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glamorous,’ she says. ‘England. And of course you have the King and Queen and London and everything. That must be so exciting.’
    I shrug. I’ve never really thought of England as
exciting
. And I’ve only been to London once, on a school trip. We went to St Paul’s Cathedral and the museums. I remember me and my friend Kitty Carpenter at the Victoria and Albert Museum, and a museum attendant who took a rather salacious interest in us – two prim, lost-looking grammar-school girls in candystripe summer frocks. How he told us there was a room we really shouldn’t enter, because there was a great big statue of David, naked, in there …
    I tell Anneliese the story.
    ‘It’s a copy of the Michelangelo sculpture?’ she says.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’ve seen the original in Florence … I suppose you dashed straight to the room?’
    I nod.
    She grins.
    ‘And I bet you were horribly disappointed, after all that build-up. Michelangelo’s David is far too small where it counts.’
    Does she really mean what I think she means? I feel the heat rush to my face.
    Anneliese raises her cup to her lips. I notice that she has long French-manicured nails. My own hands with their bitten nails look so immature beside hers. A child’s hands. I remember Dr Zaslavsky.
You play like a talented child, not a woman
. That’s all I am, I think – a talented child.
    She leans towards me across the table.
    ‘Well, here you are – in Vienna, the city of dreams. So what’s your dream, Stella? To be a concert pianist?’
    ‘Well, yes, that’s what I’d love. Or maybe not a soloist – an accompanist, perhaps. I love accompanying.’
    ‘Oh Stella, how lovely. I can just imagine that you’d be brilliant at that. You seem very empathetic.’
    I’m not used to this kind of flattery.
    ‘I don’t know … But music is very competitive, of course. And to be honest – after that lesson I’ve totally lost faith. I just don’t think I’m good enough.’
    She puts her hand lightly on mine.
    ‘You mustn’t do that. You mustn’t ever lose faith,’ she tells me. ‘That’s where everything starts – with that belief in yourself.’
    ‘And you? You’re studying dance?’
    She nods. ‘I’ll probably be a ballet teacher. But, the thing is, Stella…’ Her voice is hushed, conspiratorial. There’s an ardent gleam in her liquorice-dark eyes. ‘What I’d
really
love would be to be a film director,’ she tells me.
    ‘Really? To make
films
?’ I’m so impressed.
    I take out two cigarettes, give her one. As I lean towards her to light it, her warm peach scent licks at me.
    I lean back, breathing in smoke. I realise I am happy – the misery of the morning all behind me, the world spread out before me like a banquet again.
    ‘There’s a film-maker in Germany,’ she tells me. ‘Leni Riefenstahl. That’s the kind of thing I dream of doing,’ she says.
    The name sounds slightly familiar, but I don’t know where I’ve heard it before. I decide it’s best to be honest.
    ‘I don’t really know about him,’ I say.
    ‘Not
him
,’ she tells me. ‘Here’s the thing – Leni Riefenstahl’s a woman. Isn’t that grand? It’s so wonderful to see a woman doing so much. That’s my dream – to be like her.’
    I resolve I will find out all about Leni Riefenstahl, so I can discuss her intelligently.
    ‘You should really try to see her films, if ever you get the chance,’ she goes on. ‘They don’t get shown in Vienna – they’re not very keen on them here. It’s such a shame. They can be rather narrow-minded here. Rather conservative. I mean, times are changing, for goodness’ sake … Her films are
art
. Visually wonderful. She has a real artist’s eye.’
    ‘Oh.’
    I didn’t know films could be art. I’ve mostly seen Buster Keaton films, which my father used to enjoy. I can’t think of an intelligent question to ask.
    ‘I can tell you’re very artistic, Stella,’ she says. ‘Very sensitive. You’d love her work,