Part 22 (1/2)

'You know,' said Frank, still blus.h.i.+ng. know,' said Frank, still blus.h.i.+ng.

'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.'