When we’d found one and were in it, Sophie dug her brother’s address out of her purse and slowly tried to pronounce the endless German name to the driver. He shook his head, turned in his seat, and gestured for the paper.
“Laimgrubengasse. Okay!”
She sat back and turned to me. “How come every word in German sounds like a command?”
“They’ve had a lot of practice. Why did you give Arlen the cold shoulder? That’s not like you.”
“Did I? I guess I’m tired. No, that’s not the reason. It’s because I never liked her. Every film I saw her in, she gave the feeling she was so very pleased with her performance. Like Meryl Streep, another of my least favorite actresses. Gangway for Her Majesty, Queen Drama. Start polishing the Oscars.”
“Oh, come on! Did you see her in Wonderful? You’ve got to admit that was a great film.”
“Great film, but she wasn’t great in it. I clapped when she didn’t win the Oscar.”
I wasn’t in the mood to argue. Sophie was as fixed in her opinions as any stubborn, self-assured person is. Once in a while it was fun trying to argue her out of them, but most of the time it was useless and I had long ago stopped trying. Right at the moment the only thing I wanted to do was sit in a chair larger than an airplane seat, hold a drink in my hand, and feel grateful I didn’t have to move for a while.
Out the window, Vienna looked much as I had expected it would. Most of the large European cities I’ve visited have a solid dignity and timelessness; the buildings have been around long enough to see a good bit of history. I know things over here are as trendy and impermanent as they are anywhere else, but one constantly gets the feeling that these places will stay as they are now, as they have been, for centuries. The impressive streets, wide as airport runways, will be the same when people float down them in hover cars or spaceships or whatever the future invents. Where America is all fresh and flux, Europe is like old wealth: no matter what happens, it will always be there.
When we passed what we later found out was the State Opera House, the driver languidly lifted an arm in its direction and said, “Opern.” When this information didn’t register on either of us, he shook his head at our stupidity and put mad Arabic music on the car stereo, top volume.
“Is this Cairo or Vienna?”
“Should we offer him a big tip if he turns it down?”
Since we would have had to scream to be heard over the snaking and screeching of the music, neither of us said another word for the rest of the ride. Also, it seemed every time I happened to look into the rearview mirror, his eyes were there checking me out.
Laimgrubengasse is a very narrow, short street that slants up sharply and then angles into another small street. A few doors down from the Chapmans’ building was a restaurant called Ludwig Van. A plaque on the façade said Beethoven had lived in the house when he was in Vienna.
The cab left us and drove away, music still attacking. I trudged our bags over to the door, where Sophie was already pressing the intercom button. No answer. We looked at each other, clearly the same thought crossing our minds: What now? What do we do if no one’s home?
“Is Caitlin dependable?”
“Extremely. Something important or bad must have come up for her not to meet us at the airport. It worries me.” Sophie scowled and pressed the button again for several seconds. “I’ve got to talk to her and find out—”
“Hello?” A small voice came out of the intercom, a woman’s, sounding very far away.
“Hello, Caitlin? It’s Sophie. Wyatt and I are here!”
“Hi, Sophie, Um. Um.”
“What’s the matter? Let us in, willya? We’ve got all these bags.”
“I… Sophie, I can’t. There’s a big problem here. Look, um, go down the street, Laimgrubengasse, till it meets with Gum-pen-dor-fer-strasse. On Gumpendorf go left and you’ll see a café; it’s called the Sperl. Go in and wait for me. I’ll come in ten minutes.”
Sophie exploded into the speaker. “Are you crazy? We’re not going to any café! We just flew a million miles and you’re not going to let us in?”
Caitlin’s voice came back loud and just as angry. “Please do what I tell you! I’ll be at the Sperl in ten minutes. Yes, I know you came all this way, Sophie, but you’ll understand why I’m asking. Believe me, it’s important.” The connection broke with a definite electric click. The two of us were left looking at the nondescript apartment building and a black pile of suitcases at our feet that now needed to be lugged again.
I slowly began pulling one up onto my shoulder. “This is the strangest welcome I’ve ever had to a new city. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining. I only wish I were twenty years old and could appreciate it more.”
Cross as she was, Sophie came and put her arms around my tired neck. “Do you want to kill me? I want to kill my sister-in-law, so you have every right.”
“No, but I do have to sit down soon. I’m very tired and need to take a pill, or there’ll be problems.”
“Oh, Wyatt, I completely forgot… Here, let me take those bags.”
“No, I can handle them. Let’s find this café and have some beer. Is the beer in Austria as good as it is in Germany?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been here before. What did she call it, Gumperstorstrada? Laimgrubengasse. How come every street here sounds like a Hungarian recipe?”
The Sperl was not hard to find. Imagine a European café, dust it with age and romance, and there you are. Men played billiards quietly and seriously in a corner, waiters in tuxedoes with white napkins draped over their arms moved gracefully from the kitchen to the tables, where, with dramatic swoops of the arm and little murmurs as to what they were serving, they laid white cups or plates of pastry on the marble tables. Old men and women read newspapers in half a dozen languages, lovers huddled and cuddled in corners. Because it was midafternoon, the café was only half filled. We found room for us and our bags and settled into the pleasant drowsiness of the place. Our beers were finished in no time, and a pair of sausages with golden rolls and bright yellow mustard being served to someone nearby looked so delicious that we ordered some and more beer and went on waiting for Part Two of The Vienna Affair to unfold. Neither of us said much, not even when the original ten minutes turned into twenty and then half an hour. When I got up to go to the bathroom, Sophie rose with me. “Maybe I should call her. What do you think?”
“I think you should wait a while longer and then do it. If she’s as dependable as you say, there’s a reason that she’s not here yet. Let her do it her way.”
“You’re right. Oh, shit.” She sat back down. “I don’t want any more beer or hot dogs and I don’t want to be in this café. And why don’t I just shut up? Go to the bathroom, Wyatt. I’ll be okay.”
When I was done, I spent quite a while at the sink washing my face and hands, trying with cold water to splash life back into my body and mind.
On my way out, I collided with a woman who was in a hurry to get into the ladies’ room. Those quick jarring moments of bump, oops, excuse me were doubly disorienting because I was tired anyway. Rounding the corner thus muddled, I saw someone at the table with Sophie, but it didn’t register that it must be Caitlin Chapman. Perhaps because for a woman in the midst of the chaos of a missing husband, she looked fine. In fact, she looked better than when I’d last seen her in Los Angeles. She was speaking animatedly, one arm extended across the table, holding Sophie’s wrist. She wore a black sweatshirt and jeans, a silver bracelet high up on her left arm, and her hair was combed in place. I watched them a few seconds. Both were bent forward; both appeared to be talking at once. Two nice-looking women in early middle age chatting it up in a Viennese café.