January in England was unseasonably mild, but Vienna was full of snow which a bitter east wind whipped into mini-blizzards at every corner.
At Thomas Cook’s they had told her that the cheapest way of getting to Vienna was to go on a weekend package. When she saw that the designated hotel was the Park Hotel Schönbrunn in Hietzinger Hauptstrasse, only five minutes’ walk from her old apartment, she did not know whether to be glad or distressed.
She arrived at the hotel late on Friday afternoon. After unpacking, she bathed the journey off her still skinny body, then got dressed and went out. She knew where she was going even though she did not admit it, and a few minutes later she was standing solitary in the snow, staring up at the line of windows in the high old building behind which she had (so it now seemed) slept away the last three years.
Soon the chill of the pavement began to strike up into her feet and she turned away, her mind numb with more than cold.
In a little while, she reached a small Gasthaus which she and Trent had occasionally visited for a simple meal. Confident of anonymity in her new guise, she entered and ordered a schnapps. To her horror, the owner, after regarding her curiously for a moment, said, ‘Frau Adamson, nicht wahr? We haven’t seen you for a little time. Is your husband joining you tonight?’
Hastily she downed her drink, muttered something about being in a hurry and rushed off into the frosty night.
Back at the hotel she went straight to the bar and had another schnapps. It seemed to her that she was involved in a test of strength with this city. It was determined to turn her into a ghost, driven palely by its cold winds down all the avenues of her old life, unable to communicate except by piteous weepings.
But she was not a ghost; she was a living woman, here with a purpose; two purposes perhaps, or perhaps even three. It was in pursuit of these that she would establish her identity, not by drinking here at the bar or wandering aimlessly round the streets.
She took Astrid Fischer’s last letter out of her handbag and studied the address. Then she went out of the hotel again and walked the hundred or so yards to the underground station.
When Astrid opened the door of her flat, Trudi knew exactly the scene she was ready to play. The trouble was that instead of the cue of a guilty start which had been Astrid’s role in her mental rehearsal, the younger woman’s face expressed only a second’s surprise before breaking into a wide welcoming smile.
‘Trudi! This is marvellous! You should have warned me, but never mind, this is really marvellous. Come in, please!’
It was a pleasant apartment, open-plan and opulently appointed. The sleeping area was raised a few feet above the rest. On the bed was a half-packed suitcase. Trudi pictured Trent under the chequered duvet. The picture did not hurt as much as it should have, so she tried to fan her anger by wondering how much of Trent’s money had gone into the expensive furnishings and decor.
‘Let me get you a drink? When did you arrive? How long are you staying?’
Trudi shook her head, as much in bewilderment at how to begin as refusal of the drink. Astrid looked so young, so attractive, so sophisticated. It was no contest. What was she supposed to do? – scream like a fishwife in a ridiculous self-parodying jealous rage?
Then she glimpsed herself in the glass of a framed Japanese print on the wall behind Astrid. What she saw gave her new strength. She was no longer a dumpy little Viennese hausfrau, but a slender, smartly dressed woman who might look her age but no older. And what she had to be angry about was not just the deceit of infidelity but the pretence of friendship.
She said coldly, ‘It’s no good, Astrid. I know.’
‘Know what?’ The tone was politely puzzled, the smile still warm.
‘I know about you and Trent.’
The smile faded. Its slow disappearance sent a feeling of triumph and also of malice surging up through Trudi.
She said contemptuously, ‘You cow.’
Astrid sat down, looking shattered.
‘Please, tell me …’ she said in a low voice.
‘You were with him that day. You met him there, on the road. Got in the car with him. There was a witness. You bitch.’
Astrid’s wide blue eyes were fixed hard on Trudi’s face as though in search of some message of enlightenment.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please. I do not understand …’
‘How do you want it?’ mocked Trudi. ‘In English or in German? You were his mistress, his fancy woman, his tart, seine Nutte! You’d been with him a few minutes before he died. You came to the funeral, talked with me later, listened to me; acting, pretending, deceiving … bitch!’
Astrid had sunk her face into her hands and her long blonde hair fell forward in a curtain, producing an effect of concealment and removal so complete that Trudi’s words stuttered to a halt.
When the girl raised her head, her cheeks were wet with tears, but her expression was one of decision, almost of calculation.
‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I loved him. He did not love me, not so much anyway. When he left Vienna, I was broken-hearted. I followed to plead with him. He was so angry when I contacted him, he did not want to see me, would only agree to meet for a few moments somewhere quiet and remote. Nothing happened that day, believe me, Trudi. But he was there because of me. It was me who led him to his death!’
Curiously, though not unmoved by the woman’s emotion, Trudi found herself a little piqued at her arrogation of total responsibility for Trent’s death.
She said sharply, ‘Don’t be stupid. He died because … he died!’
It seemed pointless to prolong the interview.
She turned to the door.
‘Trudi, are you going?’
‘Of course I’m going,’ she said in surprise.
Astrid brushed away her tears and said, ‘You have come all the way to Vienna just to say this to me?’
Trudi laughed and said, ‘Don’t flatter yourself! This was just a little extra treat and I wish I hadn’t bothered.’
‘Trudi! Please. Do not go. Stay a little while. Let us talk.’
Trudi looked at the Austrian woman shrewdly and said, ‘How odd. You seem almost relieved at what’s happened.’
‘Relieved? Yes, yes, it is true. I am glad you have come. I am glad this thing is no longer between us.’
The assumption that to know all automatically meant to forgive all irritated Trudi greatly.
‘What do you mean it’s no longer between us?’ she demanded. ‘It will always be between us.’
‘But Trent is dead,’ said Astrid, with the air of one who offers an irrefutable argument.
‘That’s what I mean by always,’ said Trudi, once more making for the door.
‘Trudi! This is foolish. You must not go like this. It was nothing, please understand. It was not important!’
‘It was important enough to bring you halfway across Europe after him,’ retorted Trudi.
‘Oh yes; important for me. Of course it was important for me, but that need not bother you, need it? I loved Trent, I pursued him. I admit it. But why should what I felt bother you so much? It is what you believe Trent felt that makes you angry, and what he can never deny now he is dead. But he denied it to me. Yes, Trudi, his last words to me, to anyone, were a denial that he loved me or had ever loved me.’
Trudi said, ‘Are you trying to tell me he wasn’t planning to go away with you?’
Astrid said, ‘You knew he was planning to go away?’
‘I’ve worked it out,’ said Trudi grimly.
She could almost see the younger woman’s mind working.
‘Not with me,’ she said finally.
‘Don’t give me that!’ exclaimed Trudi. ‘What’s the matter, Fräulein Fischer? Do you know where the money is and think you can get your hands on it?’
This assault twisted Astrid’s face into an expression that might have been shock, incomprehension, guilt, or even fear.
‘What money?’ she asked.
‘Trent left me four thousand pounds, nothing more. Don’t you recall how eager you were to help me go through his papers? God, I see it all now!’
‘No, Trudi, you are wrong, believe me. You of all people should know how secretive Trent was. Even if what you say about his plans to leave is true, do you think he would have let me know about his financial arrangements?’
It was a telling argument. Trudi still had no real idea of the truth at the heart of all this business, but one thing she was certain of was that Trent would never let anyone else know the whole of it.
Sensing that her visitor’s rage was on the ebb, Astrid said, ‘Trudi, please, whatever else you believe, believe I am glad to see you. You look so much better than last time. Dare I say it? So much younger. And so alive! Please, won’t you sit down and have a drink. Look, have you eaten? I can make us a little meal. Please, just for an hour. You can be angry with me for the rest of your life if you like, but let us have an hour together to sit and talk.’
She took Trudi’s hands and drew her back into the room. Trudi did not, could not resist. It was like a seduction, she thought. Perhaps, having had Trent, Astrid now thought she would try his widow. How this horrifying idea should have popped into her head she did not know, but while the thought of any sexual contact with the younger woman had no appeal whatsoever, the prospect of a drink did.
She heard herself saying with a ridiculous bourgeois politeness, ‘No, but you’re busy. I can see you’re packing.’
‘Oh, that. I’m going away tomorrow. A week’s ski-ing. But I don’t have to set off till lunch time. Please stay.’
‘All right,’ said Trudi, sitting down. ‘Just for a minute. I’ll have a schnapps.’
She awoke the next morning to discover that she had missed breakfast. It had turned into a late night. They had drunk, then Astrid had scrambled some eggs to sober them up, then they had drunk some more. And they had talked. Trudi had got Astrid’s life story which seemed so littered with unhappy affairs that the liaison with Trent was reduced to one of a long series in which Astrid was the guaranteed loser. In return Astrid had received a blow-by-blow account of Trudi’s decline and resurrection since they had parted after the funeral. Astrid had been fascinated by every detail. Trudi had been flattered by such an interested and admiring audience, and though she could not remember all she had said, had a distinct impression that she had said all.
Astrid had suggested they meet again for coffee the following morning before she set out on her ski-ing trip. Trudi had been drunkenly adamant that she was far too busy. Piqued by Astrid’s unconcealed scepticism, she had run through her proposed timetable, padding it out a little for the sake of emphasis. Now by sleeping in she found she was indeed going to be rushed, even assuming her proposed arrangements could be made. She should have made them in advance, she knew, but once she had decided to come to Vienna, it had seemed imperative to maintain the impetus and come at once.
She dialled Werner’s number, unoptimistic that even the Austrian work-ethic would have him on call at weekends. But she had forgotten that those who serve the rich are expected to earn their fees by instant availability. No, said the weary receptionist who answered the phone, Dr Werner was not in his consulting rooms that morning, but if it was urgent, he could be contacted at his clinic near Kahlenbergerdorf. It was urgent, said Trudi. There was a long pause. Finally the girl came back on and said that the Herr Doktor would be pleased to see Frau Adamson if she could visit him at the clinic at three o’clock that afternoon.
Happily, the antique shop dovetailed nicely with this. Herr Müller, the valuer, had just had an appointment cancelled and was able to meet Trudi at the repository in an hour’s time.
The repository was a grey windowless building close to the Danube canal. A sad-faced man in a dusty white overall checked through an equally dusty ledger, then muttered something which Trudi did not catch.
‘I beg your pardon?’ she said.
‘He is here already,’ said the man surlily.
‘Who is?’
‘Herr Adamson.’
For a second Trudi felt her mind cloud like a glass of Pernod into which a drop of water had been trailed.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You mean Herr Müller.’
But the sad-faced man had already turned away and was leading her without a backward glance through a graveyard of shrouded furniture.
Their steps fell dully on the concrete floor. The walls gave back no echo. The only light fell in narrow columns from a series of small bulbs in long, black, cylindrical shades.
Eventually her guide halted alongside a bay in which some of the dust-sheets had been removed. Trudi recognized an Italian writing bureau which she had bought for Trent nearly twenty years ago. There was no sign of Müller or anyone else. The warehouseman grunted something, then began to remove the rest of the covers, his expression as unchangingly melancholic as if he were unveiling memorials of some savage war. Slowly Trudi saw the past emerge, familiar shapes rising as strange and sea-changed as salvage from an ancient wreck. Here she and Trent had sat together, from this table they had eaten, in this bed made love.
Finally the job was done. The man nodded and left, his footsteps fading rapidly. Where on earth was Müller? wondered Trudi in irritation, an emotion almost welcome as it held at bay momentarily the distress she could feel gathering at this encounter with the past.
Determinedly she began to check off the furniture against her own list, adding marks to show what she wished to sell and what she thought she would keep. There was little enough of the latter. She needed the money, and the expense of safe transport to England would be large. But something she ought to have. Surely even the dormouse did not leave its hibernatory nest without a sad backward glance?
She settled for a wine table and a collection of porcelain figurines. The bureau would have been nice, but it was too large, and besides several amateurs of furniture had assured her it was a really excellent piece, a bargain at the price she’d paid, which at the time had seemed exorbitant! She ran her fingers over the inlay, then saw with annoyance that there were some tiny scratches around the lock. Those had not been there before. Angrily she glanced around, intending to summon the custodian to make complaint, but he was long gone. Delving into her handbag, she produced Trent’s key-fob and sorted out the bureau key. To her relief it turned easily, so at least the lock was not damaged. She pulled the lid of the bureau which formed the writing desk and began to unlock the small internal drawers revealed. They were empty as she had expected but when she slid open the conventional ‘secret’ inner drawer behind these, she saw it contained a few sheets of paper. She took them out.
Behind her there was a noise, a soft footfall.
Her mind said: Herr Müller, but the word scarcely articulated from her constricted throat was ‘Trent’.
A hand plucked at the papers in her hand. She swung round, but saw no one. The air was full of a billowing greyness which descended upon her and enveloped her and crushed tightly around her with the strength of strong arms, forcing her to the floor. She tried to cry out but the greyness stifled her; she tried to struggle but the greyness constricted her. Or perhaps it was just her own terrors that paralysed her tongue and her limbs. Awareness of this possibility brought back strength. She wrestled wildly along the floor, crashing into pieces of furniture, till at last she was out of the constricting greyness and able to draw in deep breaths of the stuffy air and then let them out again in high, rhythmic shrieks as she saw crouching over her a broad, bright-eyed man with a turbulent black beard.
‘Please, please, Mrs Adamson,’ he said helplessly. ‘It is me, Herr Müller. We are to meet here. Please. Please.’
Still shrieking, she became aware that beside him stood the sad-faced custodian. Slowly the shrieks became sobs, the sobs became deep body-racking breaths, as the two men untangled her from the huge dust-sheet which had been tossed over her head, and helped her into one of her own chairs.
‘What has happened? What has happened?’ asked Müller, who seemed beneath his fearsome appearance to be a mild-mannered and uncertain kind of man.
‘Didn’t you see? Didn’t you see anything?’ demanded Trudi.
‘No. The storeman was bringing me to where you were, and then we saw you rolling around on the floor entangled in this sheet.’
‘And no one else? You saw no one else?’
The bearded head shook. The sad face did not respond. It seemed to be listening. Was that a distant door closing?
‘Herr Adamson,’ said the warehouseman. And nodded his head as if this assertion explained everything.