J. Jones - The Third Place

The medium turned her head to the right. ‘There is someone in this room who wants to communicate with you. I feel the energy, I sense the need.’

‘ Bosszu ,’ the angry voice said. ‘Revenge me. They may take my life for fighting for my country, but not the family estates. Revenge me.’

And then, out of the gloom a glowing presence appeared, seemingly from nowhere. There was a startled intake of breath from more than one guest as the apparition came close to Princess Dumbroski, who appeared to take no notice of it. Berthe could discern that the figure appeared to be that of a stooped elderly man, wearing a felt Magyar hat and boots.

‘Fraud!’ It was a strangled shout from someone among the guests. A man brushed past Berthe, still cursing under his breath. It was the young baron that Frau Mayreder had earlier identified for her. He stomped out of the room, slamming the double doors in back of him.

Everyone’s attention had been drawn to the dramatic departure of the young man, and when they looked back to where the apparition had been, it too was gone.

The medium appeared to slowly awaken from her trance.

‘All is well?’ she asked meekly.

Princess Dumbroski rushed to her side, patting her shoulder. ‘Yes, my dear. Everything is fine.’ Then to her servant: ‘Turn the lights up, please.’

Speaking to the guests, Princess Dumbroski said, ‘It would appear to be an unwelcome ancestor. One of those fusty gents you try to avoid at family reunions.’

There was a round of relieved laughter at this followed by an instant hum of excited conversation. Herr Sonnenthal came to join Berthe and Frau Mayreder. As usual, he seemed to know all, a trait that made him an excellent journalist.

‘I didn’t know you were a fan of the metaphysical arts, Herr Sonnenthal,’ Berthe said.

‘Nor I of you,’ he replied with a smile. ‘It should make an interesting column for the Arbeiter Zeitung : what the first society gets up to of a Saturday afternoon.’

‘So, we’re first society now,’ Frau Mayreder said. ‘How nice to hear.’

‘What was that all about?’ Berthe asked.

Sonnenthal raised his eyebrows at her. ‘Baron Anton Kiss de Ittebe et Elemer, to give him his full name, is the great grandson of a Hungarian general who fought for Hungarian independence in the 1848 uprising. He was executed for his efforts and his property confiscated by the emperor. I believe the execution order came from Franz Josef personally – one of his first orders as the young emperor.’

‘Rather an awkward seance, then, for the young man,’ Frau Mayreder said. ‘His mother the mistress of the man who gave the order.’

Sonnenthal raised his eyes at this and nodded. ‘Good copy, though.’

Berthe felt sorry for the young man. He had looked pained as he left the room. A man aggrieved. ‘And the glowing figure was supposed to be this great grandfather, one assumes. It gave me a fright.’

‘Staged, of course,’ Sonnenthal added. ‘Clothes impregnated with phosphorus obviously. Perhaps he’s still hiding under the table.’

Glancing at the table, there was no cloth on it for concealment. But Sonnenthal was unconcerned. ‘Sleight of hand, surely. Perhaps even a secret door in that wall of books. And it was easy enough for the princess to slip our friendly medium the guest list. Time enough for her to do some research on the ancestors of those present. Baron Kiss was prominent on the list, one imagines.’

‘But she spoke Hungarian,’ Berthe said.

‘Madame Smith is actually Catherine-Elise Muller. She may have been born in France, but her father was a Hungarian merchant. That is probably the reason she picked on the poor young fellow.’

‘Seems cruel,’ Frau Mayreder added.

‘What do you expect from a duelist?’

‘You think the princess put her up to it?’ Berthe looked over to where Princess Dumbroski was guiding Smith to various guests, landing now at Klimt and Floge, who seemed to be full of questions.

‘Really, Berthe,’ Frau Mayreder patted her hand. ‘You are a sweet innocent.’

‘But why?’

Frau Mayreder shrugged. ‘Because she can. Because she feels in competition with Frau Schratt as the most renowned hostess in Vienna. Perhaps it was a broadside shot, a declaration of war between them. So many possibilities.’

Berthe looked again at their hostess. There was a cruel hardness to the woman’s features, a calculating look to her eyes. And suddenly she understood why people like Frau Mayreder, Herr Sonnenthal and even Klimt had been invited. These were the sort of people that would make the incident known, in print and in the rounds of gossip.

Berthe decided she would not want Princess Dumbroski for an enemy.

Werthen arrived at the Rathaus punctually at eight in the morning the following Monday and made his way to the Viennese City and Provincial Archive on the third floor. The attendant at the front desk, in white duster, was the punctilious sort, and Werthen had to display his legal credentials in order to search the files. Herr Bachman, he told the attendant, had come into a legacy and it was his task to contact the man.

‘With one “n?”’ the man asked with a sigh.

Why are civil servants never civil? Werthen asked himself for the hundredth time.

‘Yes. One “n.” Wolfram is the first name.’

At least there was something to make the search easier: how many Wolfram Bachmans with one ‘n’ could there be in the city? Werthen had spoken with Herr Otto on Sunday and managed to discover Bachman’s full name. When blackballing the man from all respectable cafes in Vienna, Herr Karl had presented the Waiters’ Association with the full name, and Herr Otto had made a note of it.

Ten minutes later the attendant returned with a bulky file box of Meldezettl – registration forms. Each time a person changed residences in Vienna, a new registration form must be filed; one deregistered from the former address and registered the new one, providing date, address, name, occupation, birthplace, religion and marital and family status. Some overly conscientious Viennese even went through this process when going on holiday.

The attendant nodded at a table in the corner of the office. Werthen took the file and began the search, hoping that whoever organized the forms had a proper sense of alphabetization. Opening the file, he was greeted with a cloud of dust that set him sneezing violently. Glancing toward the main desk, Werthen saw the attendant making no effort to suppress a smile.

Looking at the top form, he saw that it began with ‘Bachman,’ first name, ‘Berthold.’ He pulled out the bottom registration form, and saw it was already to ‘Bachman, Arnuf.’ He fanned through the mass of files until he got to first names beginning with a ‘T.’ From there he thumbed through the Ulrichs and Viktors until he finally came to ‘W.’ There was a Werner, Willibald, even a Wojtek. Finally he had it: Wolfram Bachman. He scanned down the information: an address on Florianigasse, only a few blocks from Werthen’s apartment building on Josefstadterstrasse. It seemed Herr Bachman was prolific in one respect: he was married with five children. Not exactly the profile one expected from a card sharp. Even more perplexing was his listed occupation: pastor.

Werthen stared at the paper a moment longer, then flipped to the next form. Yes, he told himself. More like it. A second Wolfram Bachman. He turned to the next form: Xavier Bachman. He went back to the previous one. At least he now knew how many Wolfram Bachmans there could be in Vienna. This one lived in the Second District, on Asperngasse, just off the Prater- strasse. By the date of the form it appeared he had taken up residence there just a month earlier, moving from a more prestigious address in the First District. The date tallied with when Herr Karl had caught the man cheating at cards and banned him, thus depriving him of a livelihood. Bachman listed his profession as entertainment artist.