Breaking the Bundles

By Marco Etheridge

Vienna, Austria, a city of palaces, music, and cafés. But behind the cold, grey stone lies a dark secret. Against this backdrop of culture and shadows, the fates of three unforgettable people will be drawn into a common peril.

Perry Farmon is an American photographerr on sabbatical in Vienna, searching for his lost creative spark. A strange friendship and a mysterious love alter Perry's quiet world, drawing him into a shared secret. The powers threatened by that secret force Perry into a deadly flight from danger. He must learn trickery and cunning to survive. His life and love hang in the balance.

Zita de Luca is a woman marked by a wine-colored stain on her temple, the shame of her family, and anger. An opportunity for revenge is complicated by an unexpected passion for an American professor. She must choose between the two.

Käru "Charlie" Villiger is a habitué of cafés, either an outrageous liar or a dangerous man. He holds the key to the past, but time is running out. Charlie must pass on what he holds before he is silenced by those he has betrayed. He must choose someone else to carry the burden.

As the lives of the characters cross, revenge shifts to passion, betrayal becomes an act of honor, and the past exacts a heavy toll from the present. The secrets of the past threaten the lives of those that hold them; the same secrets threaten the men who work in the shadows. The weight of the past will pursue Perry and Zita across two continents, threatening their love and their lives. The chase becomes a conflict of revenge and desire, of shadow and light, of love and the struggle to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marco Etheridge
• Release date: Sep 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393327783

Marco Etheridge

Marco Etheridge is an eccentric world traveler and writer living in Vienna, Austria. He is the author of the exciting and well-reviewed novel "The Best Dark Rain: A Post Apocalyptic Struggle for Life and Love." Marco's second novel, "Blood Rust Chains," has just been released. Marco's third novel, a political satire thriller, is complete and awaiting publication. He is hard at work on other projects, including a fourth novel, a three-act play, and a children's book. Marco's novels lead the reader on intricate literary journeys through different genres. With attention to detail and thoughtful prose, Marco builds immersive worlds crafted to house distinct and diverse characters. Always character and dialogue driven, Marco's novels captivate the readers with dark charm and unforeseen plot hooks. Though born in the USA, Marco considers himself a citizen of the world. Love carried him across the Atlantic Ocean to Vienna, Austria; and love holds him there. The long and winding pathway that has led to writing novels is one of varied experience. Marco has been a soldier, a commercial fisherman, a wanderer, and a jack-of-all-trades. His feet have happily trod the soil of over thirty countries spread over four continents and the odd sub-continent. The world is his playground and his fellow citizens are his playmates. Marco's antidote for everything is to throw some gear in his faithful Deuter backpack and disappear. An avid traveler and a complete street-food junkie, there is nothing he won't try. Munching wok-roasted spiders in Cambodia? Absolutely. How about a four-course meal in Bangkok’s Chinatown, with each course from a different street stall? He is there! If you are interested in tall tales of travel, please check out Marco's travel blog at: https://newland-newtale.blogspot.co.at/

Book preview

Chapter One

Tarutao

The man stood waist deep in salt water only slightly cooler than the warm morning air. The morning sun found him as it raced across the Straits of Malacca. His elongated shadow slicing behind him to the sandy shore. Behind the beach to the West, the sun was lighting the rugged spine that ran the length of the island; Koh Tarutao, once the Devil’s Island of Thailand. The glowing sun illuminated the jungle scrub; the fading green of the dry season longing for the monsoons.

He turned away from the sun to face the white sand, scanning the shore with a careful eye. The row of bungalows was still shadowed by the scrub trees. The monkeys hadn’t begun their daily attempts at thievery. No lights in the bungalow; no people, no movement. The man turned back to the East, back into the blazing light, the heat already beginning to build.

Facing the sun, eyes closed, he felt the salt drying across the skin of his chest and belly, his arm hairs coarse with it. The sun mirrored itself on the flat sea, magnifying, prying behind his closed eyelids. The tepid water below his waist held him in a second plane; light and water, heat and coolness. He felt the sun begin to burn itself into his face and neck.

How many days did he have left? A week? A month? It didn’t matter. The when of it didn’t matter anymore. Perry Farmon only cared about the eventuality. He opened his eyes, wincing against the blaze of white light. Perry turned and began wading to the shore, his feet kicking up a riot of scuttling crabs and darting fish.

Perry stood under the casuarina trees; a litter of peeled bark and surf cast underfoot. He heard the macaques moving about in the boughs above him. They watched him for any hand movement that might mean food, something they could steal. Perry ignored the greedy monkeys. They were thieving little bastards, true, but they were cowards.

Sheltered from the blaze of the morning sun, he could see the swampy green outline of the Thai mainland. A shimmering heat haze was already beginning to refract the light across the open water. The hammer of heat had driven the tourists away. No foreigner could move around southern Thailand unnoticed, not this time of year. There was no way to get to the big island save by boat. No way to land a boat without the entire island gossip-chain knowing which foreigner went where. The dock boy would tell the jeep driver, who would tell the kitchen man, who would tell his wife.

The tall man peered down the beach, checking the empty arc of sand. For this day, he was safe. He was safe until the afternoon boats arrived and departed. Then it depended on who got off the boats. Safety came in short increments.

The beach was empty to where it curved into a rocky headland; the far north point of the bay. Tarutao was abandoned except for a scattered few Farang, the hardcore travelers who had not fled the heat at the end of the season. These few, and the Thais who worked for the National Park, were the only people on the island; not counting the ghosts.

He did not believe in the ghosts, but the Thais did. For them, Koh Tarutao was full of spirits, ghosts of the prisoners long dead on this prison island. It was easy to become a ghost on a prison island in the Andaman Sea because it was an easy place to die. The prisoners died and became ghosts. The guards died and became ghosts. The isolated prison of Tarutao was completely forgotten during the long years of World War Two. When the food shipments stopped, the prisoners and guards banded together to become pirates. They died together; became ghosts together.

No one ever wanted to live on Tarutao, not with all the ghosts. There were no villages, no beachfront bars, no resorts. That was all to the North, on the tourist islands of the Andaman Sea. Here, there were only the empty beaches, with their drifts of debris from the tsunami. There were jungle pathways and thieving monkeys, and there were the ghosts.

How could it have become this, so quickly, from the tentative spring of Vienna to the blazing light of the far south of Thailand? Perry tried to remember the chill of the Austrian spring, the grey stone; heavy clothing pulled tight. Another world and time, pushed away by the buzz of the cicadas waking to the sun.

Perry Farmon felt the heat of the day through the soles of his bare feet. His nylon shorts were already drying, a film of salt left in the creases. He watched ghost crabs scuttle across the white sand beyond the shade.

Now there was only this island, Koh Tarutao; sunlight and heat, and water and waiting. It was a good place to wait.

Wien

Perry Farmon stared out over the grey monotony of a Viennese courtyard. Three grey stone walls encompassed the crumbling courtyard that made up his entire view of Vienna. His own reflection wavered across the glass of the towering windows. It was another grim day and cold, a day trying to pass itself off as spring in Vienna. Or was it late winter? As far as Perry could tell, there was no discernible difference. He watched the Polish workers who were setting up scaffolding against the far wall of the courtyard. All over the city, workers were beginning the next round in the battle of stone façade versus time. In Vienna, time always won.

He looked up at the grey sky and laughed. Professor Farmon takes a holiday. When the offer of a sabbatical came up, Perry jumped at it. He filed the proper forms with the college admin, arranged an apartment swap with an Austrian professor, and booked a flight from Portland to Vienna. Now he was living a short walk from the Old City, the Alt Stadt. Yes, and no classes to teach. What a blessing it was: no more classes for six months. He was free from droning out the same lectures on art history, free of that sea of glassy eyes looking up at him. His students pretended to take notes on their laptops, all the while surfing the net, or updating their Facebook status. The thought of going back to the podium made him shudder. He took a sip of coffee and turned his eyes from the window.

Bookshelves lined every wall of the dining room; German and English titles mixed together with no discernible order. Art books, text books, the myriad volumes climbed up to the high ceilings. The matrix of books turned corners and filled hallways. Perry wondered how his Austrian counterpart was adjusting to life in rainy Oregon. Did the spare white walls of Perry’s Portland studio cause the Viennese professor agoraphobia in the same way that these towers of books made Perry claustrophobic? Ceilings twelve feet high and still the walls were pressing in on him. He shook his head and sat down at a heavy wooden table.

Photographs were strewn across the surface of the table, images in black and white. Perry picked up one of the photographs, turning it to the light. A pattern of stone in close-up, the left third of the frame vanishing into an unfocused distance. Ghostly shadows faded into the background, a murky world juxtaposed with sharp granular surfaces of stone. The print was one in a new series he was working on. He squinted at it, then let it drop back to the table. He pushed the mess of prints across the dark wood, resting his forearms in the cleared space. Perry rubbed the bridge of his nose above his glasses, pushed his free hand through a mop of wavy brown hair. He took up a handful of photographs, visions of a tightly framed world of rock and water. He dropped the photos to the table and reached for a black marking pen. A quick hand moved over the images, scrawling the letter C across five of them. Et sic semper... what was it? Mediocritate, that was it: Thus ever to mediocrity. 

It hadn’t always been like this. As a young photographer, Perry started out with fire in his belly, a fire burning hot and bright. Try, fail, repeat, succeed, try something else, explore, fail, try again, succeed. That is how it had been with him. Seeing his work on the walls of that first decrepit gallery, that had fanned the fire to a blaze. So it went; being broke, working hard, small successes, more shows. Then came curating gigs, meticulous work that he loved. That work brought in a little money, money for cameras, for film and gear. Teaching followed the curating. In the beginning, Perry loved seeing the nascent glimmer of fire in one of his bright students. That was the real reward, the impetus that pushed him up the ladder of teaching. But somewhere along the path to becoming a tenured professor, things changed. He set the fire aside for safekeeping, locked it in a special place, a secret box.

Perry sipped at his coffee, wincing at the coolness of it. He watched the workers across the courtyard. The light outside the window was a flat grey, but above the scaffolding he could see the clouds thinning. By afternoon there might be some good light. The voice in his head began to nag. You need to get out of here, get outside. Throw the Leica in a bag, no tripod, no close-ups of stone. Shoot film, leave the digital gear behind. Ride the tram out to the Zentralfriedhof. Everyone loves photos of cemeteries, especially famous old European cemeteries. There are three centuries of old gravestones out there. If you’re going to be a cliché, at least be a working one. What could go wrong? The grey light of a grey city falling on an old graveyard full of tilted grey stone. Hell, throw caution to the wind, take along some color film.

Perry pushed himself up from the table and looked about the room. Several aluminum camera cases were piled on the end of a huge sofa. He walked across the room, sank into the sofa, and pulled one of the cases onto his lap. The latches popped as he thumbed them open. He folded back the brushed aluminum lid and peered inside. A camera body and several lenses were nestled into protective black foam. He eased the camera body out of the case with a practiced motion, careful and precise. It was a Leica M Double Stroke, sixty years old and now worth a small fortune. Perry pulled a lens from the case, fitted it to the body, and snapped the assembled camera into a worn leather case. Perry placed the camera on the coffee table in front of the sofa. He selected two more lenses and a light meter. When each piece was ready, he began fitting the gear into a reinforced nylon shoulder bag. Reaching into the bag, he pulled out a handful of black plastic canisters. His thumb popped the lid of the first tube and a film canister slid into the palm of his hand. Perry checked the film cartridge for speed and color, slid it back into the black plastic, and snapped on the lid. Snap, check, replace, snap, check, replace. He closed the top flap of the bag, latching it securely. Then he fell back on the sofa. There was nothing left to do save pick up the bag and go, yet still he sat. The black bag seemed to look at him with an accusing eye. The minutes ticked by. Perry sat as still as the Sphinx. His reverie was broken by the chirping of his cell phone. He fished the phone out of his shirt pocket and read the text.

Hallo Perry.

Am heading for Kettenbrückengasse.

You know the cafe.

Have time for a smoke? 11:30?

Charlie

Well, Deus ex Machina, thought Perry. I am saved, and Charlie is the agent of that salvation. You see, you are not going to be allowed to give up that easily, even if you wanted to. Let’s get out of this mausoleum and go do something, anything.

He heaved himself off of the sofa and stretched to his full height. Even at six feet tall, the high ceilings of the old apartment made him feel small. Yeah, but these old apartments would make great studios. Tall ceilings, big windows, folks knew how to live back then, in the days before the war. If I could just get rid of about ten thousand books, this place might be livable.

Perry grabbed the black bag and placed it near the front door of the apartment. Wrapped in a warm coat, he filled his pockets with the necessaries from a shelf by the door. As he reached for the items, he muttered aloud, Spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch. He added two cigars and a small pouch to his collection of pockets. Slipping the strap of the camera bag over his shoulder, he opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The over-sized steel door sounded like a vault heaving to. The boom of it echoed across the faded marble, bouncing up and down the broad stairway.

He stepped out of the building and into the cool wet of Vienna. Perry was engulfed in a four-storey canyon of pastel beige, brown, and washed-out yellow. The buildings rose directly from the edge of the narrow sidewalk, pressing him against the parked cars that filled both sides of the one-lane street. Above his head, a half-hearted attempt at art-deco stone work did nothing to break the flat monotony of the building in which he now lived. A modern office loomed on the right, an attempt at modernity that ended up looking like a prison. On the left was a gabled and dormered survivor of the war and the wrecking ball. Across the choked street, a parking garage completed the scene. Perry turned to his left and walked towards the light at the end of the block.

Emerging from his canyon, Perry was confronted by a wide-open gash in the city that stretched as far as he could see. The vast cut of the Gürtel, the outer of the two concentric rings that surround the city of Vienna. The Gürtel is not the picturesque Ring, the inner circle that keeps the tourists contained in the Old City. The Gürtel is the outer arterial of Wien, where the real blood flows. Sex shops and seedy bars push in amongst phone kiosks and run-down cafés. Hipster bars sprout under the brick arches of the U6 line, between the four lanes of traffic that run on either side.

Perry eyeballed the flow of one-way traffic to his left, chose his mark, then began his run across. The camera bag jolted against his hip as he reached the safety of the huge swath of green space in the center of the sprawling boulevard. He walked a wide pathway to the cluster of Würstel and Bäckerei kiosks. The graffitied huts formed a small encampment around the tram stop and provided shelter and sustenance for the local drug dealers. People bustled into the art nouveau façade of the Margaretengürtel U4 station, disappearing down the stairs to merge into Vienna’s vast public transit system.

He waited for a tram to pass, one of the old red-and-white street cars, its scissored steel arm reaching for the overhead electrical wire. Soon enough now, the beautiful old tram cars would be relegated to the tourist route on the Ring. No longer would the old ladies have to scale the retractable steps of the tram car, struggling with their bulging bags of shopping. The new cars were low-slung, modern, and devoid of charm.

Perry crossed the other side of the Gürtel, keeping an eye out for cars, trams, and bicycles. He dodged through the traffic to a pathway along the Wienfluss. Perry stopped, leaning against an ornate metalwork railing. The old Wien River ran below him, contained in a concrete and stone channel cut. Under his turn-of-the-century perch, a U4 train ran alongside the river. The sandstone block walls hemming in the river were adorned with some of the best graffiti in the city. He resumed walking, passing under the six-storey stone building fronts that pressed up to both sides of the river.

The pathway squeezed between the river and the building fronts. Graffiti pushed shoulder-high up the stone walls, dodging the wrought-iron grates that barred the first storey windows. Brief visions of street art shone out through the mass of sprayed color. Perry liked this walk, the transition zone between outer Vienna and the old center. Bicycles glided past him on the shared path; hipsters on ancient Puchs, pink-suited food delivery guys pedaling cargo bikes, and elderly folks looking serene and stately. An old man creaked along, piloting an antique bicycle. His torso remained absolutely still, legs rotating slowly beneath. A peaked Austrian hat floated motionless atop thick white hair. The wrinkled eyes fixed on Perry, then turned away unsmiling.

Perry chuckled to himself as he watched the old man pedal away. They could be a dour bunch, these Viennese. Scratch the surface of Wien and you find a retro fin de siècle that has never quite gone out of fashion. An earnest American-style hello could drive the locals into spasms of angst. It was one of Perry’s secret weapons.

The river curled to the East, disappearing into the arched cholera tunnels under the surface of the city. It would not reappear until it reached the Stadtpark, just before draining into the Donau Kanal. Above the U4, and the now underground river, was the labyrinth of Naschmarkt. This was the gateway into tourist Vienna.

Perry paused beside the grimy shrine of the Kettenbrückengasse station. He loved the green patina that coated all of the metalwork hovering above the thick white walls. To the left of the massive entryway, an ancient pissoir promised the reek of a century of old men straining to eke out a steaming stream. He checked his watch. He had plenty of time before meeting up with Charlie. Perry crossed into the tightly packed maze of stalls, kiosks, and cafés that were Naschmarkt.

Wien

The green awnings pressed in close overhead, lit underneath by electric lamps. Brightly colored fruits and produce glowed in the artificial light. As he made his way down the narrow aisle, vendors on both sides called out in a patois of languages, beckoning with treats held out on long forks.

"Grüß Gott."

"Hallo."

Madam, Sir, try please.

English?

"Servus My Friend, have a taste."

Bits of salami, cheese, and falafel hovered in front of him. Brightly colored sweets dangled in the air, suspended on the long forks held out by smiling vendors. Perry weaved his way past the temptations, the multilingual come-ons, past the tourists held mesmerized in the face of proffered sweetness. The vendors only needed someone to take the first taste, the opening of the door. Once tasted, the sale of Turkish delight, roasted nuts, or marzipan was a sure thing.

Perry ran the gauntlet of stalls until he reached a small greengrocer. At the end of the grocery stall was a tiny café. Four stools at the inside counter made up the entire seating area. The man behind the counter watched Perry enter.

"Servus."

"Servus. Wie geht’s?"

"Es geht."

"Es geht," it goes, the standard Viennese answer to ‘How are you?’ The longer the last syllable was drawn out, the more it meant ‘I’m okay, you know, all things considered in this miserable world.’

Perry could not unlock the secrets of Wienerisch, the spoken dialect of Wien. He did the best he could with Hoch Deutsch, but the slurred sing-song of the local speech was an unintelligible mystery to his ears. Despite long hours grappling with the intricacies of German grammar, he had, at best, a polite command of the most rudimentary schoolboy German. After a few minutes of listening to his stammering, most of the locals would politely ask ‘Englisch?’ Defeated, he would slip back into his native tongue. On the street, the people he could understand were usually Auslanders, folks from Turkey or Africa, who spoke the same halting German he spoke.

Perry knew the man before him was fluent in Italian, English and German, but he was determined to try.

"Ich hätte gern ein kleine espresso bitte."

"Gerne." The man turned to the espresso machine while Perry took a seat at the tiny counter.

He placed the camera bag on the counter and watched the parade of people passing by. This was one of the great people watching spots in the city, a vantage point from which he could see folks from all points of the globe. They were part of the year-round tourist flood, a large chunk of the economic lifeblood of the city.

Why don’t you shoot people anymore? The thought reverberated through his head. You know your portraits were good. What happened? I moved on, that’s what happened. Sure, you moved on. To what, photos of rocks?

Perry’s thoughts were interrupted as a small tray was placed in front of him.

"Danke schön."

"Bitte."

Perry added a half spoon of sugar to the small cup, stirring it into the crema floating atop the espresso. He took a sip, letting the sweet and bitter flow across his tongue.

I don’t do portraits because I don’t have anyone to do portraits of. That’s the real answer. I don’t want to make images of strangers.

His mind roamed over remembered gallery walls, seeing framed photos in black and white. His last show had done reasonably well, stark images of stone and water, patterns of lichen against dark granite. Most of the work had sold, the gallery owner had taken her cut, everyone was happy; everyone but Perry. A review of the series had read ’Stark, sterile; moments frozen outside of any human touch.’ Was that what he wanted to create?

To hell with this, all I need is a cigar and a few of Charlie’s wild stories. Time to move on. Perry tossed off the last of the shot and rose from the stool. He slid a two-euro piece onto the tray and set the tray on the zinc counter.

"Danke, tschüss."

"Tschüss."

The man retrieved the tray as Perry scooped up his bag and stepped out the door. He turned from the low-slung kiosks perched atop the hidden river, crossing back into the stone canyons of the city.

Chapter Two

Wien

Reza Ahura’s cigar store was a short walk through narrow, quiet streets. The tiny shop was a refuge for Perry, a momentary haven. Reza’s place also served as the hub of Perry’s small Viennese world. This was one of the very few places people greeted him by name. This is where he met Charlie, introduced by Reza. Since then they had become fast friends, very fast by Wien standards. The Austrians were slow to warm up to new people, making a clear distinction between friends and acquaintances. There existed a wide gulf between ‘ ein Freund und ein Bekannter. ’ Unlike the American custom, in Wien friends were counted in small number and held close. The others, people outside the tight inner circle of long-held friendships, they were Bekannte .

CHARLIE WAS A RARE picture of quiet and stillness when Perry first met him. It was not a picture that Charlie would often repeat. One hand trailed over the short counter, fingers idly stroking a grey cat partially hidden in a basket. The rest of his attention seemed to be following the smoke from his cigar. Once again, Reza’s methodically slow voice filled the narrow room.

"Entschuldigung, Charlie."

The elfin man seemed to snap back into the confines of the shop. The cat gave him an admonishing look as the hand was withdrawn.

"Tut mir leid, Reza. Sorry, what was that?"

I said, I have someone here I think you would like to meet. Charlie, this is Perry, a visiting professor and lover of fine cigars. The two of you should get along quite well. Perry likes to listen almost as much as you like to talk.

Charlie extended a hand towards Perry. There was no sense of absence now, only sharp attention, pale-blue eyes in sharp focus under a mass of unruly silver-grey hair. The two men shook hands while Reza chuckled at his own joke.

That casual meeting began a fast friendship. Reza was right; Charlie loved to talk and Perry needed a voice to listen to. For both of them, there was a love of cigars, cafés, conversation, and a lack of gainful employment. Their meetings became regular events.

With the barest hints of spring, the café tables reappeared on the sidewalks of Wien. Charlie introduced Perry to cafés where the price of an espresso or Verlängerter would secure a table for hours. Constantly in motion, even when still, Charlie regaled Perry with wild tales about a life full of misdeeds. But Charlie did more than talk. Peppered into his stories of sin were deftly placed questions. And Perry, feeling the openness one can accord to strangers, answered openly.

Perry stepped out of the quiet backstreet and into the bustle of Margaretenstraße. He turned to his left, passing an Italian café. Through the front window, the proprietor raised a hand in greeting. Perry returned the wave, walking towards the next doorway on the street. He pulled open the glass door and stepped into Reza Ahura’s cigar shop.

Hello My Friend, how are you this morning?

Reza’s smile radiated amusement and sorrow in equal measure.

I am fine Reza, and you, you are well? The rhythm of older man’s speech came through in Perry’s words. It was always this way, as if Reza’s words were guiding you to a softer, politer way of saying whatever you were trying to say.

Ah, well, I am as fine as an old man far from home can hope to be.

Being a writer was a dangerous profession in Iran during the reign of the last Shah. Reza Ahura’s parents had fled Tehran just ahead of pursuit by the dreaded SAVAK. Only a small boy at the time, his sister just a baby, Reza would have no memories of the place he still called home, a place he would never return to. Following the well-worn trail of Iranian exiles, Reza’s parents had lived out their old age in California. They died not far from where Perry taught his classes. Reza remained in the Old World, resisted the pull from the far side of the Atlantic Ocean.

The man stepped around the counter and reached for the handle of a sliding door. The two men squeezed into the tiny walk-in humidor at the back of the shop. A wave of humidity washed over Perry, fogging his glasses.

How may I help you today, my American friend?

The close confines of the humidor were lined floor to ceiling with glass-fronted cabinets. A fine mist wafted from a vent near the ceiling. It was as if they had suddenly entered a miniature greenhouse dedicated to cigars. Behind the glass cabinet fronts, boxes of cigars rested in stacks.

Perry loved the sudden wash of heat and humidity, the smell of rich tobacco. It was as if he had stepped through a magic portal and emerged in a back street of Havana.

I think two of the Bolivar belicosos, please. And what was that Honduran stick you recommended?

I would say the Flor de Selva; a fine choice. I have only the panetela right now, but you enjoy a smaller ring gauge, yes?

That would be perfect. Two of those as well please. That should do it for today, Reza.

The men eased out of the cramped humidor. Reza resumed his post behind the counter, ringing up and packaging Perry’s cigars.

And what do you hear from our mutual friend Charlie? I have not seen him in some days.

He is well as far as I know. In fact, I am on my way to meet him.

Please give him my regards Perry.

I will. Thank you Reza. I will see you soon.

And thank you My Friend. Enjoy your cigars.

Perry exited the shop, disappearing from view.

A grey cat rose from its basket, stretched, and walked down the counter to nuzzle against Reza’s hand. The man ran his fingers over the cat’s head, his eyes fixed on the empty glass of the door.

Wien

He arrived at the café at quarter to the hour. Viertel vor elf, was that right? Time expressions in Deutsch eluded his language ability.

Perry chose one of the tables lining the sidewalk and lifted a blanket from one of the chairs. A damned civilized tradition, he thought, as he sat down. He wrapped the blanket around his legs as a shield against the Wien spring air. How long would unattended blankets last street side in the USA? Half a day, less? The proprietress appeared on the sidewalk.

"Grüß Gott, bitte schön."

"Grüß Gott. Ich hätte gern ein verlängeter bitte"

Schwarzer oder Brauner?

Ah, right, black or with milk. Perry always forgot the Viennese compulsion for milk in coffee. One of the things he missed about the US was good black coffee and a sassy waitress sashaying by to refill the mug. The lack of refills made up a cornerstone of Perry’s theory about Wien café behavior. The good citizens of Vienna could nurse a single cup of coffee like no one else on the planet. The reason? They had to pay for the second cup.

"Schwarzer, bitte."

"Danke schön." She disappeared from the sidewalk.

Perry slid out one of the cigars and resealed the plastic pouch. He fished a small case from his pocket from which he extracted a cutter and a lighter. He clipped the end of the cigar, tested the draw, and toasted the end with the lighter. The ritual complete, he leaned back in the chair and watched the smoke drift across the quiet street.

The café owner returned and deposited a silver tray on the table. Pleasantries exchanged, she vanished again. Perry took a sip of the Wien version of an americano. It was as hard to get a bad cup of coffee in Vienna as it was to get a glass of plain water. Unless one ordered coffee. A small glass of tap water was standard fare with a coffee order.

A lean man appeared on the sidewalk, waking with purpose and energy. It was Charlie, punctual as always. Perry watched his friend’s approach. Like a terrier, thought Perry, always bunched, ready to spring. He raised his hand in greeting as the man neared.

"Hallo Perry. Moment, bitte."

The man disappeared through the café door. Perry could see him through the glass, standing at the counter in his workingman’s clothes. There was Charlie flashing an impish smile, the woman behind the counter laughing, turning away with a blush. Sure, that would be Charlie. As the glass door reopened, Perry saw his own image reflected, wavering with the swing of it. Then Charlie stood before him and Perry rose from his blanket to shake hands. Charlie’s hand felt alive in his own. The two men sat.

So my American friend, how are you this fine spring day? Charlie’s eyes wrinkled in a laugh under an enormous fur hat pulled tightly over his grey hair. The man’s bushy eyebrows almost touched the fur brim of the hat.

I’ve been meaning to ask you Charlie, how does one differentiate late-winter in Vienna from early spring in Vienna?

Ah, welcome to life in northern Europe. It can be difficult to know when it is winter and when it is spring. It is tricky, as you would say. But you have only to look for the true signs.

And those are?

Firstly, the sidewalk cafés are all open. Secondly, the earflaps on my hat are in the spring position. They are up.

Those are the criteria for spring, never mind the weather?

"Genau, exactly."

The café owner appeared at the table, depositing Charlie’s coffee along with a flirtatious smile. When she was safely back inside the glass door, Perry continued.

I saw you chatting up the owner. She was blushing like a schoolgirl.

Ah well, one must stay in practice, yes? Even with the Wien matrons.

I see. And is there any genuine interest on your part?

Genuine interest in this woman, or Wien women in general? No and no; still, as I said, one must keep up appearances. A man of my age is supposed to flirt with younger women.

Charlie, she must be sixty years old if she’s a day.

Still a younger woman then, yes? At least with regard to me.

Charlie chuckled to himself as he pulled a cigar from his coat pocket. Perry watched the swift, precise motions of his friend’s hands. It’s like watching a bird of prey, thought Perry.

As far as Perry knew, Charlie never used his real name. He claimed that neither the Austrians, nor Perry, could pronounce it.

My name is Käru Villiger, he had said, when Perry pressed him. The name tumbled out of Charlie’s mouth with a mix of flattened vowels.

"Only another Schweizerdeutsch speaker can pronounce it My Friend. Don’t even bother. You think that Wienerisch is hard to understand? No one understands Swiss-German. We are the bottom rung on the ladder of German dialects. Just stay with Charlie, yes?"

The ritual of preparing and lighting the cigar completed, Charlie fixed his hawk like eyes on Perry. Always focused on one thing. You were either the center of his attention or completely ignored, depending on his focus at the moment. Is there never any doubt with this man? Where does that sense of certainty come from?

Ah, that is better, said his friend, letting a cloud of smoke float over his shoulder.

Here we are, men enjoying coffee and cigars, discussing the state of the world. This is civilization at its finest. An impish smile danced across Charlie’s clean-shaven face.

Are we talking about the state of the external world?

External, internal, as if there is a difference. Charlie waved his hand impatiently, cigar ash threatening to fly in any direction.

That’s one of the troubles with you Americans, always trying to separate your precious personal life from the external world. This whole ‘pursuit of happiness’ rubbish has led to nothing but grief.

Are you saying the Declaration of Independence has sown the seeds of grief?

Charlie fixed Perry with a hard look, saw the smirk trying to hide in Perry’s beard, then chuckled as well.

Yes, in more ways than one. Of course, your country scorns the rest of the world, all the while pursuing this illusion of personal happiness. These founding fathers that your politicians are always yammering on about, they did you all a great disservice.

Are you saying that the pursuit of happiness is somehow a disservice?

Yes, Perry, that is exactly what I am saying. What is the word in American English? Flimflam, that is what it is. Charlie chuckled to himself. Flimflam, flimflammery, flimflammeration. English is such a magical language.

Magical or not, there is no such word as flimflammeration.

Well, flimflammery then. That is what your founding fathers were engaged in. The whole thing is plainly dishonest. If you want honesty, try the Buddha or John Calvin. Life is suffering, or, according to Calvin, suffering is life.

That’s not a very inspiring message. I can see why Jefferson went with the pursuit of happiness thing. That sells a lot more copy than life is suffering.

The church has been selling that message for centuries, and not just the Catholics. Suffering is a given, whereas happiness is not. Therefore, it is more comforting to hear a message that explains why the population is suffering, rather than one that hints at the existence of a vague chance to be happy.

Perry looked across the table at his friend. Charlie’s pale-blue eyes gleamed under the brim of that absurd hat. Laugh lines radiated from those eyes, spreading over a face that belied all talk of suffering. This was a man who liked to laugh.

But you don’t suffer Charlie. At least you don’t seem to.

Charlie rolled his cigar between his