LITMIR.BIZ

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8

      Berlitz has given me a prestigious teaching job. I’m going to teach English to none other than the director of Bank Austria, Austria’s biggest bank. Because he’s a very busy man, the only time he’s available is seven in the evening. The fact that Herr Direktor Kolbinger is a very busy man is something that has been impressed upon me three times. The third time I was this close to pointing out that it wasn’t me asking to disturb him.

      So now I’m sitting on a bench on Karlsplatz, waiting for seven o’clock to come round. Right behind me is Bank Austria’s marble-clad entrance. The evening is mild, and tourists mill about in front of me, looking at the opera house or one of the half-dozen concert-ticket sellers dressed as Mozart in cheap wigs. Large posters announce that the opera will be performing The Magic Flute tonight.

      Someone sits beside me on the bench. I carry on watching a group of Japanese tourists who cover their mouths, titter and hurry away when one of the ticket sellers says hello to them. The bottoms of the Mozart’s dark-red velvet trousers are held together with safety pins.

      ‘What’s the time?’ a voice says beside me in English.

      I look at the clock that’s right in front of us.

      ‘Ten to seven,’ I say, and dart a look at the person.

      He’s big. His hair, clothes, beard, and most of all, his eyes, are big. He might even have the biggest eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re dark brown, just like his hair and his beard would probably be if they weren’t so dusty and dry. I turn back to the clock. At the same time I realise the person beside me on the bench is about to ask me something else.

      ‘What’s your name?’ he asks after exactly thirty seconds.

      ‘Julia.’

      Now I see he’s holding a tatty laptop bag in his hands. His nails are filthy and his fingertips are a dirty yellow.

      ‘Are you from here?’ he asks.

      Once again I look at the enormous man – no, the enormous homeless man – beside me and wonder when he’s going to ask me for money.

      ‘No, from Sweden.’

      ‘Oh thank the lord, so you’re not an Austrian,’ he says, breathing a sigh of relief.

      His comment makes me laugh out loud, which in turn produces a big grin from him, and he leans closer to me.

      ‘I didn’t mean that,’ he said. ‘Austrians are just a bit weird.’

      ‘Weird how?’ I ask.

      He scratches his beard and ponders.

      ‘Aloof in some way, like they have some big secret in common. One that everyone knows, but that everyone keeps schtum about.’

      ‘Maybe that they’ve got someone hidden in the cellar,’ I suggest.

      The homeless guy nods furiously. ‘Exactly! And they all seem to be in really bad moods the whole time. On the other hand, they did give the world Arnold Schwarzenegger,’ he says. ‘So I’m ready to forgive them.’

      From the clock I see it’s five to seven. I ought to go in to see Herr Direktor Kolbinger.

      ‘Do you really love Schwarzenegger that much?’ I ask.

      The man turns towards me and makes his eyes hard.

      ‘You’re a funny guy, Sully. I like you. That’s why I’m going to kill you last,’ he says in an uncanny imitation of Arnie.

      I can’t help smiling as I stand up. ‘Well, have fun,’ I say.

      The homeless guy stands up too. He must be almost two metres tall. ‘Do you have to go?’

      I nod. I know I should make my way to the bank but there’s something keeping me here. Now the time is three minutes to seven and I’m definitely going to be late for my first lesson with Herr Direktor Kolbinger.

      ‘Bye b—’ I begin.

      The guy points at the bench.

      ‘Saturday, seven o’clock, same bench,’ he says. Then he turns and disappears among the crowds.

       9

      Herr Direktor Kolbinger has the whitest hair I’ve ever seen and smells of strong, spicy eau de cologne. But aside from those details, our lesson is a little hazy, because I can’t stop thinking about my encounter with the homeless man. Also, the bank director keeps answering his phone, meaning that we’re constantly being interrupted. When the forty-five minutes are over, he tells me his secretary will be in touch to arrange the next lesson. He shakes my hand and almost pushes me out of the room.

      When I come out onto Karlsplatz again, I keep an eye out in case the big hairy man has come back. When I fail to see him I walk all the way home instead of taking Tram 1 and then Bus 48A. Past the Butterfly House, the Natural History Museum and the Volkstheater. Outside the museum quarter they’ve already started selling potato wedges and those chestnuts that always smell better than they taste. On the trees, some of the leaves have turned from green to shrivelled yellow. I think about the homeless guy’s last words and feel slightly annoyed that they sounded like an order.

      The next evening I meet Leonore. For the best part of an hour I let her talk about the argument she had with the Beige Man after he caught her red-handed drinking Coca Cola rather than Red Bull Cola. The whole time I wonder whether I should mention the man I met. In the end I decide to go for it.

      ‘A homeless guy started talking to me yesterday,’ I begin. ‘While I was sitting outside the opera house.’

      Leonore grimaces. ‘Ugh,’ she says. ‘I hate it when they do that.’

      ‘No, he was different,’ I say. ‘Quite funny, actually. And kind of sexy in an odd way.’

      ‘What did you talk about?’

      I immediately regret mentioning it.

      ‘Schwarzenegger.’

      Leonore looks at me as though I’ve just let rip a huge fart in the middle of the Opera Ball.

      ‘Men are so pathetic,’ she mutters.

      ‘He asked if we could meet again,’ I say. It’s not exactly a lie. ‘On Saturday.’

      ‘Oh good God, you didn’t say yes, did you?’ Leonore exclaims, and for the first time I get the feeling she’s actually looking at me.

      I don’t answer.

      ‘So how long were you talking?’ Leonore asks.

      ‘Seven minutes exactly,’ I reply.

      Rebecca’s more curious. We’re sitting at Café Central, waiting for our cakes to arrive. It’s part of our plan to work our way through every famous café in Vienna. We pretend we’re there to surround ourselves with cultural history, but really it’s just an excuse to stuff ourselves with baked goods.

      ‘Was he English?’ Rebecca asks.

      ‘Nah,’ I say. ‘He sounded more American.’

      ‘What was his name?’

      ‘I didn’t ask.’

      We watch a family with two teenage children sit down at the next table. The tail-coated waiter gives them each a leather-trimmed menu.

      ‘Wonder how he ended up on the street,’ she says.

      ‘I wonder what he’s doing in Vienna,’ I say. ‘It’s hardly the most welcoming place for people like him.’

      The police recently carried out a major purge

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