Part 27 (1/2)

'Yeah,' said Susie the bear. 'Like we could all be dead.'

Grief makes everything intimate; in our grieving for Mother and Egg, we got to know the radicals and wh.o.r.es as if we had always known them. We were the bereft children, motherless (to the wh.o.r.es), our golden brother slain (to the radicals). And so - to compensate for our gloom, and the added gloom of the conditions in the Gasthaus Freud - the radicals and wh.o.r.es treated us pretty well. And despite their day-and-night differences, they bore more similarities to each other than they they might have supposed. might have supposed.

They both believed in the commercial possibilities of a simple ideal: they both believed they could, one day, be 'free.' They both thought that their own bodies were objects easily sacrificed for a cause (and easily restored, or replaced, after the hards.h.i.+p of the sacrifice). Even their names were similar - if for different reasons. They had only code names, or nicknames, or if they used their real names, they used only their first names.

Two of them actually shared the same name, but there was no confusion, since the radical was male, the wh.o.r.e was female, and they were never at the Gasthaus Freud at the same time. The name was Old Billig - billig billig, in German, means 'cheap.' The oldest wh.o.r.e was called this because her prices were substandard for the district of the city she strolled; the Krugerstra.s.se wh.o.r.es, although Krugerstra.s.se was in the First District, were themselves a sort of subdistrict to the Karntnerstra.s.se wh.o.r.es (around the corner). If you turned off the Karntnerstra.s.se onto our tiny street, it was as if you were lowering yourself (by comparison) into a world without light; one street off the Karntnerstra.s.se you lost the glow of the Hotel Sacher, and the grand gleam of the State Opera, and you noticed how the wh.o.r.es wore more eyeshadow, how their knees buckled, slightly, or their ankles appeared to cave in (from standing too long), or how they appeared to be thicker in the waist - like the dressmaker's dummy in Frank's room. Old Billig was the captain of the Krugerstra.s.se wh.o.r.es.

Her namesake, among the radicals, was the old gentleman who had argued most ferociously with Freud about moving to the fifth floor. This This Old Billig had earned his 'cheap' designation for his reputation of leading a hand-to-mouth existence - and his history of being what the other radicals called 'a radical's radical.' When there were Bolsheviks, he was one; when the names changed, he changed his name. He was at the forefront of every movement, but - somehow - when the movement ran amok or into terminal trouble, Old Billig took up the rear position and discreetly trailed away out of sight, waiting for the next forefront. The idealists among the younger radicals were both suspicious of Old Billig and admiring of his endurance - his survival. This was not unlike the view held of Old Billig, the wh.o.r.e, by Old Billig had earned his 'cheap' designation for his reputation of leading a hand-to-mouth existence - and his history of being what the other radicals called 'a radical's radical.' When there were Bolsheviks, he was one; when the names changed, he changed his name. He was at the forefront of every movement, but - somehow - when the movement ran amok or into terminal trouble, Old Billig took up the rear position and discreetly trailed away out of sight, waiting for the next forefront. The idealists among the younger radicals were both suspicious of Old Billig and admiring of his endurance - his survival. This was not unlike the view held of Old Billig, the wh.o.r.e, by her her colleagues. colleagues.

Seniority is an inst.i.tution that is revered and resented in and out of society.

Like Old Billig the radical, Old Billig the wh.o.r.e was the most argumentative with Freud about changing floors.

'But you're going down down,' Freud said, 'you'll have to climb one less less flight of stairs. In a hotel with no elevator, the second floor is an flight of stairs. In a hotel with no elevator, the second floor is an improvement improvement over the third.' over the third.'

I could follow Freud's German, but not Old Billig's answer. Frank told me that she protested on the grounds of having too many 'mementos' to move.

'Look at this boy!' Freud said, groping around for me. 'Look at his muscles!' Freud, of course, 'looked' at my muscles by feeling them; squeezing and punching me, he shoved me in the general direction of the old wh.o.r.e. 'Feel him!' Freud cried. 'He can move every memento you got. If we gave him a day, he could move the whole hotel!'

And Frank told me what Old Billig said. 'I don't need to feel any more muscles,' Old Billig told Freud, declining the offer to squeeze me. 'I feel muscles in my frigging sleep sleep,' she said. 'Sure he can move the mementos,' she said. 'But I don't want nothing broken.'

And so I moved Old Billig's 'mementos' with the greatest of care. A collection of china bears that rivaled Mother's collection (and after Mother's death, Old Billig would invite me to visit her room in the daylight hours - when she was off duty, and gone from the Gasthaus Freud - and I could spend a quiet time alone with her bears, remembering Mother's collection, which perished with her). Old Billig also liked plants - plants that leaped out of those pots designed to resemble animals and birds: flowers springing from the backs of frogs, ferns sprawling over a grove of flamingos, an orange tree sprouting from the head of an alligator. The other wh.o.r.es mostly had changes of clothes and cosmetics and medicines to move. It was strange to think of them as having only 'night rooms' at the Gasthaus Freud - as opposed to Ronda Ray having her 'dayroom'; it struck me how dayrooms and night rooms were used for similar purposes.

We met the wh.o.r.es that first night we helped them move from the third to the second floor. There were four wh.o.r.es on the Krugerstra.s.se, plus Old Billig. Their names were Babette, Jolanta, Dark Inge, and Screaming Annie. Babette was called Babette because she was the only one who spoke French; she tended to get most of the French customers (the French being most sensitive about speaking any language but French). Babette was small - and therefore Lilly's favorite - with a pixie face that the somber light in the lobby of the Gasthaus Freud could cause to look (at certain angles) unpleasantly rodent-like. In later years I would think of Babette as probably anoretic, without knowing it - none of us knew what anorexia was, in 1957. She wore flowery prints, very summer-like dresses - even when it wasn't summer - and she had a funny kind of over-powdered sense about her (as if, if you touched her, a small puff of powder would blast through her pores); at other times, her skin had a waxiness about it (as if, if you touched her, your finger might leave a dent). Lilly told me once that Babette's smallness was an important part of her (Lilly's) growing up, because Babette helped Lilly realize that small people could actually have s.e.x with large people and not be altogether destroyed. That's how Lilly liked to put it: 'Not altogether altogether destroyed.' destroyed.'

Jolanta called herself Jolanta because she said it was a Polish name and she was fond of Polish jokes. She was square-faced, strong-looking, as big as Frank (and nearly as awkward); she gave off a heartiness that you suspected of being false - as if, in the middle of a booming good joke, she might turn suddenly sour and produce a knife from her handbag or grind a winegla.s.s into someone's face. She was broad-shouldered and heavy-breasted, solid in her legs but not fat - Jolanta had the robust charm of a peasant who'd been strangely corrupted by a sneaky sort of city violence; she looked erotic, but dangerous. In my first days and nights at the Gasthaus Freud it was her her image I most often m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed to - it was Jolanta I had the greatest trouble speaking to, not because she was the most coa.r.s.e but because I was the most afraid of her. image I most often m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed to - it was Jolanta I had the greatest trouble speaking to, not because she was the most coa.r.s.e but because I was the most afraid of her.

'How can you recognize a Polish prost.i.tute?' she asked me. I had to ask Frank for a translation. 'Because she pays you you to f.u.c.k to f.u.c.k her her,' Jolanta said. This I understood without Frank's help.

'Did you get it?' Frank asked me.

'Jesus, yes, Frank,' I said.

'Then laugh,' Frank said. 'You'd better laugh.' And I looked at Jolanta's hands - she had the wrists of a farmer, the knuckles of a boxer - and laughed.

Dark Inge was not a laugher. She'd had a most unhappy life. More important, she had not lived very much much of her life, yet; she was only eleven. A mulatto - with an Austrian mother and a black American G. I. for her father - she'd been born at the start of the occupation. Her father had left with the occupying powers, in 1955, and nothing he'd told Inge or her mother about the treatment of black people in the United States had made them want to go with him. Dark Inge's English was the best among the wh.o.r.es, and when Father left for France - to identify the bodies of Mother and Egg - it was Dark Inge we spent most of our sleepless nights with. She was as tall as I was, although she was only Lilly's age, and the way they dressed her up made her look as old as Franny. Lithe and pretty and mocha-colored, she worked as a tease; she was not a real wh.o.r.e. of her life, yet; she was only eleven. A mulatto - with an Austrian mother and a black American G. I. for her father - she'd been born at the start of the occupation. Her father had left with the occupying powers, in 1955, and nothing he'd told Inge or her mother about the treatment of black people in the United States had made them want to go with him. Dark Inge's English was the best among the wh.o.r.es, and when Father left for France - to identify the bodies of Mother and Egg - it was Dark Inge we spent most of our sleepless nights with. She was as tall as I was, although she was only Lilly's age, and the way they dressed her up made her look as old as Franny. Lithe and pretty and mocha-colored, she worked as a tease; she was not a real wh.o.r.e.

She was not allowed to stroll the Krugerstra.s.se without another wh.o.r.e beside her, unless she strolled the Krugerstra.s.se with Susie the bear; when any man wanted her, he was told he could only look at her - and touch himself. Dark Inge was not old enough to be touched, and no man was allowed to be alone in a room with her. If a man wanted to be with her, Susie the bear kept them company. It was a simple system, but it worked. If a man looked as if he was about to touch Dark Inge, Susie the bear would make the necessary sounds and gestures preparatory to a charge. If the man asked Dark Inge to take off too many clothes, or if he insisted she look look at him while he m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed, Susie the bear would get restless. 'You're making the bear hostile,' Dark Inge would warn the man, who would leave - or else finish masturbating quickly, while Dark Inge looked away. at him while he m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed, Susie the bear would get restless. 'You're making the bear hostile,' Dark Inge would warn the man, who would leave - or else finish masturbating quickly, while Dark Inge looked away.

All the wh.o.r.es knew that Susie the bear could get to their rooms in a matter of seconds. All it required was some cry of distress, because Susie - like any well-trained animal - knew all their voices by heart. Babette's nasal little yelp, Jolanta's violent bellow, Old Billig's shattering 'mementos.' But to us children the worst customers were the shame-faced men who m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed to only the most modest glimpses of Dark Inge.

'I don't think I I could beat off with a bear in my room,' Frank said. could beat off with a bear in my room,' Frank said.

'I don't think you could beat off with Susie Susie in your room, Frank,' Franny said. in your room, Frank,' Franny said.

Lilly shuddered, and I joined her. With Father in France - with those bodies most important to us - we viewed the body traffic in the Gasthaus Freud with that detachment peculiar to mourners.

'When I get old enough,' Dark Inge told us, 'I can charge for the real thing.' It surprised us children that 'the real thing' cost more money than beating off while watching Inge.

Dark Inge's mother was planning to get Inge out of the business by the time her daughter was 'old enough.' Dark Inge's mother planned to retire her daughter before her daughter came of age. Dark Inge's mother was the fifth lady of the night in the Gasthaus Freud - the one called Screaming Annie. She made more money than any other wh.o.r.e on the Krugerstra.s.se, because she was working for a respectable retirement (for her daughter and and for herself). for herself).

If you wanted a frail flower, or a little French, you asked for Babette. If you wanted experience, and a bargain, you got Old Billig. If you courted danger - if you liked a touch of violence - you could take your chances with Jolanta. If you were ashamed of yourself, you could pay to steal a look at Dark Inge. And if you desired the ultimate deception, you went with Screaming Annie.

As Susie the bear said, 'Screaming Annie's got the best fake o.r.g.a.s.m in the business.'

Screaming Annie's fake o.r.g.a.s.m could jar Lilly out of her worst nightmares, it could cause Frank to sit bolt upright in bed and howl in terror at the dark figure of the dressmaker's dummy lurking at the foot of his bed, it could rip me out of the deepest sleep - suddenly wide-awake, with an erection, or grabbing my own throat to feel where it was slashed. Screaming Annie, in my opinion, was an argument - all by herself - for not not having the wh.o.r.es occupy the floor most immediately above our own. having the wh.o.r.es occupy the floor most immediately above our own.

She could even stir Father out of his grief - even upon his immediate return from France. 'Jesus G.o.d,' he would say, and come to kiss each of us, and see if we were safe.

Only Freud could sleep through it. 'Leave it to Freud,' Frank said, 'to not be fooled by a fake o.r.g.a.s.m.' Frank thought himself very clever for this oft-repeated remark - because, of course, he meant the other other Freud, not our blind manager. Freud, not our blind manager.

Screaming Annie could sometimes fool even Susie the bear, who would grumble, 'G.o.d, that's got to be a real real one.' Or, worse, Susie would occasionally confuse a fake o.r.g.a.s.m with a possible scream for one.' Or, worse, Susie would occasionally confuse a fake o.r.g.a.s.m with a possible scream for help help. 'That's n.o.body n.o.body coming coming, for Christ's sake!' Susie would roar, reminding me of Ronda Ray. 'That is somebody dying dying!' And she would go bawling down the second-floor hall, throw herself against Screaming Annie's door, charge the wrecked bed with her terrifying snarls - causing Screaming Annie's mate to fly, or faint, or wither on the spot. And Screaming Annie would say, mildly, 'No no, Susie, nothing's wrong. He's a nice nice man.' By which time it was often too late to revive the man - at the very least reduced to a cringing, shrunken shape of fear. man.' By which time it was often too late to revive the man - at the very least reduced to a cringing, shrunken shape of fear.

'That's the ultimate guilt trip,' Franny used to say. 'Just when some guy's about to get off, a bear busts into the room and starts mauling him.'

'Actually, honey,' Susie told Franny, 'I think some of them get off on that that.'

Were there actually some customers at the Gasthaus Freud who could only only come when attacked by a bear? I wondered. But we were too young; we would never know some things about that place. Like the ghouls of all our Halloweens past, the clientele in the Gasthaus Freud would never be quite real for us. At least not the wh.o.r.es, and their customers - and not the radicals. come when attacked by a bear? I wondered. But we were too young; we would never know some things about that place. Like the ghouls of all our Halloweens past, the clientele in the Gasthaus Freud would never be quite real for us. At least not the wh.o.r.es, and their customers - and not the radicals.

Old Billig (the radical radical Old Billig) was the first to arrive. Like Iowa Bob, he said he was too old to waste what was left of his life asleep. He got there so early in the morning that he occasionally pa.s.sed the last wh.o.r.e on his way in, her way out. This was inevitably Screaming Annie, working the hardest hours - to save herself and her dark daughter. Old Billig) was the first to arrive. Like Iowa Bob, he said he was too old to waste what was left of his life asleep. He got there so early in the morning that he occasionally pa.s.sed the last wh.o.r.e on his way in, her way out. This was inevitably Screaming Annie, working the hardest hours - to save herself and her dark daughter.

Susie the bear slept in the early morning hours. There was little wh.o.r.e trouble after dawn, as if the light kept people safe - if not always honest - and the radicals never started quarreling before midmorning. Most of the radicals were late sleepers. They wrote their manifestos all day, and made their threatening phone calls. They hara.s.sed each other - 'in the absence of more tangible enemies,' Father would say of them. Father, after all, was a capitalist. Who else could even imagine the perfect hotel? Who but a capitalist, and a basic non-rocker of the boat, would even want want to live in a hotel, to manage a non-industry, to sell a product that was sleep - not work - a product that was at least rest if not recreation? My father thought the radicals were more ludicrous than the wh.o.r.es. I think that after the death of my mother my father felt familiar with the confusions of l.u.s.t and loneliness; perhaps he was even grateful for 'the business' - as the wh.o.r.es called their work. to live in a hotel, to manage a non-industry, to sell a product that was sleep - not work - a product that was at least rest if not recreation? My father thought the radicals were more ludicrous than the wh.o.r.es. I think that after the death of my mother my father felt familiar with the confusions of l.u.s.t and loneliness; perhaps he was even grateful for 'the business' - as the wh.o.r.es called their work.

He was less sympathetic to the world-changers, to the idealists bent on altering the unpleasantries of human nature. This surprises me, now, because I think of Father as simply another kind of idealist - but of course Father was more determined to outlive unpleasantries than change them. That my father would never learn German also kept him isolated from the radicals; by comparison, the wh.o.r.es spoke better English.

The radical Old Billig knew one phrase of English. He liked to tickle Lilly, or give her a lollipop, while he teased her. 'Yankee go home,' he would say to her, lovingly.

'He's a sweet old fart,' Franny said. Frank tried to teach Old Billig another English phrase that Frank thought Billig would like.

'Imperialist dog,' Frank would say, but Billig got this hopelessly confused with 'n.a.z.i swine,' and it always came out strange.

The radical who spoke the best English used the code name Fehlgeburt. It was Frank who first explained to me that Fehlgeburt Fehlgeburt means 'miscarriage' in German. means 'miscarriage' in German.

'As in ”miscarriage of justice,” Frank?' Franny asked. 'No,' Frank said. 'The other kind. The baby baby kind of miscarriage,' Frank said. kind of miscarriage,' Frank said.

Fraulein Fehlgeburt, as she was called - Miss Miscarriage, to us children - had never been pregnant, thus had never miscarried; she was a university student whose code name was 'Miscarriage' because the only other woman on the staff of the Symposium on East-West Relations had the code name 'Pregnant.' She She had been. Fraulein Schw.a.n.ger - for had been. Fraulein Schw.a.n.ger - for schw.a.n.ger schw.a.n.ger means 'pregnant' in German - was an older woman, Father's age, who was famous in Viennese radical circles for a past pregnancy. She had written a whole book about being pregnant, and another book - a kind of sequel to the first-about having an abortion. When she was first pregnant she had worn a bright red sign saying 'pregnant' on her chest - SCHw.a.n.gER! - under which, in letters of the same size, was the question 'ARE YOU THE FATHER?' It had made a sensational book jacket, too, and she had donated all her royalties to various radical causes. Her subsequent abortion - and means 'pregnant' in German - was an older woman, Father's age, who was famous in Viennese radical circles for a past pregnancy. She had written a whole book about being pregnant, and another book - a kind of sequel to the first-about having an abortion. When she was first pregnant she had worn a bright red sign saying 'pregnant' on her chest - SCHw.a.n.gER! - under which, in letters of the same size, was the question 'ARE YOU THE FATHER?' It had made a sensational book jacket, too, and she had donated all her royalties to various radical causes. Her subsequent abortion - and that that book - had made her a popular subject for controversy; she could still draw a crowd when she gave a speech, and she was a loyal donator of the proceeds. Schw.a.n.ger's abortion book - published in 1955, simultaneously with the end of the occupation - had made the expulsion of this unwanted child symbolic of Austria's freeing herself from the occupying powers. 'The father,' Schw.a.n.ger wrote, 'could have been Russian, French, British, or American; at least to my body, and to my way of thinking, he was an unwanted foreigner.' book - had made her a popular subject for controversy; she could still draw a crowd when she gave a speech, and she was a loyal donator of the proceeds. Schw.a.n.ger's abortion book - published in 1955, simultaneously with the end of the occupation - had made the expulsion of this unwanted child symbolic of Austria's freeing herself from the occupying powers. 'The father,' Schw.a.n.ger wrote, 'could have been Russian, French, British, or American; at least to my body, and to my way of thinking, he was an unwanted foreigner.'

Schw.a.n.ger was close to Susie the bear; the two shared a great many rape theories together. But Schw.a.n.ger would also befriend my father; she appeared to be the most consoling to him, after my mother's loss, not because there was anything 'between' them (as they say) but because the calmness of her voice - the steady, soft cadence of her speech - was the most like my mother's of all the voices in Gasthaus Freud. Like my mother, Schw.a.n.ger was a gentle persuader. 'I'm just a realist,' she had a way of saying, so innocently - though her hopes for wiping the slate clean, for starting a new world, from scratch, were as fervent as the fire dreams of any of the radicals.

Schw.a.n.ger took us children with her, several times a day, for coffee with milk and cinnamon and whipped cream at the Kaffee Europa on Karntnerstra.s.se - or to the Kaffee Mozart at Albertinaplatz Zwei, just behind the State Opera. 'In case you don't know it,' Frank would say, later - and over and over, 'The Third Man was filmed at the Kaffee Mozart.' Schw.a.n.ger couldn't have cared less; it was the whipped cream that drove her away from the clatter of typewriters and the heat of debate, it was the calm of the coffeehouse that got to her. 'The only worthwhile inst.i.tution in our society - a shame that the coffeehouse will have to go, too,' Schw.a.n.ger told Frank, Franny, Lilly, and me. 'Drink up, dears!' was filmed at the Kaffee Mozart.' Schw.a.n.ger couldn't have cared less; it was the whipped cream that drove her away from the clatter of typewriters and the heat of debate, it was the calm of the coffeehouse that got to her. 'The only worthwhile inst.i.tution in our society - a shame that the coffeehouse will have to go, too,' Schw.a.n.ger told Frank, Franny, Lilly, and me. 'Drink up, dears!'

When you wanted whipped cream, you asked for Schlagobers Schlagobers, and if Schw.a.n.ger meant 'pregnant' to the other radicals, she meant pure Schlagobers Schlagobers to us children. She was our mother-like radical with a weakness for whipped cream; we really liked her. to us children. She was our mother-like radical with a weakness for whipped cream; we really liked her.

And young Fraulein Fehlgeburt, whose major at the University of Vienna was American literature, adored Schw.a.n.ger. We thought she seemed actually proud to be code-named 'Miscarriage,' perhaps because we thought that Fehlgeburt Fehlgeburt, in German, could also mean 'Abortion.' I'm sure this can't be true, but in Frank's dictionary, at least, the word for miscarriage and abortion was the same word, Fehlgeburt Fehlgeburt - which symbolizes perfectly our out-of-itness with the radicals, our failure to ever understand them. Every misunderstanding has at its center a breakdown of language. We never actually understood what these two women - which symbolizes perfectly our out-of-itness with the radicals, our failure to ever understand them. Every misunderstanding has at its center a breakdown of language. We never actually understood what these two women meant meant - the tough and mother-like Schw.a.n.ger, marshaling forces (and money) for causes that struck us children as left of reason, but able to soothe us with her gentle and most logical - the tough and mother-like Schw.a.n.ger, marshaling forces (and money) for causes that struck us children as left of reason, but able to soothe us with her gentle and most logical voice voice, and her Schlagobers Schlagobers; and the waiflike, stuttering, shy university student of American literature, Miss Miscarriage, who read aloud to Lilly (not just to comfort a motherless child but to improve her English). She read so well that Franny, Frank, and I would almost always listen in. Fehlgeburt liked to read to us in Frank's room, so it appeared that the dressmaker's dummy was listening, too.

It was from Fraulein Fehlgeburt, in the Gasthaus Freud - with our father in France, with our Mother and Egg dragged from the cold sea (under the marker buoy that was Sorrow) - that we first heard the whole of The Great Gatsby The Great Gatsby; it was that ending, with Miss Miscarriage's lilting Austrian accent, that really got to Lilly.

' ”Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eludes us then, but that's no matter,” ' Fehlgeburt read, excitedly, ' ” - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther ...”!' Miss Miscarriage read. ' ”And one fine morning - ” ' Fehlgeburt paused; her saucer-like eyes seemed glazed by that green light Gatsby saw - maybe by the orgiastic future, too.

'What?' Lilly said, breathlessly, and a little echo of Egg was in Frank's room with us.