Waiting for Sunrise (8 page)

He wandered on. Now all the painters were Dutch – Rembrandt, Franz Hals, Hobbema, Memling. And what was this?
Attack by Robbers
by Philip Wouverman. Dark and powerful, the swarthy brigands armed with silver cutlasses and spiky halberds. ‘Do you know Wouverman’s work? Very striking.’ Where were the Germans? Ah, here we are – Cranach, D’Pfenning, Albrecht Dürer . . . But names were beginning to jumble and distort in his head and he felt a sudden tiredness hit him. Too much art – museum-fatigue. Time for a cigarette and a Kapuziner. He had enough names in his head to sustain any fleeting social chit-chat – it wasn’t as if he was going to be interviewed for a job as a curator, for heaven’s sake.

He found a coffee stall on the Ring and leaned on its counter, smoking a Virginia and sipping his coffee. It really was a splendid boulevard, he thought – nothing remotely like it in London, the Mall was the only contender, but feeble in comparison – the great circular sweep of the roadways girdling the old town, the careful positioning of the huge buildings and palaces, their parks and gardens. Very beautiful. He looked at his wristwatch – he still had an hour or so to kill before he could reasonably make an entrance at the gallery. He wondered what Udo Hoff would be like. Bound to be very pretentious, he imagined, exactly the sort of man who could lure and impress a Hettie Bull.

He sauntered along the Ring towards the steepling tower of the Rathaus. He could hear, as he approached, an amplified voice shouting and he saw, as he drew near, a crowd of some hundreds gathered in the small park in front of the town hall. A wooden stage had been erected, some six feet high, and on it a man was giving a hectoring speech through a megaphone.

Automobiles and motor diligences whizzed by as the day began to lose its heat. The evening rush homeward had begun. Tourists in horse-drawn carriages clip-clopped along the pavement edge like vestiges of another age. Bicycles everywhere, swerving through the traffic. Lysander crossed the boulevard over to the Rathaus, watching the oncoming vehicles carefully, and joined the murmuring crowd.

They were all working men, it seemed, and they had come to this meeting symbolically wearing their work clothes. Carpenters in dungarees with hammers hooked to their belts, masons in leather aprons, motor engineers in their bib-and-brace overalls, chauffeurs in gauntlets and double-breasted overcoats, foresters with long two-handled saws. There was even a group of several dozen miners, black with coal dust, their teeth yellow in their smirched faces, the whites of their eyes stark and disturbing.

Lysander moved closer to them, curious, strangely fascinated by their black faces and hands. He realized this was the first time he had seen real miners close to, as opposed to images of them in magazines and books. They were paying concentrated attention to the speaker, who was barking on about jobs and wages, about immigrant Slav labour that was undercutting the rightful earnings of the Austrian working man. Cheers and clapping broke out as the speech became more incendiary. A man bumped into him and apologized, politely, not to say effusively.

Lysander turned. ‘It’s quite all right,’ he said.

He was a young man, in his early twenties, with a grey felt hat, minus its band, and his long dark hair hung over his collar – his beard was patchy and unbarbered. Oddly, because the weather was fine, he was wearing a short, yellow rubberized cycling-coat. Lysander saw that he was shirtless under the cycling-coat – a vagrant, a madman – the sour smell of poverty came off him.

Loud cheers rose from the crowd at some sally from the speaker.

‘They just don’t understand,’ Cycling-coat said fiercely to Lysander. ‘Empty words, hot air.’

‘Politicians,’ Lysander said, rolling his eyes in ostensible sympathy. ‘All the same. Words are cheap.’ He was beginning to be aware of glances coming his way. Who is this smart young man in his polka-dot tie talking to the madman? Time to leave. He walked away around the group of miners – black troglodytes come up from the underworld to see the modern city. Suddenly Lysander felt the idea for a poem grow in him.

The Bosendorfer-Renz gallery was in a street off Graben. Lysander hovered some distance away at first, watching to see that guests were actually going in – he needed the security of other bodies. He approached the door, invitation in hand, but no one seemed to be checking on the identity of invitees so he slipped it back in his pocket and followed an elderly couple into what seemed more like an antique shop than an art gallery. In the small window were a couple of ornately carved chairs and a Dutch still life on an easel (apples, grapes and peaches with the inevitable carefully perched fly). At the rear of this first room was a corridor – bright lights beckoned and a rising hum of conversation. Lysander took a deep breath and headed on in.

It was a large high-ceilinged room, like a converted storage area, lit by three electric chandeliers. Long sections of wooden partitions mounted on small wheels broke up the space. It was busy, forty to fifty people had already arrived, Lysander was glad to see – he could lose himself. Hoff’s canvases were hung from a high picture rail; here and there small sculptures and maquettes stood on thin chest-high plinths. He decided to do a quick tour of the paintings, say hello to Miss Bull, congratulate Hoff and disappear into the night, duty done.

Hoff’s work, at first glance, appeared conventional and unexceptional – landscapes, townscapes, one or two portraits. But on closer inspection Lysander registered the strange and subtle light effects. A view of a meadow with a wood beyond seemed bathed in the glow of powerful arc-lights, the shadows cast densely black, razor-edged, turning the banal panorama into something sinister and apocalyptic, making you wonder what blazing light in the sky caused this baleful iridescence. A Saharan sun shining on a northern European valley. There was another sunset which was so lurid that it seemed the sky itself was diseased, rotting. In a townscape –
Village in the Snow
– Lysander suddenly noticed that two houses had no doors or windows and the village church had a round ‘O’ on its steeple, not a cross. What secrets were harboured here in this humble village?

As he went round the room spotting these potent anomalies, Lysander found that he was growing impressed with Hoff’s subtly oblique and disturbing vision. The largest painting was a full-length portrait of a heavily made-up woman in an embroidered kaftan sitting in a chair –
Portrait of Fräulein Gustl Cantor-De Castro
– but a second glance revealed that the kaftan was unbuttoned in her lap to reveal her pubis. The arrowhead of dark hair had seemed part of the decorative frieze-motif on the richly embroidered kaftan. When he saw this, Lysander felt a genuine frisson of shock as he realized what he was looking at. The flat stare of the hard-faced woman appeared to be directed exclusively at him, making him seem either complicit in the exposure of her sex – she had undone these buttons just for him – or else he was a voyeur, caught in the act.

He turned away and saw a waiter circulating with a tray of wine glasses. Lysander helped himself to one – it was a Riesling, a little too warm – and moved away to a corner to survey the crowd, most of whom seemed more interested in talking to each other than looking at Udo Hoff’s new paintings. He wondered who was Hoff. You could spot the artists – one with a shaven head, one with no tie, one bearded fellow in a paint-spattered smock as if he’d just come from his studio. Absurd to demarcate yourself so obviously, Lysander thought – no class. He could see no sign of Miss Hettie Bull, however.

He set down his empty glass on a table and wandered off to glance at what was hanging on the mobile partitions. He jerked to a halt, almost comically, at what he saw next. Turning a corner to investigate what was on the reverse side of a partition filled with small, framed drawings of jugs and bottles he found himself in front of the cartoon, the original design, of a theatre poster. There it was – a near-naked woman cupping her breasts as some blunt-faced rearing dragon-monster, like a scaly eel, threatened her – one orange eye glowing and a snake’s forked tongue extended in the direction of her loins. Written on it was ‘
ANDROMEDA UND PERSEUS eine Oper in vier Akten von GOTTLIEB TOLLER
’. So Udo Hoff had designed the offending poster, the shreds and scraps of which he had seen throughout Vienna . . . One mystery solved. And Perseus not Persephone.

Lysander stepped back for a better view. It was a provocative and disturbing image, no doubt. The scaly neck and head of the monster with its solitary septic eye. Even the most innocent bourgeois could see what was meant to be symbolized here, no doubt about it. And the woman pictured, Andromeda, she seemed –

‘Did you ever see it?’ An English voice – Manchester accent.

Lysander turned. Dr Bensimon stood there in evening dress – white bow tie, tailcoat – his beard recently trimmed and neatened. They shook hands, Lysander finding it strange to see his doctor here, out of his context. Then he remembered Miss Bull was a patient, also.

Bensimon had obviously been thinking along similar lines. ‘Never thought to find you here, Mr Rief. Took me aback when I saw you.’

‘Miss Bull invited me.’

‘Ah. All is explained.’ He looked again at the poster and gestured at it. ‘The opera only had three performances in Vienna – at a
Kabarett
called “Hell” –
die Hölle
. It was the only place that would put it on. Then it was banned by the authorities.’

‘Banned? Why?’

‘Gross indecency. Mind you, I would have banned it for the music. Intolerable screeching atonality. Richard Strauss gone insane.’ He smiled. ‘I’m very old-fashioned in only one thing – music. I like a good melody.’

‘What was indecent about it?’

‘Miss Bull.’

‘She sang?’

‘No, no. She was Andromeda, sort of. Can’t you see the likeness in the portrait? You know the myth: Andromeda is chained to some rocks by the seashore as a placatory offering to a sea-monster, Cetus. Perseus comes along, kills Cetus, rescues her, they get married, etcetera, etcetera. Well, the soprano playing Andromeda – forget her name – could have passed easily for a heavyweight boxer. So Toller came up with the idea of a stand-in Andromeda for the monster-attack – our Miss Bull. There was an actually very impressive shadow-play – an Oriental puppet-effect for the monster projected somehow on the back wall – huge. Perseus was stage-front singing some interminable tenor aria – twenty minutes it seemed like – while Andromeda was being menaced. The soprano was off stage wailing and screaming. Cacophony, is the only word.’

Lysander was curious. ‘What was so indecent about Miss Bull’s Andromeda?’

‘She was entirely naked.’

‘Oh. I see. Right, yes . . .’

‘Well, she had a few yards of some semi-transparent gauze around her. Left nothing to the imagination, let’s say.’

‘Very brave of her.’

‘Not short on audacity, our Miss Bull. Anyway, you can imagine the outrage. The brouhaha. They closed the theatre, ripped down every poster they could find. Poor Toller was charged with everything – immorality, indecency, pornography. Threw the book at him.’ Bensimon shrugged. ‘So he killed himself.’

‘What?’

‘Yes. Hanged himself in the actual theatre – in “Hell”. Very dramatic statement. And sad, of course.’

They stood there for a few seconds looking at the poster in silence. There was a distinct resemblance to Hettie Bull, Lysander saw, now he looked at Andromeda’s face and not her naked body.

‘I’d better be going,’ Bensimon said. ‘I’ve an official dinner, hence the get-up. Dozens of doctors, for my sins. Have you seen Miss Bull yet?’

‘No,’ Lysander said. They looked around the crowded room. Lysander suddenly saw her – her small figure. He pointed. ‘There she is.’

‘We should say hello,’ Bensimon said, and they made their way across the room towards her.

Hettie Bull was standing with three men. As he and Bensimon crossed the room through the crowd towards her, Lysander noticed that she was wearing billowing cerise harem-style pantaloons, a short black satin jacket with diamanté buttons and a collar and tie. Her mass of hair was loosely piled up on her head and secured with many tortoiseshell combs. A small appliquéd bag hung from her shoulder on a braided cord reaching almost to her knees. When she turned to greet them Lysander heard a soft tinkling from ground level and looked down to see small silver bells sewn to the front of her shoes. Bensimon made his farewells and left. Hettie Bull turned to Lysander. Her big hazel eyes.

‘What do you think of Udo’s paintings?’ she asked.

‘I like them. Very much. No, I do.’

She was staring at him intently but her mood seemed calm and assured. Perhaps she’d taken some more of Dr Bensimon’s medicine. She looked vaguely androgynous in her little jacket with its collar and tie.

‘Then you must tell him yourself,’ she said and moved off on chiming feet to tap the elbow of a man standing a few yards away, engaged in a conversation with two women wearing wide floppy hats. Hettie brought him over.

‘Udo Hoff – Mr Lysander Rief.’

Lysander shook hands. Hoff was a very thick-set, burly man in his thirties, shorter than Lysander, with an immense breadth of chest and shoulder, a shaven head and a pointed russet beard. He seemed over-muscular, like a circus strong-man, almost bursting the stressed buttons of his shirt front, his thick neck straining at his collar.