The Melancholy Countess (Short Story) (2 page)

“Not now, Tausig,” said Hauke. “Can’t you see we’re eating?”

“I’m afraid it can’t wait.”

Hauke folded his napkin and stood up. “Excuse me,” he said to his wife. Applying moderate force to the small of the man’s back, Hauke moved Tausig across the room and into the pianist’s alcove.

“We can’t speak here,” said Tausig.

“I don’t mean to hold a very long conversation.”

“You told me that you would be in Café Central tonight.”

“Did I? I don’t recall that.”

“I want my money back, and I want it now.”

“Keep your voice down, Tausig.”

Fortunately, the pianist had come to a middle section that required a pounding fortissimo.

“I’ll be ruined,” said Tausig. “I can’t wait any longer.”

“Tomorrow,” Hauke replied.

“You said that yesterday.”

“Yes, but things are different today.”

“How are they different?”

Hauke observed Herr Rác emerging from the kitchen carrying two plates. “Ah. The second course, if I’m not mistaken. I’m afraid I really must return to my table, or my steak will be ruined.”

As he moved away, Tausig grabbed his arm. “You’re not going to get my money tomorrow, are you?” said Tausig. “Or the day after?”

“Let go of my arm, Tausig.”

“You’re a liar and cheat.”

Hauke twisted his neck to show off the dueling scar on his left cheek. “Don’t push your luck, Tausig. If someone overheard your impudent remark, I would be forced to consider my reputation. Think of your wife and children.”

Tausig’s fingers relaxed. “You won’t get away with this.”

Hauke shrugged. “My conscience is clear. Incidentally, Tausig, your hair is wet. The concierge might lend you an umbrella if you ask politely.”

Tausig scowled and walked briskly toward the exit. Hauke smoothed a crease from his sleeve and returned to his table.

His wife said nothing. She was toying with her beef goulash, lifting noodles with her fork and letting them drop off again. The pouches of maculated flesh beneath her eyes seemed to gather shadow.

Hauke picked up his knife and fork and cut into his thick, rare steak with relish. Blood seeped out onto the porcelain; however, when he placed the strip of meat into his mouth, he found it to be tough and leathery. He then sniffed the sauce—too piquant, too peppery. The intemperate use of paprika and spices was a feature of
Magyar cuisine that still disagreed with his digestion. Why couldn’t these people appreciate the simple virtues of an undressed steak?

“If you’re not very hungry,” said Hauke, “I’ll have your goulash.” He didn’t wait for his wife to give her consent. He simply reached across the table and swapped their plates. The countess didn’t protest. She examined her new meal for a few moments, and then used a spoon to scoop up some of the sauce. After testing it with the tip of her tongue, her expression showed approval, and she began to eat. The steak did not appeal to her, so she left it.

After ten minutes, during which not a single word was spoken, the countess sighed and said, “I’m tired.”

“Then go to bed,” Hauke replied without looking up.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes. I’ll go to bed if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Hauke watched her leaving the dining room. She looked unsteady, infirm, a thing made of cobwebs and dust, something that should not be held too close to a naked flame.

The goulash had been particularly good, and so was the Tokay wine. Hauke had drunk one bottle already. Even so, this did not stop him from finishing the second. He returned the plates to their original positions and ordered a third bottle of Tokay—twice as expensive as its full-bodied and velvety predecessors. He held his glass up to the light, swilled the contents, and considered his options.

Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt stepped down from his carriage and stared up at the commanding façade of the Corvinus Hotel. Instead of the customary stone caryatids, two Magyar warriors stood on either side of the entrance. Their strange headgear and armor made them look both threatening and magically exotic.

“They don’t look very friendly, sir,” said Rheinhardt’s assistant, Haussmann.

“One must suppose that this was the sculptor’s intention,” the inspector mused. “An odd decision, when one considers that a hotel’s principal function is to offer hospitality.”

On entering the lobby, they were greeted by the hotel manager, Herr Farkas. He was a slightly built individual, whose head seemed disproportionately large compared with the rest of his body. This was, in part, attributable to his dense black beard and enormous mustache, the ends of which had been trained into involute curlicues.

“This won’t be good for business,” said Farkas as they ascended a broad, red-carpeted staircase. “We’re already finding it difficult to maintain respectable profit margins. There hasn’t been as much patronage since the empress was assassinated, God rest her soul.” He crossed himself. “She used to recommend us to visiting dignitaries.”

“Really?” said Rheinhardt, showing polite interest. “I didn’t know that.”

“Guests don’t like to stay in rooms where people have died. I do hope I can count on your discretion, Inspector?”

“The security office cannot stop people from gossiping, Herr Farkas. The lady was an aristocrat. And this is Vienna.”

Farkas shook his head. “We were always fond of the countess at the Corvinus. Her bloodline can be traced back to the ninth century. She used to stay here every winter with the old count.”

When they reached the second floor, the manager led them down a hallway, the walls of which were hung with oppressive, penumbral landscape paintings. Eventually the men reached their destination, a door with a brass number seven fixed into the woodwork with screws. Farkas knocked three times, but there was no response, and it was necessary to employ a key to gain entry. “This way, gentlemen, please.”

They passed through a drawing room and a bedroom, and finally came to a halt in a spacious bathroom. The colorful tiles, decorated with Oriental sigils, were clearly intended to evoke the Ottoman Empire, and beneath two projecting faucets was a tub that appeared to be made from galvanized copper. Some silk undergarments had been dropped on the floor, next to an intricately molded stove.

The tub was filled to the brim. So much so that it must have overflowed when its occupant climbed in the previous evening. The surface of the water was still and reflective, but the submerged woman was clearly visible. She was in her late fifties, and her gray hair spread out around her face in a state of static suspension. Rheinhardt noticed that she was still wearing jewelry. “Who discovered the body?” he asked.

“Tinka,” Farkas replied. “The countess and her husband were in the habit of rising late. Tinka was bringing them their breakfast.”

“Husband, did you say?”

“Herr Hauke. The countess remarried after the death of Count Nadazdy.” Rheinhardt indicated that Farkas should continue. “Tinka found the door wide open. She called, but no one answered, so she went straight in. Herr Hauke was lying on the bed, asleep, and was still wearing his dress suit. Herr Rác, who waited on him last night, tells me that Herr Hauke drank three bottles of Tokay.” Farkas showed his disapproval with a frown that connected his eyebrows. “Naturally Tinka was curious as to the whereabouts of the countess. A trail of discarded clothes led to the bathroom. The poor girl ran down to my office immediately. She was so distraught, she could hardly get her words out.”

“Where is Herr Hauke now?”

“I don’t know. I told him that I was going to call the police and that he should probably wait here for you, but he seemed to find this suggestion …” Farkas paused for a moment before adding, “ridiculous.”

“What was she like, the countess?”

“A melancholy soul, although some would say that all Hungarians are melancholy. We don’t have your flair for frivolity.”

Haussmann glanced at his superior and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Fortunately, the hotel manager was looking elsewhere. Rheinhardt leaned over the side of the tub. There were oval patches of discoloration on the woman’s arms and shoulders.

“Tell me, Herr Farkas, would you say that the countess and her husband were happily married?”

“They hardly spoke to each other,” Farkas replied. “At least, not in public. Some of the maids heard Hauke shouting a few times. And using foul language.”

“What? He was swearing at his wife?”

“I believe so. Yes.”

Rheinhardt went into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe door. One side was full of dresses, the other, suits. A chest of drawers contained some identification papers, money, and several pairs of gold cuff links. Rheinhardt continued questioning Farkas and learned a little more of the countess’s history. The hotel manager had obviously been very fond of her first husband, “the old count,” and he also mentioned a son who had died tragically young. Farkas had a tendency to digress, for the sole purpose, it seemed, of extolling the virtues of the Hungarian aristocracy.

“Thank you for your assistance,” said Rheinhardt, perhaps a little too abruptly. “A police photographer will be arriving shortly. I would be grateful if you would escort him up here as soon as he arrives.”

“Of course, Inspector,” said Farkas. “I’ll be in my office.”

He bowed with unexpected flamboyance and left the room.

“Well, Haussmann?”

“ ‘Melancholy.’ ‘Unhappy marriage.’ It looks like she took her own life.”

Rheinhardt nodded, but the movement was contemplative rather than affirmative. He made his way back to the bathroom and scrutinized the countess. The discolored areas of skin looked liked bruises. He took out his notebook and started writing.

“Ah, you must be the policeman.” It was an attractive voice, a resonant tenor.

Rheinhardt looked up and saw a handsome man in his mid-thirties addressing Haussmann. The man’s coat was hanging from his shoulders like a mantle, and he held a walking stick with a silver handle. Rheinhardt deposited his notebook in an inside pocket and called out, “Detective Inspector Rheinhardt. Security office.” He stepped into the bedroom and gestured toward his assistant. “This is Haussmann.”

“Oktav Hauke.” It hadn’t occurred to Rheinhardt that this gentleman might be the countess’s husband. He seemed far too young. “Forgive me,” Hauke continued. “I went out for a coffee and a stroll. I needed to clear my head. Is she still …” He pointed at the bathroom.

“In the bath? Yes.”

“Have you made the necessary arrangements?”

“Arrangements?”

“For her removal?”

“She will be taken to the Pathological Institute shortly. Please accept my condolences. I am very sorry.”

Hauke looked at his nails for a moment and said, “Thank you.”

“What happened, Herr Hauke?”

“Isn’t it obvious? She drowned herself.”

“Yes. But why?”

“Because she didn’t want to go on living, I presume.”

“Indeed. But why was that?”

Hauke shrugged. “It’s difficult to say. She wasn’t very communicative.”

“You must have some idea, Herr Hauke?”

“She hasn’t been happy for a long time. I sent her to see a doctor last year. It cost a great deal of money, and the treatment didn’t do her any good at all.”

“Did the doctor say she was suffering from a mental condition?”

“He said that her spirits were low.”

“And did he warn you that she might take her own life?”

“No. But it wouldn’t have surprised me if he had.”

“How was she last night?”

“Last night …” Hauke tugged at his chin, and his eyes seemed to focus on some distant point beyond the walls of the hotel.

“Herr Hauke?”

“Last night,” Hauke repeated. He smiled, almost bashfully, and as he did so, his dueling scar became more visible. “This is terribly embarrassing, Inspector. I’m afraid I drank an awful lot of wine last night; however, if my memory serves me correctly, she was much the same as usual, which is to say that she was disinclined to make conversation. Rather flat. Sullen. We had dinner together, and she retired early.” He grimaced and added, “I think.”

“You think?”

“To be absolutely honest, Inspector, it’s all a bit indistinct. Blurry. I must have come up later and just fallen onto the bed. I was still dressed when I awoke.”

“You didn’t enter the bathroom, then?”

“No, of course not. I was very drunk, but even in my inebriated state, it is quite reasonable to suppose that the discovery of a dead wife in the bathtub would have given me good reason to review my circumstances.” He seemed pleased with this droll remark. “If you’re arranging for my wife’s body to be transported to the Pathological Institute, then there’s no need for me to consult an undertaker just yet, is there? You see, I need to be at my club by two o’clock. Is that all right?”

Professor Mathias switched on the electric light, and the autopsy table flared into existence. It seemed to be surrounded by an infinite darkness.

“Who is she?” asked Professor Mathias.

“The Countess Zigana Nadazdy-Hauke,” said Rheinhardt.

“A countess?” Mathias was obviously impressed.

“Yes. But not a very important one. I have been given to understand that her family lost much of its influence by the fourteenth century. Her first husband, however, was a minor noble with an estate located in the Transylvanian marches.”

When they reached the autopsy table, Mathias put on an apron and tied a neat bow at the base of his spine with practiced ease. “Naked, but for her necklace and rings.” Mathias stroked the countess’s wrinkled skin. “Did she drown in her own bath?”

“Very good, Professor,” said Rheinhardt. “She was found this morning by a maid at the Corvinus Hotel. Her second husband, a former cavalry officer, was asleep in the next room.”

“I’ll drain the lungs and perform the standard procedures,” said Mathias, “but you don’t need a pathologist to tell you how she died if she was found submerged in a bath.”

“The point of issue,” Rheinhardt replied, “is not so much the cause of death, but rather, the context.”

“I see,” said Mathias.

Beneath the harsh light, the countess’s body looked profoundly unattractive. She was horribly thin. Her white thighs were reticulated with purple veins, and her pubic hair was sparse and grizzled. Her breasts were flat, and the nipples so lacking in pigment that they barely showed.