J. Jones - The Silence

Praetor cleared a scattering of books and journals from a sagging daybed.

‘Do please have a seat.’

Werthen ignored the arch tone and, unbuttoning his overcoat, sat. The young man preferred to stand.

‘I was employed to find Hans Wittgenstein.’

Praetor did not change his expression: one of somewhat bemused curiosity.

‘Poor Hans. Gone missing, has he?’

‘Then you do know him?’

‘Would you be here if you doubted that?’

‘His family is worried. Nothing has been heard from him or of him in over a week.’

Werthen ducked as he sensed a sudden movement toward his head. There was a flapping of wings close to his nose and when he looked back at Praetor, the young man held a golden parakeet in the cup of his right hand.

‘Now Athena, that is no way to treat guests.’ He set the bird on his shoulder. ‘Birds are famously good judges of character. Seems she doesn’t care much for you.’

Werthen was taken aback momentarily. ‘You let the bird out of her cage from time to time?’

‘This apartment is her cage, Advokat.’

Werthen looked around quickly for signs of bird occupancy.

‘Not to worry. Athena is a most tidy bird. Now, I could offer you coffee. But then I do not think you will be staying that long.’

Werthen found Praetor tiresome rather than irritating. But he suddenly did not want to spar with him. Perhaps it was the pressure at home from both sets of in-laws; perhaps it was the solemnity of the visit to the morgue; perhaps it was the cheekiness of that damned parakeet lodged on his shoulder. Whatever the cause, Werthen suddenly lashed out at Praetor in the way he knew was sure to injure and frighten the young man.

‘I assume you know that an antipathic sexual instinct, if indulged in, is still a criminal offense? No matter if it is between consenting adults or not.’

It was as if he had struck Praetor across the face. The young man visibly winced, and pinched his eyes at Werthen in an expression of intense dread and hatred. The parakeet flew from his shoulder in a graceful arc into a room leading off the sitting room.

‘What you and your friends do is no concern of mine,’ Werthen pressed on. ‘But I want to know about Hans Wittgenstein.’

Werthen heard his own voice, and was ashamed of himself. He had never before stooped to such moral blackmail. For blackmail it was: any whiff of such sexual impropriety in Vienna could find Praetor, if not behind bars, then definitely ostracized from the journalistic fraternity and from society in general. Men might keep mistresses, they might frequent the seediest brothels, they might even beat their wives regularly, but let it be said that a man had carnal lust for another man and his career was ended, his public reputation in shreds. The emperor himself had banished his younger brother, Archduke Ludwig Viktor, better known as ‘Luzi Wuzi,’ from Vienna for his affair with a masseur and peccadilloes at the Centralbad. Were Praetor’s father to hear of his son’s sexual predilections, he would in all likelihood disown the young man. Werthen was about to apologize, when Praetor suddenly found his voice.

‘He was not my lover, if that is what you are saying. Hans Wittgenstein was not, regardless of what you may have heard from his family, a homosexual. I should know. I tried my utmost to convert him. He is, if anything, asexual. In love with his music. There’s no room in his heart for mere mortals.’

As he spoke, Praetor seemed to find his courage again.

‘The sanctimonious bourgeoisie such as yourself have labeled my sexual preferences a crime. I, however, do not. And it gives me great pleasure to tell you and that grasping father of his that Hans is now well out of the reach of his family.’ A momentary pause. ‘No, not as you imagine it, Advokat. He is too full of life and art to kill himself. Instead, he has set off to create a new life. He stayed here for two days last week, borrowed some money, and then caught the overnight train to Hamburg.’

‘He has taken a liner?’

‘Very good,’ Praetor said with his arch tone once again firmly in place. ‘You should be a private detective and not a mere inquiries agent. A liner for New York and a new world. He wanted me to come with him, his dearest friend. But you see, in the end I am a coward. Hans’s life is music. He can make that anywhere. But mine is journalism. My language is not international. No. I settled for Vienna and a life lived in the shadows. Is that sufficient for you, Advokat?’

‘I really must apologize, Herr Praetor. I would never divulge such information-’

‘Do save the platitudes for your wife, if you have one.’

Praetor was a young man difficult to like, Werthen decided. Difficult even to empathize with.

‘I thank you for your information. I shall notify his family of his whereabouts.’

‘He sailed four days ago. I greatly doubt the steamship company will allow their vessel to be diverted in mid-sailing, no matter how powerful Herr Karl Wittgenstein is.’

‘He is of legal age and can go where he will,’ Werthen said. ‘The family was merely concerned for his safety.’

‘I am sure they are. He’s safer away from them.’

In the end, Werthen did not attempt again to put Praetor at ease vis-a-vis the possibility of scandal. It was obvious that any such overtures would only be met with derision. Neither did Werthen bother to thank him again.

Outside, it had darkened almost to twilight. Evening was upon the city, and a chill gripped Werthen as he walked along the cobbled sidewalk.

Not a bad day of work, he told himself.

A call to Herr Wittgenstein was not enough for the industrialist: he insisted on seeing Werthen in person in the morning.

‘But please tell your wife tonight,’ Werthen said. ‘It seems rather sure that Hans is aboard the SS Wertheim .’ For he had checked shipping schedules after leaving Herr Praetor’s flat. ‘The passenger manifest is not available yet, I’m afraid.’

‘Manifest be damned,’ Herr Wittgenstein thundered down the line. ‘The boy’s absconded. We shall speak tomorrow. Nine in the morning. Please be punctual.’

He hung up before Werthen had a chance to respond. Vexing, but not enough so as to put him off Frau Blatschky’s fluffy Germknodel , steamed yeast dumpling, filled with plum jam and topped with poppy seeds, butter, and powdered sugar. He was thankful his mother was not in attendance for dinner, as she would surely raise an eyebrow at such rich fare for the new mother. Which reminded him that he would have to make amends to his parents soon.

Berthe ate like a prize racehorse, even indulging in a glass of white Gumpoldskirchen wine. Herr Meisner was also at table, but still awfully silent as a result of the ongoing tiff over the naming ceremony for Frieda, who was happily sleeping in the nursery.

In the end, Werthen and Berthe simply ignored the grumpy older gentleman and he told his wife about the outcome of this first case of the year — withholding the fact of what he could only term his cruelty toward Praetor. It was not something he was proud of, this tacit bit of extortion using the implied threat of revealing to the world Praetor’s homosexuality. Still, the young man was a considerable irritant and he was happy to put the Wittgenstein family at ease regarding the oldest son.

Dinner ended not long before cries from the nursery let Berthe know her daughter was once again hungry.

Next morning, Werthen appeared at the Palais Wittgenstein at nine precisely, and was ushered up to the study by the servant, Meier.

Herr Wittgenstein was engrossed in paperwork at his large desk as Werthen entered, though the man was supposed to be retired. He waved away the servant, and then nodded to a chair for Werthen.