From inside the restaurant, a small band consisting of a cimbalom player and two violinists began a mournful waltz. Swooping glissandi and complicated embellishments suggested a Gypsy origin. It caught Liebermann's attention.
“An old folk song,” said Trezska, “Dark Eyes. It's all about a young hussar who is rejected and throws himself into the Tisza.”
A capricious smile played around her lips.
Their conversation turned to more serious music. They discussed the Bach violin and keyboard sonatas, Marie Soldat-Roger s interpretation of the Brahms D-major concerto, a new Russian opera, and the distinctive tone of pianos made in Vienna. After which, Liebermann encouraged his companion to talk about her own musical accomplishments. Trezska had only just begun to build a reputation as a solo artist in Budapest, having spent two years studying in Rome and Paris; however, she had won several scholarships, a competition in Prague, and had even played at a private function in Berlin for her celebrated countryman, the virtuoso Joseph Joachim.
“Do you have any more concerts planned? In Vienna?”
“No, sadly not: next year, perhaps.”
“Oh,” said Liebermann. “Then, how long will you be staying?” he added hopefully.
“In Vienna? Another month or so. My old violin professor has arranged for me to take some lessons with Arnold Rose.”
Liebermann repeated the name. He was most impressed. Rose was the concertmaster of the philharmonic.
“What pieces will you be studying with Rose?”
“Beethoven's spring sonata-and Mozart's E minor.”
“I am familiar with the spring sonata, of course, but I'm not sure that I've ever heard the E minor.”
“Not a great work, by any means. But it is one for which I have a particular affection. It is the only violin sonata that Mozart wrote in a minor key.” Her black eyes flashed at Liebermann. “There! You see? It must be true what they say about Hungarian melancholy.”
The gulyas was followed by coffee and two enormous slices of dobostorte: each wedge was comprised of seven alternating layers of sponge and chocolate cream. The dobostorte — named after its creator Jozsef Dobos-had become, in just over ten years, the first world-famous Hungarian dessert. And deservedly so, thought Liebermann. The chocolate cream was dense, buttery, and exquisitely rich.
After discreetly paying the bill, Liebermann offered Trezska his arm, and they set off in the direction of the amusements. As they got closer, they were absorbed into a bustling, noisy crowd. The air was filled with the babble of several languages: German, Hungarian, Slavic, and even occasional snatches of Arabic. On either side, marquees and little huts began to appear. Fortune-tellers, sausage vendors, a troupe of acrobatic dwarves, strong men, and belly dancers were all plying their trade. The most bizarre attraction was an “electrocution extravaganza”-where a long line of venturesome young men were awaiting their turn to be galvanized.
“Where are we going?” asked Trezska.
“Venice.”
Trezska threw Liebermann a puzzled look, but the young doctor simply smiled-as if to say You'll see.
They continued walking until they came to a wide concourse that was dominated by a massive double arch. Capital letters running across the top read: VENEDIG IN WIEN- Venice in Vienna. The structure was decorated with ornate moldings, at the center of which was a bas-relief of a winged lion, the symbol of Saint Mark. Two giant planets hovered above the columns at either extremity.
“What on earth?” Trezska's pace slowed.
“A re-creation of Venice,” said Liebermann, tracing an arc in the air with his hand. “Here, in Vienna.”
“What… you've reconstructed the whole of Venice, in one of your parks?”
“Well, not exactly… but something very close to it.”
Trezska's expression communicated a mixture of amusement and surprise at this astounding demonstration of Viennese hubris.
“Extraordinary,” she whispered.
They passed beneath one of the arches and were immediately transported to northern Italy. Renaissance villas overlooked a piazza, on which ladies and gentlemen were milling around-smoking, talking, and sipping champagne-as if they were attending a society function.
“Come on!” Liebermann tugged Trezska's arm. “This way.”
They crossed the square, ascended a broad stone staircase, and came to a canal on which black lacquered gondolas were sedately moving in opposite directions.
Trezska leaned over the balustrade and burst out laughing. “Ridiculous.”
“Let's get one. There's no better way to see Venice.”
Only a short distance away, several empty gondolas were tied to colorful mooring poles. Liebermann hired the services of a gondolier and helped Trezska into the boat. Once she was seated, he said “Just one moment,” dashed over to a champagne pavilion, and returned, slightly breathless, carrying a bottle of Moet and two glasses.
The gondolier cast off and guided his vessel through a network of canals. They glided beneath bridges, past grand palazzos and theaters, past old churches, and through gardens of exotic trees. In due course, the illusion overcame Trezska's resistance. She sipped her champagne, suspended disbelief, and succumbed to the romance of the world's most magical city.
Sensitive to the demands of the situation, the gondolier sought out a small, secluded pool, overlooked by a facade whose design recalled the Doge's Palace. The door of a little cafe opened directly onto the water, and from inside came the jangling of mandolins. The gondolier moored his vessel and, catching Liebermann's eye, winked and vanished into the cafe.
Immediately, the young doctor and his companion drew closer together. They lowered their voices, and began to speak more intimately. Liebermann told Trezska about his family: his garrulous mother, his disapproving father, his two delightful sisters. He told her about the district where he had grown up, the schools he had attended, and his time at the university. He told her about the cities he had visited and about his fondness for English literature and London. And after a short hiatus, during which they both listened to the delicate, persistent thrumming of the mandolins, Trezska reciprocated. She told Liebermann about her father, who had also been a violinist- but who had died when she'd been very young. She told him about her mother, whose aristocratic family had disowned her when she had married below her station. And she told him about her life in Budapest: of Castle Hill, shrouded in autumn mists, the scent of violets in the spring, and the magnificent, ruthless winters, which froze the Danube, making it possible to walk from Pest to Buda.
The gondolier reappeared, and soon they were off again, drifting through the gently lapping waters. On the floor, the empty bottle of champagne lay on its side, rolling with the gentle movement of the boat. Liebermann leaned back, and felt Trezska's head resting on his shoulder. An easy silence ensued, one that did not require filling. Above Liebermann s head, the strip of sky between the roofs was becoming darker.
When the gondola reached the landing from which they had begun their odyssey Liebermann helped Trezska out with one hand while tipping the gondolier with the other.
“The champagne has made me feel sleepy,” said Trezska. “Shall we go for a walk?”
“If you like.”
“Away from all these people…”
“Yes, of course.”
Liebermann led Trezska out of the make-believe world of Venedig in Wien and off toward the Freudenau. They strolled down the Haupt Allee, talking with less urgency-increasingly more at ease. As they progressed, Liebermann became conscious of a sudden plunge in temperature. It was getting windy, and a few drops of rain had begun to fall.
“Quick,” said Liebermann, “let's shelter under there.”
A large solitary plane tree was close by, and they dashed to take cover beneath its canopy of tangled branches. The patter of rain became louder, and the Prater was bathed in an eldritch luminescence. A subtle flickering illuminated the clouds, and a low rumbling followed. Then, quite suddenly, there was a bright white flash, a tremendous clap of thunder, and the skies opened, releasing a torrential downpour.