Wiener Blut

 

Wiener Blut

 

 

It was a calm, rainy day in late October when Felix, on his day off, drove through Döbling and the old, picturesque Heurigen district of Vienna. Feeling hungry, he pulled up and parked close to one of the big tourist restaurants, one whose small frontage gave no hint of the number of huge salons behind it, to cope with the crowds of summer visitors. He decided to dine under the verandah overlooking the internal courtyard garden, avoiding those areas where rain dripped through the pergola holding up the yellowing leaves of wisteria. The waiter led him to a table for four and sat him down. There were few other diners enjoying such an early lunch-time.

Felix glanced at the ordinary menu, then focussed on the prix fixe. He saw they were offering Blunzengröstl, a hearty peasant dish of black pudding, potatoes, onions and garlic all fried together. Why not, he thought, and ordered it, with a beer. He could play at being a peasant if he chose to. He liked the crunchy bits best, and the sweetness of the caramelised onion.

The food didn’t take long to arrive, and not long after he had started eating, he noticed a smartly dressed younger woman come into the verandah area, looking around rather hesitantly, while holding out her hand to check which areas were dripping rainwater. Rather impulsively, for him, he called to her and asked if she would like to join him. She agreed, with a smile, said her name was Ludmilla, and sat down. The waiter brought a place setting and a menu.

‘Please carry on eating… ?’

‘Felix. Let’s be informal please.’

She made her choice quickly and called the waiter over, ordering the Schnitzel with a side salad. It arrived even quicker than Felix’s meal had. He guessed the restaurant would always have some pre-prepared and ready to cook. With it she had a glass of Sturm, which Felix knew as Federweisser or Süsser, newly fermented very young white wine, cloudy with suspended yeast. Felix had only tried it once. He’d enjoyed its refreshing flavour, but found it gave him diarrhoea. He’d stick with beer. He wasn’t Viennese, nor even Austrian, but he’d lived there since his marriage.

They chatted in a very easy and relaxed manner while they ate. He asked about her name.

‘You pronounce it in the Russian manner, as Lyudmilla. Are you Russian?’

‘No, but my grandmother had an affair with a Russian officer during the occupation. My mother had a difficult time growing up after independence, without a father, as her own mother had done, but she married a Hungarian locksmith, and I was named Ludmilla. My friends call me Lyuda. You can call me Lyuda if you like.’

‘Thank you. I shall, Lyuda.’

‘What is your story? I can tell by your accent that you’re not Austrian.’

‘No, German, originally from Lübeck. I worked as an oil geologist, and I ended up as one of the company’s OPEC team here in Vienna.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘We have an apartment near the Landstrasse U-Bahn station, not too far from the Hundertwasserhaus.’

‘Oh, it’s nice there. I’ve visited the ‘Haus a few times, meeting people there.’ She hesitated. ‘You’re on your own today?’ She’d obviously picked up from his use of “we” and the ring on his finger that he was married.

‘Day off. We have a carer who looks after my wife one day a week.’

‘Oh, goodness. Your wife is ill?’

‘Motor neuron disease. It is too sad to talk about.’

Lyuda took the hint and changed the subject to music – in Vienna an obvious and easy subject to discuss.

‘We used to go to the New Year’s Day Concerts of the Vienna Philharmonic at the Musikverein,’ he said.

‘That’s lovely. I always watch them on television,’ said Lyuda.

‘It’s great, except when the audience claps along with the Radetsky March. I hate that.’

‘I’d like to see the flowers, for real I mean.’

‘They are extraordinary. It’s almost worth going to the concert just to see them.’

They continued their friendly conversation, until Ludmilla said she had to get back to her fiancée. She called for her check, and the waiter brought two checks to the table. Felix picked them both up.

‘Please allow me to pay for us both Lyuda. It has been a long time since I have enjoyed such pleasant company.’

‘Oh thank you Felix. You are so kind. Perhaps we may meet again?’

She slipped a business card across to him. It contained only her name and a mobile phone number.

He knew she was a “working girl”, and she knew that he knew, but they continued the pretence that she was a mature woman with a fiancée in town.

She stood up and offered her left cheek for a kiss, and then the right.

 

A year later, the widower Felix sent her a text: I have two tickets for the New Year’s Day Concert. Would you like to see some flowers with me? Felix.

 

 

Colin Will

14/05/2021

 

Snap

 

Snap

‘It’s only a week Stuart,’ said Siobhan. ‘It’ll be fine. Eilidh can look after Laura until you come home from work.’
I didn’t mind that part of it really. I love my daughter Laura, and I did a lot of the evening things with her already – bath time fun, getting her ready for bed, reading her stories.  She’s a precocious wee soul – nearly four, so she’d be going to school next year, and it would be harder for Siobhan to take a whole week off to go on a residential photography course. I got on well with her older sister Eilidh too, and so did Laura. Eilidh’s a single mum, after the break-up of her marriage, and her wee boy Callum was the same age as our Laura.
‘It’ll be almost as easy for her looking after two as one at that age,’ said Siobhan.
But she and I had never been apart since our wedding seven years ago, and I knew we’d miss each other, even if it was only for a week. She’d taken up photography about a year ago, and she’d started attending an evening class, one night a week, with more and more enthusiasm. I couldn’t deny her the chance to do some intensive study to further her interest.
Of course I said yes. She showed me her course details – a week in the University’s halls of residence, while the students were on holiday. Her tutor, Dr MacCandless, was also her night school tutor, and he’d be assisted by a distinguished local photographer with letters after his name. The printout said they’d be covering nature, landscape, urban and social photography, portraiture and presentation. The eight students would check in to their rooms on Saturday morning by 11am and then meet for lunch in the University café. Later they’d each separately go for a walk round the campus with their cameras. A “getting to know you” meal would follow, and then they’d have a slide show of the shots they’d taken, with discussion led by their tutors.
I was actually envious. I’m not much of a photographer, but I’d love to have time to indulge my hobby, not that vegetable growing would need a week-long course. But it sounded interesting.
‘You’ll need to give me a slide show when you get back,’ I said.
Eilidh came round with Callum one evening, and we sorted out all the details.
And then Siobhan packed her things on the Friday night, and the next morning she was off. She took the car, of course, so next week I’d have to get myself to work by public transport – train then bus.
Just before six she phoned me. I’d made Laura our supper – macaroni and cheese, with oven chips – took a photo of her with my phone, then wiped the tomato sauce off her face. I sent the photo to Siobhan, and soon after that she phoned me.
‘Love the photo Stuart. Everything OK?’
‘Yes, fine. How are things with you?’
‘It’s exciting. I had a lovely walk round the grounds, photographed the trees and the lake with the ducks. We’re meeting soon for our meal and the slide show afterwards, so I don’t have long.’
‘You going out to eat?’
‘No, Dr MacCandless has ordered pizzas, and he’s laid in some bottles of prosecco.’
‘That’ll be nice. Don’t drink too much.’
‘Why not? It feels like I’m on holiday.. Well, must go Stuart. I’ll phone again tomorrow evening. Love you.’
‘Love you too. Bye,’ I said.
The rest of the weekend was fine, and then on Monday morning Eilidh came round with Callum at 7.30 so I could get off for my train.
Eilidh joined Laura and I for our supper, which I cooked, and she was great company. Then she and Callum left to go home, and I put Laura to bed. I was expecting a phone call from Siobhan, but it didn’t come. Before I got into bed I checked my mobile, and there was a text from her.
<Sorry I didn’t have time to phone. So much going on here. I’ll phone tomorrow. S>
No “Love” at the end of the message, no “xxx” which she usually signed off with.
She didn’t phone on Tuesday night, and nor did she text me.
When I got home on the Wednesday evening Eilidh was looking rather pensive.
‘What’s wrong Eilidh?’
‘Nothing Stuart, just got a lot on my mind just now.’
Before she left that evening she gave me a hug, which was very unusual.
‘Goodnight, dear Stuart, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
There was a text from Siobhan that night. My phone buzzed around midnight, waking me up.
<I’m so so sorry, Stuart. I’ll see you on Saturday. Kiss Laura for me. S>
Thursday evening Eilidh didn’t hide her tears.
‘Siobhan phoned me yesterday. She’s fallen for her tutor.’
‘Dr MacCandless?’
‘Yes, Danny MacCandless. She’s leaving you Stuart. Apparently it started at her night school classes. She’s been seeing him for a few months now.’
‘What about Laura?’
‘She didn’t mention Laura. But she’s pregnant, and she says Danny’s the father.’

It’s now six months later, and I can’t believe all the things that have happened since then, some tragic, others surprisingly joyous. I moved in with Eilidh and Callum, and brought Laura with me. I won’t say we love each other yet, but it’s definitely on the cards. Siobhan moved in with Danny MacCandless, and she’s just given birth to a boy. I don’t know what his name is, and to be honest I don’t care. Our divorce is going through just now. We sold our house and split the profits, not that they amounted to much. She sees Laura once a week, at Eilidh’s house. I don’t know if she still takes photographs.

Copyright © Colin Will 2019

Blue Boy

I like this one. I still think it's a nice wee story, written in a conversational style. Those who know Skye will recognise some of the places, including the lodge.

 Blue Boy

You never liked me in blue, but it was always my favourite colour. Remember my blue Shetland jumper? I’m wearing it this weekend, the thick close-knit wool keeping the cold out on the short walks we take, down to shore, or back up the track for a view of the snow-swept mountains we first visited before we were married. 

My mother used to say I suited blue; she thought it made my grey-blue eyes less grey, more blue. I’ve got a dark blue checked shirt I like wearing.

I’m not saying I’m like Gainsborough’s Blue Boy ‒ he’s a bit much. I could never wear the silk suit and flouncy slippers like him, but I do like his full-face gaze, his confident stare at the man painting him. 

We bought my jumper in the whaling museum at Scalloway, remember that? With all the flensing knives and harpoon heads on the walls, and the table full of knitwear the old woman had done herself. Lovely design and workmanship, you said, and so warm, but you couldn’t possibly wear it. Too scratchy, you said, but I’ve never minded scratchy, and it was warm and snug-fitting, and mine before we left the museum. Remember that?

And now it’s a few years later, winter on Skye, a short break in a gourmet lodge with an uncomfortable bedroom under the roof. The food is special. You’ve always been a good cook, but this is what the posers on telly call “fine dining”, and it really is.

Before we foregather for our pre-dinner drinks at the set time, I stroll down the ice-glazed concrete jetty to look at the lights on the opposite side of the sea loch, dodging the dog shit in the half-light, wearing my cosy blue jumper, which still fits.

I regret that I may never need to buy another blue jumper, but I’m enjoying all these “bucket list” treats we’re sharing. You’re enjoying them too – I know you are, although it doesn’t stop you crying when you think I can’t see you, and sometimes when you know I can.

I suppose Skye was where it started for us, all those years ago, but we haven’t been back much since. Neither of us has those romantic hankerings to revisit the scenes of our youth. You aren’t the young woman I persuaded to come on a climbing holiday with me, and I’m not the young man who took it for granted you’d agree. Was I really so self-centred in those days? It’s all right, you can tell me.

I think my instincts were right though. Through all the exhaustion, excitement and sheer terror of those first days in the Cuillin, we did get closer, and at some point on the way back we said we would get married. Did I propose to you properly? I’m sorry to say I can’t actually remember. I like to think I did, but the return journey is a bit hazy, apart from that hot, sunny afternoon in Glencoe.

Then we were home, me to my parents, you to yours, and I can vividly remember going to your place to speak to your father. You don’t know exactly what we said to each other, only what I reported to you, maybe what he reported later. I dare say, knowing how these things work, that what you heard, from either side, would be a precis, glossing some words, omitting others. But you got the message. “Two households, alike in dignity, in fair Verona, where we lay our scene…” or whatever equivalent there might be for two working class families (mine already aspiring higher) in two provincial industrial towns in Scotland’s central belt, Barbauchlaw and Easton, named respectively for a burn and a pit. 

Nothing like that paternal permission conversation happened with our children. Tony never came to talk to me about wanting to live with Annie, but he probably talked to you about it. And Donnie didn’t tell me he was moving in with Adam. Did he confide in you? Not about the gay thing, we always knew that, but his love for this man, did he mention it? 

I’m pretty sure Adam wasn’t his first love, nor was I yours, nor you mine. But we never had that conversation either, did we? Didn’t think we needed it. I certainly didn’t.

Are you looking forward to tonight’s meal? After last night, I definitely am. The menu is limited; a choice of two starters, two mains, two puds – three if you count the cheese, but all exquisite. Yesterday I had little crab tartlets in a cheesy pastry and a pink peppercorn sauce for my starter, followed by blade of beef. Your main course was lovely too ‒ perfectly pan-fried halibut in a crispy vegetable nest, with celeriac puree, Swiss chard and a rich lemony buttery sauce. And I know I’m not usually a pudding person, but the dessert was scrumptious.

After breakfast tomorrow we’ll head home and I’ll get ready to stay in hospital for the first chemo session. You ask if I’m nervous but you already know I am. I think I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been. It’s almost, but not quite, overwhelming. If I let myself go I’d just dissolve in a little puddle. I had to go to the loo again, but it was just wind ‒ no follow-through, as I might say in one of my coarser moments.

The last time I was this anxious was when you were having that affair with your French colleague Rene, all those years ago. I worried myself sick you might decide to leave me for him. At the end of the day I don’t know if it was me or the boys that made you give him up. No, I’m not going over old ground. It would be like scratching the place where an old scab used to be, years ago, before it healed up and disappeared. There’s no longer any pain, not even any residual itchiness. We got over it. We got over it. That was when we learned to talk. And in my case, when I learned to listen.

It’s just that it’s easier for me to think about the scariest things of the past, and the fact that we got over them, than to think the unthinkably scary things which might or might not happen in the future, if I even have one. “What’s past is prologue; and what’s to come…”

What’s to come? Aye, there’s the rub.

You’ll be retiring in, what? five years? unless the government raises pension age again. Assuming I get through the next six months, I’ll probably be offered early retirement. Best case scenario. You’ll still be slaving away at the chalk face and I’ll be a gentleman of leisure, eking out my teacher’s pension. Maybe I’ll write the Great Post-Kelman Scottish Working Class Novel? No, I’m kidding myself. That will be another unfulfilled dream, like surfing or sea kayaking. I couldn’t be bothered. The man and the woman who climbed these mountains before we married were happy enough this morning just to look at them through the car windows, weren’t we? 

Yes, if I get over this I’ll keep things low key. After the adventurous rock’n roll life of an English teacher (ha, ha), that would be somewhere between adequate and nice. Sounds about right. We’re nice, aren’t we? You’re nice anyway. I’ll be the adequate one. If I’m spared.

Nearly time to assemble for our drinks. I think I’ll have a whisky tonight, a wee malt. Will you join me?’

Copyright © Colin Will 2022