Leonore has asked to meet me at Café Westend at the end of Mariahilferstrasse. When I arrive she’s already there, which is the first warning sign. The people in the café are a mix of young people talking excitedly to one another, and hunch-backed pensioners cutting up their schnitzels and boiled potatoes at snail’s pace. At one of the tables, three men with weather-beaten faces and fake leather jackets are looking as though they’re having a meeting about stolen Audis. If I didn’t know it was easy to find a parking space nearby, I’d wonder why Leonore had chosen such a – for her – shabby place.
As soon as Leonore catches sight of me she gets up and we kiss each other once on the cheek.
‘So,’ she begins. ‘Have you just come straight from work?’
I nod and hang up my jacket.
‘How was it?’ Leonore asks.
‘Do you really want to know?’ I ask and sit down.
Leonore beams and nods. That’s the second warning sign.
‘I have a student who I’m friends with on Facebook and LinkedIn for some reason,’ I begin. ‘And he’s been promoted. So he updated his LinkedIn details with his new job title. And loads of people liked the new job title. And my student liked the new job title. So I liked his new job title and I liked that my student liked his new job title. But then in class my student didn’t like it when I told him that I’d liked that he liked his new job title. So during the break my student unliked his new job title.’ I shake my head. ‘Being friends with students is such a minefield. You can’t be friends with them. It’s a lesson I should have learned by this point. It’s like that Christmas Eve football match between the soldiers during the First World War. At some point you always go back to being British or German soldiers trying to kill each other.
‘And before that I had two female students from the same company who seemed to hate each other so I ended up having to be a diplomat as well as a teacher.
‘And before that I was doing homework tutoring for a 15-year-old girl who has a 2,000-euro handbag but still can’t use “could” and “would” correctly.’
I can see that Leonore hasn’t listened to a word of my story. Every muscle in her body is poised for the chance to speak.
‘How are rehearsals going?’ I ask.
Leonore springs to life again like a jack-in-the-box.
‘Oh, the actors left the rehearsal room in such a state yesterday that I almost lost it,’ she replies. ‘Am I their slave or what? By the way, are you still going out with that homeless guy? I heard about him from Sarah.’
I can’t help smiling a little. ‘Leonore, is this some kind of intervention? Shouldn’t there be more people here in that case?’
‘I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing,’ she says.
‘I know what I’m doing,’ I say.
‘That he’s not taking advantage of you.’
‘He’s not taking advantage of me.’
‘That you’re not going to get hurt.’
‘I’m not going to get hurt.’
‘That it doesn’t end with you coming home one day and finding your VCR is gone and you never see him again.’
‘Well, it’s not 1987, so I don’t have a VCR,’ I say. ‘So if he took anything, it would probably be the DVD player.’
‘Julia, he’s homeless,’ Leonore says. ‘What kind of future do you have? Does he have any education? Does he have any employment experience? Does he even want a job? Have you given him any money?’
For the first time I don’t answer, because her questions make my muscles stiffen and clench. Suddenly I feel like I’m going to cry, even though I’m getting increasingly angry with Leonore.
‘I just want to make sure you’ve thought this through,’ Leonore says.
I try to control my voice, so as not to give away my mixture of anger and sadness.
‘I’m grateful that you’re concerned about me, Leonore, and I really want to reassure you that I know what I’m doing. I have no plans to get involved in a serious relationship or get married to him. Particularly because he’s heading off to Berlin soon and then, I assume, back to Canada. At the same time, I’m a grown woman and I feel a bit insulted that I’m having to justify my relationship.’
To tell the truth, Ben hasn’t mentioned Berlin since our first date and sometimes I almost hope he’ll stay in Vienna. Then I have to remind myself that it’s just a brief adventure.
‘Sarah said he was really aggressive,’ Leonore says.
‘What?’ I exclaim. ‘No he wasn’t.’
‘Well, she said he behaved extremely aggressively when she asked a couple of simple questions.’
‘Sarah’s an idiot,’ I say. ‘If anyone was being aggressive it was her.’
‘I want you to fall in love and be happy. But this guy really doesn’t sound right for you.’
My whole body is still rigid and I don’t want to make eye contact with Leonore just now. I think about the time she told me that as soon as she quit her job as a consultant for a multinational company in Vienna and stopped having a real career, her and the Beige Man’s sex life improved. It’s one of the most tragic things I’ve ever heard.
‘We don’t need to talk about it right now,’ Leonore says. ‘Just think about what I’ve said. There are more adventurous guys than this homeless man.’
‘Adventurous?’ I ask, looking at Leonore.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘It’s become clear now that that’s what you’re after. But he’s not the only one.’
‘I’m not after adventurous guys,’ I say.
‘OK, enough,’ Leonore says.
To my relief we change the subject, and talk instead about a mutual friend who’s moving to Dubai, about Leonore’s plans to renovate her kitchen, about Leonore’s latest obsession with raw food and more about Leonore. Suddenly Leonore waves her hand.
‘Gernot!’ she calls.
A sombrely dressed guy with melancholy eyes walks over to us. I realise immediately what Leonore’s up to and wonder what the chances are of her being hospitalised if I pour my Wiener Melange over her.
‘Come sit down,’ Leonore tells him, looking delighted. ‘This is my friend Julia.’
Gernot and I shake hands. He’s shorter than me and looks as though he can’t be more than twenty-two.
‘How are you?’ Leonore says.
‘Not so fine,’ Gernot replies, shaking his head. ‘My eyes are hurting again.’
A waiter comes over to take his order.
‘And I ought to clean my apartment,’ Gernot goes on when the waiter’s disappeared. ‘But … I can’t.’
The reason Gernot can’t clean his apartment remains a mystery.
‘Gernot helped me out a bit with my website a couple of years ago,’ Leonore explains. ‘That’s how we got to know each other.’
‘That’s nice,’ I say.
Gernot stares grimly ahead of him.
‘He works in IT,’ Leonore says.
‘That’s nice,’ I say again.
Suddenly Leonore looks at her mobile.
‘Oh no!’ she cries. ‘I have to be off. But you should stay. My shout!’
Before either Gernot or I can say anything, Leonore is gone. Thirty seconds later, I get the following text from her: Gernot almost climbed The Grossglockner. Adventurous!!!
I put my phone away and try to think of something to talk about with Gernot-who-almost-climbed-The Grossglockner. I’d much rather have gone home, but Gernot already looks as though he has the weight of the world on his shoulders, so I don’t have the heart to add to his misery.
‘So er … Gernot,’ I begin. ‘What do you like to do in your spare time?’
Gernot thinks for a moment.
‘I like being out in nature,’ he replies.
I try to come up with a follow-up question.
‘And what do you like to do out in nature?’
‘Oh, just be out of doors.’
We’re silent for a few seconds.
‘Where do you go when you want to get out into nature?’ I ask in the end.
‘Around Vienna.’
‘And … do you like cooking?’ I ask.
‘Sometimes,’ Gernot answers.
‘Whole sentences,’ I correct him.
‘What?’
I feel my cheeks grow hot. ‘I mean that it’s better to reply in whole sentences,’ I explain. ‘“Sometimes I like to cook.” That way you learn a language better and more quickly.’
Gernot doesn’t say anything.
‘I work as an English teacher at Berlitz,’ I say apologetically. ‘And apparently I’ve fallen victim to an occupational hazard.’
Gernot suddenly brightens up.
‘Then maybe you can tell me why people in American films always say “What’s up?”’ Gernot says. ‘What do they mean, “up”? What is up? Why not down?’
I clear my throat before starting to explain with the most easily-understandable words and the clearest pronunciation I can manage.
‘Some people say it’s a short way of saying “What’s up with you?”, and others think it’s a short way of saying “What’s the up-date?”,’ I reply. ‘But it’s a silly bit of slang and shouldn’t be used, because you can’t really give an answer.’
Gernot looks disappointed.
‘But did you know that the correct answer to “How do you do?” is “How do you do?”’ I try to console him. ‘You answer a question with a question. It’s quite funny, isn’t it? But of course there aren’t many people who say that, these days. Except in Downton Abbey.’
‘I’ve never seen Downton Abbey,’ Gernot says. ‘It’s not my kind of programme.’
‘Me neither,’ I say. ‘But I assume they say it on there.’
We sit in silence again because we’ve both realised we have no idea why we’re here. I glance at the men in the fake leather jackets and realise I’d rather be sitting with them discussing whether or not we can trust Sergei. In the end I stand up.
‘Gernot,’ I say. ‘It was really nice meeting you but I have to go now.’
‘OK,’ Gernot says, sounding like Eeyore.
After I’ve left Café Westend and am on the way home, I get so angry with Leonore my whole body shakes. It’s obvious that my relationship with Ben bothers her. What I can’t figure out is why her reaction irritates me and gives me a kick at the same time. It occurs to me that maybe I actually like the fact that she might be seeing me in a new light.
Though we never officially talk about it, Ben moves into my place with his little plastic bag. I clear some space in one of my drawers and find an unused toothbrush and comb in my bits-and-bobs drawer for him. Ben pretends he likes Optimus and Optimus starts peeing in Ben’s brand-new shoes.