William Boyd - Waiting for Sunrise

Lysander strode on, deliberately analysing his mood. Why should this poster depicting the potential ravishment of some mythological woman excite him? Was it natural? Was it, to be more precise, something to do with the pose — the cupped hands both covering and holding the soft breasts, at once coquettish and defensive? He sighed: who could answer these questions anyway? The human mind was endlessly baffling, complex and perverse. He stopped himself — yes, yes, yes. This was exactly why he had come to Vienna.

He crossed the Schottenring and the wide expanse of the square in front of the huge charcoal bulk of the university building. That’s where he should go to find out about Persephone — ask some student specializing in Latin and Greek — but something was nagging at him, however, he couldn’t recall a monster taking part in the Persephone story…He checked the streets he was passing — almost there. He stopped to let an electric tram go by and turned right down Berggasse and then left on Wasagasse. Number 42.

He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, thinking: maybe I should just turn about, pack my bags, go home to London and resume my perfectly agreeable life. But, he reminded himself, there would still be the issue of his particular problem, unresolved…The main wide doors to the street at number 42 were open and he stepped through into the coach-entryway. There was no sign of a concierge or guardian. A steel-meshed elevator was available to carry him to the second floor but he opted for the stairway. One floor. Two. Wrought-iron banisters, varnished wooden handrail, some sort of speckled granite forming the steps, a dado rail, turf-green tiles below, white distemper above. He concentrated on these details, trying not to think about the dozens — perhaps the hundreds — of people who had preceded him up these stairs.

He reached the landing. Two solid panelled doors with fanlights stood side by side. One said ‘ Privat ’; the other had a small brass sign above the separate bell, tarnished, needing a polish. ‘Dr J. Bensimon’. He counted to three and rang, confirmed suddenly in the rightness of what he was doing, confident in the new, better future he was setting out to secure for himself.

Dr Bensimon’s receptionist (a slim, bespectacled, severe-looking woman) had shown him into a small waiting room and mentioned, politely, that he was in fact some forty minutes early for his appointment. Therefore, if he wouldn’t mind waiting until? My mistake — foolish. Coffee? No, thank you.

Lysander sat in a low armless black leather chair, one of four in the room, placed in a loose semi-circle facing an empty grate below a plaster mantelpiece, and once again called on calmness to soothe his agitated mood. How could he have been so wrong about the time? He would have assumed the hour set for this consultation would have been mentally carved in stone. He looked around and saw a black bowler hat hung on the hat-and-coat-stand in the corner. The previous appointment’s, he assumed — then, seeing one hat, he realized he could have gone back to the park for his boater after all. Damn it, he said to himself. Then — fuck it — relishing the obscenity. It had cost him a guinea, that hat.

He stood up and looked at the pictures on the wall that were etchings of vast ruined buildings — moss-mantled, overgrown with weeds and saplings — all tumbled coping stones, shattered pediments and toppled columns that seemed vaguely familiar. No artist’s name came to him — another hole in his moth-eaten education. He moved to the window that overlooked the small central courtyard of the apartment building. A tree grew there — a sycamore, he saw, at least he could identify some trees — in a square of tramped browning grass, edged by the disused carriage house and looseboxes, and, as he watched, an old, aproned woman appeared from them, effortfully limp-lugging a brimming coal scuttle. He turned away and paced around, carefully folding back with the toe of his shoe the flipped-over corner of the worn Persian rug on the parquet floor.

He heard some voices — unusually urgent, raised — from the receptionist’s ante-room, then the door opened and a young woman came in and shut it behind her with a forceful bang.

“ Entschuldigung ,” she said, gracelessly, glancing at him, and sat down on one of the chairs and rummaged vigorously through her handbag before pulling out a small handkerchief and blowing her nose.

Lysander stepped quietly back to the window; he could sense this woman’s unease, her tension, coming off her in waves, as if some dynamo inside her were generating this febrility, this — the German word came to him, pleasingly — this A ngst .

He turned and their eyes met. She had the most unusual eyes, he saw, the palest hazel. And they were large and wide — the white visibly surrounding the iris — as if she were staring with great intensity or had been shocked in some way. Pretty face, he thought — neat nose, pointed, strong chin. Very olive skin. Foreign? Her hair was pinned up under a wide blood-red beret and she wore a dove-grey velvet jacket over a black skirt. On the jacket lapel was a large red-and-yellow shellac brooch of a crude-looking parrot. Artistic, Lysander thought. Laced ankle-boots, small feet. A very small, petite, young woman, in fact. In a state.

He smiled, turned away and looked at the courtyard. The stout old housekeeper was heading doggedly back to the stables with her empty scuttle. What did she want with all that coal in high summer? Surely –

“ Sprechen Sie Englisch? ”

Lysander looked round. “I am English, actually,” he said, warily. “How can you tell?” He felt annoyed that he clearly wore his nationality like a badge.

“You’ve a copy of the Graphic in your pocket,” she said, pointing at his folded newspaper. “Rather gives you away. But, anyway, most of Dr Bensimon’s patients are English so it was an easy guess.” Her accent was educated, she was obviously English herself, despite her somewhat exotic colouring.

“You don’t happen to have a cigarette on you, do you?” she asked. “By any faint and lucky chance.”

“I do, as it happens, but — ” Lysander indicated a printed sign laid on the mantelpiece. “ Bitte nicht rauchen .”

“Ah. Of course. Would it be all right if I filched one for later?”

Lysander took his cigarette case from his jacket pocket, opened it and offered it to her. She chose one cigarette, said, “May I?” and took another before he could give her permission, slipping them into her handbag.

“I have to see Dr Bensimon very urgently, you see,” she said, briskly, in a no-nonsense manner. “So I do hope you don’t mind if I barge the queue.” At this she smiled at him a smile of such innocent brilliance that Lysander almost blinked.

On quick reflection, Lysander thought, he did rather mind, actually, but said, “Of course not,” and smiled back, uncertainly. He turned again to the window pane, touched the knot of his tie and cleared his throat.

“Do sit down if you want to,” the young woman said.

“I’m very happy standing. I find these low armless chairs rather uncomfortable.”

“Yes, they are, rather, aren’t they?”

Lysander wondered if he should introduce himself but then considered that a doctor’s waiting room was the kind of place where people — strangers — might prefer to preserve their anonymity; it wasn’t as if they were meeting in an art gallery or a theatre foyer, after all.

He heard a slight noise and looked over his shoulder. The woman had stood up and had gone to one of the etchings of ruins (what was that artist’s name?) and was using its glass as a mirror, tucking fallen strands of hair back under her beret and pulling down small wispy curls in front of her ears. Lysander noticed how her short velvet jacket revealed the full swell of her hips and buttocks under the black skirt. Her ankle-boots had three-inch heels yet she was still very small in stature –