A German Requiem

Willy turned on his heel and looked blankly at the studio manager. Otto sighed exasperatedly. 'Don't you ever write anything in your diary, Willy? We've got that Englishman coming from London Films. Mr Lyndon-Haynes? Remember?'

Willy grunted something and then closed the door behind us. He led the way along the corridor to another office, and ushered me inside.

'Now, what is this girl's name?' he said, pointing me to a chair.

'Lotte Hartmann.'

'I don't suppose you know the name of the production company?'

'No, but I know that she came here within the last couple of weeks.'

He sat down and opened one of the desk drawers. 'Well, there were only three films casting here this past month, so it shouldn't be too difficult.' His short fingers picked out three files which he laid on the blotter and started to sort through their contents. 'Is she in trouble?'

'No. It's just that she may know someone who can help the police with an inquiry we are making.' This was true at least.

'Well if she's been up for a part this last month or so, she'll be in one of these files. We may be short of attractive ruins in Vienna, but one thing we've got plenty of is actresses. Half of them are chocoladies, mind you. Even at the best of times an actress is just a chocolady by another name.' He came to the end of one pile of papers and started on another.

'I can't say I miss your lack of ruins,' I remarked. 'I'm from Berlin myself.

We've got ruins on an epic scale.'

'Don't I know it. But this Englishman I have to see wants lots of ruins here in Vienna. Just like Berlin. Just like Rosellini.' He sighed disconsolately. 'I ask you: what is there apart from the Ring and the Opera district?'

I shook my head sympathetically.

'What does he expect? The war's been over for three years. Does he imagine that we delayed rebuilding just in case an English film crew turned up? Perhaps these things take longer in England than in Austria. It wouldn't surprise me, considering the amount of red-tape the British generate. Never known such a bureaucratic lot. Christ knows what I'm going to tell this fellow. By the time they start filming they'll be lucky to find a broken window.'

He skimmed a sheet of paper across the desk. Pinned to its top left-hand corner was a passport-sized photograph. 'Lotte Hartmann,' he announced.

I glanced at the name and the photograph. 'It looks like it.' 'Actually I remember her,' he said. 'She wasn't quite what we were looking for on that occasion, but I said I could probably find her something in this English production. Good-looking, I'll say that much for her. But to be frank with you, Herr Gunther, she isn't much of an actress. A couple of walk-on parts at the Burgtheater during the war and that's about it. Still, the English are making a film about the black market and so they want lots of chocoladies. In view of Lotte Hartmann's particular experience I thought she could be one of them.'

'Oh? What experience is that?'

'She used to be a greeter at the Casanova Club. And now she's a croupier at the Casino Oriental. At least that's what she told me. For all I know she could be one of the exotic dancers they have there. Anyway, if you're looking for her, that's the address she gave.'

'Mind if I borrow this sheet?'

'Be my guest.'

'One more thing: if for any reason FrSulein Hartmann gets in contact with you I'd be grateful if you would keep this under your hat.'

'Like it was a new toupee.'

I stood up to leave. 'Thanks,' I said, 'you've been very helpful. Oh, and good luck with your ruins.'

He grinned wryly. 'Yes, well, if you see any weak walls, give them a shove, there's a good fellow.'

I was at the Oriental that evening, just in time for the first show at 8.15. The girl dancing naked on the pagoda-like dance floor, to the accompaniment of a six-piece orchestra, had eyes that were as cold and hard as the blackest piece of Pichler's porphyry. Contempt was written into her face as indelibly as the birds tattooed on her small, girlish breasts. A couple of times she had to stifle a yawn, and once she grimaced at the gorilla who was detailed to watch over her in case anyone wanted to show the girl his appreciation. When after forty-five minutes she came to the end of her act, her curtsy was a mockery of those of us who had watched it.

I waved to a waiter and transferred my attention to the club itself. 'The wonderful Egyptian Night Cabaret' was how the Oriental described itself on the book of matches I had collected from the brass ashtray, and it was certainly greasy enough to have passed for something Middle Eastern, at least in the clichTd eye of some set-designer from Sievering Studios. A long, curving stairway led down into the Moorish-style interior with its gilt pillars, cupola'd ceiling and many Persian tapestries on the mock-mosaic walls. The dank, basement smell, cheap Turkish tobacco-smoke and number of prostitutes only added to the authentic Oriental atmosphere. I half expected to see the thief of Baghdad sit down at the wooden marquetry table I had taken. Instead I got a Viennese garter-handler. 'You looking for a nice girl?' he asked.

'If I were I wouldn't have come here.'

The pimp read this the wrong way up, and pointed out a big redhead who was seated at the anachronistic American bar. 'I can get you nice and cosy with that one there.'

'No thanks. I can smell her pants from here.'

'Listen, pifke, that little chocolady is so clean you could eat your supper off her crotch.'

'I'm not that hungry.'

'Perhaps something else, then. If it's drip you're worried about, I know where I can find some nice fresh snow, with no footprints. Know what I mean?' He leaned forwards across the table. 'A girl who hasn't even finished school yet. How does a splash like that sound to you?'

'Disappear, swing, before I shut your flap.'

He leaned back suddenly. 'Slow your blood down, pifke,' he sneered. 'I was only trying to ' He yelped with pain as he found himself drawn to his feet by one sideburn held between Belinsky's forefinger and thumb.

'You heard my friend,' he said with quiet menace, and pushing the man away he sat down opposite me. 'God, I hate pimps,' he muttered, shaking his head.

'I'd never have guessed,' I said, and waved again at the waiter, who seeing the pimp's manner of departure approached the table with more obsequiousness than an Egyptian houseboy. 'What'll you have?' I asked the American.

'A beer,' he said.

'Two Gossers,' I told the waiter.

'Immediately, gentlemen,' he said, and scuttled away.

'Well that's certainly made him more attentive,' I observed.

'Yeah, well, you don't come to the Casino Oriental for ritzy service. You come to lose money on the tables or in a bed.'

'What about the floor-show? You forgot the show.'

'The hell I did.' He laughed obscenely and proceeded to explain that he usually tried to catch the show at the Oriental at least once a week.

When I told him about the girl with the tattoos on her breasts he shook his head with worldly indifference, and for a while I was obliged to listen to him tell me about the strippers and exotic dancers he'd seen in the Far East, where a girl with a tattoo was considered nothing to write home about. This kind of conversation was of little interest to me, and when after several minutes Belinsky ran out of unholy anecdote, I was glad to be able to change the subject.

'I found K/nig's girlfriend, FrSulein Hartmann,' I announced.

'Yes? Where?'

'In the next room. Dealing cards.'

'The croupier? The blonde piece with the tan and the icicle up her ass?'

I nodded.

'I tried to buy her a drink,' he said, 'only I might as well have been selling brushes. If you're going to ingratiate yourself with that one you've got your work cut out, kraut. She's so cold her perfume makes your nostrils ache. Perhaps if you were to kidnap her you might stand some chance.'