Chapter 5
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 5
Chapter Title: The Devil Wears a Coat
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When I opened my eyes on the warehouse floor, I thought my whole body had been smashed to pieces.
The chill of the concrete seeped up my spine and froze my brain. The pile of straw here was a far cry from a modern latex mattress. If it weren't for Franz snoring away beside me, I might have mistaken this for some forgotten corner of hell.
As I sat up, my joints cracked with every movement.
"Ugh..."
A groan escaped me involuntarily. It was the price of that full sprint from the police in the square yesterday. My lungs felt shrunken, making every breath labored. I could almost understand why the historical Hitler had been so irritable. With a body like this, how could the world look anything but ugly?
Careful not to wake Franz, I slipped quietly out of the warehouse. The dawn air was so clear it cut like a knife. Watching my breath puff out white, I gave a wry smile.
Today was the day.
The day I would meet Morgenstern. The day that could change the course of my life—or hurl me back into this cesspool.
I headed to a nearby public faucet and splashed water on my face. It was ice-cold, but it snapped me awake. Wiping my dripping face with my sleeve, I glanced at my reflection in the puddle.
I still looked ridiculous. My unwashed hair stuck up like a bird's nest, and my clothes were caked with yesterday's brick dust and dirt. The stench was too rank to pass off as vintage chic. But what could I do? This threadbare coat was all I owned.
"Mister, washing up alone?"
Franz had woken up and shuffled over, rubbing his eyes. He looked just as rough. We took one look at each other and burst out laughing.
"Hey, wash your face too. I told you, important business meeting today."
"Business, my foot. We're just going begging."
"Watch your mouth. We're seeking investment. Ever heard of angel investors? Nah, probably not."
"Angel? Like, actual angel? If that guy's an angel, then I'm Jesus."
Franz grumbled as he splashed water on his face. He yelped, "Yow!" at the cold.
We made our way to Alsergrund, Vienna's affluent district. As we got closer, the scenery shifted. Unlike the filth-stinking back alleys, the streets here were smoothly paved, and the buildings gleamed like they'd just been painted.
The passersby dressed differently too. Ladies in fur coats, gentlemen with silk ties. Amid them, we stuck out like sore thumbs—two ink blots splattered on a pristine canvas.
Their stares stung. Contempt, disgust, a hint of fear.
Franz clutched my coattail tightly, shrinking in intimidation. I started to tell him to square his shoulders, then thought better of it. Truth be told, my heart was pounding too. In my past life, I'd haunted gallery thresholds as a visitor or student, never as a beggar.
"There."
The place I pointed to was a stately two-story building. A brass plaque gleamed at the entrance.
[Galerie Morgenstern]
Morgenstern Gallery.
Through the glass doors, I could see a warmly lit interior. Paintings on the walls, people strolling elegantly. Heaven and hell, separated by a single door.
"Let's go in."
As I stepped forward, a burly doorman blocked my path with an outstretched arm.
"This isn't a begging spot. Move along. The free soup kitchen's two blocks down."
His tone was polite, but his eyes were ice-cold. Franz ducked behind me. It was just as I'd expected. Keeping my cool, I mustered the haughtiest expression I could—channeling that signature Hitler glare.
"Judging people by appearances is for amateurs."
I pulled a dampened business card from my pocket and thrust it under his nose.
"The owner invited me. Tell Samuel Morgenstern that Adolf Hitler is here."
The man glanced at the card and hesitated. It was clearly his boss's. But eyeing my disheveled state, suspicion crept back in.
"You find this on the street?"
"...Hah. Do I look like I'm in the mood for twenty questions? Go check right now. My time might be worth more than your paycheck."
I laced my voice with irritation. Service workers always cave to difficult customers. Besides, I had a gut feeling: a merchant like Morgenstern wouldn't forget me after seeing that painting yesterday.
The doorman wavered, signaled another employee, and went inside.
Moments later, the glass door flew open.
"Ah! Hitler, my boy! You really came!"
It was Morgenstern. Dapper in his suit as yesterday, he spread his arms wide in welcome. The doorman gaped in embarrassment.
"Come in, come in. I've been waiting. Brought your little friend too?"
Ignoring my filthy coat, he draped an arm around my shoulders and led me inside. Warm air rushed over us, carrying the gallery's signature scent: vanilla, varnish, and aged paper.
The space was larger than I'd imagined. Walls displayed the trendy Art Nouveau paintings of the era—pretty, ornate, flamboyant. Like Klimt derivatives.
As we entered, the guests turned to stare. Elegant ladies pinched their noses and scowled, as if two sewer rats had invaded.
"Samuel, who are these people? The smell..."
A fur-clad woman asked with distaste. Morgenstern smiled leisurely.
"Ah, madam. Allow me to introduce Vienna's hidden gem—a bold new artist with a radical edge."
Radical, huh. Nice spin.
He ushered us to a back reception room with plush velvet sofas and a mahogany table.
"Have a seat. Tea? Cocoa for the little one?"
His hospitality was overly cordial, which made me suspicious. Merchants don't give without reason. He was sizing up my value.
When hot tea and cookies arrived, Franz's eyes lit up as he devoured them. I sipped my tea slowly. The aroma eased my tension.
"So, that performance you staged in the square yesterday... quite impressive."
Morgenstern set down his cup and got to the point.
"Word travels fast, I see."
"Vienna's art scene is small. Especially with the police making a fuss. 'Eye of Blood,' they called it."
Eye of Blood. Some naming sense.
"So, why'd you summon me? Planning to call the cops?"
"Heavens, no. I love art. Profitable art even more."
He leaned forward, lowering his voice.
"Your painting has power. Vienna's art world is stagnant. People are tired of pretty pictures. They crave something stimulating, shocking. Know why Egon Schiele gets attention? He's repulsive. But you can't look away."
He stared right through me.
"That's the scent on you. The stench of raw talent."
I set down my cup and leaned back into the sofa. Negotiation time.
"Thanks for the praise, but I don't fill my belly with compliments. As you see, I'm homeless right now."
"I know. That's why I have a proposal."
He pulled an envelope from a drawer and placed it on the table.
"An exclusive contract. I handle all your works' sales."
The envelope was thick. Enough to rent a place and more. Franz dropped his cookie and gulped.
But I didn't touch it.
"One more condition."
"What? Not enough money?"
"No, the money looks plenty. What I want is 'freedom.'"
"Freedom?"
"No interference in what or how I paint. Even if I shit in the middle of the gallery, you sell it as art."
Morgenstern's eyes widened. Then he roared with laughter.
"Hahaha! Shit! You're a real madman."
Wiping tears, he nodded.
"Deal. If you shit, I'll sprinkle it with gold dust and sell it. But don't disappoint me. I don't tolerate failed investments."
Deal sealed.
I picked up the envelope. Its weight felt like capitalism itself. Maybe the original Hitler went astray because he never tasted this.
"One more thing."
I pointed to Franz, who sat dazed with chocolate on his mouth.
"This kid's my assistant. We'll be sticking together, so handle lodging?"
"Assistant? Hmm..."
Morgenstern eyed Franz and grinned.
"Not bad. Geniuses always need a squire to indulge their quirks. There's an empty room upstairs. Used as storage, but cleanable."
"Thank you."
I stood. This was it—the real start. No more street bum.
"So, when can I see your first piece?"
Morgenstern asked eagerly.
"Soon. Right now, I need paints. Lots of them."
We left the gallery. My pocket bulged with cash, a solid patron at my back. The cold wind blew, but now it felt refreshing.
"Mister... this isn't a dream, right?"
Franz pinched my arm.
"Ow! It's real, idiot. And stop calling me mister. It's 'master' now."
"Tch, got some money and you're all high and mighty. So, master, what's next? Gonna actually shit?"
"As if. Time to paint."
We headed to the art supply shop—the one I'd drooled over from the window yesterday.
The clerk tried to block us. Not this time. I slapped a wad of bills on the counter, and his attitude flipped to deference.
"What can I get you, sir?"
"All the oil paints here, every color. And the largest canvas."
Who knew I'd flex like this in 1908—a past-life first.
I picked up a tube of carmine red. Blood-red.
This color made my heart race. The original Hitler would've used it for a swastika flag, symbol of blood and madness.
I'd use it differently.
This red would be life, pain, stark truth.
"Franz, grab the stuff. It'll be heavy."
"Ugh, fine, master."
Loaded with supplies, I glanced up at the sky. A single ray pierced the gray clouds.
Like a spotlight.
Stage set. My turn to dance.
But what to paint? The first piece mattered. I'd boasted to Morgenstern, but it couldn't be ordinary. Something to smack viewers upside the head.
An image flashed: last night's dream in the warehouse. People ground like gears in a massive machine. Pigs swigging wine atop it.
Too cliché? Nah—it's all in the execution.
I'd paint this era's greatest irony.
Industrial revolution's light and shadow. Glamorous Vienna's facade and the rotting masses like us beneath.
Title set.
[Empire's Stomach].
Nobles in finery at a banquet table. Beneath the tablecloth: festering legs, rats gnawing scraps dropped by the elite. Elegance above, slaughter for survival below. Dual structure.
Just thinking about it thrilled me. My hand itched for the brush.
"Let's go, Franz. Time to shit on the world proper."
Franz snickered, adjusting the load. Vienna lay at my feet.