A man’s manners are a mirror in which he shows his portrait.
Lotte peered at herself, turning her head from side to side, trying to get the best view of herself in the triple mirror. She was proud of her creation, copied from a Viennese ladies journal: in gold velvet trimmed with brown lace, the hat sat forward on her forehead, its point
* * * * *
The woman entered Langhuber’s Café, her head darting sideways, as alert as a bird of prey, an effect enhanced by the mass of nodding feathers on her hat. She scowled at the portrait of Franz Josef hanging above the hatstand: he returned the scowl. Magda was irritated. Her niece had written to her asking for this meeting, so where was the silly woman?
‘You are looking for Frau Wolff, ma’am?’ murmured a waiter.
‘As a matter of fact I am!’
‘If you would please follow me,’ and he wound his way expertly around the scattered, polished tables, the chatter of people and the waxy potted plants to a semi-enclosed booth at the far end of the room. Impeded by her bustle, Magda’s journey was rather less fluent. She eased herself into the seat opposite her niece with all the majesty of a four-masted barque edging into a narrow berth. From here she could look up at the tilted mirror hanging on the wall above their snug – this gave them privacy from the other customers, who could see only the tops of their heads, but she could summon a waiter just by lifting a hand.
‘Lise! What are you doing in the séparée?’
‘I don’t want anyone to see me, Aunt Magda.’
‘Not like you. What’s the matter, something wrong with your hat this time?
‘It’s not that – though darling Lotte has promised me another. It’s Hans. He has another woman.’
‘He’s not so unattractive as all that, Aunt,’ said Lise.
‘What makes you suspect him, dear? A letter? A trace of scent?’
‘Oh no! It’s because he’s being nice to me. More than he has been in years. Solicitous, you know. Bringing me a cushion. Treating me the way he did when I was expecting Martin. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for me then! And there’s another thing but…oh dear, I don’t know that I can find the right words – no decent woman should have to.’
Magda glanced up at the mirror. The waiters were all busy at smaller tables some distance away.
‘You can tell me,’ said Magda, patting her niece’s gloved hand.
‘In the first two years of our marriage, when Hans was still getting established and was fretful about money, he said we’d have to wait to start a family…’
‘I see…’ said Magda, considering the options.
‘I was mortified…the bedlinen…’
‘Ah! He provided more work for your laundress, you mean?’
Ilse Wolff’s eyes widened. ‘Do other husbands do this?’
‘You are not the first wife to tell me this. It’s next to onanism, of course. An ungodly and unnatural practice.’
‘Well, the other night he did it again. It was as if he forgot himself, forgot that we are too old – that I am too old for there to be more children…and…and out he came! It was dark. He can only have been thinking of someone else!’ Lise whimpered, and fumbled for her handkerchief.
‘My dear, do recollect yourself. You might be sheltered here, but you are still in a public place. At least pull down your veil.’ Magda raised a finger to the mirror, and a waiter glided over, as smoothly as though he ran on castors. Her aunt ordered for them both.
‘Father didn’t want me to marry him,’ said Lise, ‘he said an apothecary was merely a tradesman masquerading as a doctor. But he was the best student of his year.’
‘I remember. But you did marry him, and successfully it would seem, up to now. Men are unpredictable, though. Your uncle Albert was nearly sixty when he lost his head to that dancer. We women have to put up with much foolishness. So who is Hans’s woman?’
‘I have no idea. But I have no doubt that she exists.’
‘Be sensible, Lise, and do not confront him. Not until you have stronger evidence.’
* * * * *
Discretion was the watchword of the establishment on Szappany Street. So screams were definitely frowned upon – especially when enmeshed in them was a man’s name. The doors to the other chambers remained resolutely closed, but the servant recognised the one that crashed open on the third floor, followed by the slap of bare feet on varnished boards. She tore up the narrow stairs.
‘Maria!’ shrieked the girl. ‘Hans is turning blue! He can’t breathe!’
‘Go back to him! I’ll send the boy for Dr. Goldschmidt. Otto!’
‘But – the scandal!’
‘There won’t be one. Goldschmidt’s a client too.’
* * * * *
Mendel Goldschmidt drank down the strong coffee Maria had made for him, and said: ‘He burst a blood vessel in his brain, I believe. I’ve tried to reassure the poor girl that it wasn’t her fault, but she won’t be comforted. She’s a sweet thing, even with her face all blotchy like that – obviously adores little Wolff.’
‘Will he live?’
‘Hard to say – and if he does, harder still to know now what lasting damage there might be. A terrible shock for her, of course, but if he never does come round, well, there are worse ways to go. Shouldn’t say any of that of course – he’s still breathing.’
‘What are we to say? About his being here, I mean.’
‘I shall say he collapsed in the street, on his way to see me about a patient. You came out on an errand at just the right moment, and had him brought inside.’
‘Where did you take him?’
‘To the Hungarian Sisters. He’s as good as in gaol there, for they’ll let no-one see him except myself and the specialist I’ve sent for from Kronstadt. And his wife, of course.’
‘Not her, then.’
‘No chance of that, though she’d be the most devoted of nurses.’
* * * * *
The nun sitting at the head of the bed rustled to her feet on Lise’s entrance, leaving the folded handkerchief with which she had been dabbing Wolff’s face on the marble-topped cabinet, next to a spittoon and a crucifix.
‘I must urge you not to tire your husband, Frau Wolff. Any undue pressure could be fatal,’ she murmured.
Lise looked down at the slack-jawed face, the matted, grey, untidy moustache; the blacking he used every morning had been sponged out of it. Drool was gathering at the right side of his mouth; she picked up the handkerchief, but finding it repulsively damp, dropped it. Hans Wolff stared up at his wife, trying to focus.
‘Poor Hans,’ she said, sitting down. She touched his right hand where it lay inert on the bedcover; it was cold and unresponsive. ‘I know, you know.’
‘Don’t fret. I can hardly fight a duel over you, can I? I don’t suppose you ever would have for me – not that I have ever given you cause.’
A tear seeped from his left eye.
‘Is that regret, Hans? For us, or because you won’t ever have her again? You shan’t, you know, even if you do get better. I shall find out who she is, and then Aunt Magda will speak to her husband’s cousin – you know, in the Postenkommando – and she will be made to leave town.’
Wolff moaned, an inarticulate, bovine sound. One side of his mouth twitched; saliva dribbled out the other.
‘Meanwhile, I must struggle on, and find comfort in small things, and in the esteem a respectable woman is held by her neighbours. In fact, I shall face them today. I shall go shopping,’ she said, stroking her gloves. ‘Lotte has sent word that my new hat is ready, bless her.’
The man in the bed groaned, trying to rise, but he jerked uselessly like a puppet on only one string. The door clicked and the nun billowed in. Wolff continued to moan and twitch.
‘Frau Wolff, whilst I am sure your presence comforts him, your husband mustn’t be overtaxed. Depending on what the doctor says, you should be able to see him again tomorrow.’
Lise rose. ‘Good’bye, Hans. I do love you, you know.’
* * * * *
Lise peered at her expression in the mirror in the hospital wash-room. ‘I look too angry,’ she said to herself. ‘I need to look anxious, devoted – people must look at me and see the strain but tell themselves that I am bearing up wonderfully.’ She experimented, grimacing at her reflection, then when she was satisfied she had found the look she needed, she pulled on her gloves, fitting each finger carefully, and let down her veil.
* * * * *
At the milliner’s, she was disappointed that Lotte was unavailable – indisposed, apparently. The other girl didn’t have Lotte’s delicate touch, and Lise was sure that she had come close to stabbing her with a hatpin from sheer nerves, but – oh! The hat was magnificent! Now she felt ready for her coming task.
* * * * *
The desk intimidated Lise Wolff. It was an absurdly showy thing, all glossy rosewood and gilt and as incongruous in that plain back-shop as a Steinmüller organ in a country oratory. Though it could profitably have been sold, when he’d inherited it aged twenty-one Hans Wolff had still nursed dreams of a glittering medical career: receiving illustrious patients in his clinic, dispensing cures seated at this very same piece of furniture. Instead he was an apothecary, catering mainly to the respectable German-speaking merchant class, and his wife was rummaging for evidence of adultery.
Frau Wolff took her time. As long as Hans was under the care of the nuns, that woman, whoever she was, couldn’t reach him. ‘So unfortunate that he had to keel over right in front that place…a house of assignation!…’, she thought, ‘but if that servant hadn’t come out at that precise moment and shown such presence of mind he might be dead by now…but how on earth am I to thank such a person? Fraulein Nicolescu – a Wallachian to boot… Oh dear, I must make sure everything gets put back just as it was or he’s sure to notice.’ Then she remembered the warning the doctor had given her; even if he lived, Hans might never enter this room again.
For some customers the receipts went back years. ‘He could have been a good doctor,’ thought Lise, ‘such conscientiousness.’ She schooled herself not to look at names as she untied bundles of correspondence. Mendel Goldschmidt’s confident, sloping hand occurred regularly. Her hands trembled when the word ‘mercury’ swam across her vision. ‘Do keep calm,’ she told herself. ‘No-one ever got the maladie française from reading about it.’
Three hours later she found the envelope, wrapped in an advertisement in Hungarian for bismuth powders. The photographer’s name was scrolled across the bottom of each stiff little piece of card; Lise Wolff did not recognise his name but she knew the street name by repute – not good repute. There were five images in all, of the same naked girl, her hair piled high on her head, yet topped always by an elaborate hat. She was posed awkwardly, looking at herself in a cheval glass, so that the spectator saw her both front and rear, but frustratingly her face was either obscured by the hat or by her hands. In one photograph her weight was on her right leg, whilst the left was held awkwardly behind her, on tiptoe. In another she wore buttoned boots: Lise thought this the most obscene of them all; she noticed too that though the photographs looked new, the edges of this card were not quite as crisp as the others, suggesting that it had been picked up more often.
‘A rather common little body,’ thought Lise, ‘plump legs, too short, the back too long.’
She splayed the photographs across the blotting pad. In a row they looked like a child’s zoetrope, except that here there was no swinging monkey or flying bird. ‘I suppose anyone can buy these things,’ thought Lise, ‘some little trollop down on her luck, so half the husbands in Klausenburg get to gawp at her.’ In one of the photographs the girl’s chin and coyly smiling mouth were reflected in the glass, and in another her fingers were latticed over her face, her eyes peeking through and glittering in the mirror – but none of these disparate features amounted to a recognisable person. ‘At least she had enough sense of shame to hide her face,’ thought Lise. The anonymity of the photographs gave her the courage to look more closely, though her heart thumped as though she feared discovery, despite the locked door. The breasts were small, lifted up by the raised elbows, revealing dark smudged armpits, the nipples as dark as Kreuzer coins. ‘Mine aren’t like that,’ thought Lise. ‘I wonder – ugh! – do they rouge them? No letters, then – just some dirty pictures. I expect he forgot he even had them.’
Lise pushed the photographs together as though stacking a pack of cards. Then just as she was about to fold them back into the advertisement paper, she noticed something about the hat the girl wore in the uppermost image, and looked more closely. ‘You have to have style to carry off a hat like that,’ she told herself complacently. ‘It would have looked a lot better on me.’ The hat came forward to a point on the girl’s forehead, and was trimmed with dark lace. And at the back of her head, a veil shadowed the rounded white shoulders. Lise dropped the photograph as though it burned her and ran to the little mirror Hans used to refresh the pomade on the tips of his moustaches.
‘Oh my poor hat, my lovely hat!’ she cried, and seizing the veil, began to shred the fine organza.
Katherine Mezzacappa is an Irish writer living in Tuscany. She has been published by Erotic Review magazine, Ireland’s Own, Henshaw Press and Severance Publications. Her