Viennese Waltz: Three-Quarter Time
One of the two best things about living in Vienna, Rose decided, was the free Sunday afternoon concerts in the parks – plural. At least half of the green spaces in the city had their outdoor bandstand and rows of wooden benches, and most of them were filled each week with various orchestras, bands, ensembles, or solo artists – many of the latter impromptu performances by an enthusiastic amateur. The starting times for each concert were somewhat staggered, so a dedicated citizen could catch two or three each Sunday, and they lasted well into the fall, until it became simply too cold to sit for more than a few minutes, and even the musicians' fingers began turning blue.
When Alex discovered that Rose knew nothing about classical music, he made it his weekly mission to educate her, seeking out the "best" programs and introducing her to the works of Beethoven, Bach, and Brahms – and Haydn, lest she forget the other letters of the alphabet. Under his tutelage, she could soon speak reasonably knowledgeably about forms, styles, tempos, and rhythms; her former life as a one-time pop singer at last coming in handy and providing some background info.
The other best thing about Vienna, of course, was the cafe culture. Each afternoon, after Alex was finished writing for the day, and they had consumed the morning's finds from the marketplace, they indulged in that most Viennese of traditions. Alex had a surprisingly wide circle of friends from all walks of life, who perambulated without discernible pattern between more than half a dozen cafes within walking distance of the garret. Each evening the pair would pick a cafe almost at random, and go see who else had appeared. There, they would pull the tables together to make one huge circle, and talk about every subject under the sun until past midnight, sipping wine or coffee and nibbling on whatever snacks the cafe had to offer.
Vienna was a cosmopolitan, polyglot city, but the conversations at "their" cafes were usually mostly in German, so this time, Rose could follow along, and as the weeks went by, with Alex's gentle encouragement, she started becoming confident enough to occasionally join in. Alex's friends were of course curious about his new "companion" – more than one remarked at their surprise; apparently she was the first woman he'd been publicly paired with, at least for some time – but she answered no questions about her past, and they soon simply accepted her (somewhat mysterious) presence.
The conversations often became lively debates, and even friendly – and occasionally heated – arguments, but Rose only witnessed Alex actually lose his temper and become truly angry a handful of times. Always, they were when some of the more outspoken of the circle started in with their harsh anti-Semitic views. Rose had been taken aback when she first encountered that part of Viennese life, and never became comfortable with the open racism. Alex refused to engage in arguing about it, however, preferring – on the few times when he didn't manage to change the subject – to simply take Rose's arm and depart the cafe for another more congenial atmosphere.
"I've got a few drops of Jewish blood myself," he admitted to her the second time they beat a silent, dignified exit, "but even if I didn't, I have no patience for that kind of hatred."
"I'm glad," she sympathized, tucking her hand in his arm.
Whenever they switched venues like that – and on other occasions – he would steer her to the furthest cafe on their route, one whose portion of the circle of friends didn't circulate like the others, preferring to stay in place. Unsurprisingly, they were Jewish scholars and businessmen ("Don't worry," he whispered to her the first time they went, "they're not Orthodox; they'll let you in," and they did, welcomingly), and as often as not, Alex and Rose would walk in to find them engaged in the endless debate over bits of the Talmud. Alex could often coax them into a change of subject – and just as often, it would turn to the second most popular subject: the eternal wish for a Jewish homeland. The debate swirled around the feasibility of establishing – or re-establishing – one in Palestine, or one of the many other locations around the world which had been proposed at one time or another. But always, the others were dismissed, and talk returned to Jerusalem and the Holy Land.
"Why not Western Sahara?" Rose put in suddenly one evening, when she realized she hadn't heard that name once.
"Where?" one of the scholars asked sharply. "You mean Uganda? No, Herzl and the Congress already turned it down," he informed her, referring to the World Jewish Congress and its famous (deceased) Zionist leader, meeting a few years before. He started to turn back to the others, dismissing her, but she interrupted again.
"No, not Uganda. Western Sahara. Southwest of Morocco. You know...?"
No, they didn't. But then one of them called for an atlas, which the owner of the cafe had behind the bar along with many other reference books (one of the hazards of running a meeting place habituated by scholars), and they poked their fingers at the map.
"It's all desert!" one cried.
"And Palestine isn't?" Rose asked sardonically.
"True, true," came the grinning reply.
It was just dawning on Rose that no, actually, that area hadn't ever been discussed before as a potential homeland for the world's scattered Jewish population. Then two of the scholars volunteered to find out more information about it, and the group agreed to discuss it further, and Rose went home with Alex that night wondering if she'd just witnessed – just caused – the beginning of a new country. If so, it would blossom in her parallel, not Alpha, and the thought made her feel as if the future was just a tiny bit closer that night.
^..^
It took several weeks, all together, for Alex to re-write his children's story to his satisfaction, working at it in between his regular assignments ("I do still have to earn a living," he reminded her). Rose read his progress at his request each day, and continued making small suggestions, nudging it closer and closer to what she remembered. He joked that he was going to have to put her name as co-author, but she protested strongly at that, and he let it go. Finally, it was ready, and he took it to a publisher friend tied in oiled paper for protection.
He came back from that meeting walking on air. "He liked it! He said it was very good – they accepted it for publication! And they want me to write another one!"
The celebration that night at the cafe was loud and jubilant, with everyone congratulating the author, plying him with champagne. (He was useless for work the next day from the hangover, but she babied him through a quiet day in bed instead, which arrangement satisfied both of them.) The collaboration on the next story, about a grown-up Bad Wolf and how she found her mate, whom Rose suggested should be named Blue Wolf for his blue-tinged grey fur and piercing blue eyes, commenced immediately.
A few months later, Alex came home from another meeting with the publisher with a surprise for Rose: a copy of the first book, beautifully bound and illustrated by an artist contracted by the company. Alex grinned at her, opening up the volume to the dedication page. It read:
For Madame Mysterious
Rose was momentarily speechless.
"Thank you," she finally managed to say. "I'll treasure this always."
Then she grinned back. "But you know what you ought to do now? Send this out to publishers in other countries. I'm positive you could get this printed in England, for instance, and the United States, as well."
"But we'd need to translate it to English first!" he protested automatically. "Who could we find..." His voice trailed off as he noticed her crossed arms and sardonic expression. "Oops. I forgot. You're English."
"Yeah. And I think I remember how to speak the language, even." She grinned at him again, her tongue peeking out from between her teeth, and let him off the hook.
And so they worked side by side for several days, Alex working on the next story while she carefully translated the first, always keeping the language simple enough for children to read. Then they wrote out several copies, and mailed them off to various publishers in both countries, with a letter of introduction supplied by Alex's original publisher in Vienna. "Now we just wait and see if anyone bites," he sighed.
^..^
December had arrived, and Christmas was approaching. Rose was excited about the holiday for the first time she could remember, looking forward to the festivities and the many musical concerts (indoors this time). Even the atmosphere in the cafes each evening was lighter and more joyful, the arguments fewer and farther between.
Until the evening that a young man burst through the cafe doors, his face white with shock, yelling the news at the top of his lungs.
"The Emperor is dead! They've assassinated Franz Joseph!"