Seductive Viennese Whirl (14 page)

The apple's been eaten, and now how it bubbles

Inside of Eve's stomach, it ferments and sours

She senses it's only the start of her troubles

Eviction from Eden will come within hours

I sink down onto the steps, my mind whirring. I close my eyes for a moment, longing to be back in my hotel bed perusing the room service menu. Instead I drag myself back to the present.

"Let's think. Where do they sell fruits?"

"Duh! In a supermarket," Eva says, rolling her eyes.

"Even if there is a chain of Eden supermarkets, not a damn thing open's here on a Sunday, or hadn't you noticed?"

"I'm not giving up, if that's what you're getting at," Eva says, snatching back the piece of paper. I've never seen Eva put so much effort into something. If she isn't careful she'll blow a fuse in her brain with all this thinking.

"What about this fermenting business?" she says. "I reckon alcohol's the clue. We need to find a place that serves alcohol made from apples. McManus used to drink apple schnapps after dinner. And schnapps is made in Austria!"

"Okay, Sherlock, much as I'd like to crawl around every pub in Vienna sampling apple schnapps, it doesn't exactly narrow the field."

"I've got it. We need to find a pub called Eden," Eva says, hopping up and down like a crazed thing. It's as good a guess as any, I agree grudgingly. We have to stop going round in circles and start somewhere concrete. At that moment, a blonde, toned woman comes whizzing towards us on rollerskates, so I flag her down. When I ask her in English if she knows an Eden pub she just screws up her face and takes off. We ask a few others and get much the same response.

So, disheartened, we wander aimlessly down several roads, debating what to do next. As we turn a corner and catch sight of an Irish pub called Molly Darcy's, all thoughts of coffee fly out the window. I'm tempted to sink to my knees in gratitude. The thought that there's a cold pint just a few steps away is tantalizing, the fact I'll be able to ask for it in English without recourse to sign language is the icing on the cake. Despite my tiredness, I'm in there faster than a rat up a drainpipe.

We go up to the bar and I order myself a pint, while Eva insists on an apple schnapps for herself. I ask her whether she thinks as soon as it touches her lips the Count will jump out from behind the bar and carry her off in his arms. She shrugs, as if she half believes my ludicrous suggestion. In any case, she very enthusiastically gulps it down. First she says, "Aah, lovely." But a nanosecond later she's clutching at her throat, coughing and spluttering, and she seems to have lost control of her legs. I catch her just as she's about to collapse on the floor and prop her up on a bar stool. I'm gripped with panic now, and wildly hysterical, certain she's been poisoned, that the Count is a mad, evil wicked man and that this strange game is part of a plot to kill my best friend.

"Call an ambulance!" I shriek at the barman. "Someone's tampered with your schnapps!"

He looks up from where he's wiping glasses. "There'll be no need for an ambulance. That's strong stuff, if you're not used to it."

"But look at her!" I say, pointing at Eva, whose face is darkening to a purply red. It's the first time I've ever seen her look genuinely unappealing.

"Ah so, she'll be right as rain in a moment."

"You're sure no one could have sneaked something into a schnapps bottle?" I say, sipping at my pint to calm my nerves.

He doesn't bother answering, just raises an eyebrow and keeps wiping the glasses methodically. He's making me feel very irrational and unsure of myself.

"I'm sorry, I'm just a little overwrought." As I watch Eva, her face pressed against the cool bar top, I decide this is a sign from above. A sign to call it a day. After all, who can tell where we are in this game? We might be at the end, or we might still be at the beginning. In any case, it's getting dark, everything's closed, and we can't continue tomorrow because we've a flight to catch. Going over to Eva I say, "I wouldn't be surprised if there's no such thing as a pub called Eden. I'll bet the Count is just having a laugh at our expense. Back to the hotel?"

"Maybe you're right," she says, slowly lifting up her head.

"There's an Eden Bar over in the Liliengasse," says the barman.

"Of course there is!" cries Eva, jumping up. "What are we waiting for?"

Oh crap. Why couldn't he keep his big mouth shut? I was so looking forward to an early night. I suddenly realize I am very, very tired.

I pull Eva over to a table in the corner. "All right. But at least let me finish my pint." And then, when I see a waitress rushing about with plates heaving with food I insist on ordering a full Irish breakfast. Well, I'm going to need some sustenance if I'm going to get through tonight, aren't I? Eva's sitting there impatiently, and, just to annoy her, I eat the meal as slowly as possible. Then I order another pint.

"You go right ahead," I say. "You know where the bar is."

She protests she can't possibly go alone, so I tell her she'll just have to sit tight until I've supped my second pint. I quite enjoy torturing her. Finally, I force myself to haul myself out of the cosy interior of Molly Darcy's and we take a cab to the Eden Bar.

The big, black door of the bar looks pretty unwelcoming. I rattle the handle and it doesn't open, so I shrug at Eva and say we should head back. She's not listening. Instead she's looking intently at a bunch of photos of celebrities who've been to the club, which include Arnold Schwarzenegger. And while I'm pulling at her arm to get going, the door opens to reveal a bouncer with a broken front tooth, who runs his eyes up and down Eva's legs and signals us in.

After shelling out twenty Euros each, we're ushered into a room full of cigarette smoke, overlaid with a cloying scent of perfume. The room is pretty dark, although I can just make out clusters of figures sitting at booths. There's some murmured conversation, and people are shifting in their seats like they're waiting for something. I trip over a woman's shoe that's sticking out from one of the booths and she starts shrieking. I'm leaning over trying to apologize when a spotlight comes on, illuminating a stage and a man at a piano who is evidently fortunate enough to have inherited one of Liberace's sparkly jackets.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I mutter to the leathery brunette who's rubbing her ankle.

"Ist schon gut," she says sourly, which I reckon probably means buzz off, so we go on and duck into an empty booth that's right at the front. The disadvantage being that we're dazzled by the spotlight which is now zooming around the room while the pianist sways from side like he's on a ship in a storm, passionately bringing forth a flutter of notes, meant, no doubt to induce a sense of breathless anticipation in the audience.

A waitress brings us some cocktails, green with lurid red cherries floating in them. The taste is mint and coconut and Malibu and is utterly disgusting, but I drink it down anyway. Eva is sitting at the back of the booth fishing about in her drink. She sees me looking at her.

"There might be a little plastic scroll in here, with a message in it from the Count," she says, licking the green goo from her fingers.

What with seeing tiny red spots in front of my eyes every time the spotlight drills into them, and my stomach, set on a fast spin ever since I drank that cocktail, I'm thoroughly disorientated. I've almost forgotten why we're here. Almost forgotten that we're on some daft wild goose chase that will probably land us in a heap of trouble.

I lean forward excitedly, eager to be out of here. "Is there? A message in the cocktail?"

"No," she says miserably, just as the pianist is thundering to a crescendo. Once again the room is thrown into blackness. When the spotlight comes on again it's trained on a Zsa Zsa Gabor lookalike, jewels dripping from every finger and a rack that could support three pints of beer, no problem. The crowd starts clapping and whooping like mad, shouting,"Gabi! Gabi!" and stomping their feet while she stands on the stage, cool and collected, fiddling with a ruby necklace nestling in her cleavage. I figure the rocks can't possibly be real. I mean how much can a nightclub performer possibly earn? As soon as she begins to talk they all quiet down, and the piano starts to tinkle as she launches into some German love song in a gritty voice that sounds like she mixes nails in with her morning coffee.

Now she's lighting up a cigarette before launching into ‘
Move Closer'
, which just happens to be one of my least favourite songs of all time. She's teetering down from the stage on ridiculously high heels and, oh Christ, please let me be mistaken, coming right over to our table. I keep my head down, but from the corner of my eye I see she's still walking and crooning, until, with beautiful timing, she reaches our table at the end of the verse.

Then she growls, into the microphone, so no one could possibly miss it, "Wollen sie mit mir tanzen?"

Of all the tables in the club, why did she have to pick ours?

Since tanzen sounds suspiciously like dancing, I get the drift of the question. I look around the room, hoping someone will step in and release me from this humiliating situation. I mean, I must be the only person in the room who doesn't want to be spun around the room by Gabi. But, when it seems clear no one's going to save me, I give her my most charming grin and say through my teeth, "Nein danke," which, unfortunately, proves to be entirely the wrong response.

She turns back to the audience and says coquettishly, "Sie will nicht." Which brings forth howls of laughter, rapidly followed by a collective chorus of, "Tanz mit Gabi! Tanz mit Gabi!" until I fear they're all going to leap at my throat if I don't, so I reluctantly get up, just as she's launching into the second verse. She pulls me close so that my head's bobbing at the level of her cleavage, and gently guides me around the room. A heady scent of almond liqueur seeps from her lips while she sings.

I'm a pretty liberal sort of person. I've got nothing against girls who love girls. Whatever floats your boat. But now my hands, clutched around her waist, are getting clammy as a terrible worry embeds itself in my thoughts. Maybe the fact that no guy fancies me is because I give off a weird energy, the sort of energy that attracts predatory blonde beauties in nightclubs.

"Mooove closer, move your body real close until we / feel like we're really making love," she croons. I'm trying not to look at her cleavage, which is difficult when you're an inch away from it. I only give it a cursory glance to make sure it's real and I'm pretty sure it is and not some big guy carrying around bags of saline. Then I take a good long look at the rubies around her neck, trying to assess if they're real or not. Please let this be over soon, I think as she hands her microphone to one of the punters and we twirl around the room through a piano solo, which seems to go on for about six years.

Her arms are around my back and her eyes half closed, so there's no way of escaping. I fear I'll still be dancing with her tomorrow morning. The crowd have started yowling and shouting comments again, and my eyes are locked on the necklace when she whispers, "You like it?"

Relieved she's speaking English, I say, rather woodenly, "Yes, it's very impressive. Is it real?"

"Oh yes, very real. Why don't you look a little lower? It is what you want, no?"

"I'm very flattered," I start to babble, "but I'm afraid I'm not interested in you, in that way." I expect her to crush my face in one hand and throw me against a wall. Instead, she gives a chuckle.

"Get a move on, the song will soon be over," she hisses in my ear. I'm hoping the floor will swallow me up. What is she on about? "What are you waiting for? Just pull it out!"

And just when I think I'm going to faint from an overdose of confusion and terror, I see what she's been trying to show me. There's a tiny piece of paper, tucked into the base of her cleavage. A clue! I'm so relieved I want to kiss her. Well, why not? Now I know she's just a mad friend of the Count's and not after my bod, I lean over and kiss her cheek and while the crowd applauds with renewed frenzy, I quickly pull the piece of paper out and return to my seat.

"Oh that was priceless, really priceless," says Eva, wiping her eyes as I slide in beside her.

"I'm glad you found it amusing. You'll never guess what was in her cleavage." I hold up the scrap of paper.

"Gimmee that!" she shrieks.

"Okay, but first we've absolutely got to get out of here."

It's a relief to be outside, breathing deeply of the fresh air. I ask the bouncer at the door for the time and he tells me nine. The street is deserted. I'm so drained. What I'd really like to do is go back to the hotel and have a hot bath. But Eva's looking at me expectantly, ready for the next part of the game, so I unfurl the piece of paper and read:

Thrown out of the garden, they now prepare

To board the train for the long ride of gloom

When they reach their final resting place, the sinful pair

Will become Teutonic ghosts in the castle of doom

Ghosts and castle are underlined in red.

"Well, that doesn't tell us a whole lot," says Eva. Apart from that this Count has a serious screw loose.

"Teutonic means German, so obviously we need to translate ghosts and castle into German. If only I'd thought to buy a blasted dictionary."

"Good idea."

"Sure. Let's just go down to Borders in Oxford Street and pick one up. This isn't London you know. The shops are closed. I think it's time to call it a day. I'm sorry Eva, but this guy is beginning to freak me out. How did he even think up a game this weird? He looked so innocent."

"Oh, he's not all that innocent. Last night he taught me how to–"

I held up my hand. "Tell me later. Right now, let's get back to the matter in hand. I mean, Jesus Christ, you went to that Swiss finishing school, The Rich Brat Academy. Didn't you learn anything there? Like, what the German word is for ghost?"