Requiem in Vienna Read Online Free PDF Page B

developing their own rhythm and their own rituals.
    Breakfast, for example. This morning—the sacred Sunday when all offices and schools were closed—they lounged in the study, each engrossed in a favorite occupation, reading. They had discovered that reading at table had been forbidden in both their families. To be exact, they were not at table now, but bookends at opposite ends of an immense leather sofa that Berthe had insisted they purchase.
    Not at table, but at breakfast, the food laid out on a low table in front of the sofa. For Werthen this meal still consisted of Frau Blatschky’s aromatic and powerful coffee and a kipfel from thebakery in the bottom of their apartment building. Werthen would awaken at five to the first tantalizing whiffs of those rolls as the sweet and yeasty aromas wafted upward in the apartment house. For Berthe, who had been converted to the habit after a brief stay in London, breakfast meant a pot of Ceylon tea and crisps of toast spread with Frank Cooper’s Oxford marmalade. Both tea and marmalade came from Schönbichler’s on the Wollzeile. Berthe had introduced Werthen to the shop’s wonders one rainy March day, tucked away in a
durchhaus
off the noble Wollzeile. Werthen had never smelled such spicy aromas gathered together in one place before.
    She was reading the
Neue Freie Presse
before turning to Hermann Bahr’s new book of essays on the Viennese theater, while Werthen was immersed in Engelbert Bauer’s new book,
The Practical Uses of Electricity.
He loved gaining new knowledge, forcing his mind out of old ways of thinking and learning new and wonderful things about a world that was changing daily.
    This was their Sunday morning ritual even though their marriage was only a pair of months old.
    Frau Blatschky, however, bore an air of aggrieved distaste at the new informal arrangement. It was quite all right for Werthen, a bachelor, to take his breakfast in the study, but now that he was a married man, the cook had higher expectations for the new lady of the house.
    After the wedding, Frau Blatschky had come to him, offering her resignation, saying that surely the young lady had her own staff she would want to install. Both Werthen and Berthe assured her they would be pleased if she stayed on. Yet it was difficult for her at times. It was not only the informality of the newlyweds that bothered her. The Ericsson phone that Berthe had installed was also a constant source of befuddlement to Frau Blatschky. He would see her standing stock-still in front of the apparatus when it jangled to life, fearful of touching it. No amount of soothing explanation could convince her that she would not be electrocuted ifshe answered the call. And the fact that Werthen and Berthe shared a bedroom rather than kept separate sleeping arrangements seemed to shock Frau Blatschky in an entirely different manner.
    But Werthen had grown accustomed to her over the years and Berthe put up with her because of the woman’s wonderful
zwiebelrostbraten.
    And so they had ignored her look of distaste as she had set down the breakfast tray and left them there, comfortable and cozy.
    “My God,” Berthe suddenly said from behind her paper.
    Werthen looked up from his book. “What is it?” Werthen asked with feigned horror. “Parliamentarians brawling again?” The Viennese parliament was known for its rather rambunctious debates that at times turned physical.
    “No.” Berthe looked at him and Werthen realized it was serious.
    “It’s Mahler. He’s had an accident at the Court Opera.”
    Werthen was halfway out the front door by the time he finally heard Berthe’s suggestion.
    “Wouldn’t it be prudent to telephone ahead first?”
    In his haste, he had completely forgotten about the luxury of the telephone in their foyer.
    “Right,” he said, still flustered.
    “You’re not going to be much of a help to anybody like this. Deep breaths now, five of them.”
    To his surprise he obeyed, and did feel better