You want something to happen, and it does. Into the cafe walks a man. He stands next to you at the bar and, when the waitress approaches, he says, 'How much for the jukebox?' He speaks English, without an accent.
The asking man is about sixty, red-faced, simply dressed.
'One euro,' the waitress says, also in English. 'You need change?'
'No,' says the man, 'you misunderstand me. How much for the jukebox. It is the jukebox I wish to buy.'
The blonde waitress looks over towards the dull red, blue, orange, green glow - and so, of course, do you. The jukebox isn't in any way special - when you check a few minutes later, you see it is loaded it with bland Europop CDs: not hardcore enough to scare the older clientele, not obtrusively bad enough to discourage the young.
'My name is Georg Schmidt,' says the man. 'I have more than enough money to buy this cafe. However, I do not wish to buy this cafe - I wish only to buy that jukebox.'
You feel something. You recognise it, remember it - it is what most people call curiosity. Looking round the cafe, you become aware that you are the only customer to be in on this conversation.
'Why?' asks the waitress.
'That is a private matter.' The man swallows his own voice.
'Really?'
'How much for the jukebox?' he repeats, quietly.
'Would you like a drink?'
The man takes a step back from the bar, breathes in, steps forwards again
'Can I speak to the manager?'
'It's my cafe,' says the waitress.
The man cannot fail to look surprised. 'So, you can sell me the - '
'I could,' interrupts the waitress. 'Yes.'
'I will have some?' the man glances behind the bar, along the bottles. He winces away from one selection after another, 'pernod.'
The waitress serves him, as if he were any customer, as if she didn't own the cafe.
He pays with a very large note.
The waitress goes into a back room to get change.
You become very aware you still haven't managed to buy a drink yourself.
The man, Georg Schmidt, looks out towards the light of the street and downs his drink.
'I don't like Vienna,' he says to you, when he's finished. 'I never have. I was born here, but that was a mistake. I rectified it as soon as I could.' He puts the glass down on the bar.
'It's a nice place,' he says very quietly, and glances around the ceiling.
The waitress arrives back with his change. After taking the money and counting out a tip, the man leans close to her. 'It's a shame,' he says, although his melancholy has gone. 'It's such a shame that tomorrow there won't be a cafe here, at all.'
There is no reaction from the waitress. Perhaps she has heard threats like this before.
The man gets slowly up and walks across to the jukebox. You and the waitress watch him. For a while he runs his fingers down the curved glass of its front, not looking at the titles of the bland songs - looking instead straight ahead through the wall. Then, with a snap, he turns and strides out of the cafe. Something has happened.
Ghost Story, Toby Litt's latest novel, is now out in paperback Read more
|
i - Hari Kunzru
