Читать книгу How to Fall in Love with a Man Who Lives in a Bush - Emmy Abrahamson, Nichola Smalley - Страница 13

Herr Direktor Kolbinger has the whitest hair I’ve ever seen and smells of strong, spicy eau de cologne. But aside from those details, our lesson is a little hazy, because I can’t stop thinking about my encounter with the homeless man. Also, the bank director keeps answering his phone, meaning that we’re constantly being interrupted. When the forty-five minutes are over, he tells me his secretary will be in touch to arrange the next lesson. He shakes my hand and almost pushes me out of the room.

When I come out onto Karlsplatz again, I keep an eye out in case the big hairy man has come back. When I fail to see him I walk all the way home instead of taking Tram 1 and then Bus 48A. Past the Butterfly House, the Natural History Museum and the Volkstheater. Outside the museum quarter they’ve already started selling potato wedges and those chestnuts that always smell better than they taste. On the trees, some of the leaves have turned from green to shrivelled yellow. I think about the homeless guy’s last words and feel slightly annoyed that they sounded like an order.

The next evening I meet Leonore. For the best part of an hour I let her talk about the argument she had with the Beige Man after he caught her red-handed drinking Coca Cola rather than Red Bull Cola. The whole time I wonder whether I should mention the man I met. In the end I decide to go for it.

‘A homeless guy started talking to me yesterday,’ I begin. ‘While I was sitting outside the opera house.’

Leonore grimaces. ‘Ugh,’ she says. ‘I hate it when they do that.’

‘No, he was different,’ I say. ‘Quite funny, actually. And kind of sexy in an odd way.’

‘What did you talk about?’

I immediately regret mentioning it.

‘Schwarzenegger.’

Leonore looks at me as though I’ve just let rip a huge fart in the middle of the Opera Ball.

‘Men are so pathetic,’ she mutters.

‘He asked if we could meet again,’ I say. It’s not exactly a lie. ‘On Saturday.’

‘Oh good God, you didn’t say yes, did you?’ Leonore exclaims, and for the first time I get the feeling she’s actually looking at me.

I don’t answer.

‘So how long were you talking?’ Leonore asks.

‘Seven minutes exactly,’ I reply.

Rebecca’s more curious. We’re sitting at Café Central, waiting for our cakes to arrive. It’s part of our plan to work our way through every famous café in Vienna. We pretend we’re there to surround ourselves with cultural history, but really it’s just an excuse to stuff ourselves with baked goods.

‘Was he English?’ Rebecca asks.

‘Nah,’ I say. ‘He sounded more American.’

‘What was his name?’

‘I didn’t ask.’

We watch a family with two teenage children sit down at the next table. The tail-coated waiter gives them each a leather-trimmed menu.

‘Wonder how he ended up on the street,’ she says.

‘I wonder what he’s doing in Vienna,’ I say. ‘It’s hardly the most welcoming place for people like him.’

The police recently carried out a major purge of all the homeless people on Schwedenplatz, and they vanished in one night. There was a rumour they’d been shipped off to a little village by the Hungarian border. Lobotomy, forced sterilisation and the slaughterhouse had also been mentioned.

The waiter comes with our order. He places a cherry gateau in front of Rebecca, while I get a Himbeer Harmonie – a half-moon dessert made of raspberry mousse. For a long time neither of us says a word, and all that can be heard is the sound of dessert forks scraping against plates.

‘So, are you planning to go?’ Rebecca asks finally. ‘On Saturday?’

‘I haven’t decided yet,’ I say.

Actually I’ve already made the decision to meet him again. It’s not like I have anything else to do.