"It's like Halley's Comet."
"Halley's Comet? How?"
"It comes around once every seventy-five years or so. You have to have a big telescope to see it, and be in exactly the right place."
"And you think it's that way with love?"
"Yes, genuine, twenty-four-carat love. I think it's easy to find the ingredients for love, but then it depends on how you mix them. There's so much work involved." I counted things off on my fingers as I cited the different points. "First you have to understand and accept. Then, you have to be best friend, always. Work on overcoming what they don't like in you. Be bighearted when it's so much easier to be small . . .
"Sometimes the spark for real love is there from the beginning. But too many people mistake that spark for a flame they think will last a long time. That's why so many human fires go out. You have to work so hard at real love."
My voice fell when I saw a big smile rise on her face. "I'm sounding like an evangelist on television."
She shook her head and touched my hand. "No, like someone who believes what he's saying. But I'm smiling because I was just thinking of God. When I was a little girl I went through a long period when I breathed God and religion. I could have posed for those religious postcards they sell in Catholic bookstores. But my favorite thing then was to write letters to God. I'd have long chats with Him on yellow paper. When I'd finished one, I'd go immediately out on the balcony of our apartment and burn the letter. I was sure it'd go right to heaven. I worked hard at loving Him, you know? Just like what you're describing. I'm glad you said that."
We went on talking until each of us had so much information about the other that we tacitly agreed to stop for a while to let it all sink in.
The day had started out overcast but decided on drizzle by the time we left the cafй. It was early afternoon and I was hungry, but since we'd just spent three hours sitting, it wasn't the right moment to suggest a bite in a cozy restaurant. We walked out toward the Ringstrasse.
The air smelled of wet streets and car exhaust. Maris walked fast, taking great long strides as she moved. While trying to keep up with her, I looked down and noticed for the first time how large her feet were. Everything about the woman was full size, impressive.
In contrast, my ex-wife Victoria was a small woman who prided herself on being able to buy shirts in the boys' department at Brooks Brothers. Her hands were slim and pretty; she liked to have her hair done once a week. She often wore dark fingernail polish to bed.
Maris was by no means raw or unfeminine in the way she looked or carried herself, but seemed to know she was impressive "as is." She didn't need to have perfect skin or fresh eyeliner on to stop your heart.
"You have wonderful feet."
"Thank you. They're the same size as my father's."
As soon as she said this, she saw something that suddenly made her break into a run.
About half a block down the street, a woman was hitting her child. That was bad enough, but she kept slapping him so hard that the little boy would have fallen down if she weren't holding his arm.
Maris sprinted toward them. People stopped to watch her zoom by. With no idea of what she was doing, I hesitated for a moment, then followed. When I got there, she had already grabbed the woman by the arm and was shaking her.
"Are you crazy? You don't hit a child like that!"
"Don't touch me! I'll call the police!"
The woman was as tall as Maris but much broader. She had a face like a month-old melon, and bulged through every seam of her clothes. The child hung limp in her hand, but his face was all fear and flutter. Something in his expression said Mama had done this before.
"Yes! Call the police! Do! I'll tell them what you're doing to that child!"
A number of people had gathered to watch. The woman looked around for support. All she saw was indifference or hard faces.
"Look at how frightened your son is! How can you do that?"
The boy started to cry. Without looking, the woman shook him and told him to shut up. Maris took a step toward her. A fistfight was one second away. Maris stuck a finger in the woman's thick cheek and said if she did that again, she was going to get hit.
Now, no one talked to this Mama that way. Looking Maris straight in the eye, she shook the child again. Maris slapped her face. The other's eyes flared, then narrowed. She kept looking at Maris while she shook the child again. Harder.
Watching the two women, I didn't see the man until he'd stepped forward and grabbed Mama by the back of the neck. He was nondescript, middle sized, bьrgerlich. He held the woman so tightly in one hand that she couldn't turn around to look at him when she tried. He ignored her, and spoke to Maris.
"Go away now. I'll take care of it. The kid's mine, not hers."
"Do you love him?" Maris looked at the man, then the boy.
The man nodded instantly. "Yes. He told me she did these things, but I didn't believe him. She's always nice to him when I'm around. That won't happen again, the bitch. I'll kick her fat ass if it does!" Letting go of her neck, he gave her a tremendous slap across the back of her head. It sounded like two hollow wood blocks hitting. She staggered forward, let go of the boy, fell down. The boy squealed in delight and clapped his hands.
"And you know I'll kick your ass, don't you?"
Maris walked quickly away, looking once over her shoulder for me. I gave one last look at the family. Papa had the boy in his arms. Mama was just getting up off the ground. Her knees were smeared with mud, and she was trying to smile at anyone who'd look. They were real George Grosz people, and it was plain this event would do little to change any of their lives. In a day, or a week, this important tension and recognition would lose its purpose in the fog of meanness and stupidity that enclosed their lives.
I went after Maris. She was walking even faster than before, hands deep in her coat pockets. When I caught up, I touched her elbow. She turned quickly.
"Why didn't you stop me, Walker?"
"Why? You were right."
"You're sure? But I hit her! It's so embarrassing."
"Of course you shouldn't have hit her, but so what? Maybe it was time someone bopped her. Give her back some of her own medicine."
Her expression said she was unconvinced. She started walking again. "I would never hit a child. Never. No matter how bad it was."
I wanted to change the subject. "Do you want children?"
"Oh yes, although I'm getting a little old for it. At least two." She smiled and slowed a little. "Two girls."
"Girls? What would be their names?"
Her smile widened. "Names? I don't know. Jessica and Kenyon."
"Are you okay now about what happened back there?"
"Not really. My teeth are still chattering a little. Would you take me someplace happy? Do you know what I mean?"
I lit up at the idea. "I know exactly! There are three places I go in Vienna when I feel bad. I'll take you to all three."
We caught a tram and rode it around the Ring. Even in the rain, many people were out walking. Open horse-drawn carriages, full of sightseers, wheeled slowly down the middle of the street.
At Schottentor we got out and walked the Herrengasse into the center of town.
There are baroque palaces on the Herrengasse: the Spanish Riding School, the National Library, and the Albertina Museum. The Cafй Central, where Freud and Lenin drank black coffee and disturbed the universe, is one street over.
Some mornings, if you're lucky, you can see trainers leading the white and gray Lippizaner horses from their stables on one side of the street to the performance ring on the other side. The sound those hooves make on the stone pavement is indescribable.