Chapter 7: A Riot Of Colours

Chapter 7 - A Riot Of Colours

The morning after the disaster I had a doctor called to professionally disinfect and dress the wound I had sustained in the arm. I had applied a makeshift pressure bandage the moment I was safely alone in the street the best I could with insufficient means, then cleansed and bandaged it anew at home but did not want to take the risk of gangrene. After the medical man had finished, I went to work a little later than usual. I had an appointment with a banker that day.

On my way to the inner city, I glanced out of the window disinterestedly, almost apathetically, as the carriage wheels rumbled across the drab and dreary winter streets, through the grey urban canyons of houses, houses, and more houses blocking the view to the sky – and even that was steel grey. Grey pavements, grey cobblestone roads. Grey smoke curling up from chimneys into a dense, grey cloud cover. The buildings here were grander than those in the villages and suburbs, of course, but I had seen all this a thousand times before and none of it was very interesting to me anymore.

As we were rumbling across the uneven cobbles, my eyes involuntarily got caught on a figure in rumpled, dirty brown garb. A baggy brown cloth cap sat very crookedly on a messy shock of curly black hair, half-way down over one ear. The tramp was squatting in the street, seemingly drawing something with a piece of chalk held in a filthy hand, and a spare one tucked behind his uncovered ear. While I was still watching he got up and, bent forward, hands propped up on his knees, surveyed his work. Then the rag-clad spectre took a few steps to another position and knelt down there, drawing more chalk lines on the ground.

I leaned out farther, but the carriage was rolling on and as I looked back all I could discern were a few haphazardly coloured contours on a patch of the pavement. Maybe some kind of illicit street game? I sat back, focusing forward again.

When I returned from business in the city (earlier than usual because I was not fighting fit after all), the wound in my arm was smarting worse than before. It made me feel queasy; more so with the jolting and bouncing of the carriage. In order to distract myself I tried to focus on the streets outside, but there was nothing to hold my attention. Just monotonous city life; slack on this uninviting autumn day. Everything was grey, grey, grey.

In due course we passed the very same patch where the layabout had been loitering before, and now there were several people standing idly by, staring intently at the floor. I twitched the curtain aside a little and observed them, safely hidden by the curtain still, frowning. But since the bystanders’ backs screened the scene, I could not really see what was going on. And then we rolled past, back home, back to being alone again with myself and my pain, my thoughts, my worries, all day long, for hours and hours, since I was too unwell even to work to distract myself.

Suddenly I could not bear it. I needed to delay the moment when I would find myself in my own four falls, cooped up, with the silence ringing in my ears. I could feel the blood roaring in my head already, drowning me. I had swooned on the way here once before, in the morning. The blood loss, the doctor had said. But it was not only that. Shaking, I rapped on the partition wall to tell the coachman to stop the carriage.

I steadied myself, righted myself, then pushed open the door. When I exited and the people cleared the way for me, a strange view opened up. Using differently coloured pieces of chalk, the lowlife had drawn something on the ground. It looked disappointing and amorphous from a distance and still strange as I stepped closer with caution. Brightly hued, but unidentifiable. Modern art, possibly?

I had read that impressionism – or worse, abstract art – was not worth much and was criticised harshly for violating the rules of academic painting. Such painters were said to be radicals rebelling against the establishment. Was he one of these misguided wretches? It would just fit. But when I walked closer still and finally ended up standing right in front of the painting on the pavement, all the chaotically coloured lines and shapes assumed a form, and a 3D-image suddenly sprang at me so vividly that I almost took an involuntary step back.

There were leaves in a range of greens. Mint, lime, emerald. Soft palm fronds. Moss. Vines. Berries flashing here and there through the thick foliage. Flowers that I was sure did not exist anywhere in the world. Like the lush fruits they were unreal, only invented. But invented in dazzling colours. Red petals with yellow-striped centres. Vivid blue. Bright orange. White blossoms with purple UV marks to guide the insects. How could he know about those?

And there, right in front of my toecaps a splashing, foaming, torrential river abruptly plunged over a sharp ledge of rock overhung with more exotic plants and plummeted, in a vertigo-inducing free fall, deep down into a gaping chasm. I could almost hear the deafening roar of the tumultuous masses of water reverberating in my ears – and as I bent forward to get a better look, with my eyes glued to the bubbling and seething pool at the bottom of the abyss, I felt myself falling into it, too. Diving in deep and drowning in that wildly swirling, white-crested vortex among the gum trees and palms and bromeliads.

I had to shake my head to get rid of the disturbing sensation. As I lifted my eyes, the street artist looked up from his crouching position on the pavement, grinning. His face had been back to normal again when I had been assaulted near the Linienwall and mercifully, remained so. No outrageous paint, not too clean either, hair in a frightful mess, last shave a good while ago. I noticed a half scabbed-over cut in one eyebrow, probably from that fight. There was a smear of chalk on his dirty cheek and a dimple in the other.

A rainforest waterfall. He could not ever have seen one. Probably not even in a book. There were banana leaves over there if I was not mistaken, with water drops glistening on them – from the spray. It would be refreshing to breathe in that air; feel the splashing water in the face, the warmth. The humidity might be oppressive, but there was freedom there…

I knew I was frowning, the doubting expression on my face wordlessly asking if he had painted this? But that insolent dimpled smirk on the stubbly cheek said it all. Of course.

Somehow, I was not quite sure why that should come as something of a shock. I had never considered whether these impecunious buskers that one saw in the streets should possess any talent. Some of them were street musicians, ranging from purely amateur to mediocre to comparatively good – for tramps. Naturally, one could not expect anything like the exquisite recitals in the sophisticated opera houses and theatres of the empire. Needless to say, beggars could not compare to that.

But I knew a little about the visual arts – though I did not paint, myself. Not anymore. Inwardly, I silently shuddered. Anyway, this was not great art. It was cheap, common, sensation-seeking. But admittedly striking. Unexpected. Unsettling. And brilliant. 

He only had a few broken pieces of coloured chalk, nothing else. Not even many colours. The rough and uneven street pavement to draw on, no canvas. The luminous effect was all fake, the various shades produced from only a few basic ones that he had mixed and mingled in lines and dots. The illusion fell apart if one looked at it from the wrong angle, or too closely. Then there were just some rough chalk scratches on bumpy cobbles.

I took a few spare coins from my pocket and tossed them carelessly into the brown cloth cap that was now placed upside down on the ground; then I turned to walk off and mounted my carriage again. It did not strike me at the time that I had just tipped a villain who had earlier forced me to pay him four thousand and five hundred Gulden (which I had back. He had blackmailed me all the same). But it struck me, and forcefully so, when I sat down and it was too late to do anything about it. Disconcerted again, I gave the signal and the carriage got going, leaving the gaping abyss behind me. That and the master of illusions.

***

With agile fingers I fished a pocketbook out of a passing gentleman’s coat pocket. As I’d hoped, there were several empty pages still in it. I ripped one out, used my penknife to sharpen the pencil I’d acquired from another passer-by’s jacket and wrote,

Havnt bin eidl. Heres a list off Peobel I thing maybe black mailed as wel. Cant bi shure, off cors. Ecsersais sum discrischn, wil ya? But theire of you’re class. So that maeks it you’re task. Mean-wail Ill laik-waise consort wiht the peopel of my standin and kep taps on the black Mailer nexttime he turns up. Do me a favoar an dont go bunglin in agen!!! Cheerio. 

Then I folded up the paper and pushed it into the letterbox next to the “No trespassing” sign on the fence.

It was worth a try.

***

Not much later I was loitering in front of a house with a pretty ornate Gründerzeit facade that I was watching for my own reasons. My cap was invitingly displayed on the ground, ready to accommodate any monetary appreciation that clients and passers-by might want to express. That was my personal strategy of profit maximization. Like this I could earn a little while inconspicuously ascertaining the habits of some wealthy household that’d contribute to my prosperity at some future moment.

So, I was just very innocently laying cards in the street there (Wanna know what the stars got in store for ya, sir? Interested, ma’am? Comes cheap!) making up very creative fortunes when a swanky carriage appeared out of the blue at a dashing pace. I speedily leapt to the side, out of the way as the iron-shod wheels rattled by so close that they squashed my upturned cap and scattered all my cards in their wake. Some of them landed in horse turd, sticking to it.

I hadn’t seen the coach coming; I’d been too immersed in making up lies and it’d turned up too fast. When it’d gone, my cap resembled a pancake, and my prospective client excused himself. Bloody Fiaker, I thought with ire. Fiakers were renowned for their ready wit, their glib tongue, loud voice and self-assured demeanour. Their gift of the gab was legendary. They were always ready to sing, whistle, clap and dance at the famous establishments, such as the Waldschnepfe. But they were equally famous for driving at a terrific speed and breaking the speed limit several times every day as a professional code of honour.

Though these horse-cab drivers were working class, strictly speaking, they were respected and admired folk heroes in their own right here in Vienna. With their black velvet jacket, stove-pipe hat and moustache, they were distinctive. In many cases, a Fiaker’s real name remained a mystery until his funeral, whereas his nickname was known all over the city. Some of them were quite prosperous; several were landlords owning property or a riding stable. Receiving an invitation to the Fiakers’ Ball was regarded as a sign of distinction, even by the very top fancy gents. But the cabbies were no friends of mine.

Furious, I shook my fist at the carriage and yelled a tasteful execration at its back as it was rattling away – practical advice on what the driver could go and do. Surprisingly, no compliment in the same vein came back, not even when, in farewell and to underline my point, I sent an unambiguous hand gesture after the vehicle. Not a Fiaker, then. A real cabby would’ve turned on his seat, mirrored the hand gesture and shouted some blood-curdling curses over his shoulder.

I narrowed my eyes as I stared after the four-wheeler. It disappeared round a bend just then, but before it did, I got a glimpse of some light-coloured horse legs below the black coach – and yes, on closer look it was a carriage that I knew. Oh dear. And I’d given that the finger. But how should I’ve known he’d pass by now? Where was he going this late in the afternoon after having spent all the previous evenings locked away at home? Had he suddenly decided to get his head out of his ass and live? Was he on the way to the theatre, opera, some high society occasion or perhaps busy on the investigation after all? He wasn’t acting on my humble suggestions, was he?

There’d been no communication in answer to my list. I knew he wanted no part of this – but you’re in too deep, baron Drashe!

So was I. Since I was a relative newcomer here and didn’t yet know all the people in the underground, my amateur detection might only have scraped the surface. On the whole, people seemed suspiciously reticent to gossip. Even the shady characters were uncharacteristically reserved when talking about any criminal activity; any at all. I’d tried vagrants, beggars, buskers, dossers in the streets, drunks whom I shook awake, men who scavenged the sewers, called Strotter in Vienna, pawnbrokers, fences and pedlars of stolen goods, forgers, pickpockets, cracksmen, thieves, bare-knuckle fighters, bookkeepers (for illegal betting), kidsmen (guys who recruit children to train them as criminals), former convicts, muggers, pimps, prostitutes, drug pedlars, their apprentices, associates and drinking companions. But even with my deviousness and powers of persuasion, with the additional persuasive power of money I’d nicked for that purpose and the assistance of alcohol served out to my interviewees in large quantities, I hardly got anyone to talk.

The only thing I detected was a singular absence of information. Obviously, the thieves didn’t steal and the pedlars didn’t peddle; the local fingersmiths (other than me) were sitting on their hands. The pimps and prostitutes went about their business as usual, but the former convicts were, by all accounts, tame and reformed. It appeared there was, at present, no criminal activity in this village at all, or hardly any, not counting my own. But c’mon now, go take the piss outta someone else! What was this, the Promised Land? No, something stank to high heaven here! Because you bet your ass the lower classes hadn’t collectively become pious over night. I’ll tell you what they are! They’re scared!

Only a few people who were blind drunk had let slip, in vague allusions, that there was some activity afoot. But even when tanked up to the ears, they’d been as coy about details as a virgin in front of a unicorn.

What was going on in this peaceful village? Was it really the dreamy place it purported to be with its rustic charm and folksy music, formerly the chic summer resort of the wealthy? Or were the merriness and happy-go-lucky attitude in the taverns selling home-grown wine just one gigantic ruse? Just fake? And if so, what was masked by it? What hid below this idyllic facade?

It seemed I couldn’t solve the riddle, not yet. So, I picked up my squished cap with dismay and left to set up shop somewhere else.

***

This once, I hadn’t been stalking him. It was really and truly a coincidence that I was at the Waldschnepfe again at the same time that he was. And we weren’t alone there, either. Not with each other (eternal pity, confound it) and not with the other customers only. No, there was also a very dubious-looking fellow – more so than me, by a wide margin – who was leaning at the bar in a way that immediately caught my eye.

While unobtrusively watching the guy from underneath my pointed wizard’s hat, I observed how he paid for his beer and got more in return than he’d originally laid out! Neither did I miss the quick glance with which the landlord – the one who always catapulted me out of here – checked that nobody was looking before a bundle of banknotes speedily changed hands over the counter.

So that’s how it was! Beside milking the fancy pants crowd, this band of scum also extorted protection money from the landlords! Whoever was at the head of this must be making a nice bundle!

And here I was, right on the spot. And check this: Excepting the Meierei belonging to the Schwarzenberg schloss, and the inn “The Golden Stag”, this was the only larger tavern out here, the last house at the edge of the village where anyone could hope to gain any extortion money. The Meierei was closed that late in the evening, and it was the inn’s closing day. Which meant there was a good chance that the scoundrel’s round had just come to an end.

See what I mean? He'd return to his lair. His lair, where we hadn’t made it to last time, but which could be a vital clue to whoever ran this show.

Hiya, Timmy, let’s get going!

I instantly dropped my magic utensils, squeezed out from the circle of admiring fans and hastened over to Julius’ table where, once again, he was sitting alone with a glass of wine, almost full still, and his back to me. Somebody ought to tell him that liquor was meant to be drunk; it seemed he thought the good God had created booze for people to sit before it and stare at it. Probably he hadn’t even noticed so far that I was there, too.

Well, he’d take notice now! I jostled his elbow, making him spill half his fancy wine over his sleeve and costly black slacks. Almost knocking over the chair, he jumped up and wheeled around, more startled than angry yet and not swearing like every other man would’ve done in the same situation. But as he spotted me as the source of the disturbance, his mien immediately darkened.

I gave him no time to protest, however. Pulling at his arm with all the force I could muster, I simply dragged him with me – and he was swearing now, fighting to get free. Luckily, in the mayhem that was going on with the Schrammel brothers on stage, their two violins, double-necked contra-guitar and button accordion accompanied by whistling Fiakers, people paid precious little attention to our little skirmish.

“One of the gang’s here!” I hissed. “Shift yaself, Julius!”

That effectively quelled his resistance. We stumbled out of the door onto the pavement just in time to see the guy mount a waiting cart. “There!” I shouted, pointing at the scoundrel’s back. “That’s him!”

As we were sprinting over to it, the cart pulled out of the line of waiting coaches right in front of our eyes and, with the horse stepping high, veered off and sped away in the direction of the city centre.

We stood there, breathing hard, gaping after it. Not willing to admit defeat so fast, I looked around hectically, checking the surroundings for useful equipment. My eyes alit on a horse that was standing in front of the local mews, Jo’s (Joseph Konrath’s) place, readily saddled up but unattended. Master Drashe must’ve followed the direction of my stare, for he said almost simultaneously,

“I can ride.”

What a surprise! Probably he had an incredibly good-looking, personally tailored, form-fitting riding outfit for such purposes with a chic riding jacket and a gleaming top hat and of course a silk-coated, full-blooded horse that cost more than I’d stolen in the last ten years! Would he be able to do without that?

He was already walking towards the animal but stopped short just there.

“I can nick it, what?” I asked.

He didn’t answer, so I just, almost without any grumbling, unwound the bridle from the hook that it was fastened to and handed it over to him fast. He hesitated and displayed conspicuous amateur behaviour by nervously glancing left and right before doing anything.

“Don’t look around!” I hissed under my breath, “Act naturally, as if it was yours!”

We made an unparalleled loser team with neither of us ideally equipped for filching a horse. While he wasn’t used to filching anything at all, I didn’t like the horse part. Usually I stole other things, inanimate objects. They made much less trouble. I wasn’t used to such big beasts so close to me and had a healthy respect for them, their massive heads, their teeth, their hooves and their kicks.

But when the beast started to dance around uneasily, sensing that something was wrong, he grasped the bridle instinctively to soothe and reassure it. He pulled the reins taut to make the creature stand still as it was now inclined to toss its huge head about at such handling by strangers. Under his breath he talked to it, too, probably in the idioms of horse language. I watched sceptically, but it seemed to work. The horse held still as he put his left foot into the stirrup and, with a little push from his right ankle joint, mounted in a single practised movement. It looked very easy indeed.

Though the horse was dancing around again, he suddenly seemed very sure of himself up there in the saddle. With the reins loosely in his fingers, he gave them a yank in what looked like an infinitesimal movement. But it must’ve been a clear command, for the steed jerked its head around and the rest – massive flanks and buttocks included – followed suit and stood to attention.

 “You get on behind me.”

I wouldn’t ever spurn such an invitation but climbing onto the horse proved harder than it’d looked when he’d done it. I tried unsuccessfully two or three times; then he just reached out a well-muscled hand and more or less hauled me up without comment. It was embarrassing, but there was some compensation for that in being allowed by necessity not only to sit glued to his back, but also to hold on to him fast when he made the animal jolt forward by pushing his heels into its sides. The horse started, but I started, too.

And then I regretted it all. Not even the close body contact could make up for the torment I had to endure on that damn beast. He was just as much a threat to humanity on a horse as in a carriage. I’d thought that with all the time we’d lost there was no way we could still catch up with our quarry. But out here there was only one way to go, only down the main street towards the city centre and he spurred the animal on, more and more and more, to a speed that a carriage could never reach.

It was the bumpiest ride I’d ever had. It seemed you had to adapt to the damn creature’s movements, for if you didn’t, you’d still be thrown up and down and your bum would only collide with the horse’s back the more painfully every time. My fingers cramped into his sides and I squeezed my eyes shut. I just couldn’t look at the houses whizzing past and the world continually moving up and down at the same time. However, I soon found that, with my eyes closed, the dizziness was even worse.

When he forced it to a halt – the horse and the world – briskly peeled my hands off his coat and instantly dismounted just as elegantly as he’d got on, I still remained sitting on the creature’s broad back with an unnerving whirring in my head. As I blinked, I saw that he looked impatient, though. Just as if he’d, if I delayed a moment longer, pull me down as he’d hauled me up. I also spotted the parked cart just ahead and so I kind of slid off the animal like a limp sack of potatoes.

“Is that how you get your athletic body in shape?” I asked, leaning forward with my hands on my knees and breathing in deeply to fight down the nausea. So, I got horse-sick. I could’ve done without that knowledge. So close to the animal’s massive twitching flank, I also realized that the species had a rather overpowering odour.

“If I sit at a desk all week long, I get back pain,” he said matter-of-factly while carefully tethering the horse to a lamppost. I stared at him. Seriously? He wasn’t giving that kind of answer to me?

“Which direction now?”

I straightened up with difficulty and inclined my head to better locate the footsteps that were pattering away across the wet cobblestones somewhere in the dark. Growing fainter, but still audible. And if I could hear them…

“Take ya shoes off.”

“Pardon me?”

“Shoes off!” I repeated. “It’s a damn cobblestone street, Julius! And these people shoved my head into the filth of the sewage. We don’t want the same incident to happen to your well-groomed and daily washed countenance, now do we?”

“I will most certainly not take off my shoes!”

La-di-dah. Oh, my goodness, my fancy shoes! Don’t know how to walk in my silk-stockinged feet. Dear me, is it even possible to walk without footgear? I wear my shoes to bed – together with my silver spoon and that stick up my ass!

Well, what else had I expected? I peered hard after the man who’d already disappeared into the shadows and whose footsteps could hardly be discerned anymore, and quickly cast off my dirty boots – there was a hole in the right one anyway, and the sole of the left one was coming loose. Without them it was possible to follow behind noiselessly and I started out without delay. May the prince on his pea do what he liked!

To do him justice, though, he didn’t bitch or grumble – he wouldn’t, of course not, with that posh education of his – but I’d bet he wasn’t far from it. Still, he came hastening behind as I was already a good distance off, and since I only heard some soft footfalls, he must’ve left his shoes with mine and the horse. I hoped his pair and mine would have a nice conversation while we were gone. Make the acquaintance of the gleaming patent leathers quickly, I advised my dilapidated boots (in my mind), out here they’ll be nicked in no time!

Nothing lasted long when abandoned in the middle of the street. Not even me. But abandoned I wasn’t right now – in the dim gaslight of the infrequent streetlamps Julius’ slanting shadow was just catching up with mine.

“Are you sure this is the right direction? I cannot hear anything at all!”

Nobs in the back row, shut up! I thought as I came to a halt. I’m listening! For a second there was nothing but my rapid breathing and Julius’; a rat scuttling away somewhere and somewhere else a rain pipe slowly dripping, and water glugging in a drain underfoot, but then... there! The sound of a door creaking. I scurried into the shadows and from there groped my way along the facades of the houses, approaching the door that I thought I’d heard. 

While cautiously creeping forward, I signalled to Julius to stay back. But before I could get very far, the door flung open and three men poured out; one of them the dude who’d collected the protection money from the landlord in the Waldschnepfe. The light was dim on their shadowy faces, but I’d seen enough. With my outstretched hand I instantly shoved Julius back into the entrance of the neighbouring house, deep into the darkness lurking in the recess, and squeezed in beside, flattening myself against the wall. The men strode past, not noticing us since they didn’t expect us to be there. They returned to the cart, mounted, and as soon as they were on it and got going, we were already running again. Back to the horse.

I arrived there first, feet distinctly chilled by now, very uncomfortably so from the damp and cold, hard cobbles, but alone I was helpless with the stupid beast. Shifting from one numb foot to the other while staring after the carriage as it was receding into the distance, I had to wait until Master Drashe made it, too. Oh, come on, fancy pants! Meanwhile, ahead, at the end of the street, the carriage disappeared round a corner.

“Leave the goddamn shoes!”

Unexpectedly, he got onto the horse without arguing and, I’d to admit, admirably fast (in his socks); helped me up and off we went. It was a rocky ride, and the hooves were almost painfully loud as they were hailing down on the cobbles in fast succession. I shouted at Julius (over his shoulder) to maintain a distance – fall back as far as possible and only just keep them in sight – but after a few minutes I knew where they were going, anyway.

Oh Jesus, no. Not that place again! This was the affirmation I’d wanted (or not wanted, actually) and it couldn’t be clearer. It was satisfying to have guessed right, but faintly unsettling for my nerves because this meant I’d have to go through with my original plan. And that’d be a little... risqué. Because I knew the house that our quarry was approaching well enough: it was the one where I’d dragged myself after I’d been stabbed in the sewers. By now I also knew who it belonged to.

This place at the Elterlein casino close to the ninth district, where formerly part of the Linienwall had been, was owned by the same man who’d also owned the tavern that’d burned down with me inside; the same man I’d attempted (and failed) to murder. I’d suspected him straight away, at nothing more than an educated guess, a hunch – because the services his business provided tied in just too well with the kind of blackmail the brick magnate was subjected to. And now it turned out my hunch had hit the mark.

Damn my intuition. A shot in the dark and bingo, hole in one! I marvelled if, by any chance, I’d got a slumbering talent for detection. Maybe, in a potty parallel world, I’d have cut a fine career for myself as a ro... No. Maybe not.

Back then when I’d come asking questions, the girls at the bawdy house had told me that their boss was a successful brothel keeper who ran their red-light establishment and others. They’d also told me he had several unsavoury characters at his hands who could be used as bouncers and bruisers. Not that they’d needed to tell me so – that was the usual state of affairs in this business. No wonder I’d got off badly when crossing their path like a completely naive fool!

In the meantime, during my snooping among the criminal classes, I’d learned that the man wasn’t just any well-to-do pimp, but the head of the local underworld. An entrepreneur with ambitions. Ideally suited, of course, to set up an enterprise dealing in extortion. If this blackmailing business was run by him and the minions in his employ, it was probably widespread and concerned several people. It appeared to be a well set-up, well organised branch of trade that’d run smoothly for some time – happily undisturbed until I’d stumbled in between.

In that light it seemed I’d chosen the wrong side to be on. Couldn’t they have informed me beforehand that there was some business going? Then I need never have tumbled into this!

I operated alone and always had done, ever since I’d finally, as a kid, run away from the thief kitchen that’d taken me in. They’d been a kind of refuge for street kids but had spanked and starved those who didn’t bring enough profit. Once I was old enough to believe I could survive on my own (nine or so), I hadn’t liked to get to see that anymore. They’d trained me well, though, to give them their due.

It hadn’t taken me long to find out that surviving on my own wasn’t so easy after all. Weakened by hunger and broken in by living rough without shelter, I’d soon been taken up by a cracksman and his gal. It was the girl’s task to bring the tools so that the burglar never had them on him should he be apprehended, as well as to keep a lookout for the fuzz and give due warning – while it was my task to slip through cracks in half-opened windows, squeeze through bars like a snake after one had been sawn off, or crawl in by the chimney and then open a window or door from the inside. Having grown up on such scraps of food as I could find, beg or steal, I was skinny and since I was young, my limbs were flexible – just ideal.

Again, I’d learned, but been defiant, contrary and troublesome all along the way and had finally bunked. It had struck the people who’d taken me up afterwards that my youth and slim, willowy build could also be put to other uses. Whatever. Enough reminiscences. I’d got away once more – that was the only thing that mattered.

I’d hated all these phases of my life and as a result I now preferred working alone. It was simply safer if you didn’t rely or depend on anyone else. I’d always stayed nicely away from any conflicts of interest or feuds within the less law-abiding community. I was a freelance, accountable to myself only and attached to no-one, never staying in any one place for too long. No bonds, no ties. Only now I had, unwittingly, crossed swords with the mafia.

It dawned on me slowly that after first seeking peace and quiet (meaning, refuge from the fuzz) in a village ruled by a set of murderous blackmailing thugs, I’d then stumbled right into their focus by antagonizing them inadvertently. When I’d nearly got knocked off in consequence, I had, totally ignorant again, crawled into a hole that belonged to the boss of the bruisers who’d attacked me, in order to – can ya believe it? – seek sanctuary and help there! I’d had far more luck than brains that none of his bully boys had been present then, outside business hours. But I’d pressed my luck and crept in there a second time to ask silly questions.

Following that feat of intelligence, I’d screwed up a murder attempt on the mafia boss, supplying him with a personal motive – in addition to the professional one – for having me bumped off. Next, I’d bonded with the biggest wuss and simpleton I could possibly find in the area so as to, with the help of that dimwitted aristocrat who didn’t know a shit about anything, anything at all, antagonize the pack of gangsters yet again.

What kind of cretin did that? Maybe I ought, in the future, to start thinking a little more before acting. Because I felt it in my bones: this thing wasn’t going anywhere good.

Leaning sideways past Julius’ broad shoulder and praying that I wouldn’t fall off, I watched the cart with the blackmailing bastards halt in front of exactly the house where I’d predicted they would and get off.

“Don’t stop! Go past!” I bellowed at Julius against the draught. “Don’t slow down! Go! Keep going! Back home!”

He did – cantering off with no consideration for my stomach. The metallic sound of the iron-shod hooves striking the cobbles was terrible, and the bumpy up and down on the cursed animal’s back wasn’t conductive to my inner peace, or that of my intestines. I was also horribly scared that I might lose my hold, though I was gripping the Drashe coat as hard as it’d go. I hardly dared claw my hands into his sides like that, but when we went round a bend, I abandoned all self-restraint. Respect of any kind was no good if, in return for it, I ended up with my skull cracked open on the ground like a raw egg.

On the whole, I simply suffered greatly and when we arrived back in front of the Waldschnepfe and I somehow got off that creature and slid to the floor, I was reeling like after a storm at sea. But I endeavoured to bear it manfully.

“And what has that been good for now?”

What has that been good for now? My socks – full of holes as they were, but at least I for once had some! – were soaked through from running without shoes in the wet street, my feet were icy cold and sore, my legs and bum ached from that terrible mode of transport and I was struggling with recurring waves of nausea so strong that I could only keep them under control, just, because I really couldn’t... beside Julius...

“I know where they went,” I gasped, slumping back heavily against the wall behind me.

“And where is that?”

“You’d better not have seen it!” I croaked, “Make sure you haven’t remembered the house, Julius! And don’t instigate any inquiries of yours! This is serious! I’ll suss out what I can and keep you informed.”

“You will keep me informed?” His tone was outraged.

“Yes, dammit, Julius!” I coughed. “Gimme time to think!”

His eyebrows climbed up to his hairline. Of course, scum like me couldn’t think. He drew himself up and looked at me askance. “I am baron Drashe! Sir – to you! And what is wrong with you?”

I’m sick like a dog, Julian! I also unearthed more than you did in a year under their thumb! But don’t mention it!

“Fine,” I coughed, “I’m just fine.”

He glowered at me for a moment and then, characteristically, turned towards the horse. “It needs to be walked cool, rubbed down and brushed. The hooves picked. Watered and fed.” He grasped the reins again and started to lead it away. It followed, willing and content. I gaped after him. He wouldn’t really go and tend to a stolen horse – instead of...? No offence, but I was apparently not well. Did that not... count a little?

No. Did not. Gently pulling at the halter, he led that smug beast back to the mews, rang the bell without any compunction (it must’ve been approaching eleven at night by then), said a few words to the man who appeared after some time as a light went on in the doorway – and hey, presto, the horse was taken away without any further questions, the light switched off, the door closed and the city magnate was already walking up the hill with the usual stick in his back, broom in his spine, flagpole sticking out his neck or whatever it was that made him walk like that!

Why did some people get their way so easily? Because he was gentry? Because he was wearing a fancy coat even though his shoes had gone? Because he had this precise diction, enunciating every word as if he needed to wrap his speech organs around it? Or was it because the normal tone of his voice was one of command? Was this abnormal deference due to the way he stood and walked and even rode a horse as if someone had poured lead down his spinal column?

But your soles must be pretty sore, too, I thought sourly as I watched his silhouette vanish around the corner at the end of the small road that led uphill from the Waldschnepfe. Must be! You just keep that posture because you can’t walk any other way! It’s not that you’re tougher! For sure not! You aren’t tougher just because you don’t get sick on a horse! Or butt sore like me.

That means nothing at all!

No matter how much I strained my eyes, however, the silhouette was gone. And if I wanted any rest at all on that hard, filthy mattress of mine in that windowless, airless, dank attic room, I’d better get going, too. So, I did. 

Good night, Master Drashe! May your bed never smell like mine.

***

Market day. Since I’d decided to do some quality checking on the local produce, I’d gotten myself samples from different stalls and had settled down with them on a barrel, conscientiously testing them all. Cheese, ham, bread. Yummy. If the stomach was happy, the brain worked better, I’d found, and it needed to work right now. I’d some logical thinking to do – something with which I was rather out of practice. But I’d give it a try. Here we go:

To start with, I felt pretty sure in my mind now that the brothel-keeper was at the bottom of the extortion campaign for the following reasons:

One: He was a yucky customer. Two: He probably knew most people in the gay underground community and those into that kind of prostitution and was thus ideally situated to have heard of whatever it was that harrowed the brick magnate. If that was it.

Was that it? A visit to a male prostitute (or several) who were now willing – or pressed – or paid – to swear to it in court?

Curse his pompous soul – why couldn’t the guy simply talk to me? When in trouble, always consult the expert, I say. Well. Let’s continue:

Three: Mr Underworld would also, from what I’d heard, have the manpower at his disposal to set up a thing of these dimensions. Though the exact dimensions weren’t clear to me yet. There’d been seven people on the list I’d handed the brick baron. But these were only the ones whom I’d some reason to suspect were victims, based on the very circumstantial evidence I’d collected in lots and lots of conversations. I might be wrong with some of them. On the other hand, there might be more. Many more.

If Master Brickworks was cooperative, he’d talk to his peers and inform me of the results. Then I’d have a better idea of what we were dealing with. But I reckoned he didn’t dream of cooperating, and I didn’t know how to trick him into doing his part.

Four: Why’d that house burned down? Coincidence? An attempt on Mr Underworld’s life? Or mine? But I wasn’t important enough, was I? And if on his, why? There were an endless number of reasons, certainly, with such a one. There might be unscrupulous rivals, ambitious underlings, bitter feuds. Lots of enemies. And people who’d a score to settle, like me.

So now to that risqué plan: it seemed the police had never been able to collar the dog because they couldn’t get enough proof.

Maybe I could. From the inside.

Since the villain was officially a merchant, it’d been no trouble to locate the house where he lived above his tool, metal goods and hardware store in Kalvarienberg Street. Earlier in the day I’d already taken a good look at it and found it well guarded. Suspiciously well-guarded, in fact.

First, I’d sauntered past the house, my shabby cloth cap shoved low down into my face and my black hair swept under it, out of sight. As I risked a sly glance from underneath its brim, I saw a heavy-looking lad within the store pass the shop window. With a badly healed broken nose, ears and cheekbones damaged from punches and a biceps like that, he likely wasn’t a customer. Former bare-knuckle fighter, at a guess. Another such lovely fellow was slouching in the main entrance.

I strolled on, completely inconspicuous among the other pedestrians. Head bowed but observing all the while from the corner of my eye. There was a gateway big enough to allow a carriage or cart entry into the backyard. Maybe the cart they’d used was there, but it’d just been ordinary, like a thousand others. Not having seen it closely or marked it, I’d have no way of telling. Also, in the archway, in the shadows, yet another bruiser stood guard. No access. Alright. I decided on some rooftop exploration.

I scaled a roof farther down the block of houses, in a gloomy alleyway where I’d not be seen and where dustbins and a drainpipe were waiting helpfully. My boots found a safe hiding place there, because I’d been rummaging dustbins for new ones for a while and I’d sure as hell not lose them again. They neither fit me well nor matched, but, you know. There are more enjoyable pastimes than sifting through garbage.

From there, I crept cross the roofs cautiously with bare feet, more or less on all fours, keeping my head down. Climbing with naked soles wasn’t agreeable on the cold and sharp-edged tiles, but I’d a better feel like that, a better hold, and could approach soundlessly. Maximum caution seemed advisable here. 

When I peered across the gable, I caught sight of two more unfriendly-looking roughs lounging about in the backyard, smoking butt ends. Five in total, therefore, if I’d my mathematics right! And there was no telling if there were more of them inside. That seemed a little excessive, even for a well-to-do pimp with cut-throat rivals in the same business. It was a knife-happy metier, but this was only his official shop and home. Not a brothel.

What was in there – except himself – that needed to be protected so? Bundles of blackmail money stored in a safe? Or the incriminating documents enabling him to put pressure on people: notes of debt, compromising love letters, proof of past indiscretions, names and addresses of illicit offspring, written testimonials of witnesses to misdeeds, and the such? In short, whatever was useful to convince posh lords and hoity-toity ladies to pay up. All the dirt that’d accumulated under expensive carpets and showy fronts in their double-standard world. I’d just love to get a look!

But it didn’t seem to be that easy. Since I was already clinging to the gable, I also checked out the windows on the first floor where the actual living quarters were. Two of them were dormer windows accessible from the roof; the rest were of the usual casement type and built into the vertical wall. Practised as I was, I spotted straight away that they opened inwards, but also that they all sported very unusual, horizontal iron bars on the inner side. Two each. Bars that couldn’t only be shot across the width of the frame, but also locked from the inside. I’d never before seen anything like it.

The bars were proof of first-class knowledge of the criminal milieu, because I couldn’t get in there even using the technique of star-glazing. Even should I manage to noiselessly remove a circle of glass with a glass cutter and get my hand inside, I couldn’t simply turn the latch. I’d have to pull the bolt back as well, and unlock it first, and then repeat the procedure higher up to get to the second bar, the lock of which I couldn’t access from the same glass pane, of course. I’d have to remove another piece of glass. Otherwise, the window couldn’t be opened. The top pane, as with many windows of that kind, didn’t open.

In addition to that, both locks were in positions that weren’t easy to reach from the outside. Somebody’d obviously put a lot of thought into securing that house. Like this, it was virtually impossible to get in through a window without being heard or seen. I’d have to fiddle around too much and for far too long. Too risky.

If I’d had any doubts before that the red-light baron had expanded his business to blackmail on a large scale, these doubts were now gone. With precautions like these, there must be something inside that was worth getting at.

To sum up the results of my exploration, I’d drawn a blank with the front entrance, with the entrance to the shop, the back door (all of which were guarded) and also the windows. I wasn’t small enough anymore to fit through a chimney.

Now the problem was that, all the same, I knew just exactly how to get in. That was really a problem since, like many of my plans, it was a half-arsed one. It included entry, but no return ticket. There’d be none. And even though I was well aware that I’d a short best-before date, I intended to live a little while longer than I had so far. My brain, however, had run out of fuel and refused to provide more answers. A break was indicated.

Since I’d already ingested all my samples, I squeezed into a waiting queue, pressing close to a market stall amidst a throng of people and then quietly let an apple slip into my sleeve. I was just about to slink away when I heard the heavily swathed marketer woman say to the customer beside me that if she wanted to buy a life chicken for her own personal use, she shouldn’t keep just one, even if one egg a day was enough for her and her elderly mother.

“You can’t keep only one, ma’am. It’s no good for’em. They pine. They aren’t happy.”

At the wise woman’s words, I had a sudden insight. A bright flash of enlightenment; the light of wisdom striking right into my soul:

This might be the same for humans! Being alone was no good, walking straight into the lion’s den alone was even less good, and if you only had a half-arsed plan, maybe someone else could supply the other half. Maybe someone who shared my interest in laying the red-light baron by the heels.

Come to think of it, the thing with the pining might be the same for apples, too! They might also be unhappy in single state, especially in the dark cavern of the stomach while under the attack of juices. Not a fate anybody wanted to suffer on their own, I was sure. But together everything could be borne so much better since together you’re less alone. So, I pocketed another apple and made off fast to get myself a safety net against pining – and premature demise.

***

My ded Body wil bee on you’re hed,

the tattered slip of paper said as I was holding it at arm’s length to read it. Not that there was anything wrong with my sight yet – at least I hoped not! I just did not want this thing anywhere close. It smelled strange, too, frowsty. I did not like to touch it – but since, after my morning ride, I was wearing my leather riding gloves still, that was alright.

“Where have you got that from?” I asked Jenkins while still regarding the dubious epistle, cautiously turning it in my gloved fingers as if it were a detonation device that might suddenly go off.

“Post box, sir. With all the other mail.”

...if ya dont turnup,

the blotched scribbling ran on.

And isnt this a truli disgustin imatsch? Now the good njews is, yu can stil influens the futschur for se best. An’ hear is how: taek the narro striet up-hil rait of the Waldschnepfe. First bietn trael to the lefft, feutha uphil. Befoar the Lihgt faels, pri-feu-raply.

Dont fael to meak juse off this uneekwalld obbordjuniti foa good Dieds.

See ya tere.

Not sinsirli (I neva am), but your’s (or at liest, not avers to it)

XXX

I had no doubt where the note was from – it was the same hardly-legible scrawl I had been suffered to try and decipher thrice before. The authorship of that letter was a decided point in its disfavour and an excellent reason not to do what it suggested. Unfortunately, though, it was a Saturday, which meant that I was largely unoccupied. I sat on needles all day long, drafting business letters for the following week that I had to destroy, one and all, since when I re-read them, they turned out to be disjointed and not up to my standard.

It was just that, while working, I could not help wondering all the time if maybe he had more information about the blackguards now. Who were they? Who was behind this? Someone residing in that grimy house I had ridden past? If only I knew, I might be able to stop the police from harassing me. I might set them on the right trail. On the other hand, I could not expect a felon to deliver the answers to me, even if he seemed to be a rival of the other blackmailers, and if it thus appeared to be in his dishonourable interest to harm them. The police might be able to play off such reprobate low-lives against each other, but I was not.

In this state of mind, I wasted the whole morning composing letters that were unsatisfactory. In the afternoon I had a meeting with the firm of lawyers that represented me. I had requested an appointment at a time when no other clients would be in their office to see me arrive. I preferred that to yet another conclave at my house. Naturally, the senior partner, Mr Theiss, who had been in my employ for years, agreed readily and attended to me personally, in conjunction with his designated future successor. Apparently, they had succeeded in making the police see reason and the offending document that would restrict my movements had been discarded.

However, they had not been able to regain my possessions, since these were still regarded as “evidence” (of whatever), and the solicitors also made it quite clear to me that the police proceedings that had been started could not be stopped that easily. They had done everything in their power and had lodged an appeal on my behalf, but legal matters simply took time, they said. Then, having informed me of the steps they had taken so far, the two men jointly impressed on me the necessity to clarify certain aspects of the matter that were as yet undefined, as they expressed it. What they meant was, all the information I was holding back.

They were still courteous but increasingly emphatic every time they tried to get me to cooperate. And every time I politely and vaguely evaded any answer.

I knew – of course I knew – that I absolutely needed to tell them about the blackmail. About when, and for how long, and how much I had paid and why. But I just could not. The necessary words refused to cross my lips. Reason and rationality clamoured, yes, shrieked inside me that I needed to, had to give this old and trusted firm of lawyers all the relevant details if I wanted them to help me effectively. They had been in my family’s employ for generations. Yet even as the pressure in my chest rose to unbearable proportions, threatening to tear me apart, my lips just would not open. 

Because if I confessed to having been blackmailed, they would ask if that was still the case. Next, they would ask what about. But it was an absolute impossibility to mention this; I never had. To anyone.

Besides, I was not at all sure if what I had to say would clear me or make things worse still. I feared very much that, this time, it would be harmful to my interests to be honest. I had learned and truly believed that honesty was always right. But here it seemed it was not. I had never been in such a ghastly situation. Except… Once.  All-consuming fear and shame had governed my behaviour then. They still did.

So, haughtily, stiffly, I told my advisors once again in the most formal words and stilted sentences that I regretted I could not oblige.

And then I rose and left instantly.

On the doorstep the page boy they employed closed the front door behind me softly and once the cold winter air hit my face in a ferocious gust, I realized that I had not only hindered my lawyers’ work; I might finally have antagonized them. They were certainly bound to wonder what I was hiding so tenaciously – and if maybe the reason I was hiding it was guilt.

I had witnessed the junior partner’s discomfort before now. He was struggling not to let his mask slip when I once again declined full cooperation. I did not blame him for that; I was exasperated even with myself. But today, for the first time, I had spotted a shadow cross the senior partner’s face, too. They were experienced. They must scent scandal.

They would work for me still – probably, at least, since they were in honour bound to represent the interests of my family. In other words, considering that there was nobody else left, mine. I also paid them a substantial fee. But beyond the demands made by duty, I might just have lost the loyal support of the only people who could help me. In the worst case, I would find a letter on my desk next week telling me that they were afraid they could not represent me sufficiently in the matter concerned; that they would not want to keep me from searching out a law firm who could do so more productively and that they therefore felt obliged to resign from my payroll.

Then I would be on my own. On my own against an impertinent and disrespectful police force. Faced with a police investigation carried out by base-minded and unscrupulous officers who might uncover God only knew what and then brutally or thoughtlessly expose it, since they possessed no tact or discretion – and following that, there might be a lawsuit. I could hire another law office, of course – but I would trust other people even less.

I mounted my carriage with my head swirling dizzily again, like it did every time when the gangsters came to my place. I needed to think clearly now but fear had started to soak my heart and paralyse my thoughts like a cold, wet cloth wrapped too tightly around my skull. In my mind there was this picture of the angrily foaming sea again, whipped up by a fierce storm, and I was in the middle of the maelstrom, lost and alone. Impotent and powerless, with all my standing, all my connections and all my wealth, to save myself.

In this country and its administrative bodies, corruption usually worked – there was hardly any official in the empire who could not be bribed. It was a question of the amount of money offered and of one’s connections: aristocratic acquaintances could let it be known in the appropriate quarters what was or was not desired. But the police at the Ottakring station had, completely unexpectedly, declined my cautious financial suggestion with derision (though they had forced me into paying the so-called “deposit”), and I did not dare approach the commissioner. The mere idea of walking into the police headquarters made my stomach clench.

Neither could I rope in anyone else for assistance. Because the moment the truth came out, everybody would turn away from me. No-one would remain to help. They could not afford to. If anyone were seen to take my side after the scandal hit, they would lose their reputation, too.

This would make it into the papers if it ever became known. One wrong step now and I would go over the edge, drop into the abyss. 

As we rattled past the Waldschnepfe and the carriage was just about to turn left and proceed up the steep street, I jumped up, banged on the partition repeatedly, too hard, flung the door open and shouted at the coachman to stop. Breathless from the rush of adrenalin, I told him to take the carriage home. I would follow later.

He seemed slightly surprised but certainly did not question my orders. And so, the carriage rolled away, and I climbed the narrow street uphill right of the Waldschnepfe; then took the first beaten track to the left, as directed.

Two thirds up the slope a small, ramshackle wooden vineyard shed appeared behind the thorny twigs of wildly growing brambles and a gnarled, leafless cherry tree. There were cracks and gaps between the wooden planks that, crudely nailed together, made up the walls of the shed. The door, equally made of planks, was hanging in the frame at a crooked angle. Seemingly, it had got stuck in that position. On the whole, the shack rather looked like a slightly bigger lean-to privy or outhouse, languidly tilting to one side.

I approached it very slowly, cautiously, very much on my guard and slowing down yet more as I perceived that there was a faint flicker of light shining through the cracks between the planks. Twilight had barely started to fall, but with the sky continually grey and overcast as it usually was in winter in Vienna, it got dark early and so the light was clearly visible, feeble as it was. Steering towards it, I felt a little like a night moth allured by a lamp and then burning with a sizzle the moment it got too close – which was an image I did not particularly care for, and so I stopped to reconsider.

“Come in,” a voice sounded from inside the hut as, about ten metres away, I was pondering how to proceed. I thought I had crept up soundlessly, in order to check on the situation, but it seemed I had not been silent enough.

I hesitated. The sky darkened further underneath the heavy-bellied grey clouds that were slowly drifting past overhead and I was still standing about irresolutely on the bumpy, barren soil of the vineyard in its winter dreariness, my good shoes caked in mud. The grim setting somehow reminded me of one of the Grimm Brothers’ fairy tales I had been read to as a child – the one in which Hansel from Hansel and Gretel is dithering doubtfully in front of the witch’s gingerbread house.

Now this was a barren vineyard, not a haunted greenwood, and I was standing in front of a rough farmer’s shed, no gingerbread house. Even so, I had serious misgivings about taking the last step. Massive ones. Maybe I should think better of this. Turn my back on it. I could not pretend any more that I had not given in, that I had not been cajoled into coming here or was not quite so desperate that I would grasp at straws. However, I could always say that, whatever he was planning to do, I wanted no part of it. Especially not if, as this dirty note seemed to imply, it was risky and questionable in any way.

But I could hardly talk to him through wooden planks, even with such large cracks between them. So, overcoming, in a tremendous effort, a whole load of manifold reservations, deep distrust, vague suspicions, general unease and nervous apprehension mixed with burning aversion, I yet walked forward, decidedly grasped the warped door and pulled it open – against every sensible consideration, against my better judgement. And in punishment for that I got what I deserved for ignoring the voice of reason that had always guided me before, and guided me well so far.

I got what I deserved just like Hansel, who should never have entered the witch’s shack. Just a little sense, a little serious reflection beforehand and the boy from the fairy tale would have saved himself a great deal of trouble, if I recalled that story’s morale correctly. Me, I could have saved myself a ghastly sight. But too late. The door was already open, the view into the interior free. Squatting there on the floor, half-kneeling, the tramp lifted and turned his head to look at me and as he did, I started back rather violently.

Instead of somehow swirling around his face in untidy wisps, his overlong hair was combed away from his cheeks and temples and swept across his forehead to one side in a single daring wave, coal black as it was, but now with magenta and ochre streaks in it. It made the fine contours of his boyish face stand out and look strangely delicate. His eyes were lined with the very blackest black and a sort of glittering cobalt blue that set off their chocolate colour most strikingly. Melting-hot dark chocolate and the stark blue of a frozen winter sky... Fanciful language! And what kind of thoughts were these?

Underneath these pitch-black lashes his eyes looked wide open and glossy, sparkling with undisguised amusement as they met mine. The amusement increased as I spotted that his nails were painted too, in a riot of merging colours swirling into one another. No self-respecting woman, at least not any decent one and certainly none from any acceptable class would have used that blaze of paint and colour. It spoke more of...

My gaze came back up to his face. It could not be seen usually, but right now he was disconcertingly beautiful, despite the slightly crooked nose. I had thought only women possessed that sort of ethereal appeal, but it seemed I was proven wrong. I had never seen a man look like that. It was so weird how little difference there could be between male and female faces if the bones were fine and all the traditionally differentiating characteristics taken away or wilfully mixed up, confused.

I had taken it for granted all my life that there were absolute lines drawn between the sexes, like black and white. Like two boxes: you go into one or you go into the other – rather like in this game for children where geometrical wooden shapes had to be fitted into the correct spots. And now there he was, refusing to fit in, glittering in all the colours of the rainbow instead, radiating youth and joy of living. Even searching my mind thoroughly, I could not put him into any of the preconceived boxes there were, any of the patterns we use to make sense of the world: squares, rectangles, hexagons, octagons, triangles, circles – all nicely geometrical and predictable. But he was more like clouds and trees: chaotic, irregular and unique. It was very irritating. I did not know what to think, but in combination with his vibrant vitality and not-at-all female stance as he stood up, the whole effect was most unsettling.

“Paint again?” I asked, not bothering to hide the deep scorn and disapproval in my voice. “Why do you need to display this so?”

“What – that I’m different? The answer to that,” he said, not at all offended, “is why not?”

“Because it’s... it’s....” I was frantically searching for words, uncomfortably aware of his all-too-discerning eyes on me and the barefaced teasing therein. Why my discomfort at witnessing this should divert him so when to all common sense it should be the other way round and he should be the one squirming with awkward embarrassment, I did not quite understand. But there was no doubt that he was excellently entertained. It even seemed he was silently laughing at me!

“It’s a crying shame!” I burst out brusquely. “It is indecent and completely unsuitable for a man – dear God, for a woman, even! Only a… an unchaste and… and unfortunate… a fallen female with loose morals would... would use paint like that!”

“Look,” he said with very inappropriate aplomb, “you’re a thoroughly conservative guy and do I ever grumble about that? All I ask is to be given the same privilege in return. I can’t see why it should concern anyone whether I paint my face or not. Besides, I’m sure you can find it somewhere in the depths of your genteel education to be gracious to others.” He suddenly grinned wickedly. “And don’t let it upset you so, Julius! I know it’s effective.”

“You provoke people on purpose,” I accused him.

“Of course – that’s the whole point! Whatcha think people generally smarten themselves up for? For ya to fail to notice them and look somewhere else?” He winked at me shamelessly. “Are ya embarrassed for me?”

“Embarrassed does not begin to encompass it!” I exclaimed, disregarding the discourtesy of saying so, “I wish I had not come. I wish I were on another planet!”

He threw his head back and laughed, bell-like. “There’re others? I didn’t know!”

Then he pushed himself off and walked over to me firmly, confidently, his decisive movements suddenly not in keeping with his dainty looks. Neither were the brown rags he was clad in. As he invaded the acceptable distance and I took a step back, something in his jaws flexed and tensed. He stopped much too close, head lifted to mine, eyes glaring at me, chin jutting out with defiance, arms akimbo. 

“I’m gonna get myself into trouble now,” he said harshly, “Very, very serious trouble. And ya know what, Julius? Much as you’re disgusted with me, you’re gonna get me out of it! Because I’m your only chance to end this blackmail and you’re my only one to get out of that den alive.”

***