The Flames, page 6
Adele wonders with a start if it is she who has successfully manipulated her mother, or the other way around.
‘So, it is agreed?’ Edith asks. ‘We may say yes to the artist?’
Papa removes his glasses, dismayed at the scene that has unfolded around him.
‘Agreed. But don’t expect us to allow this to become a regular occurrence,’ Mutti warns, glancing at her husband.
‘You won’t regret it,’ Adele says, kissing her parents on each cheek.
‘Not so fast, young lady. It goes without saying that your father and I will expect an introduction,’ Mutti says. Adele wonders if this, perhaps, is what her mother has been angling for all along: a close encounter with the artist, to unpick him, to be better equipped to assassinate his character for her ladies. That would be the crowning moment of her next salon. ‘It’s just that we want to draw our own conclusions before sending our darling daughters out into the world in the company of Egon Schiele,’ Mutti adds, as if guessing Adele’s thoughts.
Adele watches the hand on the grandfather clock creep towards the hour. She’s keen to make Papa see that Egon Schiele is a respectable man with prospects. Her hopes are pinned upon it.
‘Please, don’t be late. Do not confirm all Papa’s prejudices,’ she wills her neighbour. She cannot bear the thought of her chances being ruined before they’ve begun. She fidgets with a button on her sleeve, spinning it until the threads are ready to break.
The clock strikes seven, chiming a hammer to her heart.
What if the artist has forgotten that he invited the sisters out for the evening? He may have become engrossed in his work. Or what if Adele misread the invitation and made a mistake about the date?
She runs to their bedroom and pulls the letter from beneath her pillow. She knows it by heart, but she must read it again. Yes, it’s there in black and white. She is not mistaken. Then a thought enters her mind. What if this has been nothing more than an elaborate joke between Egon and that damned woman? Wouldn’t they find it riotous to torment Adele and Edith, the bourgeois sisters from across the street, pretending they wanted to spend time with them? Vally would have orchestrated the whole thing, of course. Adele had thought it strange that the woman had agreed to the outing, when it’s so clearly to her disadvantage.
‘Edith!’ she calls out. There’s no reply. Her sister has made it clear that she’s only attending for Adele’s sake – and has kept herself otherwise occupied all afternoon.
Back in the salon, Papa checks his watch, rubbing his thumb over its face as if to read it more plainly. Adele’s ribs ache with apprehension. It is almost ten past the hour.
‘Our guest is quite late,’ Papa says.
‘It’s not as though he has far to come,’ Mutti adds drily, inspecting her rings.
‘It’s a clear indication that he believes his time is more valuable than our own.’
Adele jumps as the doorbell rings. Papa and Mutti exchange a glance as Hanna enters the lounge with the artist and his common little friend. Adele feels scant relief at his arrival.
‘Grüss Gott, Frau Harms, Herr Harms. My sincerest apologies,’ Egon says, hurriedly. His hair is slicked back. ‘My companion delayed us.’ He looks at the woman, who won’t meet his eyes. Her face is thunderous. ‘It was never my intention to keep you waiting.’ Mutti offers her hand and he takes it, bending to move his mouth to just above it, as is the tradition in polite society, before turning to Papa and shaking his hand firmly.
‘Herr Harms, I’m honoured to meet you and delighted that you’re entrusting me with your delightful daughters,’ he says, as if the words have been rehearsed.
Even the artist’s shoes are freshly polished.
‘I hope we’ll be able to say the same of you, young man.’ Papa looks him up and down. Adele recognizes a flare of disappointment that there isn’t more to criticize him for.
‘And may I introduce Fräulein Neuzil. Walburga, to be precise,’ the artist adds.
‘My name’s Vally,’ the woman says, her voice thick with defiance.
‘Vally is one of my models,’ Egon explains.
The woman’s hands appear to shake as she looks around the Harmses’ parlour. With new eyes, Adele sees the embossed wallpaper, marble fireplace and chintzy ornaments. Adele catches their guest as she turns a lip up at what the woman no doubt considers to be a fusty series of landscape paintings. It is abundantly clear that Vally is unimpressed by her role in this scenario. Adele notices patches of dust across the young woman’s knees, a gleam of sweat on her forehead.
Mutti is intently examining Egon, compiling her inventory.
He adjusts his tie, places his hands in his pockets, then pulls them back out again.
‘Well, I’ve heard much about you, through the grapevine. You’re an artist, so they say,’ Papa states.
‘Yes, sir, I trained at the Akademie – I was their youngest student. It was a great honour, but I was troubled there. I found the environment stifling, so I left and formed the Neukunstgruppe with my fellow students. We’ve exhibited in Prague, Budapest and Munich.’
‘And your subject matter is a little … controversial?’
‘I paint life, sir, in all its forms. Men, women, children.’
‘Frequently in the nude, I believe? Isn’t that so?’
Vally shuffles as Papa’s eyes rest fully on her for the first time.
‘Johann!’ Mutti chides, but she narrows her eyes and waits for the artist’s response.
‘There has been a long and healthy tradition of figurative art in Austria and beyond.’
‘So you deny that you’re a pornographer?’
Adele cannot breathe. The dust settles in the spaces between them.
‘I’m not the first to depict a woman in a state of undress,’ he says. ‘And I won’t be the last.’
‘I can see why such a pastime would postpone your fighting alongside your fellow countrymen for the honour of Austria and the Empire,’ Papa retorts.
Only now does Egon redden. ‘I’ve been exempted from the draft, sir. My heart, it’s not strong enough. I have a doctor’s certificate to prove it.’
‘What is the world coming to? I can’t fathom it any more,’ Papa says, removing his glasses and polishing them. ‘Well, you’d better be on your way, we won’t hold you back any longer,’ he adds, glancing at Adele. ‘But where has your sister got to?’
Edith comes into the room, as if beckoned, half running, her cheeks flushed.
‘I promise to return your daughters to your care before midnight,’ Egon says.
‘Make that ten o’clock, young man.’
‘Papa!’ Adele pouts. ‘The film won’t even be finished by then.’
They frown at each other, but then Egon breaks the silence with his laughter and, in a fit of good nature, Papa claps him on the back.
The lights go down, and Adele grips Edith’s hand on her right. The projector clacks and hisses as the film is fed through the reel, the sound changing as the opening images appear on the screen, grainy and unsteady. The artist is seated to her left – Adele had carefully manoeuvred her position as they entered the auditorium so that she would be seated next to him. The proximity is dizzying, and she barely knows how she will follow the plot. She glances at him, but his eyes are on the screen, light and shadow flickering across his face. Vally, on the other side of Egon, sighs loudly as the piano plays accompanying music. On the screen, an elegantly impoverished woman appears. To be an actress would be a wonderful thing, Adele muses. Egon catches her eye and smiles.
They watch the story unfolding, the characters developing, and Adele enjoys herself greatly. Edith, too, is transfixed. But less than halfway through the film, there’s a snapping sound, the characters fade, and the scene is cut through with a heavy black line, before the images halt altogether. For a moment they are all plunged into darkness, the screen blank, the music stopped. They hold their breath and wait, but there’s no release. After a few moments of hushed silence, the lights go up and voices rise again as questions are whispered among the audience. What has happened? Why has it all ended so abruptly? An acrid, waxy smell filters to the stalls.
‘Apologies!’ the grey-haired projectionist calls, appearing through the curtain from high in the rafters. ‘The show’s over, I’m afraid. There’s a fault and it can’t be fixed. The celluloid has melted. I’m sorry to say we can’t continue. But rest assured, you can ask for your money back.’
A wave of protest and disappointment sweeps through the crowd.
‘That was a rather unexpected ending,’ Egon says.
‘I was growing quite fond of that poor woman,’ Adele adds.
‘We’ll never know what happened next,’ Edith agrees.
‘Well, we should go our separate ways,’ Vally says, yawning, pulling on her threadbare coat.
‘Edith, can you fetch our garments from the cloakroom?’ Adele orders, trying to mask her disappointment. ‘Here’s our ticket.’
‘What’s the rush?’ Egon says. ‘We’ve more than an hour before your father expects you home. Why waste such a golden opportunity? I know the perfect place.’
‘Your well-to-do neighbours won’t appreciate some back-alley bar, Egon!’ Vally says. ‘I’m sure they’d rather be tucked up in bed.’
‘Nonsense, we’d love to go,’ Adele says, glaring at Vally. ‘Please, lead the way.’
They walk to a bar – one that Egon says he frequented when he was a student at the Akademie. They pass the windows of elegant boutiques the girls have shopped in along the main road. Egon keeps walking. ‘This way,’ he says, and Adele notes the look of apprehension on Edith’s face as she steps over a greasy puddle, and disdain on Vally’s as Adele hitches up her hems. The shortcut takes them through a narrow alley, where rotting rubbish is piled against crumbling brick. Matted rats dive into gutters as they pass, and women, their eyes ringed in black, wait in doorways, reaching out a hand. ‘Pay no heed to them,’ Egon says, tipping his hat to a particularly emaciated figure as they pass. The woman spits crude words after them.
After a few moments, they reach a door, and Egon knocks confidently.
‘Are we in the right place?’ Edith whispers to Adele.
A man wearing an apron, his ears red, opens it and looks them up and down.
Adele hears Egon mention his name, and reference the owner, and the man lets them pass, squeezing close to Adele as she moves by, his hand stroking her hip. Inside, they push themselves through the throng of people, a layer of smoke swirling above the gathered heads, the air thickened further with sweat and the sour smell of fermentation from the kegs lining the back wall. Egon sees a gap at a bench, and gestures for Adele and Edith to take a seat. The men around them stare. The women smirk. Adele holds her clutch bag off the table, which is wet with foam. Egon disappears, then returns after a few minutes with four tankards of pale-brown beer. They are filled to the rim, froth oozing over the edge of the glass.
‘Quite the experience, is it not?’ he says, raising his eyebrows and taking a large sip. ‘For women used to the finer things in life.’
‘We like it.’ Adele nudges her sister, who’s busy pushing away a mutt that has approached under the table and is nuzzling her thigh. ‘Don’t we, Edith?’
‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ Edith says, moving her legs away from the flea-ridden animal.
Vally scratches the dog behind the ears, before it heads off in search of scraps.
Egon smiles at the three of them. ‘Don’t you want the drink?’ he asks.
Adele picks hers up gingerly by the handle and moves it to her lips.
‘Delicious,’ she says, after a small sip. She puts it down and rubs her fingertips.
‘I don’t like the taste of alcohol,’ Edith says, leaving hers untouched.
Vally takes a long drink of her beer, swallowing again and again, until she reaches the bottom. She places the empty tankard on the table and smiles, giving a small hiccup as she does. Egon laughs and empties his own in the same way.
Adele takes another polite sip of the vulgar liquid.
A group of men at the bar is singing loudly, shoulders swaying against each other, while a mime artist performs in one corner, doffing his hat and sweeping it around for coins.
Adele could never have guessed that such a world existed.
Then there’s the sound of broken glass, an angry jibe, the thump of flesh on wood.
A fight breaks out and the crowd parts as a young man takes an older one by the scruff of his neck and flings him across the room. He comes to a skidding halt, before he’s flung again, crashing into their table. Egon leaps up and stands in front of Adele and Edith, his arms spread to prevent them from being hurt in the altercation.
‘Enough!’ he shouts. ‘There are ladies present.’
Vally, exposed and alone, stands slowly. She looks down, her hands raised. In all the commotion, Edith’s untouched drink has been knocked straight off the upended table, tipping over into Vally’s lap. The liquid has soaked through her layers of skirts. Her eyes are on Egon, his shoulders squared, protecting Adele and Edith, but he hasn’t noticed and doesn’t glance her way. She kicks the dripping table, then curses, before dashing from the bar.
9
May 1915
Mutti bustles into the lounge, her steps fast and determined as she throws open the window, allowing a breeze to swirl in, and stands directly in front of Adele, effectively disrupting her peaceful plan to watch for the artist.
‘Rouse yourself, young lady,’ Mutti announces. She’s dressed and powdered, her best jewels on display. ‘Hanna’s leaving for the market, and I want you to accompany her.’
‘What? But why?’ Adele demands. This is a rare unplanned hour in her schedule, and she’s been looking forward to settling into her thoughts and fantasies uninterrupted.
‘I need this room for my meeting with the local ladies. It’s my turn to host. We’ve district matters to attend to, and Frau Weissmann lost her husband last month, so I expect there’ll be tears. I don’t need you under my feet.’
‘And what about Edith? Must she accompany the maid on her errands as well?’
‘Your sister is poorly, she’s in bed with a cough, as well you know. Please don’t disturb her.’
‘But, Mutti, what will people think?’ Adele can hear the ugly, pleading note in her voice, and knows it will carry no weight with her mother.
‘It’ll do you no harm to have some fresh air and physical activity. You’re welcome to return after midday – that’s little more than an hour to pass in Hanna’s company.’
Adele heaves herself from the chaise longue, pouting with a childish look of disappointment, which her mother does her the honour of noticing. She takes Adele by the shoulders, smooths her hair. ‘I’m only thinking of you, darling. These women are all angling for a beautiful, spirited daughter-in-law from a good family, so it’s best you are out of the way.’
Adele sighs dramatically, then laughs despite herself. ‘You always know the right thing to say to get your own way, Mutti,’ she says, rolling her eyes, as Hanna appears at the door, a basket in each hand.
Adele makes polite conversation with Hanna during the twenty-minute walk through the Schönbrunn Palace gardens. It’s a warm day. The rains of the previous week have passed, giving way to fresh blooms of leaf growth, and buds bursting forth from soil and stem. Adele and Hanna pass the entrance to the zoo with its menagerie of animals, the grunts of some unknown beast making itself heard over the walls. They continue, crossing in front of the Palmenhaus, the elegant greenhouse filled with exotic plants. A blaze of colour is visible through the great glass panels, which are moist with condensation from the fetid heat within.
Hanna asks after Edith, showing great concern over her sister’s health.
‘Nothing suggests it is anything more than a cough,’ Adele replies.
‘I’m sure she’ll recover quickly enough,’ Hanna says.
The market, when they arrive, ripples with energy. Adele carefully skirts thick puddles of mud – one could pick up all kinds of disease in a place such as this. Its workers – hard-nosed women as well as men with dirty forearms – shout coarse words, calling out prices, holding up bunches of radishes, mud clinging to the roots, or the creamy heads of cauliflowers, trying to distract customers at a rival stall with all kinds of promises and slander. They wink in amusement when they catch Adele’s eye. She holds a handkerchief to her nose, trying to block the smell of manure, sweat and spoiled vegetables.
Adele hangs back, watching Hanna barter. She’s surprised at the warm repartee that passes between the maid and the market traders. Hanna returns the banter as she negotiates a better price for a cut of meat, which is wrapped and placed in her basket.
‘Just a few more items on your mother’s list,’ Hanna says.
Adele thrums with impatience as they add butter, eggs and sugar to the basket, for Mutti wants cake, but Hanna refuses to be hurried. Adele rolls her eyes as Hanna insists on picking up every piece of fruit to test its freshness, but finally, they have everything they need.
They walk home, the young woman a step or two ahead of the maid, who insists her hips are slowing her down. She stops to toss crumbs from a stale leftover crust, carried from the Harms family home, to feed the birds in the park. The church bells toll midday as they walk down the tree-lined street of Hietzinger Hauptstrasse.
‘Is that Edith?’ Adele asks, stopping Hanna with a hand on her arm, peering at a young woman two dozen steps ahead of them. ‘Edith!’ she calls, but the sound is drowned out by the rhythmic clatter of passing horses. Edith is wearing an overcoat, despite the sunshine, but Adele’s first thought is how beautiful her sister looks. Sunlight glints off her hair as she waits for the horse-drawn cart to pass. Edith steps into the road, before crossing to the other side, heading in the direction of the main door to their building.
Adele takes a few eager strides to catch up with Edith, but then she sees the artist. He’s hurrying after her sister, a hand raised in Edith’s direction, clearly trying to engage her in conversation. They talk briefly and Adele’s heart skips a beat.
