Chapter 14
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 14
Chapter Title: Spiderweb
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The mansion in Vienna's affluent Hoche Warte neighborhood resembled a fortress more than a castle.
Straightforward exterior stripped of ornamentation, the kind modern architects like Josef Hoffmann or Adolf Loos might worship. But the light spilling from the windows beyond was red and seductive.
"Teacher, we won't be able to get out once we go in, right?"
Franz pressed his nose to the carriage window. He'd taken my joke about the "witch's castle" at face value.
"Don't worry. You might not even want to leave."
I straightened my clothes. The tuxedo I'd bought yesterday was still uncomfortable. The collar squeezing my neck felt like an invisible hand throttling my throat.
The front door opened, and a servant greeted us. A rush of warmth enveloped us the moment we stepped inside. Dense air utterly unlike the chill outside. Perfume, cigarette smoke, and expensive wine mingled in the scent.
Salon.
The social crucible that ruled Europe's intelligentsia from the late nineteenth to early twentieth century.
The living room was vast. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, a grand piano dominated one corner, and people filled the spaces around it.
I held my breath. Faces straight out of history textbooks were all gathered there.
The skinny man tapping at the piano keys was unmistakably Gustav Mahler. Nervously tousled hair, sharp eyes glinting behind his glasses. He was at the height of his composing powers, yet crumbling under failing health and strife with his wife.
The portly man chattering with a wine glass beside him resembled writer Arthur Schnitzler, while the grave-faced group debating in the corner were surely architects.
This was a zoo of geniuses. And the zookeeper was...
"Welcome, my barbarian."
Alma Mahler approached, clad in a black velvet dress instead of red today. Pearls gleamed against her white skin, drawing the eye to her throat.
"Right on time. I figured you'd bolt."
She slipped her arm through mine with easy familiarity. Eyes turned our way. Gustav Mahler glanced over mid-note. Anxiety and jealousy flickered in his gaze.
Ah, so this was Alma Mahler.
The audacity to hook arms with another man right in front of her husband. She professed to love men's talent, but truth be told, she reveled in that talent bending to adore her.
"Bolt? I'm here for a contract. Why turn down money?"
I played the part of the greedy opportunist.
"I like your honesty. Come on. Plenty of people to meet."
She led me into the throng.
"This is painter Adolf Hitler. Vienna's loudest troublemaker these days. The man who twisted the Crown Prince's portrait inside out."
Provocative introduction. Eyes raked over me with curiosity.
"Ah, the rat painter?"
"Looks more normal than expected. Thought he'd have horns."
I offered polite smiles and handshakes. Their palms were soft, warm. Hands untouched by toil. Aristocratic fingers that gripped only pens or brushes, never anything heavier.
I sneered inwardly. They prattled on about the "shock" and "audacity" of my work, but the raw hunger captured in those strokes? They'd never grasp it in their cushioned lives. Just titillating hors d'oeuvres for idle evenings.
"Enough chit-chat. We've got business."
Alma steered me toward the second floor.
"Franz, wait here. Load up on cake and pastries over there."
Franz was already at the buffet table, plate in hand, eyes alight. The kid adapted like a natural.
I followed Alma into the private study upstairs. The noise from below faded, leaving silence in its wake.
A massive easel and blank canvas stood ready in the room. She came prepared.
"Sit."
She reclined sideways on the sofa. The black dress cascaded, baring a glimpse of white ankle.
"A portrait, right?"
"Yes. You weren't happy with Klimt's."
"Too saintly. Trapped in gold leaf. I'm not that pious."
She plucked a cigarette from the table and lit it.
"How, then? Like a villainess?"
"No. Just... like me."
She exhaled a long plume of smoke.
"Several women live inside me. The wife of Mahler. The one who dreamed of composing. And... the one who can't endure being unloved."
Her eyes wavered.
I studied her.
Beautiful. An undeniable fact. But behind that beauty lurked a yawning void. She was a predator, hunting geniuses, draining their inspiration to fill her emptiness. A parasite called a muse. Or a spider.
Harsh imagery, but that's how it looked through an artist's eyes.
"Understood. Don't move."
I took up the charcoal. Sketch the foundation before oils.
Scratch, scratch.
The sound of charcoal racing across paper filled the room.
Her eyes first. Large and alluring, drooping slightly at the corners to hint at melancholy. I captured the longing pooled in their depths.
She stared straight back. Models usually averted their gaze or fidgeted awkwardly, but she met mine like she meant to devour it. A battle of wills.
"Your paintings smell of blood."
She shattered the quiet.
"Blood? I'll take the compliment."
"Saw a slaughterhouse as a girl. Blood everywhere, reek of entrails, but eerily beautiful. That heat as life ebbed away. Your paintings nail it exactly."
"Dangerous tastes, madam."
"That's why I summoned you. Paint the slaughterhouse inside me."
I paused.
The slaughterhouse inside me.
She knew. Sensed on instinct that she dragged others to ruin. That she'd sicken Mahler and drive countless men mad in time.
"Very well. Time to drop the mask."
I set down the charcoal and picked up a brush.
No background. Her alone.
Let the black dress melt into shadow, leaving only her pale face and hands, those red lips.
Her hand next: gripping the sofa arm. Slender, elongated fingers like spider legs. Taut with the tension of snaring prey.
And the lips.
A smile that mocked, craving a kiss yet poised to swallow whole. Crimson.
Time slipped away unnoticed. The piano sounds from below ceased. Mahler must have tired.
"Finished?"
Alma stirred.
"Rough draft, but the vibe's there."
I turned the canvas toward her.
She stepped close and looked.
Silence.
The Alma on canvas wasn't pretty. Vicious. Hungry. Dangerous. Shadows bruised beneath her eyes, smile cool as frost. The antithesis of Klimt's saintly vision.
"..."
She reached out, fingers brushing her painted face.
"Hideous."
She whispered.
"Pleased?"
"Yes. Thoroughly."
She turned to me, a gleam igniting in her eyes.
"You've wrecked plenty of women, haven't you? Turning their souls inside out like this."
"Haven't had time for women. Too busy scraping by."
"Liar. You're a natural seducer. Art as your lure."
She advanced a step. Perfume washed over me.
Dangerous.
Instinct screamed warning. Entangle with her, and exhaustion follows. She was slotting me into her trophy case. Kokoschka, then Hitler?
I didn't retreat. Instead, I raised the brush like a barrier between us.
"Contract first. Payment upfront."
My mood-killer drew a sharp laugh from her.
"Ha! You really... master of the kill. Fine. Money it is."
She fetched an envelope from the desk drawer and handed it over.
"Double the agreed sum. And a bonus."
She added a small key.
"Key to my villa by the Vienna Woods. Use it anytime you need a studio. No interruptions."
A villa key. No mere kindness. A discreet invitation.
I pocketed it. Refusing would bruise her ego; keeping it might prove useful someday.
"Thank you. I'll make good use."
"Finish the painting and send it. It'll hang in my bedroom."
She sank back onto the sofa, crossing her legs.
"Now go down. My poor husband's waiting for you."
"Mahler?"
"Mm. Dying to see your work. Wants to render it in music, or some such."
I gathered my things and descended. Franz dozed on a sofa downstairs, chocolate smeared around his mouth.
Gustav Mahler sat alone at the piano. The crowd ignored him, lost in wine and chatter. A lonely king.
As I approached, he looked up.
"You're Hitler."
His voice was soft, trembling.
"An honor, Maestro."
"Alma... bought your painting. Lovers in the Noise."
He tapped the keys. Dissonance rang out.
"I know that noise. Echoes in my head every day."
He gave a bitter smile.
"Your painting brought my Sixth Symphony to mind. Tragic, isn't it? Like a hammer blow to the skull."
Mahler's Symphony No. 6, the "Tragic." Those three massive hammer strikes in the finale. Symbol of the hero's downfall.
"My work that tragic?"
"No. Hopeful. That's what makes it tragic."
"Meaning?"
"Those in despair don't sing of despair. They dream of hope. And that hope rings all the sadder. Your lovers... they'll part in the end. Drowned in noise."
He spoke like a prophet.
"But in that instant, they hold each other. That fleeting moment outshines eternity."
Mahler pierced me with his stare.
"Beware Alma. She's... a typhoon. Get swept up, and you'll shatter."
A warning. Advice from defeat.
"I'll keep it in mind."
I bowed and roused Franz.
"Let's go, Franz. Home time."
"Mmm... no more cake?"
"Dream it up."
Stepping out of the salon into the night air. Cold clarity after the inner heat and haze.
The key jingled in my pocket.
Alma Mahler and Gustav Mahler.
One a typhoon, the other an ancient tree dying in its gale.
And I?
The observer painting the storm. Untouched. I'd stand in the eye.
"Teacher, that lady's scary."
Franz blurted the moment we boarded the carriage.
"Why? She's pretty."
"Pretty and scary. Her eyes... like a snake's."
"You saw it too? I pegged her as a spider."
We snickered.
Vienna's nightscape streamed past the window on the ride home.
Now I had money, fame. Klimt's nod, ties to the Crown Prince, Alma's patronage.
Success, right?
Yet a hollow ache lingered in my chest. Something missing.
What did I truly yearn to paint?
Success? Cash? Revenge?
No.
I wanted to reshape the world.
Remold minds with my brush, upheave the era. This success? Mere stepping stone.
No complacency. Lingering in salons like Alma's, playing at nobility, would dull my edge.
"Franz."
"Yeah?"
"Trip tomorrow."
"Trip? Where?"
"The slums. Where we used to live."
"Why go there? Stinks."
"To smell it. So I don't forget who I am."
I eyed my reflection in the window. Tuxedo-clad, unfamiliar.
Tomorrow, back to work clothes. Paint-caked rags—my true armor.
And I conceived a new painting.
Bigger this time.
The whole city on canvas.
Title: Shadow of the Tower of Babel.
Vienna, that towering Babel. Emperors and nobles perched high, workers and beggars crushed below. I'd dissect its brutal verticality.
Those in the tower's darkest shadow, untouched by Klimt's gold—them I'd paint.
With Alma's money, I'd buy the brightest lamp to pierce that gloom.
"Just wait. I've got plenty more to show."
I clenched my fist in the dark. My heart thrummed with every jolt of the carriage.
The war wasn't over. Act One had only just closed.