Against the Day (157 page)

   
“Frau
Keuler, what’s going on?”

“I
do not know how you have obtained the keys to this flat, but you will give them
to me now.”

“I
got these from you—we see each other every day, I’ve always paid the rent
on time, please, what’s wrong?”

“If
those are your belongings, I want you to pack them and be out of here as soon
as possible.”

   
“But—”

   
“Must
I call the police?
Judensau.
You are all alike.”

Jewish
pig? For a minute she was too bewildered to see it. Vienna had been antiSemitic
forever, of course, from end to end, the inner city, the Ring, the Vienna Woods
for that matter, even, since 1897, officially so, under the party of “Christian
Socialists” headed by Jewhating perennial Burgomeister Dr. Karl Lueger. In the
national elections last year, the party had also tripled its membership in the
Reichsrath. She had had no reason to pay attention till now—it was the
air people breathed in this place, reaching a level of abstraction where actual
blood was no longer the point.
“
Wer
Jude ist, bestimme ich,
”
as
der schöne
Karl
liked to
say—“Who is a Jew, I determine.” Hatred of the Jew was sometimes almost
beside the point. Modern antiSemitism really went far beyond feelings, had
become a source of energy, tremendous dark energy that could be tapped in to
like an electric main for specific purposes, a way to a political career, a
factor in parliamentary bargaining over budgets, taxes, armaments, any issue at
all, a weapon for prevailing over a business rival in a deal. Or in Yashmeen’s
case a simple method of chasing somebody out of town.

Cyprian didn’t take it quite so
casually. “Well. It’s dangerous here for you now. Has been for a while
actually. Dangerous people in power.”

   
“Who?
Not that kind old gentleman.”

“Not Habsburgs, exactly.
Prussophiles, I suppose is what I mean. Lovers of might. They want to preside
over the end of the world. But now you really must come to Trieste.”

   
She
laughed. “Appropriate. Here they call it a Jewish city.”

   
“Oh
in Vienna,” Cyprian replied, “they think
Shanghai
is a Jewish city.”

   
“Well,
actually . . .” she began.

The Annexation
Crisis
had everybody in
motion, and even Ratty McHugh, his life like everyone else’s these days run
more and more by train schedules, was dislodged from Vienna far enough to meet
Cyprian in Graz, in the garden of the Elefant Hotel.

“Sorry there’s only so much I can do
at the moment, this Bosnian pickle and so forth.”

   
“Theign
making trouble at your shop as well, I shouldn’t wonder.”

   
They
were both smoking, and the resulting haze between them produced somehow an
impression of sympathy each was ready to accept without misgivings. “There are
those among my shopmates,” Ratty admitted, “who’d as soon see him in a
different line of work. Far too matey with the Ballhausplatz, for one thing.
Well, common AngloHabsburg interests, foremost being Macedonia, one keeps
telling oneself, by now a bit wistfully. But he’s got resources, he’s
dangerous, and it’s even money at this point whether or not he can be
contained.”

   
“One
couldn’t just have him shot, I suppose.”

   
“Oh,
dear.”

“Only lighthearted banter, Ratty. Not
easy for you, I quite appreciate, these neverending crises.”

They had left the garden and were
strolling across the bridge toward the Murgasse, where there was an automatic
restaurant.

“The Balkan Peninsula is the
boardinghouse diningroom of Europe,” Ratty grumbled, “dangerously crowded,
eternally hungry, toxic with mutual antagonism. A paradise for arms dealers,
and the despair of bureaucrats. I wish I were on the Chinese desk. But you’re
itching to be filled in, I can see that.
 
“Well. Turkey has been in Bosnia for
nearly five hundred years. It is a Mahommedan country, in fact a Turkish
province. It was a staging area for the Turks on their way to the Siege of
Vienna, and of course Vienna never forgot
that.
Thirty years ago Austria
finally had its revenge. The infamous Article 25 of the Treaty of Berlin took
Bosnia away from Turkey and put it under Austrian ‘protection.’ As well as
allowing Austrian troops to garrison Novi Pazar, which had been the furthest
thrust of Turkey west and northward into Europe. The understanding was that one
day Austria would leave, and Turkey would reestablish herself, though neither
régime was ever in much hurry for this. All seemed secure. But suddenly in
Constantinople here came the Young Turks with their revolution, and who knew?
they might wish to see the agreement actually honored! So Franz Josef, at the
urging of the vile Aerenthal, preemptively issues his rescript ‘annexing’
Bosnia to the Dual Monarchy. Serbia is unlikely to let that sort of thing pass,
and Russia must support Serbia, just as Germany must honor its promises to
Austria, and so on, and so on, in threequarter time, into a general European
war.”

“But,”
Cyprian blinking politely, “can they really be that obtuse in Vienna? I had
always found them so uptotheminute, don’t you know, clearheaded, rather a,
well, a grasp on things.”

“Oh
dear.” Ratty gazed at Cyprian in some concern. “It certainly
seems
as
if both the Emperor and
the Sultan were recognizing in Russia a common enemy. Neither gentleman talks
to me, so how would I know. Austria have agreed to pay reparations to Turkey
for taking away Bosnia—and further, quite unaccountably, to withdraw
their troops from Novi Pazar, thus effectively handing it back to the Turks and
giving up their own longcherished dream of a railroad link from Sarajevo to
Mitrovitsa, and thus to the Ægean Sea. But whatever that ‘really’ means, some
Austrian idea of a sop or whatever, they have still annexed Bosnia. That fatal
act, and the steps Germany has taken in its support, mark the end of things as
they were. Isvolsky and Grey want a conference. The Dardanelles have come into
play, and we must assume Bulgaria as well
. .
. .
The Treaty of Berlin is perhaps not dead, but alive only
conditionally, clearly a sort of zombie, stalking the corridors of Europe doing
its masters’ bidding. Wagers, many of them substantial, are being booked
throughout the diplomatic community. There are European Apocalypse Pools among
the workers at the bureaux concerned, as to the date of a general mobilization.
This year, next year, soon. It is now inescapably on its way.”

Ratty
was watching him now with almost a pleading expression, like a convert to some
outer domain of faith who is not sure his friends will understand. “They never
tell you, really. How could they—Professor Renfrew might have entertained
suspicions. In theory. Passed on what he thought he knew. But once we’re out
here, Cyps, well in the soup—one must find one’s own way through—or
not, as the case may be. It’s like having the lights brought up for a bit, long
enough to see how fearfully much is in play
. . .
the dimensions of possibility out here
. . . .
”

   
Cyprian
narrowed his eyes. “Ratty?”

“I’ve heard where they’re sending
you, and what your orders are. I would intervene, if I could.”

Cyprian shrugged. “Of course I’m a
crucially important fellow, but my real concern is who’ll look after Yashmeen.
Her friends, as nearly as I can tell, are not her friends. I rather wondered if
one of your lot—”

“Of course. But, Cyps, you, out
there—it’s going to be dangerous.” Ratty was in full gaze now, a gaze
full of rain in the quadrangles, pipesmoking along the river, dawns inflecting
the roof slates out the window, pints and bottles, horse races won and lost,
moments of splendid understanding, nearly in reach, withdrawn across the night.

“It’s dangerous
here.
Look at
these people,” flicking his gloved hand at the array of Austrian townsfolk
visible at the moment. Frowning, shaking his head.
  
“Or was it something in particular.”

   
“Theign,
I suppose.”

“Yes. Care in motion, as the
horoscopes always say. I thought actually that I might bring Yashmeen to
Trieste.”

“We’ve one or two very good people
there. And there’s your own op, the neoUskok chap, Vlado Clissan, as well.”

   
“We’ve
already been in contact. Vlado can be counted on.”

   
“He
does hate Theign.”

   
“The
very phrase I was groping for.”

Ratty put his hand briefly on
Cyprian’s sleeve. “I always gave you more trouble than I ought, whenever her
name came up. I hope you understand it was only a youthful idea of ragging.”

Tilting his head, “And my youthful
ideas about being in love. I don’t imagine that I am now, Ratty, but I do need
to be sure she’s safe. I know what a nuisance you must think me—it isn’t
what you lot are really about—and I am grateful.”

“In quieter times—”

“We wouldn’t have the Blutwurst
Special,” nodding at a plate behind the pure leadglass and chromesteel
compartments of the Automatik. “An obvious response to deep crisis.”

   
“Hmnh.
Always been more of a toadinthehole man myself.”

·
    
·
    
·

Leaving the
Südbahn
, she gazed
backward at iron convergences and receding signallamps. Outward and visible
metaphor, she thought, for the complete ensemble of “free choices” that define
the course of a human life. A new switching point every few seconds, sometimes
seen, sometimes traveled over invisibly and irrevocably. From on board the
train one can stand and look back, and watch it all flowing away, shining, as
if always meant to be.

Stations
one by one entered the past. The Semmering tunnel, the Mur Valley, ruined
castles, the sudden traveling company of hydropathic addicts, the beastly
shades of resort fashion, the inevitability of Graz. Then due south across the
Slavonian plain, and up into the hills again, and the tunnels there, and
Ljubljana, and across the moorland, up into the Karst, first glimpse of the
sea, down at last through Općina to the South Station in Trieste. Eleven
and a half hours express, a journey between worlds.

Cyprian
had arranged for her to stay at a
pensione
in the Old City, back behind
the Piazza Grande. It was close enough to the Piazza Cavana for her to be
mistaken now and then for one of the nightwalking ladies who worked in the
area. Soon she had become close friends with some of these industrious
fireflies. Cyprian observed a neuropathic level of caution going to and from
their meetings. Theign himself had largely abandoned Venice for Vienna these
days, but certain of his creatures were sure to be about.

And as for any
assistance
from Theign’s
shop with her predicament, Yashmeen would not, after all, be able to count on
much. “No, no Latewood my dear chap it won’t do,” choosing a moment close
enough to Cyprian’s departure for the Balkans not to mask the clarity of the
insult, Theign’s drawl growing more insufferable as he proceeded, “you see. Yes
your little friend it seems is a person of interest to the Okhrana, and just at
this moment it is the Okhrana toward whom most particularly one must endeavor
to show consideration, with the AngloRussian understanding still so new, so
fearfully sensitive, we must all support F.O. in this, set aside our
unimportant little personal dreams and wishes mustn’t we.”

It did not take Cyprian altogether by
surprise. “We had an agreement,” he pointed out calmly enough, “and you might
as well be an Austrian double, you contemptible pile of shit.” Theign launched
one of his virile slaps, Cyprian dodged out of the way—rather than be
defied, Theign chose to look

ridiculous pursuing Cyprian through the rooms and presently
into the street

screaming threats of bodily insult, but Cyprian was
determined today not to be struck, and at length Theign gave up the chase. It
was not a valid use of his time.

“I suppose,” Theign called at last,
“you want to be released from your part of the agreement.”

“No.” Wanting of course to abandon
the whole corrupted project, which was sure now to be more dangerous than he
knew how to measure or anticipate. He must go on with it—but God help
him, why? Discussing it later in Vienna with Max Khäutsch, Theign too would
find himself unable to keep from shrugging in contempt, a repeating bodily tic,
out of his control—“The boy always was a fool. Either he knows what’s
waiting for him out there or he hasn’t a clue, and in either event he’s going
through with it.”

“Perhaps,” Khäutsch would speculate
in the peculiar whisper he reserved for shop talk, “he is tired, and wishes for
an end. Cannot quite manage it himself, wants us to do it for him.”