The flames, p.4
The Flames, page 4
The rousing score draws to a close, and the orchestra rest their instruments for a moment, before they launch into the next piece. In the pause, Adele’s dance partner takes hold of her arm and walks her to the balcony, which overlooks gardens, immaculately tended.
The light has mostly faded from the sky; pinks and purples remain, and the stars are becoming visible through the veil of darkness. The man leans on the balustrade, taking in Adele, his eyes roving along the contours of her figure.
Adele keeps her eyes on the topiary, determined not to give him the satisfaction of her attention. He touches her elbow. She ignores him. He becomes more insistent. She turns to him, her eyes on his, a challenge shining through the cut of her mask.
‘Remove it,’ he says, touching the side of her face.
‘Why?’
‘I want the pleasure of seeing you.’
A waiter walks past, a silver tray balanced on his hand. The man takes two flutes and passes one to Adele.
She takes a long, slow sip, then removes her mask, looking the man directly in the eye. He whistles softly.
They converse for a while, Adele dancing the delicate line between withhold and reveal. Other revellers drift over to the balcony to admire the view, but soon they are alone again.
Adele hears the band start playing Edith’s favourite waltz.
‘Excuse me,’ she says. ‘My sister will be looking for me.’
‘But you’re not excused,’ he teases, stretching out a hand to stroke her bare arm.
Adele turns to leave but now he holds her back and won’t let go.
‘You’re hurting me,’ she says angrily, pulling away. He has ripped a small seam on her dress.
Suddenly Edith is by her side. ‘Get your hands off her,’ she warns.
The man laughs, his arrogance flaring. ‘Don’t delude yourself. There are plenty more like you here.’
He struts away and the sisters retreat, Edith pulling Adele through the main ballroom and out into the garden on the other side. They sit on a bench, their backs to the palace.
‘I don’t suppose you want to share this?’ Adele asks, her hand trembling slightly. She produces a long, thin cigarette from her clutch bag.
‘Where did that come from?’ Edith asks.
‘What you don’t know can’t hurt you,’ Adele laughs. She takes out a box of matches, and draws the matchstick across the strike paper. With a flick of the wrist, it sparks to life and dances in the darkness between them. Adele smiles, triumphant, and inhales. ‘Let me be a bad influence,’ she says, passing the ebony cigarette holder to Edith, kicking off her shoes as she does so, and feeling the coolness of the ground through her stockings.
Edith puts the cigarette to her lips, attempts to breathe in a little smoke, then splutters and passes it back. She smiles at her sister, resting her head on Adele’s shoulder.
‘I’ll leave all the risqué pursuits to you from now on,’ she says.
‘Thank you for stepping in earlier,’ Adele says. ‘My heroine,’ she laughs, hugging Edith to her, and kissing her little sister’s cheek. ‘What on earth would become of me without you?’
5
Autumn 1913
In the second week of September, Mutti receives an invitation to the opening of a new exhibition at a gallery in Hietzing, and the girls’ presence is required. Adele feigns protest at first, in her usual way, but she also can’t ignore the possibility that her artist might frequent such a place, so prepares herself accordingly.
The gallery is well lit, the doors open to the street, letting in the last of a late-summer breeze. A dozen young men, seemingly attendees of Vienna’s Academy of Fine Arts, congregate around a table laden with flutes of sparkling wine. Adele circles them, trying to distinguish if her artist is among them. They disperse to view the framed paintings and Adele follows, staring at the artworks without enthusiasm.
In the adjoining gallery room, Edith appears to be talking to a man who has his back to Adele. But she’d know that silhouette anywhere! Her sister is engaged in conversation with the artist. Edith keeps looking away, as if begging to be rescued.
‘I can’t get over the beauty of the art,’ Adele says, approaching. ‘Doesn’t it move you, Edith?’ She steps in close to her sister. ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry to interrupt,’ she adds, as if she has only just noticed the artist. This is as close as she has ever been to the object of her desire. The room seems to palpitate with his presence. The bones of his knuckles are so prominent they show up whitened through his skin. There’s ink on his shirt, by the pocket, and his teeth are tobacco-stained. It is clear he has smoked a cigarette recently; Adele inhales a long drag of its residue, leaning in closer.
‘I should introduce myself. I’m your neighbour,’ he says, bowing.
This is the first time Adele has heard him speak.
‘Neighbour? Are you new to the area? I’ve not seen you around,’ Adele fibs.
‘Well, I’ve certainly spotted you.’
Edith stands, prim and proper, by her side.
‘You have?’ Adele says.
‘You’re the girls in the window. I can see into your apartment from my attic. The angle between us is perfectly aligned. But don’t be concerned!’ he laughs. ‘I can only see into the front room, so there’s little to incriminate you.’
‘Such comments could get you into trouble,’ Adele says, feeling emboldened.
‘Oh, they already have.’ The artist smiles, but she notices his expression tighten. ‘Do you have a name? I can’t refer to you as the “sisters across the street” for the rest of my life,’ he says, turning playful again.
‘My name? Why, yes, if you must know, it’s Adele. Adele Harms,’ she says with all the confidence in the world, holding her hand in his direction. ‘I hope you won’t forget it.’ Edith fidgets next to her. ‘Oh, yes, and this is Edith.’ She rolls her eyes a little at him.
‘The Harms sisters,’ the artist muses, taking Adele’s fingers and squeezing them, pressing his thumb into the back of her ring finger. She has the urge to let him waltz her round the gallery; how she manages to remain standing on her own two feet is a mystery. ‘How delightful,’ he continues. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. Finally.’
‘And do you have a name?’ Adele asks.
‘I certainly do. One that follows me everywhere I go. I simply can’t get away from it, and believe me, I’ve tried. Egon Schiele.’ He drops her hand to perform an elaborately deep bow. Adele feels his phantom touch lingering on her skin. She weighs the name on her tongue and decides she admires it very much. It suits him.
‘You’re an artist, I presume?’
‘Many have called my chosen profession much worse,’ he concedes. ‘But yes, I have a solo exhibition, my very first, at the Galerie Hans Goltz.’
‘Perhaps we might attend?’ Adele says. ‘To see your work for ourselves.’
‘You’d have a long way to go. It’s in Munich.’
‘Goodness!’ says Adele. ‘You must be rather good.’
‘You’ll have to sit for me sometime. The pair of you.’
‘Our father wouldn’t allow it,’ Edith says. ‘He’s very strict.’
‘We’d be delighted,’ Adele replies.
Suddenly, from the edge of the gallery, she catches sight of their mother heaving into view.
‘My apologies, please excuse me,’ he sighs, checking his pocket watch. ‘I’m due to meet my patron, Herr Roessler, here any minute now. He’s the one running late, for a change. He keeps the wheels in motion, my name on the lips of the city’s art dealers and gallerists, so I’m forced to be attentive to his every whim.’
The artist holds Adele’s gaze. His eyelashes are long for a man, his lips pleasingly pink.
‘Aha, there’s the old dog. Arthur!’ Schiele catches the man’s attention and steps away.
‘Pay us a visit soon,’ Adele says after him, their mother fast approaching but still out of earshot. Edith turns on her. ‘What?’ Adele hisses. ‘A little fun won’t kill us, will it? Now, ssshh, here’s Mutti.’
‘Who was that?’ Mutti says sourly, her nose turned up in distaste.
‘Nobody,’ Adele replies.
‘It was our neighbour, wasn’t it?’ She peers over her shoulder at the man’s departing figure. ‘The artist … My goodness!’ She fans herself. ‘You weren’t encouraging him, were you?’
She looks around, to check who might have seen her girls talking to such a depraved individual. Mutti draws in a sharp breath as she takes in the flush on Adele’s cheeks. ‘Stay away from that man, he’s an absolute disgrace,’ she instructs. ‘I’ve warned you before. Artists are the very worst of society. And, Adele, don’t be indulging any of your silly ideas, young lady.’
‘I’ve no clue what you’re talking about,’ Adele protests.
Mutti narrows her eyes. ‘Come with me. There’s an eligible banker you must meet. His mother is one of Vienna’s most esteemed ladies.’
Adele lets herself be led away; but her eyes, all the time, remain on the artist.
‘A toast,’ Herr Bron announces. ‘To my dearest acquaintance, Johann. A man I’ve known and admired for almost thirty years. In that time, I’m happy to report we’ve seen much by way of growth – our friendship, which has gone from strength to strength, our business prospects, which fail to falter, and of course, our darling daughters, who’ve done us proud by developing into the most beautiful and sensitive young women.’ He tips his glass in Adele and Edith’s direction, then to the other side of the table, where Emilia is seated beside her new husband, who has brought along his puffy-faced younger brother, Albert. They each smile, politely. He turns his attention back to Papa, who’s sitting at the head of the table, his hands clasped together, as the waiter in a tuxedo fills his glass with the restaurant’s finest Grüner Veltliner. ‘We’re all here,’ Herr Bron continues, looking around at the dozen gathered guests, ‘to celebrate the occasion of your birthday, Johann, to toast your continued good health, and to pay thanks for your presence in our lives.’ Mutti nods, reaching out a hand to her husband in a rare display of affection. ‘We’ll be especially grateful,’ Herr Bron continues, ‘when you pay the bill at the end of the evening!’ The party erupts into cheers, knocking glasses together and clapping.
Her father is pleased with the display, Adele can tell.
Platters of food arrive – sizzling veal schnitzel; whole roast fish, the skin scored and crisp; vast bowls of potato salad. Adele’s mouth waters at the scent of freshly chopped herbs. Everyone eats, mindful of their manners, and talks about the usual topics, the older men sticking to the realm of business, the deals they hope to broker, the latest news of the Habsburgs, and the fate of the Empire, on which the sun will never set. The women swap notes on courtships, engagements, marriages and newly arrived babies – Vienna, despite its sprawling size, is small when it comes to society gossip and everybody knows everybody else’s business. Heinrich and his new wife are pregnant with their first, Adele overhears – she ignores an icy glare from her mother – and there are hints that Emilia will be next. Alwin’s brother, Albert, has taken a shine to Edith, and every time Adele glances over he’s trying to engage her in conversation. So Adele turns her attention to the rest of the guests. Among the younger generation, talk jumps from advances in photography and the latest cinematic releases, to a discussion of dreams, the unconscious and a man named Freud, the psychoanalyst who has published a new collection of essays on the subject of taboo. She tries to follow the discussion, but everyone is talking at once, the young men the loudest of all, and she can find no opportunity to express her opinion. Her ears pick up words of interest: repression, fantasy, sacrifice. She would like to know more of Charles Darwin, of Oedipus …
‘Klimt’s been at it again,’ says Herr Nathansohn, an art dealer, to Papa.
Adele chews carefully, her lips closed, and leans in closer, not wanting to miss a word.
‘What’s our esteemed national artist done this time?’
‘The Virgins,’ Herr Nathansohn says with a raised brow.
‘Good Lord! Is it as gaudy and oozing depravity as the last one?’
‘The word on the street is that Gustav’s golden period is well and truly over.’
‘He’s gambling with our affections after the popularity of The Kiss,’ Papa says. ‘I’m not a fan of this Art Nouveau style. Why mess with centuries of perfectly good tradition?’
‘Then you won’t like the young chap they’re calling his natural heir.’
‘You’re talking about that Schiele fellow?’ Papa says, sipping his wine thoughtfully.
‘That’s the one. That young man has ruffled the feathers of the bourgeoisie, that’s for certain.’
‘You’ll never believe it, but he lives just across the street from us.’
‘No!’ the man says, piercing the air with his fork. ‘He had to face a judge last year, in a county courtroom. Guilty, they found him. You’re living opposite a convicted criminal!’
Adele splutters into her napkin, earning an alarmed glare from Mutti.
‘Heavens! Was that him? I hadn’t made the connection. Quite the scandal,’ Papa agrees, his eyes wide. He turns to Mutti. ‘It’s worse than we dared imagine,’ he whispers.
‘They’re calling him the pornographer of Vienna,’ Herr Nathansohn continues.
‘That man better keep his distance, for all our sakes,’ Mutti says, her eyes on Adele.
When Adele is alone that evening, she conjures herself into her neighbour’s attic room. The talk at dinner has only kindled her desire further. She visualizes the stance she will strike for the artist – shoulders back, wrists crossed over her knees – and enjoys his admiration of her elegant pose, the sensation of his eyes on her skin as he paints. But it’s not long before she tires of this static fantasy, and her imagination pushes her further, from the drapes on the floor over to the makeshift bed. She beckons to the artist and he succumbs. She licks the bristles of his brush, lets it cover her lips, then takes his fingers in her mouth. She tastes chalky pigment at the back of her throat. She knows she should not do this – good girls never partake in such wicked thoughts – but she’s swollen with the dream of his forbidden touch. In her mind, her lips, cheeks, chest, the inside of her thighs, the soles of her feet, are smeared with his palette. There’s an addictive tingling in her hot, hollow space as she imagines him searching her body with his paintbrush. She’s surprised by the urge she has to feel him inside her: the need to push against him and fight for release. Adele wants more and more and more. She’s greedy. She replays it over and over – a close-up of his face, the sensation of his long fingers running all over her body. She experiences a quickening throb. A rush. From the unknown erupts an explosion of colour and a furious beat. She is alight.
6
June 1914
Over the following months, Adele manages to orchestrate more chance encounters with the artist, although usually on the street and always too fleeting for her liking. Their social circles are worlds apart and, fuelled by more tales of the artist’s misdemeanours, Mutti has redoubled both her vigilance and her efforts to find Adele a suitor. Only in her imagination can Adele truly lose herself to the artist, the only snag being that other woman – she still doesn’t know exactly who she is – and Edith. Her silly little sister can see that she’s love-lost and has no patience or sympathy. Edith has her own distractions – after the dinner with the Brons, Albert has called at the apartment a couple of times, enquiring after her, keen to begin a courtship, no doubt. But what does Edith know of the heart? She has always been so good, so pure; scared of offending others, of being cast adrift to possibilities. She’s far too sweet to survive this modern world.
Adele remembers one occasion when the Harmses were coming home from a trip to the countryside. Edith, aged five at the time, saw an injured animal through the window of the carriage, its fur dusted with blood.
‘A fox.’ She pointed. Its small body juddered with short breaths, and its eyes were open. Edith, who was sitting on Papa’s knee, put her hand to his dark, perfectly groomed beard. ‘Stop the horses. Please, Papa.’
‘Darling. Don’t bother yourself over such things,’ he said. ‘It’s vermin. And death is natural,’ he added, pulling her face into his shoulder so she wouldn’t be able to see it as they passed.
‘We can take it home, make it better,’ she pleaded.
‘No,’ Papa replied, sterner this time. ‘The thing’s probably infested with fleas. And think of what a mess it would make of this lovely carriage. You don’t want to dirty your dress, do you?’ he asked, smoothing the green folds of fabric. Adele said nothing, but as the carriage continued on its journey, Edith’s distress turned into a full-blown tantrum.
‘She should know better than to behave like this,’ Mutti complained, wiping away her daughter’s tears.
Papa later told Adele that he was proud of her, for she’d retained her composure. He rewarded her with a truffle, rolled in cocoa and coconut. The chocolate had melted on her tongue. It was the crowning moment of her childhood. She could still taste the unfettered sweetness of conquest over her little sister.
Later that evening, in their beds, Edith whispered to Adele that she could not banish the fox from her thoughts – its eyes kept searching out hers, saying, ‘My friend, help me.’
When she’d finally fallen asleep, Adele, with childish malice, had whispered those words in Edith’s ear, slow and deep, with as much throaty essence of fox as she could muster.
Edith woke later that night crying out, incoherent, sobbing.
‘She’s an over-privileged child,’ Mutti said, when alerted by Hanna.
By the morning, however, Edith could not be moved from her bed and her neck was swollen. Mutti sent urgent word for the physician.
‘I’m burning,’ Edith moaned. In the next moment, she became dull-eyed and floppy.
