The Hotel New Hampshire Part 35

'Not high enough,' Lilly said, and then I got it. Not high enough to jump out the window, is what she meant. If Fehlgeburt had at last decided not not to keep pa.s.sing the open windows, she would have to have found another way. to keep pa.s.sing the open windows, she would have to have found another way.

'That's it,' Frank said, taking my arm. 'If she's pulled a King of Mice, she's probably still there.'

It was more than a little shortness of breath I felt, crossing the Plaza of Heroes and heading up the Ring toward the Rathaus; that's a long way for a wind sprint, but I was in shape. I felt a little out of breath, there can be no doubt of that, but I felt a lot lot guilty - though it couldn't have been simply guilty - though it couldn't have been simply me me; I couldn't even have been Fehlgeburt's main reason to stop pa.s.sing the open windows. And there was no evidence, they said later, that she had done much of anything after I'd gone. Maybe she'd read a little more Moby-d.i.c.k Moby-d.i.c.k, because the police were very thorough and even noted where she'd marked her place. And I know, of course, that the place she'd stopped reading was un unmarked when I left. Curiously, she'd marked it just where she had had stopped when she'd been reading to me - as if she had reread that entire evening before adopting the open-window policy. Fehlgeburt's form of open-window policy had been a neat little gun I never knew about. The suicide note was simple and addressed to no one, but I knew it was meant for me. stopped when she'd been reading to me - as if she had reread that entire evening before adopting the open-window policy. Fehlgeburt's form of open-window policy had been a neat little gun I never knew about. The suicide note was simple and addressed to no one, but I knew it was meant for me.

The night you saw Schw.a.n.ger you didn't see me. I have a gun, too! 'So we beat on ...'

Fehlgeburt concluded, quoting Lilly's favorite ending.

I never actually saw Fehlgeburt. I waited in the hall outside her door - for Frank. Frank was not in such good shape and it took him a while to meet me outside Fehlgeburt's room. Her room had a private entrance up a back staircase that people in the old apartment house used only when they were bringing out their garbage and trash. I suppose they thought the smell was from someone's garbage and trash. Frank and I didn't even open her door. The smell outside her door was already worse than Sorrow ever smelled to us.

'I told you, I told you all,' Father said. 'We're at the turning point. Are we ready?' We could see that he didn't really know what to do.

Frank had returned Lilly's contract to New York. As her 'agent,' he had said, he could not accept so uncommitted an offer for what was clearly a work of genius - 'genius still blooming,' Frank added, though he'd not read Trying to Grow Trying to Grow; not yet. Frank pointed out that Lilly was only eighteen. 'She's got a lot of growing to do, still,' he concluded. Any publisher would do well to get into the gargantuan building of literature that Lilly was going to construct (according to Frank) - 'on the ground floor.'

Frank asked for fifteen thousand dollars - and another fifteen thousand dollars was to be promised, for advertising.

'Let's not let a little economics stand between us,' Frank reasoned.

'If we know Fehlgeburt is dead,' Franny reasoned, 'then the radicals are going to know it, too.'

'It takes just a sniff,' Frank said, but I didn't say anything.

'I've almost got a buyer,' Freud said.

'Someone wants wants the hotel?' Franny asked. the hotel?' Franny asked.

'They want to convert it to offices,' Freud said.

'But Fehlgeburt is dead,' Father said. 'Now we have to tell the police - tell them everything.'

'Tell them tonight,' Frank said.

'Tell the Americans,' Freud said, 'and tell them tomorrow. Tell the wh.o.r.es wh.o.r.es tonight.' tonight.'

'Yes, warn the wh.o.r.es tonight,' Father agreed.

'Then in the morning, early early,' Frank said, 'we'll go to the American Consulate - or the Emba.s.sy. Which is it?'

I realized I didn't know which was for what, or who was for whom. We realized Father didn't know, either. 'Well, there are a number of us, after all,' Father said, sheepishly. 'Some of us can tell the Consulate, some of us can tell the amba.s.sador.' It was apparent to me, then, how little any of us had really mastered about living abroad: we didn't even know if the American Emba.s.sy and the American Consulate were in the same building - for all we knew, a consulate and an emba.s.sy might be the same thing. It was apparent to me, then, what the seven years had done to Father: he had lost the decisiveness he must have had that night in Dairy, New Hampshire, when he took my mother walking in Elliot Park and snowed her with his vision of converting the Thompson Female Seminary to a hotel. First he'd lost Earl - the provider of his education. And when he lost Iowa Bob, he lost Iowa Bob's instincts, too. Iowa Bob was a man trained to pounce on a loose ball - valuable instinct, especially in the hotel business. And now I could see what sorrow had cost Father.

'His marbles,' Franny would say later.

'He wasn't playing with a full deck of cards,' Frank would say.

'It's going to be okay, Pop,' Franny felt moved to tell him that afternoon in the former Gasthaus Freud.

'Sure, Dad,' said Frank. 'We're home free!'

'I'm going to make millions, Daddy,' Lilly said.

'Let's take a walk, Pop,' I said to him.

'Who'll tell the wh.o.r.es?' he asked, bewilderedly.

'Tell one, you've told them all,' Franny said.

'No,' said Freud. 'Sometimes they're secretive with each other. I'll tell Babette,' Freud said. Babette was Freud's favorite.

'I'll tell Old Billig,' said Susie the bear.

'I'll tell Screaming Annie,' my father said; he seemed in a daze.

n.o.body offered to tell Jolanta anything, so I said I'd tell her. Franny looked at me, but I managed to look away. I saw that Frank was concentrating on the dressmaker's dummy; he was hoping for some clear signals. Lilly went to her room; she looked so small, I thought - she was was so small, of course. She must have been going to her room to try growing some more - to write and write. When we had our family conferences in that second Hotel New Hampshire, Lilly was still so small that Father seemed to forget she was eighteen; he would occasionally just pick her up and sit her in his lap, and play with her pigtail. Lilly didn't mind; the only thing she liked about being so small, she told me, was that Father still handled her as if she were a child. so small, of course. She must have been going to her room to try growing some more - to write and write. When we had our family conferences in that second Hotel New Hampshire, Lilly was still so small that Father seemed to forget she was eighteen; he would occasionally just pick her up and sit her in his lap, and play with her pigtail. Lilly didn't mind; the only thing she liked about being so small, she told me, was that Father still handled her as if she were a child.

'Our child author,' as Frank, the agent, would occasionally refer to her.

'Let's take a walk, Pop,' I said again. I wasn't sure if he'd heard me.

We crossed the lobby; someone had spilled an ashtray on the sagging couch that faced the reception desk, and I knew it must have been Susie's day to clean the lobby. Susie was well intentioned, but she was a slob; the lobby looked like h.e.l.l when it was Susie's day to clean it.

Franny was standing at the foot of the staircase, staring up the stairwell. I couldn't remember when she'd changed her clothes, but she suddenly seemed dressed up, to me. She was wearing a dress. Franny was not a blue jeans and T-shirt sort of person - she liked loose skirts and blouses - but she was not big on dresses, either, and she was wearing her pretty dark green one, with the thin shoulder straps.

'It's fall, already,' I told her. 'That's a summer dress. You'll be cold.'

'I'm not going out,' she said, still staring up the stairwell. I looked at her bare shoulders and felt cold for her. It was late afternoon, but we both knew Ernst hadn't called it quits - he was still at work, up on the fifth floor. Franny started up the stairs. 'I'm just going to rea.s.sure him,' she said to me, but not looking at me - or at Father. 'Don't worry, I won't tell him what we know - I'll play dumb. I'm just going to try to find out what he knows,' she said.

'He's a real creep, Franny,' I said to her.

'I know,' she said, 'and you think about me too much.'

I took Father out on the Krugerstra.s.se. We were too early for the wh.o.r.es, but the working day was long over: the commuters were safe in the suburbs, and only the elegant people, killing time before dinner - or before the Opera - were out strolling.

We walked down the Karntnerstra.s.se to the Graben and did the obligatory gawking at St. Stephen's. We wandered into the Neuer Markt and stared at the nudes in the Donner Fountain. I realized that Father knew nothing about them, so I gave him an abbreviated history of Maria Theresa's repressive measures. He seemed genuinely interested. We walked by the lush scarlet and gold entrance that the Amba.s.sador Hotel made into the Neuer Markt; Father avoided looking at the Amba.s.sador, or he watched the pigeons s.h.i.tting in the fountain, instead. We walked on. It wouldn't grow dark for a little while. When we pa.s.sed the Kaffee Mozart, Father said, 'That looks like a nice place. That looks a lot nicer than the Kaffee Mowatt.'

'It is,' I said, trying to conceal my surprise that he'd never been there.

'I must remember to come here, one day,' he said.

I was trying to make the walk come out another way, but we ended up at the Hotel Sacher just as the light in the sky was beginning to go - and just as they were turning on the lights in the Sacher Bar. We stopped to watch them light the bar; it is simply the most beautiful bar in the world, I think. 'In den ganzen Welt,' Frank says.

'Let's have a drink here,' Father said, and we went in. I was a little worried about how he was dressed. I looked all right myself; that is how I always look - all right. But Father suddenly appeared a little shabby to me. I realized that his pants were so completely unironed that his legs were as round as stovepipes - only baggy; he had lost weight in Vienna. No more home cooking had made him a little thin, and it didn't help that his belt was too long - in fact, I noticed, it was Frank's belt; Father was just borrowing it. He wore a very faded gray-and-white pin-striped shirt, which was okay - it had been mine, I realized, before the latest stages of the weight lifting had altered my upper body; it wouldn't fit me now, but it wasn't a bad shirt, only faded and a bit wrinkled. What was wrong was that the shirt was striped and the jacket was checkered. Thank G.o.d Father never wore a necktie - I shuddered to think what sort of tie Father would wear. But then I realized that no one in the Sacher was going to be snotty to us, because I saw for the first time what my father really looked like. He looked like a very eccentric millionaire; he looked like the richest man in the world, but a man who didn't give a d.a.m.n. He looked like that very wealthy combination of generosity and f.e.c.klessness; he could wear anything and look like he had a million dollars in his pocket - even if his pocket had a hole in it. There were some terribly well dressed and well-to-do people at the Sacher Bar, but when my father and I came in, they all looked at him with a heartbreaking kind of envy. I think Father could see that, although he could see very little of the real world; and certainly he was naive about the way the women looked at him. There were people at the Sacher Bar who'd spent over an hour dressing themselves and my father was a man who had lived in Vienna for seven years and had not spent a total of even fifteen minutes buying his clothes. He wore what my mother had bought for him, and what he borrowed from Frank and me.

'Good evening, Mr. Berry,' the bartender said to him, and then I realized that Father came here all the time.

'Guten Abend,' Father said. That was about it for Father's German. He could also say 'Bitte' and 'Danke' and 'Auf Wiedersehen.' And he had a great way of bowing.

I had a beer and my father had 'the usual.' Father's 'usual' was an appalling, glopped-up drink that had some kind of whiskey or rum at its heart but resembled an ice cream sundae. He was no drinker; he just sipped a little of it and spent hours toying with the rest. He was not there for the drinking.

The best-looking people in Vienna stopped in off the street, and the guests from the Hotel Sacher made their plans or met their dinner companions at the Sacher Bar. Of course, the bartender never knew that my father lived at the terrible Hotel New Hampshire, a few minutes - slow walking - away. I wonder where the bartender thought Father was from. From off a yacht, I suppose; from at least the Bristol or the Amba.s.sador or the Imperial. And I realized that Father had never actually needed the white dinner jacket to look the part.

'Well,' Father said to me, quietly, in the Sacher Bar. 'Well, John, I'm a failure. I've let you all down.'

'No you haven't,' I told him.

'Now it's back to the land of the free,' Father said, stirring his nauseating drink with his index finger, then sucking his finger. 'And no more hotels,' he said, softly. 'I'm going to have to get a job job.'

He said it the way someone might have said that he was going to have to have an operation operation. I hated to see reality hemming him in.

'And you kids are going to have to go to school,' he said. 'To college,' he added, dreamily.

I reminded him that we had all been been to school and to college. Frank and Franny and I even had finished our university degrees; and why did Lilly need to finish hers - in American literature - when she had already finished a novel? to school and to college. Frank and Franny and I even had finished our university degrees; and why did Lilly need to finish hers - in American literature - when she had already finished a novel?

'Oh,' he said. 'Well, maybe we'll all all have to get jobs.' have to get jobs.'

'That's all right,' I said. He looked at me and smiled; he leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. He looked so absolutely perfect that no one in that bar could have possibly thought - even for a moment - that I was this middle-aged man's young lover. This was a father-and-son kiss and they looked at Father with even more envy than they had, heaped upon their vision of him when he walked in.

He took forever to finish playing with his drink. I had two more beers. I knew what he was doing. He was absorbing absorbing the Sacher Bar, he was getting his last good look at the Hotel Sacher; he was imagining, of course, that he owned it - that he lived here. the Sacher Bar, he was getting his last good look at the Hotel Sacher; he was imagining, of course, that he owned it - that he lived here.

'Your mother,' he said, 'would have loved all this.' He moved his hand only slightly, then rested it in his lap.

She would have loved all what what? I wondered. The Hotel Sacher and the Sacher Bar - oh yes. But what else else would she have loved? Her son Frank, growing a beard and trying to decipher his mother's message - her meaning - from a dressmaker's dummy? Her littlest daughter Lilly trying to grow? Her biggest daughter Franny trying to find out everything that a p.o.r.nographer knew? And would she have loved would she have loved? Her son Frank, growing a beard and trying to decipher his mother's message - her meaning - from a dressmaker's dummy? Her littlest daughter Lilly trying to grow? Her biggest daughter Franny trying to find out everything that a p.o.r.nographer knew? And would she have loved me me? I wondered: the son who cleaned up his language, but wanted more than anything to make love to his own sister. And Franny wanted to, too! That was why she'd gone to Ernst, of course.

Father couldn't have known why I started to cry, but he said all the right things. 'It won't be so bad,' he rea.s.sured me. 'Human beings are remarkable - at what we can learn to live with,' Father told me. 'If we couldn't get strong from what we lose, and what we miss, and what we want and can't have,' Father said, 'then we couldn't ever get strong enough enough, could we? What else makes us strong?' Father asked.

Everyone at the Sacher Bar watched me crying and my father comforting me. I guess that's just one of the reasons it's the most beautiful bar in the world, in my opinion: it has the grace to make no one feel self-conscious about any unhappiness.

I felt better with Father's arm around my shoulder.

'Good night, Mr. Berry,' the bartender said.

'Auf Wiedersehen,' Father said: he knew he'd never be back.

Outside, everything had changed. It was dark. It was the fall. The first man who pa.s.sed us, walking in a hurry, was wearing black slacks, black dress shoes, and a white dinner jacket.

My father didn't notice the man in the white dinner jacket, but I didn't feel comfortable with this omen, with this reminder; the man in the white dinner jacket, I knew, was dressed for the Opera. He must have been hurrying to be on time. The 'fall season,' as Fehlgeburt had warned me, was upon us. You could feel it in the weather.

The 1964 season of the New York Metropolitan Opera opened with Donizetti's Lucia di Lammermoor Lucia di Lammermoor. I read this in one of Frank's opera books, but Frank says he doubts very much that the season would have opened with Lucia Lucia in Vienna. Frank says it's likely something more Viennese would have opened the season - 'Their beloved Strauss, their beloved Mozart; even that Kraut, Wagner,' Frank says. And I don't even know if it was opening night when Father and I saw the man in the white dinner jacket. It was only clear that the State Opera was open for business. in Vienna. Frank says it's likely something more Viennese would have opened the season - 'Their beloved Strauss, their beloved Mozart; even that Kraut, Wagner,' Frank says. And I don't even know if it was opening night when Father and I saw the man in the white dinner jacket. It was only clear that the State Opera was open for business.

'The 1835 Italian version of Lucia Lucia first opened in Vienna in 1837,' Frank told me. 'Of course, it's been back a few times since then. Perhaps most notably,' Frank added, 'with the great Adelina Patti in the t.i.tle role - and most particularly the night her dress caught fire, just as she was beginning to sing the mad scene.' first opened in Vienna in 1837,' Frank told me. 'Of course, it's been back a few times since then. Perhaps most notably,' Frank added, 'with the great Adelina Patti in the t.i.tle role - and most particularly the night her dress caught fire, just as she was beginning to sing the mad scene.'

'What mad scene, Frank?' I asked him.

'You have to see it to believe it,' Frank said, 'and it's a little hard to believe, even then. But Patti's dress caught fire just as she was beginning to sing the mad scene - the stage was lit with gas flares, in those days, and she must have stood too close to one. And do you know what the great Adelina Patti did?' Frank asked me.

'No,' I said.

'She ripped off her burning dress and kept singing,' Frank said. 'In Vienna,' he added. 'Those were the days.'

And in one of Frank's opera books I read that Adelina Patti's Lucia Lucia seemed fated for this kind of disturbance. In Bucharest, for example, the famous mad scene was interrupted by a member of the audience falling into the pit - upon a woman - and in the general panic, someone shouted 'Fire!' But the great Adelina Patti cried, 'No fire!' - and went on singing. And in San Francisco, one weirdo threw a bomb onto the stage, and once more the fearless Patti riveted the audience to their seats. Despite the fact that the bomb exploded! seemed fated for this kind of disturbance. In Bucharest, for example, the famous mad scene was interrupted by a member of the audience falling into the pit - upon a woman - and in the general panic, someone shouted 'Fire!' But the great Adelina Patti cried, 'No fire!' - and went on singing. And in San Francisco, one weirdo threw a bomb onto the stage, and once more the fearless Patti riveted the audience to their seats. Despite the fact that the bomb exploded!

'A small bomb,' Frank has a.s.sured me.

But it was no small bomb that Frank and I had seen riding to the Opera between Arbeiter and Ernst; that bomb was as weighty as Sorrow, that bomb was as big as a bear. And it's doubtful that Donizetti's Lucia Lucia was at the Vienna Staatsoper the night Father and I said was at the Vienna Staatsoper the night Father and I said auf Wiedersehen auf Wiedersehen to the Sacher. I like to think it was to the Sacher. I like to think it was Lucia Lucia for my own reasons. There is a lot of blood and for my own reasons. There is a lot of blood and Schlagobers Schlagobers in that particular opera - even Frank agrees - and somehow the mad story of a brother who drives his sister crazy and causes her death, because he forces her on a man she doesn't love ... well, you can see why this particular version of blood and in that particular opera - even Frank agrees - and somehow the mad story of a brother who drives his sister crazy and causes her death, because he forces her on a man she doesn't love ... well, you can see why this particular version of blood and Schlagobers Schlagobers would seem especially appropriate, to me. would seem especially appropriate, to me.

'All so-called serious opera is blood and so-called serious opera is blood and Schlagobers Schlagobers,' Frank has told me. I don't know enough about opera to know if that is true; all I know is that I think Lucia di Lammermoor Lucia di Lammermoor should have been playing at the Vienna State Opera the night Father and I walked back to the Hotel New Hampshire from the Hotel Sacher. should have been playing at the Vienna State Opera the night Father and I walked back to the Hotel New Hampshire from the Hotel Sacher.

'It doesn't matter, really - which opera it was,' Frank is always saying, but I like to think it was Lucia Lucia. I like to think that the famous mad scene was not yet under way when Father and I arrived at the Hotel New Hampshire. There was Susie the bear in the lobby - without without her bear's head on! - and she was crying. Father walked right by Susie, without appearing to notice how upset she was - and out of costume! - but my father was used to unhappy bears. her bear's head on! - and she was crying. Father walked right by Susie, without appearing to notice how upset she was - and out of costume! - but my father was used to unhappy bears.

He walked right upstairs. He was going to tell Screaming Annie the bad news about the radicals, the bad news for the Hotel New Hampshire. 'She's probably with a customer, or out on the street,' I said to him, but Father said he would just wait for her outside her room.

I sat down with Susie.

'She's still with him,' Susie sobbed. If Franny was still with Ernst the p.o.r.nographer, I knew, it meant she was more than talking talking to him. There was no reason to pretend to be a bear anymore. I held Susie's bear head in my hands, I put it on, I took it off. I could not sit there in the lobby, waiting for Franny, like a wh.o.r.e, to be finished with him - to come down to the lobby again - and I knew I was helpless to interfere. I would have been too late, as always. There was no one around as fast as Harold Swallow, this time; there was no Black Arm of the Law. Junior Jones to him. There was no reason to pretend to be a bear anymore. I held Susie's bear head in my hands, I put it on, I took it off. I could not sit there in the lobby, waiting for Franny, like a wh.o.r.e, to be finished with him - to come down to the lobby again - and I knew I was helpless to interfere. I would have been too late, as always. There was no one around as fast as Harold Swallow, this time; there was no Black Arm of the Law. Junior Jones would would rescue Franny again, but he was too late to save her from Ernst - and so was I. If I'd stayed in the lobby with Susie, I would have just cried with her, and I'd been crying entirely too much, I thought. rescue Franny again, but he was too late to save her from Ernst - and so was I. If I'd stayed in the lobby with Susie, I would have just cried with her, and I'd been crying entirely too much, I thought.

'Did you "tell Old Billig?" I asked Susie. 'About the bombers?'

'She was only worried about her f.u.c.king china bears,' Susie said, and went on crying.

'I love Franny, too,' I told Susie, and gave her a hug.

'Not like I do!' Susie said, stifling a cry. Yes, like you do like you do, I thought.

I started upstairs, but Susie misunderstood me.

'They're somewhere on the third floor,' Susie said. 'Franny came down for a key, but I didn't see which room.' I looked at the reception desk; you could tell it was Susie the bear's night to watch after the reception desk, because the reception desk was a big mess.

'I'm looking for Jolanta,' I said to Susie. 'Not Franny.'

'Going to tell her, huh?' Susie asked.

But Jolanta wasn't interested in being told.

'I've got something to tell you,' I said outside her door.

'Three hundred Schillings,' she said, so I slipped it under the door.

'Okay, you can come in,' Jolanta said. She was alone; a customer had just left her, apparently, because she was sitting on her bidet, naked except for her bra.

'You want to see the t.i.ts, too?' Jolanta asked me. 'The t.i.ts cost another hundred Schillings.'

'I want to tell tell you something,' I said to her. you something,' I said to her.

'That costs another hundred, too,' she said, washing herself with the mindless lack of energy of a housewife washing dishes.

I gave her another hundred Schillings and she took her bra off. 'Undress,' she commanded me.

I did as I was told, while saying, 'It's the stupid radicals. They've ruined everything. They're going to blow up the Opera.'