it hurt. “Boy! Call him Little Boy or he’ll never stop!”
“Little Boy! Little Boy! Stop it! What the hell are you trying to do?”
The bird continued to screech. I gaped at Paul, he smiled back. He casually picked up the hat and placed it over the staggering flame. He tapped the top and pulled the whole thing up and away. Nothing. No bird, no smoke, smell, ashes … Nothing.
I realized after some seconds that India was clapping.
“Bra-vo, Boy! Wonderful!”
I looked at her. She was having the time of her life.
Little Boy reappeared on Thanksgiving Day. I hadn’t had turkey or cranberry sauce in years, so when India discovered that the Vienna Hilton served a special Thanksgiving dinner in one of its innumerable restaurants, we all agreed to go.
Paul had the day off and wanted to take full advantage of it. I would write until noon; then we would meet for coffee at the Hotel Europa.
After that we’d ramble around the First District and look at the fancy store windows. Then slowly we’d make our way over to the Hilton for a drink at the Klimt bar, and on to the big meal.
I got there a little late; they were standing in front of the hotel. They both had on light spring jackets that looked ridiculous in the midst of other people’s fur coats, gloves, and an insistent winter wind. Both were dressed casually, except that Paul was holding the big leather briefcase he took to work. I assumed he’d been to his office for something that morning.
The Graben and Kärntner strasse were alive with well-dressed, well-to-do people promenading from store to store. Everything in that part of town costs more than it should, but the Viennese love prestige and you often see the most surprising people wearing Missoni clothes or carrying Louis Vuitton handbags.
“There he is, Shoeless Joe from Hannibal, Mo.”
“Hi! Have you been waiting long?”
Paul shook his head no, India nodded yes. They looked at each other and smiled.
“I’m sorry, but I got all caught up with work.”
“Yeah? Well, let’s get caught up on some coffee. My stomach’s beginning to hiss.” India marched off, leaving the two of us in the dust. She did that sometimes. I once saw them from afar walking “together.” It was ludicrous; she was at least three feet ahead of him, striding and looking straight ahead like a serious military cadet. Paul stayed within a few feet of her wake, but he swiveled his head from side to side, taking in everything and in no hurry whatsoever. I followed them for a few blocks, feeling wonderfully voyeuristic, anxious to see when India would turn around and give him a blast to get going. She never did. She marched, he dawdled.
Our coffee went well. Paul had been to the airport the day before and described the passengers disembarking from a charter flight from New York. He said he could immediately tell who was who because all the Austrian women were dressed to the nines in chic new designer clothes, while their men favored tight new jeans and cowboy boots that ranged in color from sand to plum with black fleur-de-lis designs. All of them came down the ramp fast and assured, smiling because they knew the territory.
In contrast, the Americans on the flight were dressed in drably practical shoes with thick crepe bottoms and drip-dry clothes so stiff and unyielding that they made the people look as if they were all walking between sandwich-board advertisements. They came into the airport slowly, with dismayed or angry looks. Suspicious eighty-year-olds who had just landed on the moon.
Some stores on the Graben had already begun their Christmas push and I wondered when the men would come in from the country farms with Christmas trees for sale. The Austrian tradition is not to decorate your tree until Christmas Eve, but they are for sale weeks before.
“What do you do at Christmas, Joey?”
“It depends. I’ve stayed around here. Once I went over to Salzburg to see how they’d done it up. It’s something you
“Little Boy! Little Boy! Stop it! What the hell are you trying to do?”
The bird continued to screech. I gaped at Paul, he smiled back. He casually picked up the hat and placed it over the staggering flame. He tapped the top and pulled the whole thing up and away. Nothing. No bird, no smoke, smell, ashes … Nothing.
I realized after some seconds that India was clapping.
“Bra-vo, Boy! Wonderful!”
I looked at her. She was having the time of her life.
Little Boy reappeared on Thanksgiving Day. I hadn’t had turkey or cranberry sauce in years, so when India discovered that the Vienna Hilton served a special Thanksgiving dinner in one of its innumerable restaurants, we all agreed to go.
Paul had the day off and wanted to take full advantage of it. I would write until noon; then we would meet for coffee at the Hotel Europa.
After that we’d ramble around the First District and look at the fancy store windows. Then slowly we’d make our way over to the Hilton for a drink at the Klimt bar, and on to the big meal.
I got there a little late; they were standing in front of the hotel. They both had on light spring jackets that looked ridiculous in the midst of other people’s fur coats, gloves, and an insistent winter wind. Both were dressed casually, except that Paul was holding the big leather briefcase he took to work. I assumed he’d been to his office for something that morning.
The Graben and Kärntner strasse were alive with well-dressed, well-to-do people promenading from store to store. Everything in that part of town costs more than it should, but the Viennese love prestige and you often see the most surprising people wearing Missoni clothes or carrying Louis Vuitton handbags.
“There he is, Shoeless Joe from Hannibal, Mo.”
“Hi! Have you been waiting long?”
Paul shook his head no, India nodded yes. They looked at each other and smiled.
“I’m sorry, but I got all caught up with work.”
“Yeah? Well, let’s get caught up on some coffee. My stomach’s beginning to hiss.” India marched off, leaving the two of us in the dust. She did that sometimes. I once saw them from afar walking “together.” It was ludicrous; she was at least three feet ahead of him, striding and looking straight ahead like a serious military cadet. Paul stayed within a few feet of her wake, but he swiveled his head from side to side, taking in everything and in no hurry whatsoever. I followed them for a few blocks, feeling wonderfully voyeuristic, anxious to see when India would turn around and give him a blast to get going. She never did. She marched, he dawdled.
Our coffee went well. Paul had been to the airport the day before and described the passengers disembarking from a charter flight from New York. He said he could immediately tell who was who because all the Austrian women were dressed to the nines in chic new designer clothes, while their men favored tight new jeans and cowboy boots that ranged in color from sand to plum with black fleur-de-lis designs. All of them came down the ramp fast and assured, smiling because they knew the territory.
In contrast, the Americans on the flight were dressed in drably practical shoes with thick crepe bottoms and drip-dry clothes so stiff and unyielding that they made the people look as if they were all walking between sandwich-board advertisements. They came into the airport slowly, with dismayed or angry looks. Suspicious eighty-year-olds who had just landed on the moon.
Some stores on the Graben had already begun their Christmas push and I wondered when the men would come in from the country farms with Christmas trees for sale. The Austrian tradition is not to decorate your tree until Christmas Eve, but they are for sale weeks before.
“What do you do at Christmas, Joey?”
“It depends. I’ve stayed around here. Once I went over to Salzburg to see how they’d done it up. It’s something you
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