As she put down the phone, she wondered how Michael’s research was going.
Michael had spent the first part of his day in feeling slightly guilty at spending so much time on the journal notes left by Alexei Iskander, because Iskander, entertaining though he might be, was not what Michael was here to research. Yes, but Iskander knew Leonora, said his mind. And Leonora is the link to the Palestrina Choir, and Liège is a link to the Great War. So it’s not straying too far off the path. Perhaps I’ll allow myself an hour to translate just a little more, then if it starts to seem like a cul-de-sac I’ll abandon it.
But he knew he would not abandon it, and after he had translated two more pages, he knew it was not a cul-de-sac.
‘It was the beginning of August when I reached Germany’s eastern border,’ wrote Iskander in his careless, erratic French, which Michael was finding increasingly easy to translate.
I had had an interesting journey – and a very useful one. There are a number of excellent hunting-grounds in the countries that lie between Russia and Belgium, and although the Kaiser’s Prussian soldiers were advancing steadily towards Belgium, I thought there was time for me to make a small detour into Vienna.
It was not exactly a small detour, if I am honest, but the railway service was proving to be admirable and everyone should see Vienna at least once. I saw it for the first time that summer, and I do feel it could easily become a spiritual home for me. It’s a city of culture and gracious living. The very cobblestones are soaked in music, and it’s as if the city thrums with the cadences of Mozart and Strauss and Schubert, and with all the romances and tragedies and triumphs of those gifted composers. Wonderful. The Viennese, as a race, are warm and welcoming; their hospitality is delightful, their women are beautiful, and to the traveller they offer the best they have in the way of food and wine. More to the point, Vienna has many great houses and palaces which are ideal for an enterprising thief. I found a number of small and valuable objects which, given a little sleight of hand, could be abstracted and sold most profitably. There are as many receivers in Vienna as there are in any city of the world, and after one or two abortive attempts, I found several.
Michael had had to guess at Iskander’s meaning in this last sentence, because the French–English dictionary did not give a translation for several of the words. But he was fairly sure Iskander was referring to fences.
I visited the concert halls of Vienna, too: Wiener Hofoper – the Court Opera – and the Golden Hall in the Musikverein, but there were simply too many people about for me to ply my trade there with any safety. So I allowed myself a holiday on those evenings, and bathed in the music, and relaxed in the company of a lady who was occupying a gilded box at a performance of The Marriage of Figaro, and who was amicably disposed towards the sharing of a quiet supper after the performance. This supper, taken in her apartment, was a very pleasurable experience. The rooms were rococo, the lady was voluptuous, the wine was luxurious, and when I say I relaxed in her company, I do not mean I was relaxed for the entire time. The English Bard has said that wine provoketh the desire but taketh away the performance, but that was never the case with me and certainly not on that evening, and perhaps Shakespeare was never privileged to enjoy Chateau Margaux anyway.
I should like it understood that I did not, on that occasion, ply my disreputable trade, although there were many beautiful and valuable objects in the rooms. But there are rules about these things, and I hope at heart I am still a gentleman. I left the rooms unplundered, the lady satisfied, and walked virtuously home through a rose and gold dawn, with the sun rising like a glowing jewel over the Sch?nbrunn Palace. (From which any readers of this journal who know Vienna will realize that the lady’s apartment was in the wealthy quarter of the city. Of course it was.)
It was the beginning of August – a hot and windless August – and Vienna was buzzing with the news that Germany had officially declared war on Russia and on France. This, though expected, was still chilling. But even in those early days it was becoming apparent that Germany had overreached and underestimated, and that in particular it had underestimated Belgium. The Kaiser, with his customary bombast and arrogance, now tried to negotiate a free escort through Belgium in order to invade France. Belgium refused, as any self-respecting country would; in fact King Albert indignantly pointed out that Belgium was a country and not a road, at which the Kaiser flew into a rage and promptly ordered out his armies and told them to invade, and take, Belgium.
It was exactly as I had foretold – although I have to acknowledge a great many other people had foretold the same thing. But if ever a spur was needed to hasten a traveller’s footsteps, this was it. I bade farewell to the City of Music and Dreams, and resumed my journey to Belgium.
Not wanting to attract any notice, and aware of being in a country with whom my own was now at war, I abandoned the railways and resorted to more discreet methods of travel. It was less comfortable, but it was better to be uncomfortable and alive than to travel in luxury and end up spitted on the end of a German bayonet. Sometimes I walked, but usually I was able to get rides in horses and carts. It was not unpleasant to jog along the country lanes, perhaps with a farmer bound for market, or a tinker plying his wares.