The Fist of God

It was her habit to do this through the summer and even into the autumn, and for this she always brought her sandwiches with her. On December 15 she had none.

Nevertheless, looking at the bright blue sky above Franzis-kanerplatz and protected by her neat tweed coat, she decided that if nature was going to offer, even for one day, a bit of Altweibersommer —old ladies’ summer, to the Viennese—she would take advantage and eat in the park.

There was a special reason she loved the small park across the Ring. At one end is the Hübner Kursalon, a glass-walled restaurant like a large conservatory. Here during the lunch hour a small orchestra is wont to play the melodies of Strauss, that most Viennese of composers.

Without being able to afford to lunch there, others can sit outside the enclosure and enjoy the music for free. Moreover, in the center of the park, protected by his stone arch, stands the statue of the great Johann himself.

Edith Hardenberg bought her sandwiches at a local lunch-bar, found a park bench in the sun, and nibbled away while she listened to the waltz tunes.

“Entschuldigung.”

She jumped, jerked out of her reverie by the low voice saying “Excuse me.”

If there was one thing Miss Hardenberg would have none of, it was being addressed by a complete stranger. She glanced to her side.

He was young and dark-haired, with soft brown eyes, and his voice had a foreign accent. She was about to look firmly away again when she noticed the young man had an illustrated brochure of some kind in his hand and was pointing at a word in the text. Despite herself she glanced down. The brochure was the illustrated program notes for The Magic Flute .

“Please, this word—it is not German, no?”

His forefinger was pointing at the word portitura .

She should have left there and then, of course, just gotten up and walked away. She began to rewrap her sandwiches.

“No,” she said shortly, “it’s Italian.”

“Ah,” said the man apologetically. “I am learning German, but I do not understand Italian. Does it mean the story, please?”

“No,” she said, “it means the score, the music.”

“Thank you,” he said with genuine gratitude. “It is so hard to understand your Viennese operas, but I do love them so much.”

Her fingers slowed in their flutter to wrap the remaining sandwiches and leave.

“It is set in Egypt, you know,” the young man explained. Such nonsense, to tell her that, she who knew every word of Die Zauberflö te .

“Indeed it is,” she said. This had gone far enough, she told herself. Whoever he was, he was a very impudent young man. Why, they were almost in conversation. The very idea.

“The same as Aï da ,” he remarked, back to studying his program notes. “I like Verdi, but I think I prefer Mozart.”

Her sandwiches were rewrapped; she was ready to go. She should just stand up and go. She turned to look at him, and he chose that moment to look up and smile.

It was a very shy smile, almost pleading; brown spaniel eyes topped by lashes a model would have killed for.

“There is no comparison,” she said. “Mozart is the master of them all.”

His smile widened, showing even white teeth.

“He lived he

re once. Perhaps he sat here, right on this bench, and made his music.”

“I’m sure he did no such thing,” she said. “The bench was not here then.”

She rose and turned. The young man rose too and gave a short Viennese bow.

“I am sorry I disturbed you, Fräulein. But thank you for your help.”

She was walking out of the park, back to her desk to finish her lunch, furious with herself. Conversations with young men in parks—whatever next? On the other hand, he was only a foreign student trying to learn about Viennese opera. No harm in that, surely. But enough is enough. She passed a poster. Of course; the Vienna Opera was staging The Magic Flute in three days. Perhaps it was part of the young man’s study course.