I entered the Viennese
café at precisely three pm as instructed
or rather, as summoned.
Id visited the Austrian capital frequently enough to have grown
accustomed to the powerful aroma of strong coffee accompanied by sweet cake. I
perused the clientele but recognized no one. Maybe this was just a joke. Or a
mistake. Or worse, a trap.
The note, slipped under my
hotel room door this morning, gave brief, yet precise, directions. The
café is always busy at this hour, and I found comfort in the safety of a
crowd.
The note had instructed me
to make my way to the floor above, so I climbed the aging, carpeted stairs.
Reaching the top, I observed a large room, really a copy of the downstairs
café, buzzing with the overspill of customers. The clatter of crockery
and chatter of clientele had undoubtedly remained unchanged for the last
century. The powerful, the famous, and the rich had all chosen to spend
mid-afternoons here, as much to be seen as to see. The coffee was famously dark
and delicious, the selection of cakes, wide and irresistible.
Apparently, I was to share
a table with the author of the note. But which table? And who was the author of
the note? Each table was occupied with, dare one say, normal Viennese people,
each spending a pleasant afternoon pursuing one of the citys premier
attractions, Kaffee und Kuchen. Children of all ages sat patiently,
dreaming of a large slice of perfectly constructed gateau, the threatened
removal of which undoubtedly acted as motivation for obedience. Parents ignored
their salivating offspring, and forwarded to friends the latest city gossip.
Grandparents doted on the children, whether originating from their own family
tree or otherwise, while reminiscing of the good old days, when
such luxuries were cheaper, yet grander. A few tables contained lone
individuals, forced to share with obvious strangers, yet each studiously
ignoring the other under the cover of a broadsheet newspaper. Space was at a
premium, and not a single spare seat was to be found.
The note had informed me
that at precisely 3:05 pm the table by the curved corner window, overlooking
St. Stephens Cathedral, would become free. I casually waltzed through the
crowded tables, aiming directly for the designated location. As I approached,
the middle-aged couple occupying this perfectly positioned table, rose,
grappled with their coats, and smiled at me, indicating with a gracious sweep
of the hand that I was free to occupy the best seat in the house. I nodded my
unspoken gratitude, removed my coat, and sat.
Within seconds, a waitress
appeared, and efficiently cleared the debris left by my predecessors. I ordered
a pot of the house blend, accompanied by a selection of petit gateaux, adding,
For two.
I waited. The note was very
specific regarding my arrival, yet strangely vague beyond that.
The view afforded me by my
predestined location was spectacular. Below, at street level, tourists and
shoppers mixed uncomfortably in Stephensplatz. The visitors stared heavenward
at the spectacular architecture of the Cathedral, unaware their behavior was a
constant irritation to those who call this place home.
The café chatter
receded into my subconscious, and I daydreamed to the point of being unaware of
the arrival at my table of a stranger. Without introduction, he sat on the
chair across the table from me, and placed his folded newspaper deliberately on
the white linen table cloth. Early middle-aged, medium height, stocky build,
there was nothing about him out of the ordinary.
It is a beautiful
day, is it not? he began, in a vaguely East European accent.
Glorious, I
added with sufficient enthusiasm to cover my curiosity.
He poured himself a cup of
coffee, added a drip of cream, and drank.
I find this
café serves the best coffee in Vienna.
I am not an
expert, I replied, hating the enforced small-talk, but I do like
it.
He used the delicate silver
tongs to transfer two small cakes to his China plate, and immediately popped
one into his mouth. He smiled his approval.
I find also the cakes
are quite delightful.
Yes, quite, I
agreed.
He took a dainty sip of his
coffee, quite out of keeping with his burly stature.
I understand it may
rain tomorrow.
Ive heard that
as well, I added, before consuming for myself some of the delicious fare
at our table.
He then consumed greedily
his other cake, drained the coffee cup, and rose from his seat, collecting his
hat from the stand close by.
It has been a
pleasure to make your acquaintance.
Likewise.
He leant over to me and, in
a lower tone, added, The eagle will land tonight.
He then dropped onto the
table sufficient in notes to cover the cost of our strange, shared snack, and
left.
Initially confused by his
parting statement, I realized quickly he had left his newspaper on the table. I
picked it up, to reveal a slim envelope underneath. I glanced around, intending
to call back the stranger, but he had vanished.
I cautiously checked around
the café, hoping that no one was paying me any undue attention. I
handled the envelope, turning it to see if there was any address or other
marking. There was not. I replaced the envelope on the table, sipped more
coffee, and pondered the situation.
Making a living as a
traveling salesman for a company manufacturing radio equipment is a dull life.
To pass the lonely hours while on the road, I would read detective novels and
spy thrillers. This real-life situation was intriguing. Reaching a decision, I
carefully opened the envelope. It contained typed official paperwork in a
language I did not comprehend, accompanied by a generous wad of large
denomination notes. What could this mean? And what was all that about an eagle?
I called the waitress over,
and ordered more coffee. I stared once more out of the window at St. Stephens,
and ran through the events of the day. A thought occurred to me. Maybe the
stranger had slipped his note, directing me to this clandestine meeting, under
the wrong hotel room door?