J. Jones: The Silence

Werthen turned toward the old man, looking at a face covered with age spots, at eyes rheumy and squinting.

‘I would like to speak with the director.’

The old man squinted even harder. He was wearing a blue uniform with red piping and brass buttons with a high rough collar. A patch of eczema showed under his Adam’s apple.

‘No appointment?’

‘No,’ Werthen said, quickly improvising. ‘But I was hoping to make an endowment to the school. You do take endowments, no?’

This got the fellow hopping. He peered out of his glass cage and saw a young apple-cheeked student hurrying to class.

‘You there, Trautman,’ he called out to the blue-uniformed student through his window.

The boy stopped and turned reluctantly toward the Portier.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

‘Go see the headmaster. Tell him we have a visitor who wishes to make an endowment.’

‘But I have Greek seminar now.’

‘Do as I say, Trautman. Time for Greek later. An endowment, remember.’

The boy turned on his heels and headed to a staircase just past the old man’s lodge.

It took the youth only a few minutes to deliver the message and return in a clatter of footsteps down the stone stairs and over the cobbled entryway.

‘Master says to send the gentleman up,’ he said through gasps of breath.

The Portier nodded at the boy, who did not move for a moment.

‘Well, what are you waiting for, boy? Off with you. You’ve got lessons. And don’t be late again.’

The old man was such an exact replica of the Portier at Werthen’s Gymnasium that it took him back to his own school days. Koller was that man’s name, and as he always reeked of garlic from his favored type of wurst, everyone called him Knoblauch.

‘Herr Doktor von Dohani is waiting, sir.’

‘Yes,’ Werthen said, shaking off the memory. ‘The staircase here, I assume?’

He indicated the one that the boy Trautman had used.

‘Top of the stairs, to your left,’ the Portier said.

‘Tell me,’ Werthen said on sudden impulse. ‘Do they have a Spitzname for you?’

‘This is the Theresianum, sir. Nicknames are for the other academies.’

‘To be sure,’ Werthen said, trying to conjure what the students here might be calling him. ‘Old Spotty’ came to mind, or ‘Weepy,’ perhaps.

On his way up the stairs Werthen tried to determine how he was going to explain his ruse to the disappointed Herr Doktor von Dohani. In the event, it was not necessary, for the director, a portly man with a halo of ginger hair and nose as purple as a plum, seemed to mistake Werthen for one of his students’ fathers.

Werthen courteously explained as he sat in a leather club chair rather out of place with the rococo decoration of the office. Von Dohani sat opposite him, a slice of shiny ivory skin showing beneath his gray serge trousers. Werthen introduced himself and his legal profession. ‘It’s about the Wittgenstein boy.’

‘Wittgenstein,’ the director repeated, peering up at the gilt work on the white ceiling in an attempt at recollection. ‘I know the name, of course, but I am not aware we have one of the children as a student here.’

‘Had,’ Werthen said. ‘I was hoping you might be able to direct me to a prefect who knew him when he was here, about three years ago. Hans Wittgenstein is the name.’

‘Well, I am not quite sure I recall that name. I was here three years ago, of course. But we have so many boys.’

‘He was a day student.’

Von Dohani’s lips mouthed a silent ‘Oh,’ as if that explained it all. He nodded his head in understanding. Not a noble student, then.

‘That will fall under the purview of Mickelsburg. He makes a special project of the day boys. Not exactly a prefect, mind you, as the day students have no need of one. An advisor of sorts.’

‘Might one speak with Herr Mickelsburg?’

‘Is there some difficulty? I mean, you are an Advokat after all.’

Werthen smiled reassuringly. ‘No. No difficulty. Just checking references.’

Another understanding nod of the head from von Dohani. The director rose from the chair, crossed to his desk and checked a large chart that occupied one corner.

‘You’re in luck,’ he said brightly. ‘You’ll find him in the masters’ lounge for his tea.’

Werthen took the directions to the lounge. As he was leaving, he overheard von Dohani speaking to his male secretary:

‘You can send up that chap about the endowment now.’

Werthen went back down the stairs and out into the central yard quickly, hoping to avoid notice by the Portier. He crossed the yard to a somber little building tucked under a copse of bare horse chestnut trees. This looked to be a former carriage house converted into a lounge for the professors. The door entered directly into one large salon, part library and part dining hall, whose walls were covered in floor-to-ceiling oak bookcases stocked with uniform titles bound in leather. By the tidy looks of the volumes — everything from the works of Herodotus to Kant — none of the tomes had been recently excavated from their positions on the shelves.

An elderly man sat at a table near the door, professorial-looking if ever Werthen had seen a professor: thickly bearded, rimless glasses, rumpled suit, his concentration fixed upon the print of the thick book spread out before him on the table.

Werthen approached silently, standing in front of the man for a moment before clearing his throat.

‘Herr Professor Mickelsburg?’ he asked in a near whisper.

The man did not look up immediately, so immersed was he in his reading. Then he suddenly noticed Werthen standing in front of him and put body and question together.

‘Mickelsburg? No, heavens no. That’s him over there. And it is Father Mickelsburg, not Professor. Teaches mumbo-jumbo.’

He was indicating a youngish man seated at a table in the far corner of the room. Werthen was surprised to note it was the priest who had hustled past him at the entryway.

He thanked the nameless pedant, but the man was already back to his book, and merely grunted in reply. The professor had lifted the book as if to cover his face. It was a copy of Darwin’s The Origin of Species.

This time Werthen was less timid as he addressed the young man in the corner.

‘Sorry to bother you during your tea, Father Mickelsburg.’ The priest had a half-eaten piece of Apfelstrudel in front of him next to a large glass of buttermilk. ‘Herr Doktor von Dohani suggested I speak with you.’

The priest looked up with large, curious eyes. ‘About?’

‘May I sit down?’

‘Please. Forgive my bad manners. I was just eviscerating this bit of pastry.’

Werthen introduced himself and asked, ‘What can you tell me about Hans Wittgenstein?’

This seemed to amuse Mickelsburg. ‘The abbreviated or long version?’

‘Whatever you can tell me.’

‘Has he got himself into trouble then?’

‘Not trouble. I am just doing some reference checking.’

‘For employment? I assumed he was going — kicking and screaming mind you — into his father’s business.’

‘It is complicated,’ Werthen said.

‘I have the feeling, Advokat, that you are not being quite honest with me. I am young, but I have developed a sixth sense for artifice. Priests and lawyers. We both deal with the lies of men.’

Werthen took a liking to the priest and felt that he could trust him.

‘You’re right. I was hired by Herr Karl Wittgenstein to find his son. I came here hoping to find out if Hans formed any friendships while a student here, someone with whom he might still be friends.’