“What? – I am only asking if he is wanting some wine – like a good Catholic.”

“But he isn’t Catholic, he’s…something else.”

“Ptschew – Yes, but every Protestant has a little Catholic in them. Maybe the little Catholic in Edward wants to drink wine.”

“I don’t,” avowed Edward; for that was the tenet.

“It is a very strange belief to be having, no? There are many Methodists who are drinking, for sure.”

“Friedrich!”

“I am only trying to find out why he does not drink.”

“Because…I don’t.” – For that was the tenet.

“Yes, yes, you are saying that like a good Protestant. That is good dissent. They always say ‘no’ to some things they don’t like, and choosing some others they do.”

“No.”

“Yes, it’s true.” He reached a hand over the pot like a claw: “You are saying – I am not liking this bit, I am not keeping this – ” he extracted an imaginary tenet and discarded it “ – But I am liking this, so I keep this –” a salvaged tenet was promptly dropped on the table. He repeated the process: “ – ‘I am liking this one…this one, no…”

“That’s not true,” Edward bristled.

“Of course it is. First you are becoming jealous watching only the priests drink the wine and you want to make a new Church; then you drink the wine and make a new Church because it is the blood; then you make a new Church because it represents the blood; and then you are not drinking at all and making a new Church because…”

The ladle was cracked against the iron side of the pot so the sound reverberated like a magnificent gong.

“Friedrich!”

“I am trying to find out why…”

“Give strong wine unto him that is ready to perish and he shall sleep a perpetual sleep,” said Edward.

A short silence was broken by Friedrich triumphantly pounding the table.

“Ha! I knew it! From the moment you looked at that stupid old woman! Yes, I saw it in your eyes!”

“Don’t listen to him,” said Kashia. “He doesn’t understand anything he doesn’t believe in himself.”

“I was only asking why, Kashia.” Friedrich once more tipped the bottle to the glass.

I don’t drink. That was the tenet; that was the tenet; that was the tenet. But Edward’s father had never spoken of it; only those Sunday newspaper speakers had spoken of that.

“A question always has an answer, no?”

“Friedrich – stop!”

But it was too late. The glass was uncovered: the hand was removed; and Friedrich was pouring – the wine was flowing into his glass, into her glass, all around it was flowing; then set on the table, Friedrich raising his glass, as the mirror into which he was looking, was raising his glass – and drinking; then eating. All were drinking while they were eating.

And the time passed.

“It is stupid to do something only because someone tells you to do it,” says Oriana.

Edward looks. He watches as she manoeuvres a hunk of meat, cuts once through the middle – through the grubby veneer where it has wallowed in sauce – selects a half, removes the fat and pushes it to the side of the plate.

“No one told me.”

The prongs of the fork are sunk into the lump, which is then sunk. She chews patiently, deliberately, as if she were alone; as if the eyes and words were in a different room, sealed off behind a thick wall of glass.

“It is the same reason you come to Austria. You are told.”

This is true, Edward knows; but not in the way she says it, he knows, as he turns for the glass and he drinks. So he will leave her words where she has scattered them, like barren seeds to lie on the rocks and be blown by the wind.

“What is the good to come to a place when you do not stay.”

“Are you going to stay in Vienna forever?” he asks.

“I have no choice.”

“Nor do I.”

She looks at him, her pale skin aglow in the dim light of the gas lamp.

“That is sad.”

“Why?”

“Because soon you leave. You meet us, you leave, and you do not see us again. That is sad.”

“How do you know I won’t see you again? That I won’t come back?”

“People never come back,” she says, flicking her head and her hair, and tossing her eyes away – for the rules of subtraction are inviolable, she knows. When one is taken from another they are not added together again; not the same two numbers – the same beads as before – after the abacus has broken and the beads rolled away.

“I am not people.”

“No?”

“No. So what if I do?”

“What for?”

“To visit. To learn more. My brother lives here so I could easily…”

“Nothing is easy. And everything is different if you come back,” – after the beads have rolled on the floor, under the table, under the cupboard, under the chair, down the stairs, into the gutter. That is what she knows.

“You, Friedrich and Kashia will be here, won’t you?”

“We are busy. Maybe we forget you. So it is better when you leave you stay in England with your mother and father.”

“My mother is dead.”

She looks at him. Her eye, meeting his, passes through like a needle and punctures the blue husk so the black seeps and spreads.

“Yes, you’re right,” he says; “Maybe it’s better not to come back than to be forgotten.”

From Part III, Chapter XXVIII (Vienna, July 1914)

“Yes, punctuality’s a precarious thing,” Ulrich Köstler said with antithetical gusto – he took the lead with a well-judged step; “especially when one confuses it with precision. Punctuality’s precarious, but precision’s punctilious – that’s how the saying goes. But there’s no point being punctual if the other fellow’s watch is slow, is there? What good is being punctual then? Not a jot, I assure you. That only leads to frustration. One must adapt to the prevailing conditions. Don’t adapt and you might as well dance a polka to a waltz! Why, even today I adapted, Herr Wilson. Had I allowed the punctuality of my luncheon hour to supersede the precision of my work I would have left the ministry ten minutes ago and not had the glücksfall of meeting you here. And as I was to write to you this very afternoon – ”

“To me? What for?”

“Oh, just a little note, nothing more. But now, because of the wonders of precision, we will both save some time – me the writing and you the reading.” Köstler tipped his hat at a passing lady, her white parasol given a clockwise twirl as he did. “So, as we are both saving time, you will permit me to walk with you a little way, won’t you, Herr Wilson?”

“I really am in a – ” Richard stuttered as Köstler touched his hat to a brow of distinction. But in the fleeting distraction of these feathered addresses Richard’s attention fluttered towards the holiday bustle of the Volksgarten. Through the confection of cream and white that strolled about like the eights at Henley he glimpsed a young lady from one of the embassy dances. She had danced delightfully, though with too much emotion. But now, had he caught her eye again? No matter anyway, because he was leaving, leaving, leaving. Just like Theseus he had completed his task. But, just like Theseus, to avoid the charges of deceit and desertion, he had to allay suspicions long enough before escaping. And so he played along and said to Köstler: “Of course.”

Köstler rolled out a courtly arm and continued:

“As you can imagine, Herr Wilson, I too have been much pressed these last days. And it is only when pressed one realises the importance of precision. A short, sharp note is what’s needed to get one’s point across. But just because a note is brief doesn’t mean it isn’t complex. Why, a great note is like a Mozart symphony – a masterpiece with the exactly the right number of words. One cannot offend in a great note because one is forced by space to stick to the facts. In this case the facts are perfectly clear.”

“Yes, I’ve heard Serbia is to be tempted with a jewel or such like,” said Richard.

Köstler’s satisfaction at this reply was evident by the breadth of his smile. “Quite so,” he said; “although temptation is found in the wanting, not the having, is it not? When circumstances arise that threaten the existing order one can hardly sit on one’s hands and do nothing. Certainly not. An impudent child must be given a slap when they’ve erred. So one is compelled to make one’s feelings known – with a little note of precision. Not one composed by a politician, I should add. No, no, certainly not! There’d be so many caveats and clauses it’d run to a thousand pages and more! A note, Herr Wilson! And in what language would it be written? I bumped into a minister yesterday: told me the men in his district were thrilled at the prospect of war: ‘Excellent,’ I replied, ‘mais il n’y a rien au dehors qui soulage les femmes.’ Hadn’t the foggiest clue what I’d said. I could have been from another planet for all he understood. No, no, Herr Wilson, when events of magnitude are unfolding one does not want politicians meddling in diplomatic affairs.

“Of course, a note is not always sufficient. Not even the greatest note can enchant the sense of the deaf. A slap, after all, cannot always cure impudence. War is therefore a distinct possibility, I can’t deny that. Indeed, there are some who believe a little war would be rather good for our spirit; that it would forge a greater unity in the empire. I myself am not immune to its charms. But this is where the precision comes in. War, by all means; but a little war, not a big war. It’s all well and good for politicians and generals to make grand declarations about blood, soil and empire, but it’s what happens next that’s the key. Those arrows on maps look very pretty, I’m sure, but what happens when they face the wrong way? What happens when you’ve got a million men strung out across the Hungarian plains? You see, they don’t think about that. No, Herr Wilson, it’s quite certain that if one wants a little war one doesn’t leave its planning to politicians and generals. That’s why war is the time for the men who make great decisions. It’s the time for the men who can balance elephants on wires. It’s the time for the men of precision. Put simply, Herr Wilson – ” he arched his back and puffed his chest with Olympian pride, as if the prospective event were the pinnacle for which he had spent many a year training – “war is the greatest challenge that a man in my position is faced with.”

Whereupon, entering the Ringstrasse in the shadow of the Burgtheatr, Ulrich Köstler stopped, as if the number of words spoken had been precisely counted to match the steps taken, so there would be no more fitting stage upon which an entrance (or an exit – for the description depends entirely on whether one considers the putting on or taking off of a mask to be the beginning or end of the production) could be made, and to say:

“Now my good friend, it is with some…curiosity – shall we say? Yes, curiosity,” – his repetition of the word being of such feeling as to suggest he had plundered its soul – “that some opinions have come to the attention of the authorities.”

“What opinions?”

“Why, your opinions, Herr Wilson.”

A deep, ingenuous flush spread full on Richard’s cheeks, like a courtesan catching sight of her open bodice. To prove that, whatever the state of undress, incomprehension was always the final rebuff to a suit, he stepped out of the scissoring light and made a motion to leave:

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Herr Köstler. And as I’m now late for my – ”

Köstler suddenly threaded his arm through Richard’s and locked his elbow to his side. Drawing his lips to Richard’s cheek, he said in a waft of stale coffee and mint:

“Not late; not in Austria.” Relaxing his bind he gave a saddened sigh and tipped his head sideways. “But it’s true, the effusions of a letter can lead one to make the strangest of oaths. Words, you have to be so careful with the critters, don’t you, Herr Wilson?”

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