Read Waiting for Sunrise for Free Online

treasure. It would be lovely to work together again. Is your mysterious ‘cure’ going well? Will it last ages? Are you taking salt baths and having cold showers and drinking asses’ milk and all that? I tell people you’ve got a ‘condition’ and they go – ‘Oh. Ah. Right. I see,’ and rush off looking serious. I’m going down to Borehamwood tomorrow to have a ‘cinematograph test’. Dougie says I have the perfect face for the ‘flickers’ so we shall see. I had a lovely note from your mother asking me if we had decided on the ‘great day’. Do think about it, sweetness mine. I show people the ring and they say ‘When?’ and I laugh – my bell-like laugh – and say we’re in no hurry. But I was thinking that a winter wedding might be so special. I could wear furs –
     
    He folded the letter and put it back in his pocket, feeling vaguely sick. It was as if he were hearing her voice in his ear, reminding him what had brought him to Vienna, forcing him to confront the reality of his particular problem. He could hardly marry Blanche in these circumstances. Imagine the honeymoon night . . .
    He lit a cigarette. Blanche had had lovers before, he knew. She had practically invited him into her bed but he had insisted on being honourable, respectful – now they were betrothed. He took his notebook from his pocket and made a swift calculation. The last time he had tried to have sexual congress with a woman had been with a young tart he’d picked up in Piccadilly. He counted back: three months, ten days ago. It was days after he had proposed to Blanche and was purely by way of necessary experiment. He remembered the small frowsty room in Dover Street, the one gas lamp, cleanish sheets on the narrow bed. The girl was pretty enough in a lurid way with her paint on but she had a black tooth that was visible when she smiled. He had started well but the inevitable result ensued. Nothing. We can try again, the girl said when he had paid her, don’t really count, do it, when nothing happens? You have to pay though – blank cartridge still makes a bang.
    Lysander allowed himself a sour smile – some soldier-client had probably told her that and it had stayed in her head. He stubbed his cigarette out. Perhaps he should tell Bensimon he was engaged to Miss Blanche Blondel – it might impress him as much as Halifax Rief.
    He paid his bill – remembered to put his hat on – and stepped out into the afternoon’s warm sunshine, pausing on the café steps, thinking he might walk back to the Pension Kriwanek – maybe skip supper? – wondering also where he might go this coming weekend – Baden, maybe, or even Salzburg, make a short trip of it, the Tyrol –
    ‘Mr Rief?’
    Lysander jumped unconsciously. A tall man, lean hard face, neat dark moustache.
    ‘Didn’t mean to surprise you. How d’you do? Alwyn Munro.’
    ‘Sorry – dreaming.’ They shook hands. ‘Of course. We met at Dr Bensimon’s. Coincidence,’ Lysander said.
    ‘If you come to the Café Central you’ll meet everyone in Vienna, eventually,’ Munro said. ‘How are you enjoying your stay?’
    Lysander didn’t want to make small talk.
    ‘Are you a patient of Dr Bensimon?’ he asked.
    ‘John? No. He’s a friend. We were at varsity together. I pick his brains sometimes. Very clever man.’ He seemed to sense Lysander’s reluctance to continue the acquaintance. ‘You’re in a rush, I can see. I’ll let you get on.’ He fished in his pocket for a card. Handed it over. ‘I’m at the Embassy here, if you ever need anything. Good to see you.’
    He touched the brim of his bowler with a forefinger and stepped into the café.
    Lysander strolled back to Mariahilfer Strasse, enjoying the sun. He took his jacket off and slung it over his shoulder. The Tyrol, he thought, yes – real mountains. Then, as he was about to cross the Opernring he saw another of the defaced, ripped posters. This time the head of the monster was left – some kind of