Airs Above the Ground (6 page)

‘Ask him about the fire,’ I said. ‘It may have been a serious one if they know so much about it up here in Vienna.’

But no, this was not the case. The hall porter’s very gestures were reassuring. The only reason he knew so much himself was because he himself came from the village near Innsbruck where the Circus Wagner had its winter quarters, and not only did he know the owners and some of the performers, but he seemed to have a fair idea of their summer route through the country. The fire? Ah, that had been a terrible thing; yes, indeed, two men had been killed, a fearful affair it was, a living-wagon burned in the night, and the men with it. Who were they? Why, one of them was the horse-keeper. The hall porter, it appeared, had known him, too, a good man, good with the horses, but he drank, you understand . . . No doubt he had been drunk when the accident happened, knocked over a lamp, been careless with the bottled gas . . . these things were too easy to do in such cramped quarters,
and something of the sort had happened once before . . . The only reason they kept him on, poor old Franzl, was because he was some sort of relation of Herr Wagner himself, and then he was such a very good man with the horses . . .

‘And the other man?’

But here the hall porter’s information ran out abruptly. I didn’t need German to understand the lifted shoulders and spread hands. This, he did not know. It was no one belonging to the circus, or the village. Herr Wagner himself had not known him; he had not known, even, that there had been a second man in old Franzl’s wagon that night. There were rumours – he himself had heard them – that it had not been an accident, that Franzl had been involved in some crime, and that he and the other man had been murdered as a result; but then there were always such rumours when the police would not close a case straight away; whereas anyone who had known old Franzl would realise that such an idea was absurd, quite out of the question . . . As for the other man, he believed that he had been identified, but to tell you the truth, he had not read about this in the papers, or had forgotten it if he had . . .

He smiled deprecatingly, and shrugged his wide shoulders once again. ‘It is over, you understand,
gnädige Frau
, and the newspapers lose interest. Indeed, they would hardly have taken the trouble to report poor old Franzl’s death, if it had not been for the elephant . . . A circus is always news, and particularly if there is an elephant . . . You saw some of the stories, perhaps?
The truth of the matter was that there was only one elephant, a very old one, kept just for the parades, and she had in fact broken her rope, but had gone only a little way into the village, and had touched no one. The little girl, who was reported to be injured, had fallen down while running away in terror; the elephant had not touched her at all.’

‘Ask him,’ I said, ‘ask him if he’s ever heard of a man called Lewis March.’

‘Never,’ said the hall porter, for once mercifully brief.

I wouldn’t have ventured the question but that it was obvious that the man was so delighted to have an audience for his story that it never occured to him to wonder at our interest. A few more questions, and we had gathered all that we had wanted to know. Two days ago the circus had still been in Oberhausen, detained there by the police; its next stop was to have been Hohenwald, a village some fifty kilometres deeper into the Gleinalpe. There was a train at nine-forty next morning which would get me into Bruck before midday, and it was even possible that the local bus service might operate as far as Oberhausen, or, if necessary, Hohenwald, by the very same night. It was certainly possible to find somewhere to stay in any of these villages; there was an excellent small Gasthof in Oberhausen itself, called (inevitably, one felt) the Edelweiss, and I must, also inevitably, merely mention the hall porter’s name to Frau Weber, and I would be more than welcome . . .

‘Gosh,’ said Timothy, as we let ourselves out of the
hotel again into the brilliant noisy square, and turned towards the Kärntnerstrasse, ‘I wish I was coming with you. I’ve always wanted to get inside the works of a circus, if that’s what you call them. You’ll promise to ring me up tomorrow night, won’t you, and tell me how you got on, and what’s happened?’

‘I promise – that is, if I know where to get hold of you.’

‘There’s that,’ he agreed. ‘Well, if father and Christl won’t have me, I’ll come with you. I really don’t feel you ought to be allowed to go all that way on your own! Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to come with you and buy the tickets and find out about the buses?’

‘I’d love you to. I might even hold you to that. And now, if we’re to get to Sacher’s in time, we’d better get a move on. Can you really eat another meal? I thought you were a bit rash with that
Hühnerleberisotto
at the Deutsches Haus.’

‘Good lord, that was hours ago!’ Timothy had quite recovered his buoyancy with the meal; he charged cheerfully along the crowded pavement, examining the contents of every shop window with such interest and enthusiasm that I began to wonder if we would ever reach our rendezvous. ‘What is this Sacher’s anyway? It sounds a bit dull, a hotel. Will there be music?’

‘I’ve no idea, but it certainly won’t be dull. Everyone who comes to Vienna ought to go there at least once. I believe it’s terribly glamorous, and it’s certainly typical of Old Vienna, you know, baroque and gilt and red plush and the good old days. It was started by Madame
Sacher, ages ago, some time in the nineteenth century, and I believe it’s still fairly humming with the ghosts of archdukes and generals and all the Viennese high society at the time of the Hapsburgs. I think I even read something in a guide book about an archduke or something who went there for a bet in absolutely nothing whatever except his sword and maybe a few Orders.’

‘Bang on,’ said Timothy. ‘it sounds terrific. What would my mother say?’

Sacher’s Hotel was all that I had imagined, with its brilliantly lit scarlet and gold drawing-rooms, the Turkey carpets, the oils in their heavy frames, the mahogany and flowers and spacious last-century atmosphere of comfortable leisure. The Blue Bar, where we were to meet Graham Lacy and his lady, was a smallish intimate cave lined with blue brocade, and lit with such discretion that one almost needed a flashlight to find one’s drink. The champagne cocktails were about eight and sixpence a glass. Tim’s father produced these for the company with very much the air of one who was producing a bribe and trying not to show it. Christl, on the other hand, did her best to pretend that this was a perfectly ordinary occasion, and that she and Graham had champagne cocktails every evening. As, perhaps, they did.

Somewhat to my own surprise, I liked Christl. I don’t quite know what I had been expecting, a predatory Nordic blonde, perhaps, on the model of the one I had seen with Lewis. She was indeed a
blonde, but not in the least predatory, at least to the outward eye. She was plump and pretty, and looked as if she would be more at home in the kitchen putting together an omelette for Graham, than sitting in the Blue Bar at Sacher’s, taking him for a champagne cocktail. She wore a blue dress, which exactly matched the colour of her eyes, and there were no rings on her hands. Timothy’s father was still recognisably the man I remembered, with the years and the weight added to the florid good looks, and the extra heartiness of manner added by the embarrassment of his son’s descent on his Viennese idyll with a presumably virtuous female companion.

That it was an idyll was not long in doubt. He was in love with the girl – she was some twenty years younger than he was – and he made it plain. He also (though to do him justice he tried not to) made it plain that Timothy’s appearance in Vienna at this moment was, to say the least of it, inopportune. By the time he had shepherded us through the dining-room for supper I saw with misgiving that resentment or insecurity had brought the sullen look back to Timothy’s face.

I saw that Christl was watching him, too; and saw the exact moment at which – while Graham was busy with the menu and the head waiter – she set herself deliberately to charm him. It was beautifully done, and was not too difficult, since she was not much older than he was, was very pretty, and had in full measure that warm, easy Viennese charm, which (as Vienna’s friends and enemies both agree) ‘sings the song you
want to hear’. Before the wine was half down in our glasses, Timothy was looking entertained and flattered, and eating as if he had seen no food for a fortnight, while his father, also visibly relaxing, was able to devote himself to me.

He had already thanked me very pleasantly for accompanying Timothy across the Continent, and skated skilfully enough over the reason why he couldn’t offer his son his own hospitality that night. He asked now with civil indifference after Carmel’s health, and with equal indifference about that of my family, but it was soon obvious that he was curious to know what I was doing in Vienna, and just how Carmel had managed to involve me in her affairs, so I gathered that Timothy had said nothing to him in their brief telephone conversation.

‘Oh, I’m just on holiday,’ I said. ‘My husband was called away to Stockholm just as we were setting off for a holiday together, so I came on here myself, and he’ll be joining me soon.’

‘In Vienna?’

‘No, in Graz. We planned a motoring holiday in South Austria, and I’m going down there tomorrow myself. It was just luck that I happened to be heading this way at the same time as Timothy.’

‘Indeed,’ said Graham Lacy politely. ‘That should be delightful. Where were you planning to go?’

Since I had only that moment, so to speak, launched myself and Lewis on a motoring tour of Southern Austria, I naturally hadn’t the faintest idea. But I had had two years’ experience of the married woman’s
way out of any difficulty. I said immediately: ‘Oh, I left all that to my husband. He’s worked out a route, and to be quite honest I can’t really remember exactly where he plans to go. I just sort of relax and go along with him.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Graham Lacy, and then, to his son: ‘And what are your plans, Tim?’ Timothy, caught off guard by the direct question, swallowed, flushed, and said nothing. He had been listening to my string of lies with no betraying gleam of surprise, even perhaps, with amusement; but now, faced either with confessing that he had come to Vienna naturally expecting his father to take him in, or with himself inventing some spur-of-the-moment story, he was dumb. There was a painful pause.

I opened my mouth to say something, but Christl rushed into the pause, saying in her pretty, soft voice: ‘Well, of course, he has come to see Vienna! What else? Timmy’ – she said it charmingly,
Timmee
– ‘I wish I could show Vienna to you myself! There is so much to see, I should love to take you everywhere – all the places the tourists visit, the Hofburg, Schönbrunn, the Prater, Kahlenberg, and then all the places that the Viennese themselves go to – but I cannot, I am going out of Vienna tomorrow. I am so very disappointed, but you see I have promised; it is so many months since I have seen my parents, and they have been pressing me, and I have promised to go.’

‘But—’ began Graham Lacy.

She touched his hand, and he stopped obediently, but the look of surprise on his face was a dead give-away,
and it was not difficult to interpret the look she gave him. It was quite obvious that she intended to clear herself out of Graham’s apartment with the greatest possible speed so that he would be free – indeed, obliged – to do the right thing by his son.

‘Well . . .’ began Graham Lacy. He cleared his throat. ‘Tomorrow’s Sunday, so I’ve a free day. What do you say, old man, shall I come along about eleven or so, and collect you and your stuff? Then after you’ve settled in we could go out and do some of the sights? I don’t have a great deal of time during the week, but you’ll soon find your own way about.’

Timothy’s glance went from one to the other. I realised that he had seen as much as I had. He was a little flushed, but he said composedly enough: ‘That’s terribly nice of you, Daddy, but I won’t descend on you just yet. I’d actually planned to go south with Vanessa tomorrow.’

If Graham or Christl felt relief, they neither of them showed it. Graham said: ‘Indeed? It’s very nice of Mrs March to ask you, but if she and her husband are setting off for their tour, they’ll hardly want—’

‘We won’t be starting for a day or two,’ I said quickly, ‘I’m still not quite sure how soon Lewis will be able to join me, so I’ll have a bit of time to fill in before we set off. I’d love to have Tim with me.’

‘Don’t worry, I shan’t land myself on them,’ said Timothy cheerfully, and quite without irony. ‘In any case I’ve been planning to get down into Styria somehow and visit Piber, and see the Lipizzan stud there, so if Mrs March wants company, it’ll be killing two birds
with one stone. If you don’t mind being called a bird in public, Vanessa?’

‘Delighted,’ I said.

‘Then,’ said young Mr Lacy calmly, ‘that’s settled. I’ll ring you up, Daddy, when I’m coming back to Vienna.’ And he turned his attention to the sweet trolley, from which he presently selected a quite enormous portion of
Sachertorte
, a rich and very sweet chocolate cake topped with whipped cream.

I had the strong impression that the company settled down to drink their coffee with a distinct air of relaxation and relief all round. When we finally left the dining-room, Timothy and his father vanished in perfect amity in the direction of the cloakroom, and, when they returned, I thought I could see from their differing expressions of satisfaction that Graham had ‘come through’ quite handsomely with funds, without his son’s having to resort to the blackmail he had threatened.

‘Well,’ said Graham, as we bade each other good night, ‘I hope you enjoy yourselves. Take care of Mrs March, won’t you, Timmy? And let me know when you’re coming back to Vienna. If only you’d thought to let me know this time . . .’ He added, awkwardly, ‘I’m afraid this has been a rather odd welcome to my long-lost son.’

The cliché, would-be jocular, fell rather sadly among the shadows of Vienna’s midnight pavement.

Timothy said cheerfully: ‘I’ll remember next time. And thanks for tonight, it’s been smashing.’