the Mur Bridge and I wonder how it got that name, Mur; through large iron gates into a park built on the side of a hill, called Der Mur Garten, and I wonder how it got that name, Mur. We walk up a slight gradient flanked by rose beds. It was then we did what must be timeless in the calendar of lovers: we carved our names on a tree, inside a heart.
We carved our hearts
On a tree in Graz
And the hands of the clock stood still
Toni has found two heart-shaped leaves, stitched them together with a twig and scratched ‘I love you Terry’ on them. They still lie crumbling in the leaves of my diary. Ah, yesterday! Where did you go? I lean over and pick a rose only to get a shout, “Oi, nicht gut !” from a gardener. We climb higher to a lookout platform overlooking the Mur. How did it get that name? From here, we walk into the Feble Strasse, the Bond Street of Graz. As we cross the Mur Bridge, each of us tosses a coin into the river. “That mean we come back,” said Toni. We never did. We never will.
We window-gazed. Why are women transfixed by jewellers, handbag and shoe shops? The moment Toni stops at a jeweller’s, I feel that I should buy her a trinket.
“Isn’t that beautiful?” she says, pointing to something like the Crown Jewels, priced thousands of schillings.
“Yes,” I said weakly, knowing that as I stood my entire worldly value, including ragged underwear, was ninety pounds.
The torture doesn’t stop there. She points, “Oh, look, Teree” – a fur coat valued at millions of schillings.
“Yes,” I say weakly, feeling like Scrooge.
“What lovely handbag,” she enthuses.
“Yes,” I say. Don’t weaken, Milligan. As long as you can say yes, you’re safe from bankruptcy. “Look, Toni, isn’t that beautiful?” I say, pointing to a small bar of chocolate for fifty groschen. Mur, how did it get that name? So, nibbling fifty-groschen chocolate, we walk back to the hotel.
During that night’s show, Fulvio Pazzaglia and Tiola Silenzi have a row. Trained singers, their voices projecting can be heard on the stage. She empties a jug of red wine over Fulvio and his nice white jacket. Hurriedly, he borrows one that is miles too big. When he appears on stage, he looks like an amputee. On the way back in the Charabong, the row continues. She does all the shouting, he sits meekly in silence. It’s something to do with money. She spends it and he objects when he can get a word in. We all sit in silence listening to the tirade. It is very entertaining and when she finally finishes, Bill Hall starts up a round of applause, shouting, “Bravo! Encore!” She is beside herself with anger.
∗
It was one unforgettable night in Graz that Toni and I consummated our love. When it was over, we lay quite still in the dark. Neither of us spoke. I could hear her breathing, then she started to cry.
“What’s the matter, Toni?”
“I am different now. I am not girl any more.”
“Are you sorry?”
“No.”
With one act, everything was changed. We had made an invisible bond. Only time would test its strength. I lay watching her dress in the half-light – every move was etched in my mind. I can still see it quite clearly.
Next morning, when we met at breakfast, everything seemed different. Yet, it was only us. We seemed speechless, but our hearts beat faster. It was as though we were caught in an invisible net, each a prisoner of the other. Primitive emotions held us in their timeless grasp.
That afternoon, the Trio met in Hall’s room for a practice of some new numbers.
“You’re bloody quiet these days,” he says.
“I’m in love, Bill. That’s why.”
“Love, me arse. All you want is a good shag and you’ll be right as rain.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Are you thinking of marryin’ this bird?”
“It crossed my mind and body, yes.”
“You’ll see, she’ll be fat as a pig at forty.”
“Don’t listen to him,” says Mulgrew. “He should talk, with all those old boilers he
We carved our hearts
On a tree in Graz
And the hands of the clock stood still
Toni has found two heart-shaped leaves, stitched them together with a twig and scratched ‘I love you Terry’ on them. They still lie crumbling in the leaves of my diary. Ah, yesterday! Where did you go? I lean over and pick a rose only to get a shout, “Oi, nicht gut !” from a gardener. We climb higher to a lookout platform overlooking the Mur. How did it get that name? From here, we walk into the Feble Strasse, the Bond Street of Graz. As we cross the Mur Bridge, each of us tosses a coin into the river. “That mean we come back,” said Toni. We never did. We never will.
We window-gazed. Why are women transfixed by jewellers, handbag and shoe shops? The moment Toni stops at a jeweller’s, I feel that I should buy her a trinket.
“Isn’t that beautiful?” she says, pointing to something like the Crown Jewels, priced thousands of schillings.
“Yes,” I said weakly, knowing that as I stood my entire worldly value, including ragged underwear, was ninety pounds.
The torture doesn’t stop there. She points, “Oh, look, Teree” – a fur coat valued at millions of schillings.
“Yes,” I say weakly, feeling like Scrooge.
“What lovely handbag,” she enthuses.
“Yes,” I say. Don’t weaken, Milligan. As long as you can say yes, you’re safe from bankruptcy. “Look, Toni, isn’t that beautiful?” I say, pointing to a small bar of chocolate for fifty groschen. Mur, how did it get that name? So, nibbling fifty-groschen chocolate, we walk back to the hotel.
During that night’s show, Fulvio Pazzaglia and Tiola Silenzi have a row. Trained singers, their voices projecting can be heard on the stage. She empties a jug of red wine over Fulvio and his nice white jacket. Hurriedly, he borrows one that is miles too big. When he appears on stage, he looks like an amputee. On the way back in the Charabong, the row continues. She does all the shouting, he sits meekly in silence. It’s something to do with money. She spends it and he objects when he can get a word in. We all sit in silence listening to the tirade. It is very entertaining and when she finally finishes, Bill Hall starts up a round of applause, shouting, “Bravo! Encore!” She is beside herself with anger.
∗
It was one unforgettable night in Graz that Toni and I consummated our love. When it was over, we lay quite still in the dark. Neither of us spoke. I could hear her breathing, then she started to cry.
“What’s the matter, Toni?”
“I am different now. I am not girl any more.”
“Are you sorry?”
“No.”
With one act, everything was changed. We had made an invisible bond. Only time would test its strength. I lay watching her dress in the half-light – every move was etched in my mind. I can still see it quite clearly.
Next morning, when we met at breakfast, everything seemed different. Yet, it was only us. We seemed speechless, but our hearts beat faster. It was as though we were caught in an invisible net, each a prisoner of the other. Primitive emotions held us in their timeless grasp.
That afternoon, the Trio met in Hall’s room for a practice of some new numbers.
“You’re bloody quiet these days,” he says.
“I’m in love, Bill. That’s why.”
“Love, me arse. All you want is a good shag and you’ll be right as rain.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Are you thinking of marryin’ this bird?”
“It crossed my mind and body, yes.”
“You’ll see, she’ll be fat as a pig at forty.”
“Don’t listen to him,” says Mulgrew. “He should talk, with all those old boilers he
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