THE CITY OF DREAMS               

 “Haben Sie eine Zigarette?”

The question, although it took retired Judge Harold J. Hudson a moment to decipher it, awoke him from the semi-stupor into which he had drifted. The voice was low, husky, and inviting.

“I don’t speak German,” Hudson replied.

“Nor do I; I speak Austrian,” the woman returned, “but I will speak any language you desire for a cigarette.”

Her voice was husky, probably from too many cigarettes. Her words slipped so softly from her brightly painted lips that Hudson could barely hear them over the noise from the Ringstrasse, the multi-named boulevard that replaced the City of Vienna’s old City Wall. The words and the glance that accompanied them constituted a promise of payment in kind.

“Sorry, I don’t smoke,” Hudson replied, belatedly remembering that he was not interested in payment of any kind. Hudson was in no mood for dalliance on this pleasant if foggy evening. Standing in a dark alcove in a side street trying to avoid the pervasive mist that tended to clog his brain as well as his sinuses, gave reason enough for even the most sanguine of men to grow testy -- even openly rude. Hudson was not the most sanguine of men this night.

“You are Amerikaner?”

“Yes.”

“You do not smoke?” The woman made it sound as if everyone of consequence smoked.

“No.”

“You for someone wait?” the soft voice asked, preventing him from returning to the stupor with which he was trying to become familiar.

 “Yes,” he replied, “I am waiting.” His own voice, sharp and strained, startled him. The disturbing ache behind his eyes that never seemed to entirely vanish these days, returned with increasing force, causing his brain to ache in empathy.

“In Wien, one does not need to wait alone,” the woman offered, blending Austrian and English with easy facility. He was forced to look at the woman with deeper penetration. She was small, no taller than Betty Ruth, dark and bundled in a fur-collared coat held close about her body to keep out the pervasive fog. She wore highly polished high-heeled boots. The hair peeping out from beneath her cap was black in the dim light. Her eyes were dark, heavily mascaraed and deeply shadowed -- most likely a woman of the streets. A smile, tentative and ready to vanish at the first frown, tilted the corners of her lips. No doubt she did have more in mind than a cigarette; how much more, he had no intention of discovering. She reminded him too much of his Betty Ruth. The dark eyes studied him intently, as if she read more in his face than he had any intention of anyone reading; as if she could see the agony of indecision that lay behind his own slate-gray irises.

“I have no need of company.” Even as he said it, he knew it was untrue. He was tired of being alone; tired of waiting for life to decide what his future held; tired of waiting for his mistress to make up her mind whether she wanted to share her life with his or go on with her acting career; and tired of waiting for J. Paul to show up at this rendezvous to tell him why he was so desperately needed in J. Paul’s latest and no doubt extra-legal scheme.

“Your woman, she is young?” Beneath the Austrian’s heavy paint was an attractive face; beneath the coat was probably a warm and comforting body--a perfect excuse to abandon this agony of waiting. Her English was surprisingly good, but then, the language ability of the Austrians no longer surprised him. This woman of the streets undoubtedly knew several languages as well as he knew English.

She automatically assumed he was waiting for a woman. “Yes,” he surprised himself by replying. “She is young, and impetuous and most unpredictable; but it is not for her that I wait.”

“The young ones are always unpredictable. You would do better with an older woman.” The woman sighed, bringing his thoughts back to the fog-dampened street. She bundled her coat closer about her ripe body, an indication that the interview was at an end and an opportunity for dalliance was lost. As she turned to continue her solitary way, she looked back over her shoulder, her heavy-lidded eyes masked by the darkness. “Hüten Sie sich vor dem dicken Mann.”

“Beg pardon?” said confused Hudson.

“Beware the fat man,” she warned, then resumed her solitary way, to be swallowed by the fog.

Hudson stamped his feet; they were growing cold. Streetlamps, made dim by the fog, provided too little light to more than barely illuminate his shelter. The sound of an electric streetcar gliding by on the Ringstrasse, crackling as its arm crossed from line to line, reminded him that time was indeed passing. He stamped his feet again to convince himself that they were still awake.

To avoid the pressure of his thoughts, he turned to examine the alcove in which he sheltered. The door was wood, heavy, solid wood. The glass was thick and dark with the impenetrable darkness of immense distance. Was the glass painted? It could be, yet it seemed not. There was a feeling of great depth behind the glass. The walls that abutted the door were stone -- solid, heavy, and capable of spurning the most ambitious of attackers. The doorframe was made of thick timbers, equally heavy and strong. Why would a hotel need to spurn attackers? Was it only the pervasive fog that colored the wall, creating malignancy where none in fact existed?

“Zigarette?”

Another soft voice spoke at his elbow. If he stayed here much longer, he would have to stock cigarettes for passers-by. The City would probably require him to obtain a vendor’s license.

This time the voice was male, with a Slavic accent. The man himself had a Slavic accent. He was no taller than the woman, thin, almost emaciated. He wore an old-fashioned fedora. Beneath the brim, his large round eyes watched Hudson carefully, as if his request might give cause for him to beat a rapid retreat. There was something about those eyes that reminded Hudson of the eyes that stared back at him from his bathroom mirror this morning.

“Do I look like you?”

“Was?” The man was puzzled, yet he persevered. “Zigarette?”

“It’s important, you know, that I know. I have a feeling that I look far too much like you. I’m sorry, I have no cigarettes.”

The visitor fished a large cigar from his coat pocket. “Nein,” he replied, and then continued in English, as if the subject fascinated him despite his better judgment. “The eyes; the eyes look as if they have too much seen. My eyes have too much seen.”

“Only the eyes?”

“The eyes, especially the eyes.” The little man watched him hopefully.

“Thank God for that.” Hudson felt a need now, to be friends with this strange little man. They had something in common; eyes that saw too much. Hudson wished he had a cigarette to give him.

The man made a production of lighting his cigar with a large gold lighter. Hudson observed that his heavy camelhair coat, out of season but for the fog, was well made and fitted, just a shade snug, a curious contrast with the woman.

“Sorry about the cigarettes; about not having any, I mean,” apologized Hudson. “It’s too bad; you just missed a woman also looking for cigarettes. She had deep-set eyes.”

“Deep-set eyes. Always I have a weakness for deep-set eyes. I wish I had her seen.” The man sighed deeply, relishing the pain of his loss. “Hüten Sie sich vor Dickmann,” the curious fellow half-whispered, then with small rapid steps, disappeared into the fog. He faded quickly in the darkness of the fog-shrouded street.

 “Beware of Fatman.” What a curious warning. What could a fat man possibly have to do with him? He knew no fat men in Vienna. He’d not even seen a fat man in Vienna. He forced his thoughts back to his current problems: what to do with Betty Ruth Jordan and her career -- and J. Paul Renault’s schemes.

Once more he sighed. Betty Ruth Jordan was unfortunately quite capable of doing things on her own. J. Paul Renault only needed help when one of his schemes escaped his control. Hudson’s eyes, the eyes that saw too much, ached in the darkness.

The massive door behind him opened. A large hand in an immaculate sleeve reached out, grabbed the scruff of his neck and hauled him into the dark interior.

 To order

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