occupied the space between her thin upper lip and nose. Her back was slightly hunched, and her head bowed forward, as though the weight of her ornate ruby necklace and matching pendant earrings were proving too burdensome for her withered neck to support.
Although still plush with the trappings of grandeur—Venetian mirrors, gilt flourishes, and marble statues on Doric plinths—the dining room of the Corvinus Hotel was well past its prime. These pompous effects and gestures did not mitigate a pervasive atmosphere of irreversible decline. Within a domed alcove, half concealed by an ostentatious arrangement of potted palm trees, was a pianist, playing Hungarian dances without the necessary zest. It was the same every night.
The waiter (for there was only one) interrupted his oscillations between kitchen and tables to stop, somewhat abruptly, next to Hauke’s wife. In heavily accented German he asked, “Is everything to your satisfaction, Countess?” It was a constant source of irritation to Hauke that his wife was routinely addressed before he was.
“Yes, thank you, Oguz,” the Countess Zigana replied, making a languid gesture that made the diamonds on her fingers flash with conspicuous brilliance.
The waiter bowed and turned to face Hauke.
“Herr Rác,” Hauke declared in his habitual inebriate drawl. “The best
libamáj zsírjában
in Vienna, without doubt.” He speared the last of his slippery goose liver.
The waiter smiled ambiguously and retreated.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Hauke asked his wife.
“Not very.”
Hauke observed his own reflection in a nearby wall mirror and couldn’t stop himself from admiring what he saw—the square jaw, the clear blue eyes, and the burnished mop of gold hair that three decades had failed to thin or tarnish. He was reminded of his old regimental nickname, Apollo. A faint self-satisfied smile played around Hauke’s lips. This smile, however, quickly vanished when he noticed—advancing behind his handsome image—someone he recognized.
A harried-looking man in a long gray overcoat stepped through the open double doors. He brushed some raindrops from his shoulders and scanned the lavish interior.
“Damn!” Hauke growled.
“What is it?” his wife asked.
The man spotted Hauke and approached with a purposeful stride. Like everyone else, he addressed the countess first. “Forgive me for intruding, but I have an urgent matter to discuss with your husband.”
“Not now, Tausig,” said Hauke. “Can’t you see we’re eating?”
“I’m afraid it can’t wait.”
Hauke folded his napkin and stood up. “Excuse me,” he said to his wife. Applying moderate force to the small of the man’s back, Hauke moved Tausig across the room and into the pianist’s alcove.
“We can’t speak here,” said Tausig.
“I don’t mean to hold a very long conversation.”
“You told me that you would be in Café Central tonight.”
“Did I? I don’t recall that.”
“I want my money back, and I want it now.”
“Keep your voice down, Tausig.”
Fortunately, the pianist had come to a middle section that required a pounding fortissimo.
“I’ll be ruined,” said Tausig. “I can’t wait any longer.”
“Tomorrow,” Hauke replied.
“You said that yesterday.”
“Yes, but things are different today.”
“How are they different?”
Hauke observed Herr Rác emerging from the kitchen carrying two plates. “Ah. The second course, if I’m not mistaken. I’m afraid I really must return to my table, or my steak will be ruined.”
As he moved away, Tausig grabbed his arm. “You’re not going to get my money tomorrow, are you?” said Tausig. “Or the day after?”
“Let go of my arm, Tausig.”
“You’re a liar and cheat.”
Hauke twisted his neck to show off the dueling scar on his left cheek. “Don’t push your luck, Tausig. If someone overheard your impudent remark, I would be forced to consider my reputation. Think of your wife and
Although still plush with the trappings of grandeur—Venetian mirrors, gilt flourishes, and marble statues on Doric plinths—the dining room of the Corvinus Hotel was well past its prime. These pompous effects and gestures did not mitigate a pervasive atmosphere of irreversible decline. Within a domed alcove, half concealed by an ostentatious arrangement of potted palm trees, was a pianist, playing Hungarian dances without the necessary zest. It was the same every night.
The waiter (for there was only one) interrupted his oscillations between kitchen and tables to stop, somewhat abruptly, next to Hauke’s wife. In heavily accented German he asked, “Is everything to your satisfaction, Countess?” It was a constant source of irritation to Hauke that his wife was routinely addressed before he was.
“Yes, thank you, Oguz,” the Countess Zigana replied, making a languid gesture that made the diamonds on her fingers flash with conspicuous brilliance.
The waiter bowed and turned to face Hauke.
“Herr Rác,” Hauke declared in his habitual inebriate drawl. “The best
libamáj zsírjában
in Vienna, without doubt.” He speared the last of his slippery goose liver.
The waiter smiled ambiguously and retreated.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Hauke asked his wife.
“Not very.”
Hauke observed his own reflection in a nearby wall mirror and couldn’t stop himself from admiring what he saw—the square jaw, the clear blue eyes, and the burnished mop of gold hair that three decades had failed to thin or tarnish. He was reminded of his old regimental nickname, Apollo. A faint self-satisfied smile played around Hauke’s lips. This smile, however, quickly vanished when he noticed—advancing behind his handsome image—someone he recognized.
A harried-looking man in a long gray overcoat stepped through the open double doors. He brushed some raindrops from his shoulders and scanned the lavish interior.
“Damn!” Hauke growled.
“What is it?” his wife asked.
The man spotted Hauke and approached with a purposeful stride. Like everyone else, he addressed the countess first. “Forgive me for intruding, but I have an urgent matter to discuss with your husband.”
“Not now, Tausig,” said Hauke. “Can’t you see we’re eating?”
“I’m afraid it can’t wait.”
Hauke folded his napkin and stood up. “Excuse me,” he said to his wife. Applying moderate force to the small of the man’s back, Hauke moved Tausig across the room and into the pianist’s alcove.
“We can’t speak here,” said Tausig.
“I don’t mean to hold a very long conversation.”
“You told me that you would be in Café Central tonight.”
“Did I? I don’t recall that.”
“I want my money back, and I want it now.”
“Keep your voice down, Tausig.”
Fortunately, the pianist had come to a middle section that required a pounding fortissimo.
“I’ll be ruined,” said Tausig. “I can’t wait any longer.”
“Tomorrow,” Hauke replied.
“You said that yesterday.”
“Yes, but things are different today.”
“How are they different?”
Hauke observed Herr Rác emerging from the kitchen carrying two plates. “Ah. The second course, if I’m not mistaken. I’m afraid I really must return to my table, or my steak will be ruined.”
As he moved away, Tausig grabbed his arm. “You’re not going to get my money tomorrow, are you?” said Tausig. “Or the day after?”
“Let go of my arm, Tausig.”
“You’re a liar and cheat.”
Hauke twisted his neck to show off the dueling scar on his left cheek. “Don’t push your luck, Tausig. If someone overheard your impudent remark, I would be forced to consider my reputation. Think of your wife and
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