36 Yalta Boulevard by Steinhauer Olen

Author:Steinhauer, Olen [Steinhauer, Olen]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: The Yalta Boulevard Sequence
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Published: 2010-04-01T07:00:00+00:00

31 MARCH 1967, FRIDAY

•

Of course he knew the Carp. It was a dingy place in the narrow maze of Vienna’s old fishing district—on Sterngasse, off of Desider Friedmannplatz. He knew what and where it was, though he’d avoided it personally. He’d instead sent his informants into its dark interior to listen to the exiles’ stories of dissatisfaction. Ingrid Petritsch had been one of his better informants; she could maneuver herself among the barstools and flirt the information out of any man, because the exiles would say anything to impress a beautiful woman. They would always explain to her, as if to a child, that their own capital was superior to cold Vienna, though none of them had the courage to return home. Then Ingrid would touch their arms and ask for more.

But Ingrid, after Bertrand Richter’s death, decided she’d had enough. Cerny had told him this over drinks. She married an English businessman and was now living in London. A goddamned waste, he’d said. She won’t even talk to our local man now.

In the morning he woke later than usual and did not bother with Eszterházy Park. Instead, he picked up a Kurier and took it east, to the vast grounds of the Schönbrunn Palace, where, when he wasn’t reading the newspaper’s personals, he gazed at squares of black soil in the enormous gardens being tended by workers in preparation for spring. He mixed with a busload of Italians who shouted at their wives and children, then stopped beside a Grecian sculpture and stared at the crisp blue sky, where a single unformed cloud floated.

At sunset, he took the tram back into town, to Schwedenplatz by the Danube, then found Sterngasse. It was a short pedestrian street ending in stairs, dirty by Viennese standards but relatively clean to Brano’s eyes. Arched above the door was a wooden carp, silver paint peeling off its ribs.

There were only a few customers this early, so Brano settled at the bar. The black-haired bartender, a woman of about sixty, smoked beside a wall of palinkas and vodkas, reading a newspaper. She wore large hoop earrings. Behind the bottles, a large mirrored wall allowed him to see his own tired face. In the corner, a wide, glowing jukebox played jazz music.

“Guten Abend,” she said when she noticed him.

“Good evening.”

She smiled. “One of our boys. What can I get you?”

He rapped the counter with a knuckle. “A beer, I think.”

Her name was Monika, and she asked how long had he been here, where was he from, and was he going to stay?

He nodded morosely into his glass, as if he really were one of them.

“Don’t worry, dear.” She placed a calloused hand on his wrist. “It gets better.”

He looked at her.

“You did the right thing,” she said. “You came here. It’s all going to change from this point on.”

“That’s good news.”

For the next hour, he drank while Monika asked the occasional question—not probing, just to show she was interested. She seemed to respect his vague answers,

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