Seductive Viennese Whirl (12 page)

I hurry over and, just as she's jerking her heel free, grab her and pull her out of the way of a passing horse drawn carriage – a Fiaker – as one of the horses lets rip with a load of steaming excrement.

"These damned cobbles," she hisses. "What do they think this is, a set for a Jane Austen movie?"

"Maybe it's easier to clean horseshit off them, I don't know," I say, as I lead a whinging Eva down the Kohlmarkt, also full of cobblestones, past the white canopy of Demel's, under which rail thin women sit before plates heaped with cake and cream. How on earth do they do it? I think, breathing in and pulling myself up in a vain attempt to look sylph like.

Finally we reach the Kärntner Straße, a ‘pedestrianized shoppers paradise' according to my guidebook. Eva is initially excited, but soon becomes downcast when she sees the garish but ridiculously expensive garments displayed in the shop windows. Judging by the teenage girls walking by, the current in-look seems to be overdone highlights and the slapification form of makeup. Eva stares through narrowed eyes at a girl sporting a shaggy perm, shiny with gunk.

"Hair gel is so totally out," she says shaking her head sadly. "Do you think I should tell her?"

"No, best not. Anyway, you're one to talk, your hair's a ball of knots." Her hair actually looks tastefully tousled, but unless Eva gets a shopping fix fast she's going to become more and more whiney. So I point at a very posh pharmacy, its windows crammed with deluxe beauty products. "Why don't you pop in there and stock up on mousse?"

"Ooh yes, good idea," she says, practically salivating at the mouth. She's the only person I know who can get excited about the prospect of shopping for hair care products. While Eva scurries into the store I walk over to a stage where some guys are jerking the strings on some puppets. The puppets are playing instruments while a Mick Jagger puppet prances about singing:

"When I'm walking by a church / and I hear Christ Jesus call to me / telling me more and more about this gospel he's been preaching / And I tell him this and I tell him that / ‘bout why I don't need God in my life / But all he does is shout back at me / You won't get no / Oh, no, no, no / Hey, hey, hey / That's what I say…"

The bastardised version of the Stones' hit transports me back to that night at the Weasel's when I was lying apprehensively on his rug wondering if he was ever going to make a move.

"You won't get no satisfaction, no satisfaction / Without God / No satisfaction …"

I get caught up in the memory, reliving that rush of anticipation, when suddenly the spell is broken. A bloke wielding a bible is giving me a big grin.

"Touches a chord doesn't it?" he says, cocking his head to one side. "In our fast paced modern world we constantly crave satisfaction, but look for it in all the wrong places."

I take a step back, hoping that if I just ignore him he'll go away, but he just steps up and sticks his head in my face. His anorak is damp and smells of mould. The guy is making me feel depressed, which isn't something I particularly want to feel right now. I look down at my feet. Okay, so he has a point. My life is unsatisfying and hollow, but I don't exactly need reminding of the fact, thank you very much.

He taps the bible. "The wonderful thing is there's no secret to achieving satisfaction. It's all here, in God's own words."

"Um, thanks," I mumble. "But I'm just here to have fun."

"So am I. Just because I burn with the Lord's heavenly spirit doesn't mean I can't tell a joke or go to a disco. In fact, I don't usually do this, but, well, you seem so nice. How would you feel about meeting me later for a drink?"

"Um, no thanks."

"Ah, come on. Please? Pretty please?"

This guy's really getting on my nerves. I'm about to tell him to push off, but when Eva comes over with a bulging carrier bag, I get a better idea. I've played her ‘girlfriend' in countless bars, as a last resort when letches won't take her no for an answer. In the past however, she's always initiated the charade and I've played along. This time, when I plant a kiss on Eva's lips, she looks flustered for a second but quickly twigs.

Once I've finished snogging her I turn to Bible Boy. "Thanks for the offer," I say, "but I don't think my girlfriend would like it." I pull Eva close and stroke her cheek. "No doubt God considers being gay a sin?"

He looks from Eva to me, his eyes lighting up. "God's views on the subject are a matter of heated debate, but I certainly don't have a problem with it. Why don't you bring her along?" The dirty little monkey. I put my arm around Eva's waist and lead her away while he shouts, "We could make a night of it!" at my retreating back.

"Why is it the only men I attract are Jesus freaks?" I moan once we're finally clear of him.

"You attract plenty of men, it's just that you don't seem to notice when they're after you, that's all." This from the woman who didn't notice a Bollywood superstar giving her the eye just now! But in any case, her comment leaves me feeling unexpectedly moved. I squeeze her hand. I know she's lying through her teeth but still, it was such a sweet thing to say.

She hands me her make up mirror. "Before we go any further you'd better wipe my lipstick off your mouth. Crimson is so not you." While I'm doing that we continue to walk up the Kärntnerstrasse. Eventually she stops and puts her hand on her hip.

"I don't understand this city. I mean, there's got to be a Gucci somewhere, right? I mean, every capital city has a Gucci? Maybe we need to widen our search."

Eva's radar proves correct and a trawl of the side streets reveals a cluster of designer heavyweights, including Gucci, Prada and Anna Molinari. In changing room after changing room, Eva prances before me in asymmetrical hemlines and peasant blouses, gabbling, "Do you think the Count would like me in this, or this or this?" I nod so much I begin to feel like one of those nodding dogs people display at the back of cars. Luckily, because she's being so generous with her credit card, the shop girls agree to have her stuff delivered to the hotel.

As we move from shop to shop, all I can think is that Vienna reminds me of cake, of layer upon layer of wedding cake. The facades of the houses are plastered with thick layers of icing that look like they were smoothed out with a wet knife, then decorated with swirls, cherubs, pillars and rosettes. I can almost taste the powdery sweetness in my mouth as I hurry towards the Kohlmarkt, and stop in front of Demel's.

Once settled at one of the tables outside the cake shop, I inhale deeply of my cake, a Gerollte Mandeltorte (rolled layers of ganache, meringue, almond and buttercream if you're interested, and I am, very much so, I practically lick the plate clean). Even Eva succumbs and orders a thin wedge of chocolate mousse cake. But the pleasure is short lived. Moments after bolting it down I begin to feel queasy. Nausea, like a mountain climber, is clambering up, through the layers of cake and cream in my stomach, so that I fear I might heave.

As the heat hammers down, I can hardly bear to look at the bright pink letters that spell out
Glamour
on Eva's purple skin tight t-shirt. The dual assault of harsh sunlight and neon lettering hurts my eyes. I feel drained and miserable, drab beside her, even though only this morning I thought I looked rather fetching in my low cut pale blue Marni dress. I put my hand up to my head and start readjusting some bobby pins that have come loose.

With my mouth full of pins I look up to see the Count and feel a shudder of jealousy that Eva's managed to bag a guy who looks this good after a night on the sauce. How does he do it? It's like he's been run through a wash cycle. His skin glows, his teeth glow, even his goddamn eyeballs are bright white. He beams at Eva, nods at me.

"I'm afraid the Marquis is rather tied up at the moment," he says, and I feel disheartened. The last thing I need is to play gooseberry to a burgeoning romance. I keep my face down to hide my disappointment, as I stick the pins into my head irritably.

"Cheer up Kate," says the Count. "He'll join us as soon as he can."

We leave Demel's, and I end up trailing after them. What choice do I have? After all, I figure a night on my own in the hotel raiding the chocolate covered nuts in the mini bar would be ten times as depressing.

As we walk towards the Hofburg, I'm accosted by a young man in a white Mozart wig, pink frock coat and pantaloons. The period look is at odds with the yellow-lensed sunglasses he's got stuck on his face. I hustle past him, only to be accosted by a bored looking woman in similar garb who tries to persuade me I need to buy tickets for a Strauss concert performed in period costume. As I brush her off I watch the Count take Eva's hand as they pass through the doorway, topped by a wrought iron gate, like a scrap of lace suspended above them. The early evening sky, above the green and gold dome of the Hofburg is a translucent grey blue, streaked with pink clouds.

They pass though the gate and I follow, a few steps behind. The domed interior is filled by the swell of a cello, each note amplified by the high airy chamber, tearing into me and almost making me weep, as I remember Ben. Ben's smile, which could light up a room. The reassuring pressure of his hands, warm on my back as I woke up every morning, the way he ... Stop it, I tell myself. Just pretend Ben's dead.

But I can't shake my sombre mood, even after we arrive at the Heldenplatz. Sitting on a bench beside the immaculate lawn, surrounded by imposing buildings, the edges of the clouds burn hot pink, and once the sun has set the sky turns a deep shade of watermelon.

Everything seems to mock me. Eva and the Count, hand in hand, sitting two feet away from me on the bench. Every so often bells chime from the various church spires I can see in the distance, ghostly white illuminations spearing the night sky. Around me the Fiakers carry tourists to and fro, their wheels clanking on the cobbles.

In the distance I hear that violins have replaced the cellist, and are playing
'Eine kleine Nachtmusik'
, and as their performance is drowned out in a storm of clapping I close my eyes, wishing to God I'd never agreed to come to Vienna with Eva.

Now one of the Fiakers is approaching. The clatter of hooves grow deafening, until finally it stops before us. Reclining in the back seat, smoking a cigar and wearing a bowler hat over one eye, is the Marquis. He jumps up and takes off the hat, throwing it back to the driver.

"There you are," he shouts down at us. "I've been looking all over for you. Let's get a move on."

The Count clambers up, pulling Eva behind him. The horses jerk forward and they are thrown against a seat, Eva sprawled on top of the Count, laughing hysterically. As they are untangling their limbs, the Marquis pulls me up, shifting over as I climb in beside him. The leather seat is still warm from his body.

The moment our thighs touch I'm tingling with expectation, my black mood dissolving into the darkness. Enveloped in the scent of fresh horse droppings we make our way through the narrow twisting streets, which are almost empty of people. The buildings, now starkly illuminated with spotlights, look more like iced cake than ever.

Making time with the rhythmic clank of hooves on cobbles, my bare arm slithers against the silk underside of the Marquis's jacket. He has drawn his arm around me, clamping me in an embrace. I could push him off, but I hardly think he'd take too kindly to that, so I sit pressed close, breathing in the acrid sweet smell of him, cigars mixed with some kind of spice, cloves maybe, or cinnamon.

A warm breeze rushes up under my dress, and although I try to hold down the hem, it still manages to flutter up around my thighs. The Marquis is staring at my legs as if they're the most beautiful things he's ever seen. It's only once the Fiaker grinds to a hault that I realize how much I was enjoying the ride, and how sad I am that it's over. As the Marquis helps me down, I look about me and am surprised to find myself in familiar territory.

Abruptly, he drops my hand and marches ahead purposefully. We follow him down the Kohlmarkt, where crowds of tourists are taking in the night air, to a snooty looking place in Tuchlauben called Fabio's. Vienna's elite sit poker straight on high backed chairs, sipping at wine glasses as big as goldfish bowls.

We sit down, the guys facing the street, and us across from them, and have just ordered, when a ripple of disapproval goes through the Donna Karan dresses and Armani suits. Behind me there's a swell of Hindi voices. I turn around to see the two actors and the crew, grouped around Ravi, who is wiping his forehead with his hanky. All are talking at once. There's a sense of anguish in the air.

"Maybe I should step in," the Count says, just as a burly member of the crew pushes Ravi hard, so he stumbles to the ground. "Looks like someone's picking on the little guy."

"Actually, I sort of know him. I'll go and see what's going on." I say, putting down my napkin and going up to the group. Every eye in the restaurant follows me.

"Hi Ravi. Having a spot of bother?" To my annoyance I notice that the Count and the Marquis are right behind me.

Ravi gets uncertainly to his feet and brushes dust from his knees. "Ah Kate, good to see you. This, this ass," he says, jabbing the burly guy on the shoulder, "says we go back to Bombay, forget about Austria. He say, Austria a bad country. I say, we stay. One bad orange in the barrel not make all oranges bad, no?"

"What exactly seems to be the problem?" says the Count.

"I can handle this," I hiss. I really don't appreciate him poking his nose in.

"Yesterday, after I met you and your beautiful friend," Ravi says, looking over at Eva and giving her a little wave, "some, how you say, men with shaved heads, big boots ..."

"Skinheads?" says the Marquis.

"Yes sir, some skinheads started to shout at us, making such a noise, we had to stop filming. We thought we were rid of them. Then this morning we find our van with our equipment has been broken. We find some graffiti on it. It says, 'Ausländer Raus.'"

"Foreigners get out," translates the Count.

"They destroyed also one of our film reels. Lucky they did not touch our music tapes, so we could keep filming. But we are stuck. We brought our own equipment with us. To go back to Bombay without this film would bring great shame upon us."