Night Angels(16)

“Do not mention it, Herr Consul General. It was my pleasure. Are you ready to leave? Well, I must say I expected a bigger crowd. A pity. The Viennese are missing an important opportunity. Where are your admirers?” The captain gave a smirk that must have been practiced on many attractive women, or maybe on the poor dissidents or even Jews these days.

Fengshan smiled warily at the captain.

“I’m serious. Where are your admirers, Herr Consul General? Everyone in Vienna loves your lectures.”

“Mr. Rosenburg said he’d attend.”

Heine knew well of his friend, an influential attorney. Vienna was a small city, after all; all the rich and the powerful knew each other.

“Of course, Mr. Rosenburg. I was thinking about him. Is he ill? What would make him miss your lecture?” The captain swirled the liquid in his glass in his irritatingly smooth manner as though he were flirting with a woman. Another reason Fengshan would rather stay away from him.

“I’m sure he’s fine.”

The captain had a gulp of his cognac. “Do you have plans after the event, Herr Consul General? Would you like to have some coffee at Café Central?”

“I would be delighted, but regretfully, I have another meeting to attend.” He put on his bowler and stepped out of the room, into the hallway.

“Perhaps tomorrow, Herr Consul General?” The captain followed him.

“I’m afraid I have a full schedule tomorrow.”

Two policemen in uniforms strutted toward them, shouting, “Heil Hitler,” and Captain Heine saluted back. Fengshan’s steps slowed. Suddenly, the space felt crowded.

“Next week, Herr Consul General?”

“That would be splendid. But allow me to look at my calendar and get back to you. My apologies. I must take my leave.”

Outside the club, Fengshan passed a couple holding tennis rackets on the circular stairs and took out his handkerchief to dab at his face. In his haste, he had forgotten to shake hands with the attendees, a regretful oversight that must have shed a negative light on his country’s image.

He tucked his handkerchief in his pocket, went down a cobblestone path lined with lindens, and turned onto a street with white stone buildings, the traffic and shouts from the Ringstrasse growing louder with each step. He thought to stop at the Staatsoper to purchase opera tickets for Grace as he had planned. She was lonely; she needed attention. And he was quite pleased with her in helping to make making the appointment with Mr. Wiley.

Fengshan, a loyal man, valued every friendship. Three years after he had been posted outside China, he still remembered the birthdays of his friends at home and regularly sent them postcards printed with beautiful images of Vienna, the Ferris wheel of the Prater, the lilacs of Votive Park, Sch?nbrunn Palace, and St. Stephen’s Cathedral.

Mr. Rosenburg never missed his events, and he had not called back this morning. This was an unusual lapse of etiquette on his friend’s part. Fengshan wondered what happened. Mr. Rosenburg was a wealthy Jew who had made a fortune by overseeing one of the Austrian royal family’s properties; he owned a mansion near Votive Church, an apartment complex in Vienna, and two chalets in Salzburg. Fengshan had met him at a lecture about Chinese culture he’d given. It had struck a chord with the Viennese man, who appeared to be immensely interested in Chinese calligraphy. He was a good friend, a generous man, and he had invited him to many dinners and parties. With his help, Fengshan befriended renowned Viennese professors and Czechoslovakian men with diplomatic status and wealthy German businessmen. Mr. Rosenburg was also the go-to source whenever Fengshan needed help—he had recommended the bespoke tailor and several Viennese tutors for Grace, including the new tutor, Fr?ulein Schnitzler.

Fengshan thought to pay his friend a visit. His office suite, a complex with twelve rooms, was located on the Ringstrasse. It was within walking distance.



At an intersection across from the stately Hofburg palace, Fengshan stopped abruptly, gripping his leather briefcase. Near a fountain in the plaza, a uniformed Sturmabteilung was striking a hatless man with a baton, shouting offensive racial slurs.

Since when had the streets of Vienna, part of the mighty Austro-Hungarian Empire, the center of culture and civilization, become a site of fear and violence? Fengshan switched his bag to his left hand and crossed the street. As soon as he arrived in front of the grand building complex that contained Mr. Rosenburg’s business suite, he came upon two columns of Brownshirts carrying rifles, their polished black handles glaring in the afternoon sun. Hesitating, Fengshan was heading toward the portico with colossal columns when a man called him from behind. Fengshan turned around. The man, clad in a blue Savile Row suit, was sitting on the pavement near a bench designated for Aryans, a pile of papers scattered around, and his right eye was bruised, but Fengshan recognized him instantly.

“Good God, Mr. Rosenburg, what happened to you? Why are you sitting on the ground?”

His friend gave a terrible laugh, but his bearing was still aristocratic after spending his entire life addressing the nobles in the country. “My apologies, Dr. Ho, I’m afraid I can’t offer you a seat. They’ve taken my firm, the money in my bank accounts, my license, my desk, my collectibles, and my chalets in Salzburg. There’s nothing I could salvage. I simply needed a rest after all those visits to the banks.”

“But you’re a lawyer—would you like to sit on the bench for a moment?”