City of Lost Dreams by Magnus Flyte

Author:Magnus Flyte [Flyte, Magnus]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: love_sf, sf_stimpank
ISBN: 9780143123279
Publisher: Penguin Books
Published: 2013-06-01T16:00:00+00:00

* * *

“Changes in cerebral blood flow during chanting are fascinating,” said Marie-Franz in the kitchen of her sleek and modern apartment later. Alessandro had told Sarah that it wasn’t very common for the Viennese to invite someone to their home, so it was quite an honor. The place was decorated with an incredible assortment of African artifacts gathered during her travels, many of which she said were gifts from shamans she had observed as part of her studies. “It’s been well researched using tomography scans. When you deactivate the left posterior parietal lobe, you have the sensation of floating, the transcendence of the physical self. During group chanting, people’s heart rates sync up, but even more so if the people know and love each other. It’s astounding.”

Astounding had been discovering Gerhard Schmitt’s wife draped across Marie-Franz’s couch, still wearing a fur coat.

“I threw myself on Marie-Franz’s mercy,” Frau Schmitt had called out when they came in. “I couldn’t bear to be with any of those horrible sycophants. God! Or all those dreadful public officials. What a ridiculous charade! Marie-Franz, can you make me another one of those lovely drinks?”

So Sarah had left Alessandro to comfort the widow and accompanied Marie-Franz to the kitchen, where the professor was mixing a Viennese specialty of Aperol and Prosecco.

“We shouldn’t mention that we knew Nina, right?” Sarah whispered. “Or Bettina?”

“I don’t know. Most importantly, we should get some food in her, I think.”

But when they returned to the living room, Sarah had only gotten out a “Frau Schmitt, I’m so—” before the widow interrupted.

“Please God, don’t say you’re sorry. And call me Adele. I saw you with her at the ball. The little Nina. She was a friend of yours?”

“An acquaintance, yes. We were friendly.”

“Then it’s me who should be saying I am sorry.” Adele downed her drink. “And I am. In fact, every tear I’ve shed has been for her.”

“You are very compassionate,” murmured Marie-Franz.

“Oh, you know,” said Adele. “I don’t have to pretend in front of you. My husband was a monster. That poor girl . . .” She began to weep.

Marie-Franz moved to the sofa and put an arm around her. The widow leaned into the much taller woman gratefully for a moment, and then stood up abruptly, pulling a cigarette out of her bag. Alessandro lit it and she patted him on the arm, still crying.

“It could have been anyone,” she said. “My husband had many women. I will be honest with you, I had thought of killing him myself. Now I only feel pity. Even for Bettina Müller, I feel only sorry for her. You are shocked by this?”

“Surprised,” admitted Sarah. So the rumors of an affair were true.

“When my brother’s little boy was so ill, cancer, Bettina worked with his doctors. That’s how Gerhard and I got to know her. She worked around the clock to use the boy’s own cells to create an antibody against the cancer. She warned us it was dangerous, and for a while we thought we would lose him, but last spring he turned thirteen.

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