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Madensky Square - pp 173-176
The treasure I'd discovered when I came here with my little phantom daughter was still there: I could see the brightly coloured sign above a clump of bushes. GROTTENBAHN, it said - and I moved resolutely towards it, paid, led the child into the first of the wooden coaches, painted a brilliant red and blue.
'What is it?' he whispered.
'You'll see.'
Only a few people got in behind us; it was late in the year for the Prater. The bell rang and we lurched forwards into the darkness. There was time to be properly afraid - and then the train stopped.
We were opposite the first of the lighted caves. It showed Cinderella stooping by the embers, her golden hair brushing the hearth. Everything that would later transform her life was there: the pumpkins, the mice… One baby mouse playing beneath the dresser was half the size of the rest, with tiny crooked whiskers. The clock ticked in the corner, hams and salami hung from the rafters. She was utterly forlorn, poor Cinderella, and as we leaned out of the train (which we were not supposed to do) we could see the tears glitter on her cheeks.
'Who is she?' whispered the boy beside me, and I realized that he had never heard of Cinderella; never in his life.
Yet he was transfixed, as I was too. For we were entirely in the kitchen, sharing her loneliness, her rejection - but at least I knew the future as did the children in the coaches behind me. That the old woman visible through the window was coming… that as soon as the train moved on she would be there, the fairy godmother under whose cloak one could see the glimmer of silver.
The train surged forwards and beside me Sigismund sighed. It was too soon, always too soon, that jerk of the train, one never had time enough. Another journey into the darkness, and then we stopped once more.
Snow White this time, and the glass coffin and the dwarves clustered round in mourning. And how they mourned! They held their heads in their hands, they clutched their handkerchiefs, one lay prostrate among the lilies of the valley on the ground. White doves hung above the bier, white roses sprouted from the earth and she lay with her raven hair streaming across her face.
And again for the other children in the coaches the sadness was almost pleasurable because they knew, as I knew, that the prince would come (one could see his painted horse, his handsome head on a distant hill), the poisoned apple be dislodged, the grief-stricken dwarves rise to their feet and dance.
But not Sigismund. 'Why is she dead?' came his hoarse little voice beside me. 'Who killed her ?'
'I'll tell you later. But it's all right. She comes alive again.'
Another plunge into the darkness and the giant Rubezahl, our special Austrian giant and wholly benevolent. He was holding a cow in the hollow of his hand and chiding it for not giving milk while tiny people in the field below looked pleased.
And on again to the Sleeping Beauty. She lay back in a swoon holding her spindle and she had the richest, fattest plait of flaxen hair you have ever seen. A great hedge of thorns grew across the window and all around her lay the palace servants overcome as she was by sudden sleep. There was a sleeping dog, a sleeping chef in a tall hat - and a sleeping kitchen boy still holding aloft the cutlet he had been about to eat.
'A sleeping chop!' said Sigismund, pointing, and for the first time since I had known him, I heard him giggle. He had made a joke.
There were twelve stories depicted in the Grottenbahn and Sigismund knew none of them. The Little Mermaid, walking on her sore new feet towards her prince, Mother Holle trying to shake down the sky, Little Red Riding Hood carrying her basket between marvellously spotted toadstools while the great wet tongue of the wolf lolled between the pines…
The last but one of the lighted grottos was almost the best: Thumbelina landing in Africa, held in the beak of her swallow. And what an Africa! Swirling scarlet lilies, fruit hanging from palm trees - and in the petals of a flower as golden as the sun, Thumbelina's tiny princeling awaiting her.
In the last of the caves, Hansel and Gretel lay asleep in the forest, pillowed on leaves, while above them an arc of angels in white nightdresses with pink bare feet and glittering halos, held out protecting hands.
And here at last Sigismund was able to make a connection through his music, and in his husky voice he hummed the theme of the 'Angel's Ballet' from Humperdinck's opera.
Then we were out in the daylight, blinking, trying to adjust to the shock of daylight and ordinariness. The train stopped. The other people got out. Sigismund made no move whatsoever.
'Where would you like to go next?' I asked. A stupid question. He sat absolutely immobile, grasping the rail in front of him.
'Again,' he said.
I bought two more tickets. We went round again. Cinderella, Snow White, the great giant Rubezahl… When we got to the Sleeping Beauty he made his joke about the sleeping chop, when we got to Hansel and Gretel he crooned the ballet music from Humperdinck, and each and every time the train moved on, he sighed.
'What about one of the roundabouts?' I suggested when we were out once more.
He shook his head. 'Please, again,' he said. You can believe it or not, but we went seven times round the Grottenbahn. Seven baby mice, seven benevolent giants, seven jokes about sleeping chops, seven golden princes waiting for Thumbelina …
'What is it?' he whispered.
'You'll see.'
Only a few people got in behind us; it was late in the year for the Prater. The bell rang and we lurched forwards into the darkness. There was time to be properly afraid - and then the train stopped.
We were opposite the first of the lighted caves. It showed Cinderella stooping by the embers, her golden hair brushing the hearth. Everything that would later transform her life was there: the pumpkins, the mice… One baby mouse playing beneath the dresser was half the size of the rest, with tiny crooked whiskers. The clock ticked in the corner, hams and salami hung from the rafters. She was utterly forlorn, poor Cinderella, and as we leaned out of the train (which we were not supposed to do) we could see the tears glitter on her cheeks.
'Who is she?' whispered the boy beside me, and I realized that he had never heard of Cinderella; never in his life.
Yet he was transfixed, as I was too. For we were entirely in the kitchen, sharing her loneliness, her rejection - but at least I knew the future as did the children in the coaches behind me. That the old woman visible through the window was coming… that as soon as the train moved on she would be there, the fairy godmother under whose cloak one could see the glimmer of silver.
The train surged forwards and beside me Sigismund sighed. It was too soon, always too soon, that jerk of the train, one never had time enough. Another journey into the darkness, and then we stopped once more.
Snow White this time, and the glass coffin and the dwarves clustered round in mourning. And how they mourned! They held their heads in their hands, they clutched their handkerchiefs, one lay prostrate among the lilies of the valley on the ground. White doves hung above the bier, white roses sprouted from the earth and she lay with her raven hair streaming across her face.
And again for the other children in the coaches the sadness was almost pleasurable because they knew, as I knew, that the prince would come (one could see his painted horse, his handsome head on a distant hill), the poisoned apple be dislodged, the grief-stricken dwarves rise to their feet and dance.
But not Sigismund. 'Why is she dead?' came his hoarse little voice beside me. 'Who killed her ?'
'I'll tell you later. But it's all right. She comes alive again.'
Another plunge into the darkness and the giant Rubezahl, our special Austrian giant and wholly benevolent. He was holding a cow in the hollow of his hand and chiding it for not giving milk while tiny people in the field below looked pleased.
And on again to the Sleeping Beauty. She lay back in a swoon holding her spindle and she had the richest, fattest plait of flaxen hair you have ever seen. A great hedge of thorns grew across the window and all around her lay the palace servants overcome as she was by sudden sleep. There was a sleeping dog, a sleeping chef in a tall hat - and a sleeping kitchen boy still holding aloft the cutlet he had been about to eat.
'A sleeping chop!' said Sigismund, pointing, and for the first time since I had known him, I heard him giggle. He had made a joke.
There were twelve stories depicted in the Grottenbahn and Sigismund knew none of them. The Little Mermaid, walking on her sore new feet towards her prince, Mother Holle trying to shake down the sky, Little Red Riding Hood carrying her basket between marvellously spotted toadstools while the great wet tongue of the wolf lolled between the pines…
The last but one of the lighted grottos was almost the best: Thumbelina landing in Africa, held in the beak of her swallow. And what an Africa! Swirling scarlet lilies, fruit hanging from palm trees - and in the petals of a flower as golden as the sun, Thumbelina's tiny princeling awaiting her.
In the last of the caves, Hansel and Gretel lay asleep in the forest, pillowed on leaves, while above them an arc of angels in white nightdresses with pink bare feet and glittering halos, held out protecting hands.
And here at last Sigismund was able to make a connection through his music, and in his husky voice he hummed the theme of the 'Angel's Ballet' from Humperdinck's opera.
Then we were out in the daylight, blinking, trying to adjust to the shock of daylight and ordinariness. The train stopped. The other people got out. Sigismund made no move whatsoever.
'Where would you like to go next?' I asked. A stupid question. He sat absolutely immobile, grasping the rail in front of him.
'Again,' he said.
I bought two more tickets. We went round again. Cinderella, Snow White, the great giant Rubezahl… When we got to the Sleeping Beauty he made his joke about the sleeping chop, when we got to Hansel and Gretel he crooned the ballet music from Humperdinck, and each and every time the train moved on, he sighed.
'What about one of the roundabouts?' I suggested when we were out once more.
He shook his head. 'Please, again,' he said. You can believe it or not, but we went seven times round the Grottenbahn. Seven baby mice, seven benevolent giants, seven jokes about sleeping chops, seven golden princes waiting for Thumbelina …
Near fragment in time
Meine eigene Erinnerung an das "Herrenhof" reicht bis in die frühen Zwanzigerjahre dieses Jahrhunderts zurück. Es war ein weitläufiges, großräumiges Etablissement, dessen dekoratives Interieur dem Jugendstil nachempfunden war. Wenn man durch die sanft pfauchende und allzu hastige Schritte besinnlich retardierende Drehtür eintrat, befand man sich zunächst in einem langgestreckten Raum, dessen behäbige Fensterlogen den Blick auf die prächtigen Palais der Herrengasse, die Residenzen der dem kaiserlichen Hof nahestehenden Hocharistokratie freigaben. Die Überzüge der bequemen Fauteuils, die Holztäfelung der Wände, die Tischplatten und Luster waren aus kostbarem Material, wirkten nobel und gediegen.
pp 34-35 from Veruntreute Geschichte. Die Wiener Salons und Literatencafés by
Near fragment in space
Trautmann ging in den Wurstelprater und genehmigte sich im Schweizerhaus zwar diesmal keine Stelze, aber dafür ein Krautfleisch, trank drei Krügel Budweiser, plauderte mit der ihm gut bekannten Chefin und raute Kette. Beschloss dann, sich ein bisschen im Wurstelprater umzuschauen, nahm dabei allerdings die ihm noch immer ungewohnte, verhasste Brille ab und hängte sie in den Ausschnitt seines T-Shirts mit einer chinesischen Aufschrift, von der er nicht wusste, was sie bedeutete. Seine Glock hatte er wie immer im hinteren Hosenbund stecken. Außer einer kleinen Ausbuchtung, die sein ziemliche langes T-Shirt aufwies, war von ihr nichts zu sehen. Er ärgerte sich über das vor dem Schweizerhaus aufgebaute, über sechzig Meter hohe Kettenkarussell, das den ganzen Platz verschandelt. Kurz setzte er sich auf eine Bank vor dem Pferdekarussell, in dem die Tiere zur schon ausgeleierten Orchestrionmusik im Kreis leifen, und ging dann langsam zu seiner nicht weit entfernten kleinen Wohnung in der Molkereistraße.
pp 198-199 from Blutreigen Ein Fall für Trautmann by