The Hotel New Hampshire Part 22

'You know,' said Frank, still blushing. know,' said Frank, still blushing.

'And how many acts of love did Schnitzler and his "Sweet Girl" make between 1888 and 1889?' Franny asked.

'Jesus,' said Frank. 'A lot! I forget.'

'Four hundred and sixty-four!' cried Max Urick, who'd been present at all the historical readings, and never forgot a fact. Like Ronda Ray, Max had never been educated before; it was a novelty for Max and Ronda; they paid better attention at Frank's lessons than the rest of us.

'I've got another one for Father!' Franny said. 'Who was Mitzi Caspar?'

'Mitzi Caspar?' Father said. 'Jesus G.o.d.'

'Jesus G.o.d,' said Frank. 'Franny only remembers the s.e.xual s.e.xual parts.' parts.'

'Who was she, Frank?' Franny asked.

'I know!' said Ronda Ray. 'She was Rudolf's "Sweet Girl"; he spent the night with her before killing himself, with Marie Vetsera, at Mayerling.' Ronda had a special place in her memory, and in her heart, for Sweet Girls.

'I'm one, aren't I?' she had asked me, after Frank's rendering of Arthur Schnitzler's life and work. one, aren't I?' she had asked me, after Frank's rendering of Arthur Schnitzler's life and work.

'The sweetest,' I had told her.

'Phooey,' said Ronda Ray.

'Where did Freud live beyond his means?' Frank asked, to any of us who knew. did Freud live beyond his means?' Frank asked, to any of us who knew.

'Which Freud?' Lilly asked, and we all laughed. Freud?' Lilly asked, and we all laughed.

"The Suhnhaus,' Frank said, answering his own question. Translation?' he asked. 'The Atonement House,' he answered.

'f.u.c.k you, Frank,' said Franny.

'Not about s.e.x, so she didn't know it,' Frank said to me.

'Who was the last person to touch Schubert?' I asked Frank; he looked suspicious.

'What do you mean?' he asked.

'Just what I said,' I said. 'Who was the last person to touch touch Schubert?' Franny laughed; I had shared this story with her, and I didn't think Frank knew it - because I had taken the pages out of Frank's book. It was a sick story. Schubert?' Franny laughed; I had shared this story with her, and I didn't think Frank knew it - because I had taken the pages out of Frank's book. It was a sick story.

'Is this some kind of joke?' Frank asked.

When Schubert had been dead, for sixty years, the poor hick Anton Bruckner attended the opening of Schubert's grave. Only Bruckner and some scientists were allowed. Someone from the mayor's office delivered a speech, going on and on about Schubert's ghastly remains. Schubert's skull was photographed; a secretary took notes at the investigation - noting that Schubert was a shade of orange, and that his teeth were in better shape than Beethoven's (Beethoven had been resurrected for similar studies, earlier). The measurements of Schubert's brain cavity were recorded.

After nearly two hours of 'scientific' investigation, Bruckner could restrain himself no longer. He grabbed the head of Schubert and hugged it until he was asked to let it go. So Bruckner touched Schubert last. It was Frank's kind of story, really, and he was furious not to know it.

'Bruckner, again,' Mother answered, quietly, and Franny and I were amazed that she she knew; we went from day to day thinking that Mother knew nothing, and then she turned up knowing it all. For Vienna, we know, she had been secretly studying - knowing, perhaps, that Father was unprepared. knew; we went from day to day thinking that Mother knew nothing, and then she turned up knowing it all. For Vienna, we know, she had been secretly studying - knowing, perhaps, that Father was unprepared.

'What trivia!' said Frank, when we had explained the story to him. 'Honestly, what trivia!'

'All history is trivia,' Father said, showing again the Iowa Bob side of himself.

But Frank was usually the source of trivia - at least concerning Vienna, he hated to be outdone. His room was full of drawings of soldiers in their regimentals: Hussars in skin-tight pink pants and fitted jackets of a sunny-lake blue, and the officers of the Tyrolean Rifle in dawn-green. In 1900, at the Paris World's Fair, Austria won the Most Beautiful Uniform Prize (for Artillery); it was no wonder that the fin de siecle fin de siecle in Vienna appealed to Frank. It was only alarming that the in Vienna appealed to Frank. It was only alarming that the fin de siecle fin de siecle was the only period Frank really learned - and taught to us. All the rest of it was not as interesting to him. was the only period Frank really learned - and taught to us. All the rest of it was not as interesting to him.

'Vienna won't be like Mayerling Mayerling, for Christ's sake,' Franny whispered to me, while I was lifting weights. 'Not now.'

'Who was the master of the song - as an art form?' I asked her. 'But his beard was plucked raw because he was so nervous he never let the hairs alone.'

'Hugo Wolf, you a.s.shole,' she said. 'Don't you see? Vienna isn't like like that anymore.' that anymore.'

HI!.

Freud wrote to us.YOU ASKED FOR A FLOOR PLAN? WELL I HOPE I KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN. THE JOURNAL FOR THE SYMPOSIUM ON EAST-WEST RELATIONS OCCUPIES THE SECOND FLOOR - THEIR DAYTIME OFFICES - AND I LET THE PROSt.i.tUTES USE THE THIRD FLOOR, BECAUSE THEY'RE ABOVE THE OFFICES, YOU SEE, WHICH ARE NEVER USED AT NIGHT. SO n.o.bODY COMPLAINS (USUALLY). HA HA! THE FIRST FLOOR IS OUR FLOOR, I MEAN THE BEAR AND ME - AND YOU, ALL OF YOU, WHEN YOU COME. SO THERE'S THE FOURTH AND FIFTH FOR THE GUESTS, WHEN WE GET THE GUESTS. WHY YOU ASK? YOU HAVE A PLAN? THE PROSt.i.tUTES SAY WE NEED AN ELEVATOR, BUT THEY MAKE LOTS OF TRIPS. HA HA! WHAT YOU MEAN, HOW OLD AM I? ABOUT ONE HUNDRED! BUT VIENNESE ANSWER IS BETTER: WE SAY, 'I KEEP Pa.s.sING THE OPEN WINDOWS.' THIS IS AN OLD JOKE. THERE WAS A STREET CLOWN CALLED KING OF THE MICE: HE TRAINED RODENTS, HE DID HOROSCOPES, HE COULD IMPERSONATE NAPOLEAN, HE COULD MAKE DOGS FART ON COMMAND. ONE NIGHT HE JUMPED OUT HIS WINDOW WITH ALL HIS PETS IN A BOX. WRITTEN ON THE BOX WAS THIS: 'LIFE IS SERIOUS BUT ART IS FUN!' I HEAR HIS FUNERAL WAS A PARTY. A STREET ARTIST HAD KILLED HIMSELF. n.o.bODY HAD SUPPORTED HIM BUT NOW EVERYBODY MISSED HIM. NOW WHO WOULD MAKE THE DOGS MAKE MUSIC AND THE MICE PANT? THE BEAR KNOWS THIS, TOO: IT IS HARD WORK AND GREAT ART TO MAKE LIFE NOT SO SERIOUS. PROSt.i.tUTES KNOW THIS TOO.'Prost.i.tutes?' Mother said.

'What?' said Egg.

'Wh.o.r.es?' said Franny.

'There are wh.o.r.es in the hotel?' Lilly asked. So what else else is new? I thought, but Max Urick looked more than usually overcome with sullenness at the thought of staying behind; Ronda Ray shrugged. is new? I thought, but Max Urick looked more than usually overcome with sullenness at the thought of staying behind; Ronda Ray shrugged.

'Sweet Girls!' said Frank.

'Well, Jesus G.o.d,' Father said. 'If they're there, we'll just get them out.'

Wo bleibt die alte Zeit bleibt die alte Zeit und die Gemutlichkeit?

Frank went around singing.

Where is the old time?

Where is the Gemutlichkeit?

It was the song Bratfisch sang at the Fiacre Ball; Bratfisch had been Crown Prince Rudolf's personal horse-cab driver - a dangerous-looking rake with a whip.

Wo bleibt die alte Zeit?

Pfirt di Gott, mein schones Wien! Wien!

Frank went on singing. Bratfisch had sung this after Rudolf murdered his mistress and then blew out his own brains.

Where is the old time?

Fare thee well, my beautiful Vienna! beautiful Vienna!

HI!.

Freud wrote.DON'T WORRY ABOUT THE PROSt.i.tUTES. THEY'RE LEGAL HERE. IT'S JUST BUSINESS. THAT EAST-WEST RELATIONS BUNCH IS THE BUNCH TO WATCH. THEIR TYPEWRITERS BOTHER THE BEAR. THEY COMPLAIN A LOT AND THEY TIE UP THE PHONES. d.a.m.n POLITICS, d.a.m.n INTELLECTUALS, d.a.m.n INTRIGUE.'Intrigue?' Mother said.

'A language problem,' Father said. 'Freud doesn't know the language.'

'Name one anti-Semite for whom an actual square, a whole Platz Platz, in the city of Vienna has been named,' Frank demanded. 'Name just one.'

'Jesus G.o.d, Frank,' Father said.

'No,' Frank said.

'Dr. Karl Lueger,' Mother said, with such a dullness in her voice that Franny and I felt a chill.

'Very good,' said Frank, impressed.

'Who thought all Vienna was an elaborate job of concealing s.e.xual reality?' Mother asked.

'Freud?' said Frank.

'Not our our Freud,' said Franny. Freud,' said Franny.

But our our Freud wrote to us: Freud wrote to us:ALL VIENNA IS AN ELABORATE JOB OF CONCEALING s.e.xUAL REALITY. THIS IS WHY PROSt.i.tUTION IS LEGAL. THIS IS WHY WE BELIEVE IN BEARS. OVER AND OUT!.I was with Ronda Ray one morning, thinking wearily of Arthur Schnitzler f.u.c.king Jeanette Heger 464 times in something like eleven months, and Ronda asked me, 'What does he mean, it's "legal" - prost.i.tution is legal legal - what's he mean?' - what's he mean?'

'It's not against the law,' I said. 'In Vienna, apparently, prost.i.tution is not against the law.'

There was a long silence from Ronda; she moved, awkwardly, out from under me.

'Is it legal here here?' she asked me; I could see she was serious - she looked frightened.

'Everything's legal in the Hotel New Hampshire!' I said; it was an Iowa Bob thing to say. legal in the Hotel New Hampshire!' I said; it was an Iowa Bob thing to say.

'No, here here!' she said, angrily. 'In America. Is it legal?'

'No,' I said. 'Not in New Hampshire.'

'No?' she cried. 'It's against the law law? It is is?' she screamed.

'Well, but it happens, anyway,' I said.

'Why?' Ronda yelled. 'Why is it against the law?'

'I don't know,' I said.

'You better go,' she said. 'And you're going to Vienna and leaving me here here?' she added, pushing me out the door. 'You better go,' she said.

'Who worked for two years on a fresco and called it Schweinsdreck Schweinsdreck?' Frank asked me at breakfast. Schweinsdreck Schweinsdreck means 'pig s.h.i.t.' means 'pig s.h.i.t.'

'Jesus, Frank, it's breakfast,' I said.

'Gustav Klimt,' Frank said, smugly.

And there went the whiter of 1957: still lifting the weights, but going easy on the bananas; still visiting Ronda Ray, but dreaming of the imperial city; learning irregular verbs and the mesmerizing trivia of history, trying to imagine the circus Fritz's Act and the hotel called Gasthaus Freud. Our mother seemed tired, but she was loyal; she and my father appeared to rely on more frequent visits to old 3E, where the differences between them perhaps appeared easier to solve. The Uricks were wary; a cautious streak had developed in them, because they no doubt felt abandoned - 'to a dwarf,' Max said, but not around Lilly. And one morning in early spring, with the ground in Elliot Park still half-frozen but turning spongy, Ronda Ray refused to take my money - but she accepted me.

'It's not legal,' she whispered, bitterly. 'I'm no criminal.'

It was later that I discovered she was playing for higher stakes.

'Vienna,' she whispered. 'What will you do there without me?' she asked. I had a million ideas, and almost as many pictures, but I promised Ronda I would ask Father to consider bringing her along.

'She's a real worker,' I told Father. Mother frowned. Franny started choking on something. Frank mumbled about the weather in Vienna - 'Lots of rain.' Egg, naturally, asked what we were talking about.

'No,' Father said. 'Not Ronda. We can't afford it.' Everyone looked relieved - even me, I confess.

I broke the news to Ronda when she was oiling the top of the bar.

'Well, there was no harm in asking, right?' she said.

'No harm,' I said. But the next morning, when I stopped and breathed a little outside her door, it seemed that there had been some harm.

'Just keep running, John-O,' she said. 'Running is legal. Running is free.'

I then had an awkward and vague conversation with Junior Jones about l.u.s.t; it was comforting that he didn't seem to understand it any better than I did. It was a frustration to us both that Franny had so many other opinions on the subject.

'Women,' said Junior Jones. 'They're very different from you and me.' I nodded, of course. Franny seemed to have forgiven Junior for his l.u.s.t with Ronda Ray, but a part of her remained aloof to him; she appeared, at least outwardly, indifferent to leaving Junior for Vienna. Perhaps she was torn between not wanting to miss Junior Jones too much and remaining hopeful but calm about the possible adventure that Vienna could be for her.

She was detached when asked about it, and I found myself, that spring, more often stuck with Frank; Frank was in high gear. His moustache resembled, nervously, the facial excesses of the departed Crown Prince Rudolf, although Franny and I liked to call Frank the King of Mice.

'Here he comes! He can make dogs fart on command! Who is it?' I would cry.

' "Life Is Serious But Art Is Fun!" ' Franny would shout. 'Here is the hero of the street clowns! Keep him away from the open windows!'

'King of the Mice!' I yelled.

'Drop dead, both of you,' Frank said.

'How's it coming with the dog, Frank?' I asked; this would win him over, every time.

'Well,' Frank said, some vision of Sorrow crossing his mind and making his moustache quiver, 'I think Egg will be pleased - although Sorrow may seem a little tame, to the rest of us.'

'I doubt it,' I said. Looking at Frank, I could imagine the Crown Prince, moodily en route to Mayerling - and the murder of his mistress, and the killing of himself - but it was easier to think of Freud's street artist leaping out a window with his box of pets: the King of Mice dashed to the ground and a city that ignored him, once, now mourning him. Somehow, Frank looked the part.

'Who will make the dogs make music and the mice pant?' I asked Frank over breakfast.

'Go lift a few weights,' he said. 'And drop them on your head.'

So Frank journeyed back to the bio lab; if the King of Mice could make dogs fart on command, Frank could make Sorrow live in more than one pose - so perhaps he was a kind of Crown Prince, like Rudolf, Emperor of Austria to Be, King of Bohemia, King of Transylvania, Margrave of Moravia, Duke of Auschwitz (to mention only a few of Rudolf's t.i.tles).

'Where is the King of Mice?' Franny would ask.

'With Sorrow,' I would say. 'Teaching Sorrow to fart on command.'

And pa.s.sing each other in the halls of the Hotel New Hampshire, I would say to Lilly, or Franny would say to Frank, 'Keep pa.s.sing the open windows.'