A Fatal Waltz

family, when a gentleman slammed into me. He apologized quickly and walked on. I watched him cross the street towards Schauflergasse and duck into a café. The golden light escaping through the windows looked inviting; I followed him.

Inside, round tables filled a room with an arched stone ceiling. Newspapers hung on wooden racks or were scattered in front of gentlemen bent over them with eager eyes, many of them scribbling frantic notes in the margins. I took a seat in the back of the room, and the man I’d followed turned and glared at me. I ignored him, smiled at the waiter who’d appeared next to me, and ordered a coffee mehr weiss. He brought it almost at once, along with a glass of water. My friend was still scowling at me. Despite the milk in it, the coffee was too hot to drink, so I walked to the nearest newspaper rack and pulled down a copy of Weiner Literaturzeitung. A man at the table next to it smiled at me.

“A disgruntled former lover?” he asked.

“Excuse me?” I answered in German, wishing, not for the first time, that I spoke it as fluently as I did French.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to offend.” He jumped to his feet and bowed. “I am Friedrich Henkler.”

“Lady Emily Ashton,” I said, hesitating, never before having encountered someone bold enough to introduce himself to a total stranger. I backed away, slinking to my table and sitting down. I spread the paper in front of me, hoping I looked engrossed, then tasted my drink and cringed.

“You do not like your coffee?” Herr Henkler called from his seat.

“No, it’s not the coffee. Not this specific coffee, that is. I don’t like any coffee.”

“So why did you order it, Lady Emily Ashton? You are English? You want tea?”

“I didn’t come to Vienna to drink tea,” I said.

“I like you.” He crossed over to me and flung himself into one of the vacant chairs at my table. “We speak English?”

“My German’s terrible.”

“Not at all. But I must practice my English.” He waved an arm in the direction of the waiter. “Viktor! Holen sie ihre heiße schokolade mit gepeitschter creme.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Can I have your coffee?”

“I—I suppose so.”

“Danke.” He drained the cup before Viktor returned with my chocolate. “So if he’s not a spurned lover, who is he?”

“Who?” I asked.

“Your friend.” He nodded at the man who’d bumped into me.

“I’ve not the slightest idea.”

“I like a woman who can offend without even realizing it. Shows a supreme lack of awareness.”

“I can assure you I did nothing to offend him!”

“I’m teasing. May I draw you?” he asked.

“Draw me?”

“I’m an excellent artist.” He leapt from the chair, went back to his table, and returned with a large sketchbook that he handed to me.

“These are magnificent,” I said, looking at his work, each sketch so full of energy it seemed it could spring from the page. He took the book from me.

“So I may draw as we talk?”

“I—I suppose so.” I scooped up a mound of whipped cream from my cup of chocolate. “What are we to talk about?”

“Well, Lady Emily Ashton, what has led you to grace Vienna with your royal presence?”

“I’m not royal, and you must stop calling me by my full name.”

“All right, Lady Emily.”

“It’s Lady Ashton, actually.”

“I’m not much fond of either. Do you have anything else?”

“Herr Henkler, I—”

“Nein. You must call me Friedrich. I insist.”

It was impossible not to find this man endearing. His dark hair was a tousled mess, his suit so wrinkled it was nothing short of a disaster. He must have been about my age, perhaps a bit older, and his hands were rough, as if they knew hard work.

“Some friends call me Kallista,” I said.

“‘Most beautiful’? That I can enthusiastically support.”

“You know Greek?”

“I’m not wholly uneducated.” He hardly looked up from his sketchbook as he spoke. “You’ve not told me why you’ve come to Austria.”

“I’m searching for someone.”

“The lost lover?”

“No. Someone I’ve never met.”

“That makes things considerably more difficult, but I have faith. Everyone comes into the Café Griensteidl eventually. Do you see that man over there? With the dark hair and mustache? He’s handsome, isn’t he?”

“Yes, rather,” I said.

“That’s Gustav Mahler. You know his music?”

“Of course I do. Is it really him?”

“Ja. You want me to introduce you?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“Another time perhaps. But I think you will find the man you seek here. You’ll simply have to join the rest of us, holding vigil all day, every day, week after week.”

“I can’t afford to waste any time,” I said.

“I wouldn’t have thought there was anything a woman like you couldn’t afford.”

Suddenly I felt self-conscious. “I understand that you might think such a thing, but—”

“Again, I do not mean to offend.”

“You need not apologize.”

“Why the urgency to find this man?”

“My friend’s husband stands to lose his life if I’m not quick enough.”

Friedrich whistled and leaned back in his chair. “Who’s after him? It’s impossible to keep track of who’s assassinating who these days.”

“It is?” I asked.

“I’m beginning to think the anarchists are right.”

“The anarchists?”

“Enough spurts of violence will cause the state to collapse, leaving us in blissful anarchy. Or so they’d have you believe.”

“Are they plotting something now?”

“They’re always plotting something.” He smiled. “You know nothing about any of this?”

“No,” I said. “But the man I seek has some connection to anarchists. I’ve got to figure out how to find him.”

“It’s not so easy, or so difficult, for that matter. There are lots of anarchists here. Lots of groups. Some are easy to find, but I don’t see how you’d ever track down one nameless individual.”

“His name—” I stopped myself. I knew nothing about Friedrich; it might not be wise to identify Schröder.

“You don’t need to tell me,” he said. “It’s perfectly understandable.” He put down his charcoal and held up his sketchbook.

I gasped. “It’s as if I’m looking in the mirror!”

“Very well done.” I started at the sound of a familiar voice, and looked behind me to find Mr. Harrison, whose