Enter: Vienna

Excursions, when she is visible among the crowds of Vienna, are rare. She can recall two in the past decade, and the relief of not having to conceal herself as she does near the castle, makes her giddy.

Before both of her trips her father forbids her to perform anything he has taught her. He holds her wrist tightly, squeezing with white-knuckled hands as she promises.

She dresses as colourfully as she can on these occasions, despite her father’s obvious disapproval, she enjoys the lack of anonymity that her father claims with his grey and black suits, as well as the deviation from her usual grey and white attire.

Her most recent excursion, years ago, took place midwinter, and the weather alternated between icy rain and fluffy snowfall. The thrill of being in the streets, among the crowds bustling for cover or to make their last round of shopping before vendors and shopkeepers closed for the day, outweighed the inclement weather.

The weather is never favourable when they visit the rest of Vienna, as though the inclement conditions are a requirement/prerequisite for the business of the day.

Today is no exception, the streets occasionally full of rain and sleet. Yet it does nothing to dampen her spirits.

The number of people in the streets surprises her. She had not expected such crowds with the grey sky and occasional sheets of rain. They huddle together under umbrellas, like audiences under circus tents. They pass to and fro from appointments and parties, visitations and temporary places.

They visit the opera houses, music halls. She captures in memory the Neue Hofburg covered in lantern glow in the dark of night.

She traverses the streets and markets filled with vendors selling carp, ready for preparation for some festivity her father titles “a mundane practice” when she asks. There are tinsel and candles, ornaments and holly. She purchases a glass painted with the likeness of a magpie.

When she catches sight of her father again he is carrying an assortment of envelopes, with postage she does not recognize and names her carefully conceals with his thumb.

They visit a menagerie in which dozens of exotic creatures in a rainbow of colours with blinking green and yellow eyes regard them wearily. She is not certain she enjoys the experience, for the beautiful caged creatures look miserable. But she cannot conceal her delight when her father points to a snowy white owl in a golden cage and requests it for purchase. When they exit the menagerie she carries the heavy cage with one hand, keeping the other firmly under its base as the owl clicks it beak sharply.

They go to a seamstress in a small antique quarter of the city and buy her the rest of a bolt of black silk, which her father cuts without scissors into a square to drape over her owl’s cage like a curtain.

Her father takes her to the theatre and on stage a band of milk white horses bedecked in violet and cream sashes and silks dance and jump, eliciting gasps and cries of delight from the audience. The horses glow in the illumination of the footlights. They appear weightless, defying gravity as though it were a rule made to be broken. She leans forward, enchanted and tentative in the same room as the large audience and beautiful beasts. Her eyes widen as one horse rears in a tempest of blue chiffon, appearing like the crest of a wave frothing on the shore. In the mezzanine below their box several ladies’ fans and gentlemen’s’ handkerchiefs begin to flutter, as if with a sudden breeze.

Her father’s hand closes around her wrist, twisting until she cringes. “Control yourself.”

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, facing the shadows of the theatre, away from the consummate horses. The fluttering fans and handkerchiefs settles and their respective owners speculate perhaps there was a draft.

When they leave the theatre her father seems not angry, as she would expect, but thoughtful.

He indulges her in several hours spent by the Donnerbrunnen fountain, sketching the curves of cherubic cheeks with charcoal, until the rain starts again. The small crowds that had been gathered in the remote and protected corners of the cobblestone streets disperse, seeking refuge from the worsening downpour. The wind whips her hair across her face like lengths of soaking rope. Her father decides to seek shelter from the rain.

They stop in a café in the Neue Markt, nestled in an alcove of an alleyway.

Her father diverts the waitress’ attention, though their drinks still arrive, the waitress staring solely at their cups until they have touched the table, then turning and attending to another patron’s needs.

The owl sits quietly under their table, occasionally ruffling its feathers or clicking its beak, but it does not attract attention.

Under the cover of the table her skirt dries quite quickly, though it is not clear if that is because of the warmth of the café or something else.

She is intrigued by the mail her father receives from colleagues in other countries. Postmarks from Corfu, Milan, Denmark, Sweden. The contents of the letters are concealed from her, he reads them in cafes, sipping from a painted teacup while she pays special attention to the sugar blown flowers and chestnut cakes being whisked to other café tables. If her father is particularly engaged in a letter she will consider manipulating the curls of steam rising from her cocoa, but she always decides against it.

He tears his attention away from the envelopes only once, when he folds them gingerly and places them in an inside pocket of his coat. Despite the warmth of the café, he has not taken it off.

“Have you been practicing?’ he asks, as he watches her construct a small pyramid of sugar cubes.

“Yes,” she answers when it is done. She drops the topmost cube into her tea, stirring it before returning the remaining cubes to their bowl.

Her father gazes at her steadily. “Publicity is not a factor I approve of in most instances, but it is important to know how to deal with it. To refrain from manipulating your surroundings in venues such as this. Do nothing to interrupt your surroundings unless you can guarantee you will not be caught. And nothing is guaranteed. This is a test,” he adds, he moves his arm quickly and he knocks the teacup from the table, to the floor.

Despite her father’s instructions, she acts upon instinct. The cup and saucer hit the floor, shattering into pieces of painted china, hot tea pooling around the table legs. The owl lets out a single shriek. Patrons turn toward the sound but by the time they sight the possible cause/source the cup has righted itself, whole and full of steaming tea, sitting merrily in its saucer. The clientele dismisses the sound as a part of their imagination. The only one in the proper position to have viewed the entire spectacle is the waitress, whose hands begin to shake, rattling the cutlery on her tray.

Her father turns to the waitress, motioning her over, as if he were about to order a plate of scones or éclairs. Instead, when the waitress approaches their table hesitantly, setting her tray on the edge not occupied by the teacup – she keeps well away from the cup, eyeing it as though it were cursed – he looks straight into her eyes.

“May I ask what you think you just saw?” he inquires politely.

The waitress speaks lowly, as though uncertain the events she witnessed are real. “The cut, it broke, and then it was fixed, like it was n-never-“

“Miss, I am sure this is nothing to dwell upon. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred. I am certain.”

The waitress does not seem entirely convinced, but she looks dazed and vaguely dismayed, the expression of one who has entered a room and forgotten their reason for doing so.

“Certainly there is a much better way to spend your time,” he says, each word quite clear despite the fact that he is murmuring lowly. She has to strain to hear the words at all.

She can feel the air ripple, the sudden change in energy, as the waitress’ eyes become unfocused. She is caught in her father’s steady gaze, as her face slackens, then she looks around, confused.

“I’m sorry, I… What were we discussing?” she asks, slowly.

“The bill, please,” her father says.

The waitress nods and strides away with her tray, not glancing at the man’s daughter.

While she half expects her father to scold her in the café, sure that the patrons will not hear him if he wishes it, her father says nothing as he settles the bill, collects the owl in its cage, and they exit the café.

He remains silent as they approach the library and enter, taking a confusing route she cannot keep track of to a dimly lit hallway. He pauses at a door, grabbing his daughter’s arm to prevent her from continuing on without him.

“You must learn to convince others without manipulation. To make them see something that isn’t there, or make them un-see. We shall have to find you a way to practice,” he adds, gazing not at her, but it seems to her, through her. “A mirror, of sorts.”

He releases her arm and gestures to the room beyond. “I shall return in an hour or so. Do not wander.” He takes the owl cage from her, holding it in his gloves hand.

He says nothing more before abandoning her at the threshold and turning down another corridor.

She waits a minute for him to return, wondering if he really intends to deposit her in a book-filled room and amuse herself for an hour, possibly longer, until his return.

She wonders if he will return.

When she has stood for a time she deems sufficient to prove he is not returning instantly she pushes open the heavy door, letting it swing behind her as she adjusts to the change in light.

The room is filled with bookcases. They line the space, wall-to-wall, floor to ceiling. Hundreds of spines with gold and black lettering.

She has never seen so vast a space, nor so many books, I her life.

The air changes, it is crisper, rippling with some unseen force.

The books tremble, each shelf echoing with a noise like startled birds fluttering their wings against metal and wood cages. The books open on the pages stir, their pages flipping back and forth.

She almost does not notice, absorbed in the multitude of books, so different from her father’s. But she glances around, ensuring she is alone for the time being, that there are no witnesses to the sudden restlessness of the volumes, and takes several deep breaths to compose herself.

The pages stop fluttering, though the bookends still quiver slightly.

She is delighted to discover that they are unlike her father’s collection of tomes, which are printed with symbols and pictures of stars and explanations for things she cannot begin to yet comprehend. These books have philosophies and art, histories and poems, epics and ballads, stories of fantasy. She pulls them off the shelves, holding as many as she is able before settling down to read them.

She feels as though she has been drifting, lost in some alternate world, when, hours later, her father rouses her from her collection of books and informs her it is time to go.

“We have a special visit to make,” he says when she protests.

Her curiosity does not quite trump her desire to read but there is no reason to argue further. She sighs; standing and collecting her coat as the books find their ways back to the shelves. When the library looks as though it has not been disturbed, they emerge.

Through the rain her father leads her down several side streets until they come to a busy promenade before a looming building. It is so large she wonders that she has not seen it before, but the University is unfamiliar to her.

Before she can ask her father what they are doing here, he strides up the steps and into the building. She follows quickly, focusing on keeping her coat dry in the oncoming storm.

Within the doors the university is, to her, unlike a university. The halls are warm, glowing with the golden light form oil lamps, and the walls are lined with gilded and framed maps and daguerreotypes of deceased professors and scholars. The windows are grey with the external weather, not the black glass she is accustomed to. The floors are not marble, but wood, and often carpeted. She follows her father in a daze, spending a considerable amount of time gazing inside each door they pass, at the studies and offices and classrooms, none of which contain birds or clocks or diagrams pinned to the walls.

They come to rest at a tall oak door, a plaque inscribed with a name she has never heard of. Her father knocks, the heavy sound echoing down the corridor.

The door opens to a man, bespectacled with graying hair, holding a multitude of books that he balances precariously in one arm as he holds the door handle. He glances at her father and his eyes widen before his gaze slides to her face. His eyes behind his glasses narrow until he notices the resemblance, her dark eyes almost identical to her fathers, though they lack the creased corners and have fuller lashes.

“Come in,” the man says, widening the door and shifting the books in his arm.

Her father does not enter, but turns to her. “Dearest, I would like you to wait down the hall until we are finished.”

“Why?”

“We have things to discuss,” he replies. “And take him,” he adds, handing her the owl’s cage. The owl clicks its beak as she turns around. He says nothing more, and neither does his companion, as they watch her walk slowly down the hall, casting glances over her shoulder as she goes. When she is at a satisfactory distance her father steps through the threshold and disappears behind the door.

She waits a full minute, counting seconds under her breath, until she can be sure they are engaged in conversation. She places the owl cage on the ground beside her. It takes her seconds to race back to the door, silently, and press her ear against the wood. It is her father speaking on the other side.

“You must challenge her, I insist. It has been too long since I’ve felt such excitement,” her father says, hands clasped behind his back as the older scholar struggles with his papers and scrolls. When, amidst the chaos, they roll of the desk, he does not bend down to reach them, but lazily waves his wrist in the direction of the desk and they are suddenly there, as though they always have been.

The scholar’s face goes white and he puts his hands down on the desk, breathing deeply. “I suppose. If you would like such an education. Though it is unconventional.”

Her father waves his hand. “It is not unconventional in the least, merely unprecedented. It was once quite in style, if you’ll remember.”

There is a significant pause, and she wonders if perhaps they have left the room through some other doorway. Perhaps they are listening for the sound of someone outside the door. She stays as quiet as she can.

In her space behind the door the words suddenly become muffled, as though she is hearing them through a wall, or from underwater.

“The challenges will be quite hard,” the professor says uncertainly. He drums his fingers nervously on his leg.

“All the better. She is extremely talented and skilled. Pitted against anyone she can win.”

“Very well,” the professor says. The paper on the desk rustles as he withdraws a roster of names. “I assume you have already begun her education?”

“I have almost finished it,” says her father’s voice.

“Then we will send tests along for her shortly.”

Suddenly the sounds resolve into words once more, and she is able to hear clearly her father call, “Come back in.”

She re-enters the study where the professor is smiling and holding a trembling hand out to her.

“Lovely to meet you my dear,” he says, shaking her hand. He pulls his hand back quickly when she releases it.

Her father bids goodbye and exits the room. The owl cage waits outside of it, though she does not recall bringing it to the door. He guides her through the gilded hallways to the exit.

Outside in the grey she cannot think of a single question from the tangle in her head to ask her father, except, “Are we going back now?”

“Yes we are,” her father replies as they turn down the main street in the direction of the beach.

She says nothing as they walk, and everything about her father is silent. She is certain that walking along the street only she is visible, and her father is, for his own purposes, unseen. 

When they reach the beach and the building that spans, invisibly, over a quarter of it, her father tells her to veil herself.

She visibly relaxes when they are indoor, pausing to take in the monotony of the black and white and grey halls. She sees little variation in the shades of grey after the colour of the city and the university.

Her father pulls the envelopes from his pocket, their frayed ripped edges catching on the lining.

“I hope you have learned something today,” her father says absently, looking not at her but at the envelopes in his hand.

She nods, then replies, “Yes, father.” She is certain she has learned something very important, though she does not think it is relevant to her father’s idea of the day.

Art by Snow

Text by Lucie MacAulay