The English Girl (17 page)

She takes out her bottle of Mitsouko, dabs perfume onto her wrists. The luscious peach scent wraps around us, but can’t quite conceal the sulphurous smell in the room.

‘It’s true, every word I’m telling you, Stella. Why would so many clever people believe it, if it wasn’t?’ she says.

I feel a rush of nausea. I don’t know how to respond.

‘But – I mean, there are Jewish teachers at the Academy. Like Dr Zaslavsky, my tutor. You must have Jewish teachers too,’ I tell her feebly.

Anneliese shrugs.

‘Well, sometimes we have to work with them. It’s unfortunate, but there it is. But we don’t have to
go out
with them, Stella. We don’t have to
fuck
them,’ she says.

It’s as though she’s slapped me.

‘I love Harri. He’s a good man.’

The anger is in my voice now.

This startles her. She turns to face me again.

‘There’s no need to get worked up, Stella. I know you don’t want to hear this. But I’m only saying what everyone thinks,’ she says.

‘No, they don’t. Of course they don’t.’

She shakes her head slightly.

‘Maybe people don’t always say it, but they think it. This is all for your own good, Stella. I’m just being
honest
,’ she says.

When we leave, I give the attendant all the loose change in my purse, as though I am atoning for something.

Anneliese goes straight to the door, without saying goodbye to Harri. I watch her as she goes – her proud step, her dancer’s posture. But she doesn’t look so lovely to me any more.

I make my way back to Harri, sit down heavily. I’m so ashamed – that I let this happen, that this has happened because of me.

‘She had to leave,’ I tell him. ‘I’m so sorry that she was so rude. I didn’t know about … I mean, I had no idea…’

He puts his hand briefly on mine.

‘It happens. Don’t worry about it. There are quite a few people like your friend in Vienna, unfortunately,’ he tells me.

He’s trying to comfort me. But I can see the anger in him – how the veins stick out like wires in the backs of his hands.

‘She isn’t my friend any more,’ I say. The knot of tears in my throat makes it hard to swallow. ‘I didn’t realise…’

My voice trails off.

I think of yesterday with Lukas in the Volksgarten.
The birds don’t know who to
be frightened of.

I wish I’d never introduced them. I wish today had never happened at all.

It’s Marthe’s birthday and there’s going to be a party.

When I go to the kitchen in search of hot chocolate, Janika tells me what is planned. There will be champagne, pastries from Demel’s, dancing in the Rose Room. And everyone will wear fancy dress.

‘Here in Vienna, they love a fancy dress party. You’ll find they’re all very conscientious about it,’ she says.

In England, fancy dress was for children. I was once dressed as a Japanese lady for a float at Brockenhurst carnival; I had a silk kimono, and a peony in my hair. I still remember the thrill of it – becoming a different person. But I was only six then. In Vienna, it seems that fancy dress is a serious, grown-up thing.

Rainer comes into the Rose Room when I’m practising. I’m playing the Chopin A minor Mazurka; it’s a wild, strange piece of music, with a bleak sadness to it. Rainer gestures for me to continue, and leans on the piano, smoking, till I reach the end of the piece.

‘That was wonderful, Stella.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Those lessons are going well now, I imagine?’

I’m not sure how to reply.

‘My tutor’s still very demanding – he hardly ever says anything nice. But I do think my technique is getting better,’ I say.

Rainer gives me a thoughtful look.

‘Not just your technique, Stella. I can tell that your playing is maturing. The mazurka was most expressive. You play with real feeling,’ he says.

His praise delights me.

‘So – you’ll have heard about our party?’ he asks me.

‘Yes. I’m so excited.’

‘I’m glad. It should be a good evening. I was wondering – would you like to bring someone?’ His face softening. ‘Perhaps your friend Fräulein Hartmann?’

I feel a surge of nausea, remembering the last time I saw Anneliese. No, I don’t want to bring her. In fact, I never want to see her again.

But at once I wonder – could I invite Harri? This could be the perfect time to introduce him to them. I think of spending the whole evening dancing with him; of his hand pressing warm on my shoulder blade, to lead me into the waltz.

‘Oh. Maybe. Thank you.’

Harri takes me to the American Bar in Kärntner Durchgang.

The bar is tiny, dim, intimate, all onyx and black marble, with mirrors everywhere, everything reflected, so the room seems to extend for ever, like something seen in a dream. We order gin martinis.

I ask about the party, but Harri says he can’t come – he’s arranged to meet up with some friends from the Vienna Psychoanalytic Society.

‘I’m so sorry, Stella.’

‘So am I. It won’t be the same without you,’ I say.

I feel a tug of disappointment. Yet mixed in with it, perhaps a thread of relief. After what happened with Anneliese, I’m wary.

‘I’m sure it’ll be a good evening,’ he says. ‘People here love a party. They love dancing as they love life. Well, maybe
more
than life … There’s an extraordinary story about the Prussian War…’

I sip my cocktail. It’s rather sour, and fragrant with gin, and makes me feel very grown-up.

‘First, you’d better remind me who was fighting who,’ I say.

‘It was the middle of the last century. The Viennese were fighting the Prussians. The Prussians were advancing, but it was the season for balls. And the Viennese just went on dancing. Even though the advancing Prussians were only two hours’ march away…’

‘Oh my goodness.’

I remember something he told me:
People can know things and not know them – both at the same time.

‘Well, I hope you have a good time at your party,’ he says. ‘But not
too
good a time.’ A slight rueful smile. ‘Just don’t go falling in love with some other bastard, all right?’

He says it lightly. But then he reaches out and cups the side of my face with his hand; his touch feels serious. I feel the thrill in my stomach.

Now he’s the one who’s jealous, and I rather like this.

Marthe takes me to Vogel’s to hire our fancy dress outfits. It’s a shadowy shop on Spiegelgasse, with many racks of costumes – lavish gowns for women, trimmed with feathers and gems; and for men, there are uniforms of the old Imperial guard, from the time of Vienna’s greatness, all braid and glamour.

Herr Vogel greets us. He smells of some syrupy-sweet cologne, and his pale eyes linger on me.

Lukas is full of yearning.

‘Why can’t I dress up, Mama? Why can’t I come to the party?’

‘You can when you’re older,’ says Marthe.

He walks along a row of costumes, and stops at a soldier’s uniform.

‘Papa was a soldier, in the Great War,’ he tells me. ‘Wasn’t he, Mama? He fought all our enemies, and he had a very big rifle,’ he says.

It’s strange to think about the Great War – when Austria was Britain’s enemy. With a slight lurch of the stomach, I think of all the brave British soldiers who died. Of the war memorial in Brockenhurst, with all the New Forest names. I try to imagine Rainer in the Great War, fighting on the opposite side – this charming man who sings
Winterreise
so beautifully. It’s so hard to make sense of.

But I push the thought away from me. All those things are over and done with now: we live in modern times. The old enmities are past now.

‘So, Stella, what takes your fancy?’ asks Marthe.

But I’m dazzled, I can’t choose.

Marthe pulls out a flowergirl costume, holds it up to my face. The bodice is a soft dusty-pink, and it has a full floaty skirt, made of patchwork scraps of rich fabric. The costume comes with a basket of long-stemmed magenta silk flowers that look so real you feel you could smell them. The outfit makes me think of the gypsy at the Westbahnhof – how she looked at me in that startled way, and I never asked what she saw.

I try on the costume in the changing room. As I move, the full skirt makes a soft shushing sound like a sigh.

When I step out into the shop, Herr Vogel’s eyes are on me.

‘So beautiful, fräulein. If I may…’

He rearranges the bodice. I can feel his hot breath on my skin.

I look at myself in the long mirror. I love the outfit.

But when I turn to Marthe, I’m aware of a shadow crossing her face. Perhaps the costume doesn’t suit me as well as I thought.

‘Goodness, you look lovely.’ She clears her throat. ‘You look just like your mother in that. She was a beautiful woman – Helena. Well, I’m sure she still is…’

But there’s a reserve in her, when she says this, and red blotches come in her face. The thought slips into my mind that maybe Marthe didn’t
like
my mother very much. But if she didn’t, why would she be so generous to me?

‘So is that the right one for you, Stella?’

‘Yes, I love it.’

For herself, Marthe chooses a Roman costume.

‘All these drapes are very forgiving, when you’re as stout as me,’ she says.

She comes out of the changing room, gives herself a disparaging look in the mirror.

‘You look really lovely,’ I tell her.

And she does – shapely, in a way she never looks in her cable-stitch jumpers and loden skirts: an imposing Roman matron.

Back at the flat, I hear her in the bathroom: the water splashing into the basin; how she pulls out the plug, then refills the basin again and again. As though she’s trying to wash the world from her hands.

We work on Liszt in my lesson – ‘Les Jeux d’Eau à la Villa D’Este’.
The Fountains at the Villa D’Este
. The music transports me: I imagine the dreaming gardens of the villa, the warm wind that plays with the fountains, a sudden startle of birds. Everything dancing and sparkling in the Mediterranean sunshine. I’ve never been to Italy, but I can picture it as I play.

I’m pleased with my performance. I hardly make any mistakes, and I relish the ripple and flow of the music. But afterwards, Dr Zaslavsky sits quietly for a moment.

‘Technically, this is progressing. But the phrasing is rather self-indulgent, Fräulein Whittaker,’ he says.

I find myself wishing that he was more open to my style of playing. I love romantic, emotional playing – the kind of interpretation that wears its heart on its sleeve. I love to play with a lot of rubato, where you pull the rhythm around to be as expressive as possible. But to him, restraint is everything.

I should be accustomed to his criticisms by now. I should have learned to steel myself. But when he points out my flaws, it hurts as much as ever it did.

Afterwards, I see Anneliese sitting on the steps in Beethovenplatz. She’s wearing new shoes: they have T-straps, and delicate cut-outs, and a very high heel, showing off her dancer’s legs. But to me she’s not so pretty now. It’s such a strange thing – as though her appearance has actually changed in some way.

I hesitate. I don’t know what to say to her. Part of me misses our friendship, all our hushed, intimate conversations; and part of me is furious, wishing never to see her again.

She turns as I approach. She’s been waiting for me. We say hello, tentatively. Neither of us smiles.

‘I can’t stop, I’m afraid,’ I tell her. ‘I can’t have coffee today.’

Her mouth is tight.

‘Well, I’m in a bit of a rush myself, as it happens,’ she says.

She opens her bag, and I’m worried she’s going to take out the book she told me about, the one about the Jewish–Bolshevik conspiracy: that she’ll try to lend it to me. But instead she takes out her compact and flicks it open and studies her face in the mirror. I wonder if it’s so she doesn’t have to look at me.

I was too abrupt with her. However angry I am, I don’t want to feel I’ve been rude.

‘The thing is – we’re having a party,’ I tell her. ‘A party for Marthe’s birthday. On Saturday. A fancy dress party.’

There’s a slight gleam of interest in her face. She snaps her compact shut and puts it away.

‘So what are you going as? No, let me guess. A shepherdess? A milkmaid?’

‘A flowergirl,’ I tell her.

‘That sounds perfect. I’m sure you’ll look frightfully sweet. You do innocence so perfectly…’

I’m aware of the thought that’s lurking under her words. That I’m
too
innocent,
ignorant
even – because I don’t see the world the same way as her.

‘I have to buy Marthe a present,’ I say.

‘Well, then. You’d better go and buy your present, Stella,’ she says.

‘I like your new shoes,’ I tell her.

She looks down at them – surprised, as though she only just remembered them.

‘Oh. Thanks, Stella … Sometime you’ll have to tell me how the party goes.’

I nod vaguely. Though I don’t intend to.

‘I like a good party,’ she tells me. There’s a touch of yearning in her voice. ‘Once I went to a party in this gorgeous flat on Wipplingerstrasse. I had a rather good outfit – a gown of black ciré satin, with a lovely close fit, and an ostrich feather boa.’ Her mouth puckers, as though she is hunting a lost taste. ‘And there were all these little orange trees, and they’d scooped out the fruit and filled them with fondant. It was heaven,’ she says.

‘It does sound nice,’ I tell her.

Most of the leaves have gone from the plane trees now, but a few dry leaves still fall, sad remnants of autumn’s glamour. In front of the violin shop on the far side of Beethovenplatz, a woman is sweeping the leaves from the pavement. In the silence that stretches out between us, you can hear the long, slow strokes of her broom.

Anneliese puts out her hand and touches my arm – the lightest touch, as though there’s a stain on me that might come off on her skin.

‘Stella.’ She’s speaking almost under her breath. ‘Everyone thinks it,’ she says.

She leaves without saying goodbye. I hear the percussive
click click
of the high heels on her new shoes, as she walks away from me.