City of Lost Dreams (23 page)

TWENTY-SEVEN

G
ottfried von Hohenlohe leveled a disdainful glance at his brother, Heinrich, as he strode into Zum Schwarzen Kameel. Heinrich was wearing a boxy American suit with broad lapels and what looked to be Italian shoes. Disgraceful. Gottfried, who favored traditional Austrian
Tracht
, as their father had, wore a loden cape over a jacket with standing collar and staghorn buttons. He placed his Tyrolean hat neatly on the shelf, where members of his family had been placing their variously shaped hats since 1618 while they patronized what was first an exotic spice shop, then a wine tavern, and now a tony-yet-traditional coffeehouse. Gottfried stroked his red beard.

“Servus,”
said Heinrich, to which Gottfried gave a curt
“Grüss Gott.”
The two men exchanged a quick and formal kiss. Though Gottfried usually preferred to stand, he settled into Heinrich’s corner booth away from the prying eyes and ears of their fellow Viennese.

Gottfried wiped an imaginary crumb off his loden as Heinrich ordered, to Gottfried’s horror, a Diet Coke.

“I’m watching my weight,” said Heinrich defensively. He shifted uncomfortably inside his brown tweed suit. “That was a most unfortunate event,” he said quietly. “We were lucky not to be seen.”

Gottfried leaned forward and stared hard at Heinrich. “The important thing is that we were
not
seen. You must not lose your nerve. You must remain in control of yourself at all times.”

“I could say the same of you, brother. Remember Thumbkin.”

Gottfried refused to dignify this with a response. They both knew what had happened. When they were children, Gottfried had shot their mother’s cat Thumbkin with a crossbow from the family armory, which was part of a historic collection, and which they had been forbidden to touch. Their mother had asked their father to punish Gottfried appropriately and Gottfried’s father had taken him to the stables, produced a flask from a secret compartment, and given Gottfried his first taste of schnapps.

“You have killed today,” his father had said. “And sometimes a man must take the blood of another creature. But make sure you have a worthy adversary. Always adhere to this rule and you won’t go wrong: never shoot an animal whose head you wouldn’t be proud to display in your trophy room.”

“People are animals,” young Gottfried had said, after a long silence and a few passes of the flask.

“We take no pleasure in killing people. We do it to defend our family, and to defend Austria. For this, honor is the only trophy.”

Gottfried had never told Heinrich what had happened in the stables. His younger brother was not capable of understanding such nuance.

And now he, Gottfried, had done what was necessary to save their inheritance.

Heinrich lit a cigarette. “There is still the matter of the missing research.”

“I tell you I could find nothing in the apartment.”

“It must be somewhere.”

“Very well,” said Gottfried at last. “I will look into the matter further, and you will inform them of my new price.” He slid a piece of paper across the table. Heinrich unfolded it and considered the number.

It would be enough to save their family lands and home for the next generation, his sons. He would do it for no less.

“I am sorry about the old man,” said Gottfried, a shadow crossing his brow. “He was a good Austrian.”

Heinrich nodded. “I know you are sorry. But how many good Austrians does my company employ? Forty-five thousand. Do these people not matter? And the fifteen billion euros that it earns for Austria each year?” Gottfried could always be won over with this line of attack.

“You are right. Many wars have been fought over less. We do this for Austria, as well as for the family.”

“I have to get back to the office,” said Heinrich. He passed his brother a bottle of antipsychotics. One of the company’s most important developments, it had made normal life possible for hundreds of thousands if not millions around the globe. “One a day, remember? Please! It’s better for everyone.”

Gottfried nodded with great dignity and put the bottle in his pocket, knowing he would pass it off to a homeless man who sat outside the Café Hawelka with his dog. Yes, he might have some psychological qualities that people found unacceptable in this ridiculously sedentary era, but those same qualities had been highly valued in other times and would be again. People called the Hapsburgs insane, and look at the glorious Austrian empire they built, which once covered all or part of what was now Italy, Spain, France, Germany, Poland, Slovenia, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary, the Ukraine, Bosnia, Croatia, and Romania. An empire that would still be intact if it weren’t for the democratic movements of the twentieth century, which had reduced their homeland to a second-tier stop on the European tour, a tiny country known for sickly sweet pastries, singing families, and dancing horses.

You couldn’t honorably assume only part of your birthright. You had to assume it all.

“And the American girl?” Heinrich stubbed out his cigarette.

“She knows very little.” Gottfried kept his features impassive. “She is not important.”

“My superiors do not think so. They think she knows quite a bit.”

“You and I also know a thing or two,” Gottfried pointed out. “But surely they will not ask that I eradicate my own brother?”

Heinrich smiled.

“They trust you,” he said. “They trust us.”

Gottfried burst into laughter. The sound startled Heinrich. He seldom heard his brother laugh.

“For myself, I have no fear.” Gottfried narrowed his eyes. “And I would never let any harm come to you, my own flesh and blood. I would cut off the hand that touched you.”

“I am not a scientist, I do not understand what it is they think she has found. But I have never seen them so eager,” Heinrich said. “But this amount . . . it is a great deal of money.”

“We are not asking for much.” Gottfried flared his nostrils. “We are not asking to be as rich as a man who sells colanders on television. We are only asking that our name not be disgraced.”

“Gottfried.”

“We are only asking to preserve what is rightfully ours and pass it on to the next generation of von Hohenlohes, to keep Austrian treasures in the hands of Austrians.”

“That is true.”

“Very well,” Gottfried said grandly. “It will be easy. Sarah has already suggested the means. I offered to show her Philippine Welser’s book, and she was most interested and anxious to take me up on this. We drive to Innsbruck tomorrow. She will not be a problem.”

“Good,” said Heinrich, showing his small teeth. “Very good. My superiors, too, have a request”—here Heinrich leaned forward—“about the research.”

Gottfried sighed.

“Yes? Let’s have it. I have things to do. I cannot linger here all night.”

“The scientist said she conducted her experiment on an animal. Rat number 134, she called it.”

“Yes?”

“Well . . .”

“Please, brother. You have come this far. Do not hold back now.”

Heinrich smiled weakly.

“They want the rat.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

“Y
ou can only grasp me with one arm,” said Harriet. “Because you lost the other one in the Battle of Santa Cruz de Tenerife in 1797.”

“Right.” Max folded one arm behind his back. The linen shirt Harriet had given him to wear was itchy, the white wool vest smelled of mothballs, the dark blue wool jacket with epaulets had a disturbing bullet hole in the breast, and the flap-front trousers were just plain silly. And that was before you got to the two-cornered hat that looked like a giant black banana.

Harriet was doing a kind of interpretive dance around Max’s living room. She was a good dancer and looked very pretty in her linen shift.

“I’ve just done my performance of Medea for you, the King and Queen of Naples, and a select few other guests”—Harriet was slightly out of breath—“and of course my husband, the British ambassador. You’re lounging on the sofa, exhausted after your long journey from Aboukir Bay and defeating Napoléon in the Battle of the Nile.”

Max lounged and tried to look exhausted.

“You’re suffering from malaria, and since we last saw each other five years ago, you’ve lost all your teeth, an arm, and one eye.”

“Jesus. How old am I?” said Max.

“You’re only forty, but you’ve fought a lot of battles. You’ve earned a reputation as being exceptionally brave, but also headstrong. You once chased a polar bear.”

Max nodded approvingly and, using his left hand, sipped rum out of a tiny antique glass.

“That rum comes from Jamaica, where you were nursed back to health after a life-threatening bout of dysentery.”

“Dysentery is
not
sexy,” said Max, hoping Harriet wasn’t going to want him to enact that part.

“Not to worry. I suffer from amoebic dysentery and so does my husband, Lord Hamilton, probably contracted right here in Naples.”

“Okay, so we all have dysentery,” said Max.

“I’ve been secretly in love with you for five years and awaiting your return.”

“How does your husband feel about you putting me to bed?”

“In later years, we will all live openly in England in a ménage a trois. It will be an enormous scandal.”

“Let’s skip that part.”

“Oh, Lord Nelson.” Harriet fanned herself. “I haven’t laughed this hard since playing charades with Goethe.”

“Please, call me Horatio,” said Max, doing his best imitation of an eighteenth-century British naval hero, downing the rest of his drink.

“Don’t forget to keep one eye closed and one arm behind your back,” Harriet whispered.

Max suddenly felt very tired. Very, very tired. Harriet swam before him. She kissed him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

 • • • 

M
ax was dreaming. He was taking a bath with Sarah, but they were not alone. There were several other people there, including Harriet, which was awkward, and Beethoven and Mozart, which was just weird. He started to slip under the water and found he couldn’t use his arms or legs to hold himself up.
I’m drowning.
No one else in the tub noticed him slip under or moved to help him.
I’m dying,
he thought, unable to fight his way to the surface. Gasping, Max struggled to open his eyes and finally pulled himself awake. He felt groggy and hung over. He was still wearing his Lord Nelson costume. Had he passed out after sex? But he hadn’t drunk that much. Harriet had insisted on a period glass, quite small, for the draft Lord Nelson needed to take for his malaria. Wait. Had she actually given him eighteenth-century medicine? He struggled to sit up.

Moritz was pacing the floor. Max hauled himself out of bed, pulled on a robe against the chill, and padded over to let the dog out. He stepped into the hallway, then paused. Someone else was up. He could hear someone moving about. Pols? Harriet? The music room was empty. His office door was closed, but he heard the creak of his desk chair. Pols wouldn’t be in his office, nor would Harriet. A thief? He gave Moritz the hand signal for silence, then went to his room and retrieved the small pistol he kept in his dresser. Just in case. Max returned to his office and opened the door silently, just a crack, and was at first relieved to see that the person
was
Harriet. He could just make her out in the light from the small penlight she was holding. But before he could say, “You scared the crap out of me,” he thought to himself,
Why is Harriet in my office at night?

Her back was to him. She was being very cautious, he could see that. Looking at everything on his desk, but putting it back exactly the way it was. Looking
for
something. She opened the drawers one by one, then pulled something out. From the size he guessed it was the Star Summer Palace folio. Harriet took the folio and tucked it under her coat. She turned toward the door.

Max flicked on the lights and strode into the room, grabbing Harriet by the arms. The folio fell to the floor. Moritz ran into the room, growling and showing teeth.

“What are you doing?”

“My God! My God, Max, What? I . . .”

“What are you doing?”

“Max, you’re hurting me. Please.”

Max let go of her arms and bent to scoop up the papers. Harriet stooped, as if to help him, and Moritz’s growl went up a notch. The dog began backing her into a corner.

“Max, really, call him off. I couldn’t sleep and I was looking for something to read. I didn’t think you’d mind. I’m sorry . . . I didn’t think.” She reached out a hand.

Moritz bit Harriet. Right on her outstretched hand. Quickly, and without hanging on, but a nice solid puncture.

“Bloody hell!”

“Get out,” Max said to her.

Harriet held out her hand, incredulous, as two red spots began to swell.

“He
bit
me.”

“You drugged me. Get out.”

“Max, don’t be ridiculous. You’re overreacting. Think.”

“No. You’re done here.”

“I haven’t done anything!” Harriet cried. “Just . . . looked. I am a curious person, darling. You know that. I’m a historian. It’s what I do. Darling, this hurts like hell. There could be nerve damage. Put some clothes on and we’ll talk in the car.”

Max wished he had bitten her himself. It must have felt really good, he thought.

“Get out,” he repeated quietly. “Right now, or he’ll bite you again.”

Moritz growled again and took a step toward her.

Harriet backed toward the door that led to the rest of the palace. “You’re not thinking straight,” she said. “We’ll talk in the morning. You’ll see this was all a silly bit of nonsense. And you owe me an apology.”

Max marched her out of the office and down the stairs to his private entrance, Harriet protesting the whole time. He shut the door in her face.

Back in his office, Max put the folio down on his desk and slumped onto the sofa, his head in his hands. He had a pounding headache from whatever drug Harriet had given him to knock him out, and now that the adrenaline was abating, he felt groggy and exhausted. And angry and disappointed and embarrassed. What had Harriet been up to?

Whatever she wanted, she wouldn’t get it now.

Moritz whined and licked his hand.

“Thank you,” said Max. “God, I’m an ass.”

“You were lonely,” said a voice.

Max froze and looked up at the dog. Moritz was standing in front of him, wagging his tail, staring at him.

No. It was the drug. Max sighed, rolled onto his side, and closed his eyes.

“Sleep it off,” said Moritz. “You must rest the spine you recently grew.”

Max sat up again. “What the—?”

Moritz sat down in front of Max.

Max stood and slapped his own cheek.

“All right. Let’s get back to bed.”

“You could ask nicely.” Max wheeled around.

Nico.

The little man emerged from behind the curtains at the window.

“How long have you been there?” Max demanded.

“Long enough. I was just about to surprise dear Harriet myself when you did such an admirable job.”

“She drugged me,” Max said defensively.

“So I gathered,” said Nico. “Luckily she didn’t drug your dog.”

“He didn’t do a very good job of telling me you were here.”

“Maybe you should feed me more biscuits,” said Moritz. And weirdly, the voice really did seem to come from Moritz and not from Nico.

“You little bastard,” said Max. “I should have known.”

“I’ll teach you the art of ventriloquism if you like. It’s quite useful. And now let us examine what Harriet was so interested in.”

“It’s drawings of Ferdinand’s Star Summer Palace. And lots of notes and the usual alchemical hoo-ha. Maybe you can make sense of it.”

“I will look. You should go back to bed and sleep off whatever Harriet gave you. From the smell I am guessing laudanum.”

Max struggled to focus his sleepy brain. “Okay,” he said, then turned back to Nico. “Did you see Sarah in Vienna?”

“Of course.”

“How is she?”

“Same as you,” said Nico. “Tall and stupid.”