Marija Peričić - The Lost Pages

I was still standing with my hand on the wall, and I remained there while the man walked past me, coming so close that I could smell his dusty odour of tobacco. I turned to watch his receding back. Without thinking, I began to follow him. The man walked quickly, deftly threading his way through the traffic, stepping sometimes onto the street to move around some slower walker. It was a strain to keep pace with him. My intractable feet slipped and twisted on the difficult stones, and I clutched, uncaring, onto anything near me to keep my balance: windows, walls, other people. My heart was hammering with exertion and the fear that I would lose him. The man was perfect. He was the one I wanted. But how to approach him? I would say that I had a proposition for him, a way to earn some money, I decided. I would invite him for a drink to discuss it. I would keep to my story of the practical joke.

The man was slowing down and seeming to hesitate at a cross-street. I caught up with him and then I was standing beside him. The base of my throat throbbed with my laboured breathing. Now was the moment.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, touching the fabric of his suit lightly with my fingertips.

He turned slowly towards me. I was standing very close to him and I inspected the side of his face. Even at such close range, every detail of his appearance was like Franz’s. I saw his eyes widen questioningly as he focused on my face, but very quickly this expression was overlaid with one that I quickly recognised as disgust. I saw his eyes flick down the length of my crooked body and he immediately took a step away from me, his features disfigured in a sneer. He shook his head slightly, a small flick to the right and the left, and then plunged across the street. He gave one glance back over his shoulder, probably to make certain that I was not following him, still with that look of revulsion.

The old shame at my body crept over my skin and my scalp contracted with it. I could feel the sweat beading on my forehead and plastering my shirt to my back. My breath wheezed in and out. I reached up to remove my hat and noticed that it had been perched crookedly on my head. No doubt I would present a frightening prospect to a stranger in the street. I leaned back against the wall for a moment to rest, but I was too conscious of the glances of passers-by to gain any comfort, so I forced myself to shuffle onwards. Pain radiated up through my feet and stiffened my right side. I desperately needed to rest. I looked around and saw that I was on the Karlshofergasse, in an area of the city I rarely visited. There was a small pub on the corner. Normally I would not enter such a down-at-heel place, but my body was crying out in exhaustion, so I went inside.

The walls were panelled with dark wood, which made the place into a well of gloomy damp, stinking of sour beer and unwashed flesh. There were few patrons at this hour and I found a table away from the others, close to the window. A pale serving girl in a dirty blouse came up immediately, and I ordered a beer. I sat looking out of the window, the glass of which was so encrusted with dirt that the street outside was distorted into a hazy landscape that resembled a grey ocean scene, with rolling dunes and striped waves. The girl came back with my beer, which was slopping down the sides of a grubby mug. I didn’t want to touch it, let alone bring it to my lips. I sat watching the bubbles slowly deflate. It was a huge relief just to be sitting down, and my tired body was beginning to relax. I let my head lean back against the wall and I closed my eyes.

‘Good day, sir.’

My eyes snapped open. There was a man sitting opposite me at the small table. He was about the same age as me, handsome in a rugged way, dark and unshaven. He was wearing the light blue uniform of the mountain infantry, though it was hardly recognisable for its shabbiness. The limp collar was worn thin and marked with a greenish stain of sweat around the neck. His cap was ragged and pushed far back on his head to allow room for the rakish black curl that fell almost to one eye.

‘You looked lonely sitting here all on your own,’ he said. ‘I thought you might like a little company.’

His voice was deep and musical. He bent forward and slid his loosely clasped hands towards me across the surface of the dirty table. His knowing eyes sought mine and he smiled, full-lipped.

I had no doubt as to his intentions, but I was surprised to be propositioned so boldly in the middle of the day, even here in the Karlshofergasse. Also, the fact that he wore his uniform was shocking to me. But perhaps he had no other clothing. I wondered what awful punishment would await him were his superiors to discover his attempts to sell himself, no doubt out of the need to supplement his insufficient army income. I am not a homosexual, though homosexuality has often been attributed to me. I know that this comes from my monstrous appearance, which at a glance aligns me with that dark shadow world where forbidden love lives. But I have no horror of these men, and rather feel sympathy for and a kinship with them.

The soldier looked thin, with burning eyes glaring from sunken hollows. He was certain to be unknown to Theodor. Perhaps this was better than a theatre actor; arguably the practice of his trade also called for the adoption of roles, one might even say to a far more convincing degree than that demanded by genteel theatre audiences.

‘Karel,’ I said, stretching my hand across the table. He took it almost tenderly. I realised then that, if he was going to meet Theodor, he would have to know my name. ‘But call me Max,’ I said.

He did not blink an eye. ‘Alexandr,’ he said.

I told my story of the practical joke, and he heard it with a bland expression. He asked no questions, outside of what he would be required to do. Then he told me his fee. The whole thing was arranged in a matter of minutes and at a far lower price than I had expected. He asked for half of the sum now and half afterwards. ‘Seeing as it’s an advance booking,’ he explained. I was glad that I had thought of withdrawing the cash that morning.

The only difficulty was Alexandr’s uniform. It seemed altogether too unlikely that the author of the works of genius that Theodor had read was an infantryman. As I had suspected, Alexandr said when I asked that he had no other clothes, at least none that would be suitable to wear at a dinner. My budget did not run to a new suit of clothes and Alexandr would not fit into my other suit. We haggled a while before Alexandr agreed to find a suit before this evening, for an extra twenty-five crowns. We agreed to meet at the café where Theodor’s dinner was to be held. Completely irrationally, I instinctively trusted Alexandr. There was something reassuring and honest about him—no doubt one of the tricks of his trade.

We shook hands, and I left the pub and went to the post office. I had thought I might feel nervous, but in fact I felt relaxed and freed of responsibility. I had tossed the whole problem into the lap of the fates to decide; now I would simply await the outcome.

I was the first to arrive at the café that evening. I sat watching the door with a complete absence of anxiety, merely interest as to who would come through it. Would it be Theodor? ‘Franz’? Franz? I did not have to wait long before Theodor arrived, and his expression on seeing me alone made me glad of the labours I had undertaken that day.

‘And where is your friend?’ he asked me, before he had even taken his seat. His voice came out at a higher pitch than usual.

‘You are early,’ I said. ‘He will be here.’

Neither of us spoke as we waited. I could feel the tension rising off Theodor like waves of heat. He had his eyes trained on the door with the intensity of a gun dog.