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
