A unique experience in the city of the waltz
Vienna was a reflection shining on the snow. The movements hindered by the coats marked a leisurely tempo. It was night. I walked through Kohlmarkt and entered Demel .
My gaze, lit by the cold, yielded to the cellophane of the violets, to the dark wood, to the concupiscence of the Sacher-Torte. The mirrors reflected my restlessness.
Gloves, scarf, fur cap, and astrakhan lapels fell onto the chair. Aware of my tuxedo, I looked around.
A woman in black with lips as red as the divans watched me from the opposite table. Next to her sat a fat, vulgar-looking man, whom she ignored.
I ordered a coffee. From the windows you could see the Christmas stream under the lights. I regretted not having spent the day in Kollerdorf with Elizabeth. There was no shortage of chimneys in the castle and he could have gone to the party in her car.
The snow deafens the cities. Where did she come from? Beneath the cloud-laden sky, the black cloak, boots, and hat creaked on the whitish scraps. When I turned around, there it was, motionless. He was young, very young; his skin was pale.
He directed me to hofmobiliendepot , the museum where Habsburg furniture and some of the sets on which Sissi was filmed are preserved. I have always had a weakness for the Austro-Hungarian.
The rooms were deserted. Romy Schneider she spoke Russian, Polish, Japanese in the throne room or Franz Josef's office, while I awaited the appearance of the specter behind an empire sofa or a four-poster bed.
When I left, it was snowing. I dove under the umbrella and searched for his dark profile. I did it again in Kunsthistorisches , versus The hunters in the snow, of Bruegel; in the cafe sperl and when I return to my hotel to change. The memory of him stirred me.
In Demel , in front of the steaming cup, I tried to assess the extent of my neurosis. I had heard his muffled footsteps on the snow in the Brueghel scene and I thought I saw a shadow in the window of the Sperl, between the stalls of the Naschmarkt, in the white garden of the hotel Coburg . I thought that Vienna generates that kind of mismatch.
'The Hunters in the Snow'
I looked at the clock; I had plenty of time. Isabel had told me they would be late. I decided to make a stop at the Loos Bar to reinforce denial. The cold cleared me.
There were some tourists in the place, but the deco geometry silenced them. I ordered a martini at the bar. As a group left, I turned my eyes and went back to my glass, startled. The shadow was there, sitting in one of the green leather chairs.
He smiled and walked over to me. Beneath his cloak he wore a doublet, breeches, and black boots. When he settled down next to me, I thought that he was not the same one I had seen that morning on the street. His appearance was similar, but the features were sharper.
“At the party you will find the third man” , He said. “Pay attention to what he tells you. It will be your totem." I asked him what he meant by that, but he had disappeared. My words fell flat.
On the way to the palaces of Prinz Eugen ( belvedere palaces ), restlessness gave way to curiosity. The suspicion that the atmosphere of the viennese dances took on a tone of expectation. He had gotten there through Isabel. I didn't really know who was organizing the party.
"I ordered a martini at the bar"
At the gate of the palace, two young men in livery registered the cards in a device. I handed them mine. Taking off my coat, I noticed that all the guests wore black. Their suits crept up the stuccoed whiteness of the stairway.
When I reached the door that gave access to the salons, I saw that Demel's red-lipped woman was smoking next to an Atlantean. She beckoned me. "He can't be alone," she said in thick Italian. “It goes against protocol, and in Vienna we take protocol very seriously”.
I nodded and let myself go. In the diaphanous halls, the figures swayed under allegorical frescoes, rockeries and damask walls. The chords of a string quartet were coming from somewhere. Greta, my impromptu escort, stopped before faces whose names I forgot. I had two or three glasses of champagne.
We went into a blue-tinted room. In the center rose a bed from whose angles polychrome soldiers emerged in bright colors. The headboard grew over the wall like a burst of glory.
Lying among a profusion of cushions, a character with a despotic look received flattery gestures in a silk dressing gown. He was tall, young, dark, like an illustration from the twenties. I knew he was the third man.
Noticing my presence, he smiled and motioned for me to come closer. The circle around him moved a few steps away.
“When the party starts, you will be the Toy” he whispered.
Views from the Lower Belvedere