Die Ausländerinnen
short story by Matthew de Lacey Davidson
The Café Central of Vienna sits at Herrengaße, 14, in the Innere Stadt district of that city.
The Ringstraße circles the whole of the Old Town of Vienna (where the old city walls used to be), and the street of Herrengaße itself has existed for many centuries, initially as part of the “Limes” (or fortified frontier) highway system of Ancient Rome. Many fabulous architectural wonders have lined its streets, including the Palais Modena (which was originally owned by the Hapsburgs), the baroque Palais Mollard-Clary, and, of course, the rococo Palais Porcia (built by the descendants of Count Gabriel von Salamanca-Ortenburg).
And by 1913, the celebrated Bösendorfer-Konzertsaal at number 8, (which, at one point, had hosted the likes of Franz Liszt in concert) had been torn down to make way for more modern (and presumably more spectacular) edifices.
This opulent café’s external Corinthian columns and statues, not to mention its conservative yet ornate fenestration, belie an inner ostentatiousness which guarantees to take away the breath of any visitor. Once inside, the vaulted ceilings give the impression of an ancient gothic cathedral, as two large paintings of Empress Elisabeth and Franz Joseph I of Austria gaze down imperiously upon the patron. Shining internal Corinthian columns support the building while magnificent seven-lamp chandeliers deliver light to the visual and alimentary delights.
The Wiener Straßenbahn (streetcar) deposits Jarmila near the corner of Strauchgaße which is very close to the café in question. She gently and adeptly alights to the cobbled pavement with her neat and unpretentious flat-soled black shoes, and spontaneously opens up her parasol to shield her from the sun. She has about her a tight-fitting dress with a high, wrinkled white collar, a repeating triangular design of two differing lighter colours, with a non-descript secessionist-designed broach in front of her throat. A few semi-precious stones and metal designs strung by a sterling silver chain ensures that she brings little to no attention to her attire. She wears no bonnet, and has a part in the middle so that her hair can be straight, then frizzled at the end, on both the right and left hand sides of her head.
As she marches briskly down the street, she sees, and is surrounded by, businesspeople, shoppers, students, and blue-collar workers — all walking purposefully behind and before her. Like many of them, she herself, is blissfully unaware of Balkan Wars taking place far away and has little interest in thinking about such unpleasantness. This is 1913, after all, and the beneficence of those who hold the political purse-strings has seen prosperity arise for a sufficient number, so that the thoughts of the many are skillfully diverted to the frilly — the gaudy — and the purely decorative.
She is here to meet an old friend whom she saw in passing, by accident, the previous day. There is an urgency to this meeting which she senses, but cannot articulate. Her breathing is becoming more intense, not because of the speed of her gait, but due to her proximity to the café. Obliviously running past an Alphonse Mucha poster in a window (displaying a face of frozen ecstasy), her breath suddenly — momentarily — ceases; she sees her friend. After physically stopping, she runs towards her. The only thing that stops her running is her embrace. She grabs a hold of her friend’s arms which, unlike her own, are covered by the softest gauntleted white gloves with red lines going up the fingers and sleeves. Jarmila intends to kiss her on the cheek, but passion overcomes her and she leans forward, both mouths touching each other sensuously. They stay connected for almost a minute, and Jarmila looks, with her closed eyes and strained cheeks, as though she hopes it will never end. As she lets go, she can feel the tendons in her friend’s arms relax. Finally, she speaks.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” replies Živka.
“I don’t know; I was just afraid…”
“Well, my dearest…fear no more…”
Jarmila takes a minute to admire the clothing of her friend. Her piercing blue eyes complement the black and white hat with plumage that appears to go up to the sky. She is wearing nothing about her neck but a set of the most beautiful south-sea pearls, and part of her ample bosom is exposed above a black décolletage, which is covered by a tasteful, yet ostentatious diaphanous dress with ornate, circular gold designs. Her shoes, with thick high heels, are also very ornate, and decorated with gold. Jarmila smirks.
“You look lovely…but don’t you think the bonnet’s a bit much?”
Živka looks down her nose, and nearly scowls. “This is very much à la mode in Paris right now.”
“Oh, come on,” Jarmila smiles, “You know I meant no harm. Now…shall we?” as she motions to enter the café. They gracefully and graciously await their turn to be seated at a table. They are fortunate; it is not so busy at this hour in the afternoon, and they can sit at a table meant for four. All around them are individuals reading newspapers, playing chess, or just drinking coffee and staring off into space. Their waiter finally approaches. He asks them both in beautifully articulated Hochdeutsch if they are ready to order.
Živka smiles with a wide, radiant, ruby-lipstick smile. She says, a little haughtily, “Ich möchte ein groß Kaffee, bitte, mein gut Herr.”
The waiter is dressed impeccably, and he responds with equal haughtiness. “Es tut mir leid, aber es heist ‘ein-en groß-en Kaffee,’ mein verehrtes gnädiges Fräulein.”
Two chocolate cake and coffee orders later, Živka angrily humphs about the encounter. “Well — ex-cuse me! I was only trying to speak his language. He didn’t need to get so snotty about it.”
Jarmila smiles quietly. “Forget about him; he’s just one person.” She points delicately across the room. “Look, over there. Isn’t that Peter Altenburg?”
“Yes. I guess so. I wonder what he’s writing.”
Jarmila waits in silence, then continues, “Actually…what I want to hear about — is you.”
Živka responds gently, “Well, nothing much to say; I still travel about, sometimes to Florence, sometimes to Zagreb to see my uncle. I try to keep up with the latest fashions.”
“Have you been to any concerts recently?”
“None of any real quality.”
“I managed to hear Mahler’s First with the Philharmonic not so long ago. I thought it was really quite spectacular. You remember when we used to hear his music?”
“Oh, that old Jew?” sneers Živka, “…you still listen to that noisy claptrap? I used to prefer Franz Lehár so much more.”
Deeply hurt, Jamila’s eyes soften. “Do you not forget, Živka, that my father was born Jewish?”
Živka bristles a little. “Well, that’s as may be, but he was more truly an Ehrenarien, don’t you think? He did convert after all, did he not?”
Jarmila is so rattled by Živka’s words that she is initially unsure how to respond. She can’t figure out which hurts more — her friend’s barely veiled anti-Semitism, or the slur on Mahler’s music. After a few moments of confusion, she chooses to change the subject.
“Are you not going to ask about me?”
Živka once again stiffens. She humphs again. “Why should I? After all, you took the path that led away from mine.”
“But I had no choice,” Jarmila protests. “You know that! I had no money. You had your inheritance no matter what. If I was to survive, then I had no choice but to marry Gerhardt. He was a boring and passionless little bureaucrat, but at least he was honourable and provided for me, and so I gave him three children in return. I had no way of earning my own living, and no income. Have you no compassion?”
Živka’s eyes are full of hurt. There is no understanding behind them.
At length, Jarmila looks down, then up. She starts speaking. “Živka, I’m going to tell you a little story that one of my children heard at school. Once there was a country…”
“A country?”
“Yes, a country…it doesn’t really matter which. Anyway, in this little country, there is total chaos. The money supply is haywire, people can’t afford to buy anything, and so the citizens start to scapegoat whomever they can to make themselves feel better.”
“Not a very nice story so far,” says Živka.
Jarmila closes her eyes. Then she continues. “No, I guess not. So, then terrible things start to happen. A dictator takes over the country and starts killing everyone with whom he disagrees or simply dislikes. But then some good things happen to the majority as a result. People can afford to buy things again. There is no more unemployment because it is made illegal, and promises of national glory are made. A war machine is created, and things keep getting better and better for most people.
“But the dictator makes some mistakes. He seems to think that he can change the world just by the power of his will. He turns down plans to make a great weapon which can kill an unprecedented number of people because he believes he can change history with his will alone. And so, he loses his silly little war, and he dies. Then the country returns to total chaos, and everyone starts to wonder what it was all about — that is, what possible meaning there might have been behind it all.”
There is silence. “Do you think that such a thing is possible?”
“No, of course not.” Jarmila then points to a little man across the room with a tiny black moustache under his bulbous nose, short-cropped black hair, with a couple of amateurish-looking canvases sitting beside him and cut-price oil paint under his dirty finger nails. “It’s about as likely as that little fellow over there ever becoming Reichskanzler in Germany.”
“It is hard to feel threatened by such an unintimidating little fellow with such obviously poor personal hygiene,” Živka posits. Then, she sits very still, expressionless. “What…Jarmila…was the point behind that story?
Jarmila is equally expressionless. “No point. No point at all. It’s just a very stupid story. A stupid story to cover up the fact that I don’t know how to tell you what I really what I wanted to say.”
For the first time during the whole meeting Živka leans forward and seems genuinely interested in Jarmila. “What? What is wrong?”
“I am terminally ill, Živka. I have about six months to live.”
“You’re sure?” Živka asks, her voice quavering.
“Absolutely, I’ve seen three specialists — they all say the same thing.”
Živka sits very still and quiet. Her voice almost a whisper, she responds, “I’ve been afraid of saying to you…”
“Saying what?”
“Saying…saying…that…my doctor has told me that I am terminally ill as well. I have been given maybe three to four months. He said I should make the most of what little life I have left, and immediately get my affairs in order.” She stops. Trembling, she takes out a cigarette, lights it, and inhales deeply. “Do you want one?” she asks.
“Of course,” Jarmila responds. They both sit there, morose — melancholy — puffing on their respective cigarettes. They look at each other. Tears start to form in their eyes. Then — all of a sudden — Živka starts coughing quietly on her cigarette. The cough turns into a whispering laugh. The laugh turns into a chuckle. The chuckle turns into a full belly laugh. Jarmila follows suit. Both women are moving back and forth in their chairs, their faces, necks, arms, and breasts shaking wildly, while they laugh uproariously.
The waiter who served Živka and Jarmila rushes over to excoriate them peevishly for making a scene — while other patrons stop reading, playing chess, and gazing off into space, to stare at the young women — all wondering why they have the audacity to be laughing so loudly — so hollowly — in so nugatory a fashion — with such an empty heart — and in a way so utterly devoid of all hope and meaning.
