The Exiles Return (27 page)

Lucas had, it is true, on one or two occasions, overstepped the strict limits she insisted on, especially on that disastrous afternoon on the Bichl Alm when he had tried to kiss her and been most decisively rebuffed. Yet from that incident, which would have seemed entirely trivial and ordinary to most girls, there sprang consequences both for Lucas and for Resi herself far beyond anything it would seem to have warranted. In Lucas it sowed the seed of a much deeper feeling than he had so far felt for Resi, turning what had been a light-hearted summer flirtation into a deeper and ever more passionate love. To Resi it had given an inkling of what love, erotic love, really was, of how one accepted, if one did accept, a kiss and how, if accepted, one returned it. Lucas, however, had resumed being nice, and if Resi’s gratitude for his presence and companionship during her first difficult weeks in Vienna earned him the recompense of several illuminating smiles, how could he not cherish the belief that he was making progress in gaining a little of her affection?

So Budd was nice and Lucas was nice, but Lorenzo Grein was not nice, and never, from the start, qualified for that description. He was alternately, and sometimes simultaneously, enchanting and infuriating, exciting but not nice. It was not just that he was good-looking. Of the various young men Resi had met in the nineteen years of her life, several of them had been good-looking. Budd was definitely an attractive American boy, her cousin Franz Lensveldt was handsome, and Hanni’s fiancé, Georg von Corvinus, had regular features and a tall elegant figure – yet Resi called them all ‘ordinary’ and at best ‘nice’. Bimbo Grein was small for a man, when she looked at him she did not have to look up; her eyes were almost on a level with his. She did not know whether she thought him handsome, she only knew that once she had seen him she could not look away. When he was in the room, no one else was there, there was only him. She herself lost the consciousness of being herself, she was lost in her awareness of him.

He was not pleasant to be with. In fact he was not really
with
her at all. On the few occasions when they were in the same company, at Kanakis’s house, or at small gatherings at someone’s flat for sausages and beer and a little dancing to a gramophone, he had not sought her out and they had very rarely danced together; even then there was something impersonal in the way he held her, and there was none of that special look in his eyes which she used to find in the eyes of other men who looked at her admiringly. Did he, then, not admire her? Was she not beautiful? She was so used to being beautiful – all men thought her so, and women too, and she only had to look in her looking glass to be sure of it herself. And then she thought of the phrase her cousin Franz had once used, almost inadvertently and in fear of giving offence, ‘Winter Sunshine,’ he had said. ‘It suits you, I hope you don’t mind.’

Bimbo, on the other hand, was always sarcastic towards her. He tried to mimic her American accent, which she had inevitably carried over into her German speech. He said she was a half-princess, because her mother was a princess, but he was sure it was lucky for her that she bore her father’s name because a princess’s name would be so awkward in America. She had the spirit to answer that she understood his sister called herself Fräulein Grein at the Institute where she worked, and Bimbo said, yes, indeed, so she did. And besides, Resi said, Americans loved titles and she had often been asked whether it was true that her mother was a princess. And do
you
love titles like a true American? Bimbo asked. Would you like to have one? You could marry one and get one that way, he added laughing. I am not proposing marriage, you know, only making a general suggestion. Poor Resi was deeply embarrassed. She coloured: I never supposed you were, she said. Well, Bimbo said, not so much to her as to a few people standing around, we must find a title for Miss Larsen, one she can wear in America like a peasant-style dress such as her compatriots love buying over here and which are so flattering. This kind of sarcastic talk was what Resi encountered whenever Bimbo spoke to her, nevertheless she always tried to be near him, it was so much better than him remaining engrossed by that dark-haired girl Hertha to whom he always paid so much attention. For when Resi did succeed in making him look at her, and even if he then spoke mockingly, there was something in his smile, a smile in his eyes, which belied his words and betrayed his admiration. It was such a novel experience for Resi not to be sought but to seek. She often tried to imagine what it would feel like if Bimbo kissed her, and how she would put her arms round his neck and cling to him if he did. And once or twice when they were dancing she felt that it was going to happen, but then there came that mocking twinkle in his eyes and when the music stopped he would bow to her in mock formality and turn away.

So the winter wore on and Resi went to her lectures, taking less and less interest in them and also becoming more and more discouraging to Lucas when he met her as she came out of the lecture room. And it was useless for him to take her to a gathering of students who discussed politics or talked shop about the legal or logical problems that had occurred in the course of their studies: she was too obviously not intellectual enough to want, or to be able, to join in the talk, and too beautiful in her American clothes not to be disturbing to the other girls. After one or two attempts in this direction Lucas realised that it was he who would have to make contact with the set in which Resi moved, the ‘bourgeoisie’ for whom he felt nothing but contempt; contempt with a touch of envy perhaps, but that was never to be admitted to.

A substantial step in this direction was achieved when Lucas received an invitation to the Ball the American High Commissioner’s wife was giving at the end of this very muted and still depressed Carnival Season. There had been signs and rumours that the Four Power occupation of Austria might be coming to an end. The Russians were near to agreeing to the signing of a State Treaty and then the bulk of the allied personnel, both military and civilian, would be withdrawn. The Austrians would be on their own – neutral of course, uncommitted to either side, though no one doubted that they were Westerners, in culture and mind.

So it seemed desirable that American young people, and British and French too, who had been spending a lot of their time in Vienna and around the country during the occupation, should be given a chance to make friends with the indigenous society in order to be invited back to the festivities which were bound to be revived when the country began to recover its spirits and its prosperity. So there should be a Ball in the splendid staterooms of the noble palace in the Inner City – still designated as the International Zone – which the American High Commission had taken over from its owners for the duration. All the young people who had attended the lectures in which Resi had so reluctantly taken part would, of course, be going to the Ball, and Lucas, who had struck up an acquaintance with one or two of them, had not found it difficult to be taken along. A young American military attaché had volunteered to take on the organisation, and had recruited Prince Grein to make himself responsible for the Austrian contingent. And what would be more fitting than that he should have as his partner that pretty American girl who was half Austrian herself, to open the Ball?

And thus it was arranged. Resi felt, when she received the invitation, that this was going to be the greatest day, or rather night, of her life. She was going to spend a whole evening with Bimbo as her partner. She must have a new dress and, she thought, it must be a white and gold one. Three years ago, on her sixteenth birthday, when she had gone with Budd to a college dance in Eden Rise, she had tried to make one for herself from a pattern in a fashion magazine. It had not been a success. The dress had been meant to look glamorous, made of a length of white and gold brocade, but it only looked cheap, and she herself, who had wanted to look stately and regal, like the princess she really was, had simply felt awkward when it wrapped itself round her legs. When they got to the party she found the other girls dancing wildly in blue jeans. Budd had been so kind and understanding, though she had felt he was embarrassed, and she soon said she felt ill, as indeed she did, and asked him to take her home. There she had cried herself to sleep.

This time it would be different. And in fact it was. The dress, an ivory silk which her dollar allowance had enabled her to buy and have made up, very simply, by the expert little dressmaker to whom her cousin Hanni had introduced her, flowed softly over her hips and her long slender legs, held over her breasts by two narrow gold ribbons on her shoulders. A gold and ivory belt clasped her slender waist. She felt
herself
inside her dress. This is how she was meant to be. Never before had she been so conscious of her body.

When she came up the wide blue-carpeted stairs flanked by bronze candelabra and entered the gold and white ballroom, she felt that this was where she belonged, a dream come true, a fairy tale in which she herself was the princess. And there, at the far end of the room, detaching himself from the group of young men awaiting their partners and coming towards her, was the fairy tale prince himself. Bimbo was wearing tails and a white tie, as were almost all the Austrian contingent. They were at home in this palace where their fathers and probably their grandfathers had danced before them, and it was
their
evening dress they were wearing, exhumed out of ancestral chests and refurbished expertly for the occasion. Not many of the Allied contingent could match them, for they were new arrivals to whom traditional evening dress did not come naturally. Those that wore uniform looked best, in spite of the drabness of the cloth; but the civilians seemed more like an incursion of tourists on a sightseeing expedition, whereas they were, of course, the actual hosts of the party and those that belonged here as of right were their guests.

Bimbo came towards Resi and took her hand. ‘You look really lovely this evening,’ he said, this time without a trace of irony. It was the first direct compliment he had paid her and there was something in his voice and in his smile that responded to her feelings towards him. It was love, love, love. They opened the Ball to the strains of the Emperor Waltz. Resi had practised the steps assiduously and there was no hesitation or discordant movement when Bimbo held her closer than ever before as they circled fast anti-clockwise round the stately room. It was a professional performance, so beautifully executed that other couples moved out of their way to watch, and there were numerous whispers. What a handsome pair, who are they? It is young Prince Grein, but who is the girl? She’s new. I’ve never see her before.

No sooner had the music stopped than there was a crowd of young men around Resi clamouring for the next dance. Before she had time to see who it was, there was an arm round her waist, a hand grasping hers, and she was launched into the swirl of dancers scarcely knowing what language her partner was talking, German or English, both equally incomprehensible through the throb of the music. Again and again other partners cut in; she scarcely looked them in the face except for a fleeting glimpse to ascertain they were not Bimbo. No, they were not. Her eyes despairingly searched the crowd for him. Where was he? Why had he deserted her? Then she saw him, dancing, laughing with the dark-haired girl she had seen him with so often. Her throat contracted in a grip of pain.

The music stopped and the musicians got up from their seats leaving their instruments on their abandoned chairs. A pair of folding doors were opened at the side of the ballroom leading into the dining room, where a buffet was set out on a long table. The young man with whom Resi had just been dancing offered to find her a chair and a drink. He found her a seat at a small table against the wall and went on his errand, pushing his way through the crowd surging towards the refreshments. ‘My name is Hans Collalbo,’ he said, ‘please excuse this informal introduction.’ But before he came back with a glass of wine in each hand – Resi longed for a long cool drink of lemonade – happiness returned to her sadly wilting spirits: Bimbo appeared with the much desired frosted tall glass. He was smiling and his voice still did not have the ironically cutting edge to it which she dreaded so much. No, he was gentle, he was actually penitent.

‘Forgive me for abandoning you, I saw you were enjoying yourself, surrounded by so many “courtiers”, the queen of the Ball. No room for your humble partner.’ A slight note of mockery surfaced once more in his voice as he went on to say, ‘I will do my duty now and get you some food. What would you like – old-fashioned or American?’ For here, too, in this stately dining room of stucco and gilt, there was an incursion, among the traditional ham and chicken, of corned beef, hot dogs and Coca-Cola.

Meanwhile, Hans Collalbo had returned, and hard on his heels, embarrassed but determined, Lucas Anreither. The two men stood looking at each other and at Resi. Uncertain of what she ought to do, she felt she had to introduce them to each other, or rather explain Lucas to Collalbo: ‘A friend of my cousin Hanni Lensveldt, he comes to Wald, I met him there last summer.’

At that moment Bimbo came back, to hear Resi’s last mumbled words. ‘Of course,’ he said, putting down the plates full of cold meat and salad on the little table – ‘Anreither – I know all about you,’ and he held out his hand to Lucas. ‘
Servus
,’ he said, using that informal familiar greeting, ‘sit down, come and join us. You, Hans, will you go and find Hertha? She must be around somewhere.’ Lucas sat down – he could hardly do otherwise – and helped himself from the tray Bimbo offered him. He didn’t know whether he felt disconcerted or flattered by the friendliness showered on him by Prince Grein. Was there, perhaps, a hint of paternalism, of condescension in all these smiles? Was he being treated as his grandfather had been treated by old Prince Altmannsdorf, whose head forester he had been?

Lucas hated himself for allowing even the shadow of such a thought to enter his mind. Such feudal subservience belonged to the distant past: young Grein, with his empty title and equally empty pocket, was not his superior. No, but he was his rival, his rival for the favours of Resi, and he only had to look at her to see the expression of her eyes, which he had so often seen staring so vacantly at him, now fixed in what seemed to him silent adoration on Bimbo. It made him feel pity for her, for he was sure Bimbo would not marry her, he would marry money, and he saw no answering devotion to Resi’s adoring glances in the laughing eyes of the young man. My turn will come, he thought, my turn will come all the more certainly when disappointment sets in.