Anarchistbanjo's World

Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Sixth Chapter
In one of the few Viennese alleys that hasn’t yet
surrendered all its past to the present, stands the
house of the marriage bureau “Fortuna.” A narrow
building, no wider than two windows. Above the
dark entrance, in a small niche, is a Mother of God
with the infant Jesus. The little Madonna wears a silk
dress, changed twice yearly. The Jesus child, perched
on her right arm, reaches eagerly for the orb of the
world, which his mother playfully holds out. Before
the glass shielding the figures from street dust, a
flame burns year-round in a red chalice. Passing
under the Madonna’s blessing, one enters the house,
climbs a dim staircase, and may knock at the first-
floor door bearing a tin sign inscribed “Fortuna.”
Here, the Madonna yields to the pagan goddess of
luck.
The “Come in!” answering the knock booms like a
shotgun blast. Entering, one finds Herr Anton
Sykora, and the shotgun makes sense. Clearly,
Sykora was once an athlete. His shoulders could still
bear a piano with two players; his neck is a bulging
ridge; his arms, swollen with muscle, strain his black
frock coat. Clean-shaven, he peers cheerfully through
gold-rimmed glasses, chewing constantly. His lips
are lush—the upper starts near his nose, the lower
curls toward a massive, blunt chin. When Sykora
moves, chewing, jutting his jaw, arms dangling, he
resembles a great ape. Such giants are always good-
natured. Kindness and joviality are the first traits a
stranger notices in him. But these don’t hinder his
business acumen. On the contrary, he’s highly skilled
in his trade. He boasts a fine clientele, with
connections across all social strata. His stock is well-
assorted. Through “Fortuna,” one can enter any
marriage—dowries of any size, various ranks, titles,
even the best-preserved characters in rich variety.
The bureau’s chief is convinced of his profession’s
importance. He often says, “Matchmaking is one of modern life’s most
ingenious institutions. Marriages are no longer made
in heaven but through the classifieds. This has
practical and moral advantages. The practical are
obvious—you know where you stand, no time
wasted. The moral are equally clear. How degrading
for parents to parade their daughters through balls
and socials for years. It’s against human dignity,
leaving moral scars. Self-esteem springs a leak. It’s
different with us. We’re true benefactors of
humanity.”
In his long dealings with all classes, Sykora has
gained great eloquence and a wealth of terms and
phrases, deployed with full effect. He can speak for
hours, adorning his speech or punctuating it with
quips.
Sykora is immensely popular with the tax
authority. He submits to assessments without protest,
never appealing. He greets his district’s tax
administrator with a hat swept to the ground.
Among the pious of his neighborhood, Sykora
enjoys great esteem. He doesn’t hoard what the pagan
Fortuna brings. He gives to churches, charitable
foundations, youth groups, and the poor. No plea for
a worthy cause goes unanswered.
On a December day, shortly before Christmas, he
received a telegram from Vorderschluder: “Buy
Südbahn shares immediately per H’s order.”
Sykora smoothed the telegram with a bone folder,
correcting the “n” in “Südbahn” that looked like a
“u” with his pencil—he valued order and couldn’t
abide postal sloppiness—then rose from his swivel
chair. The ring-shaped rubber cushion sighed back
into shape. He tapped the adjacent glass partition.
Behind it sat Herr Moritz Diamant, Sykora’s
secretary, the bureau’s second-in-command.
Diamant, once a medical student, abandoned his
studies upon realizing most human ailments stem
from the wallet’s state and are best cured there. He’d
become an expert diagnostician in this field, his
therapies highly effective. In good spirits, he’d say,
“A marriage bureau is the best sanatorium.” A small,
wiry man with a bushy mop of hair falling in two
tufts to his temples, he looked like David beside
Sykora’s Goliath. He had to look up to his boss,
always with a mischievous twinkle, as if saying,
“Comrade, we know each other.”
Diamant emerged from his cubicle, gazing
absently at Sykora. “Listen, Edelstein,” the chief said,
“I’m traveling this afternoon.”
Diamant’s distraction vanished. He was all
attention. “Aha! Vorderschluder!”
“Don’t be cheeky, Doctor; it’s none of your
business.”
Diamant twinkled at him. “Comrade, we know
each other!”
“Fine, I’m off this afternoon. Everything’s in
order, right? Have you written to young Kanitz,
Früchtel, about Margarete Schweigel?”
“It’s being typed.”
“And the Statthaltereirat from Graz?”
“That… what’s her name? The Prague
manufacturer’s daughter won’t have him. Too old.”
“For a miss with her fifty thousand, we’ll find
something special. What these women fancy! Send
him another selection. Anything else?”
“No—that is, I’d like another small advance.”
Sykora clapped a paw on Diamant’s shoulder.
Diamant stood firm, unflinching. “Let me tell you,
Jewel, you’re asking for advances a bit too often!”
“Well—given the Vorderschluder deal…”
“You, Crown Jewel, the Vorderschluder deal’s
mine alone. Besides, what deal’s there? You
know…”
David twinkled up at Goliath. “Comrade, we
know each other.” Goliath withdrew his paw,
grumbling, “We’ll talk when I’m back.”
Sykora donned his winter coat, raised the fur
collar, and stepped into a light snowfall turning
Vienna’s streets to coffee-brown slush. He visited his
lawyer for a meeting with the owner of the
“Misericordia” funeral parlor, discussing a
partnership stake. Then he attended a board meeting
of the League of Christian Progress Friends, recently
elected its honorary chairman. After lunch at his
regular tavern with a bank clerk, two tax officials,
and a prosecutor’s deputy, he headed to the station.
Soon after dusk, the carriage sent to meet him
rolled into Vorderschluder’s castle courtyard. Snow
fell thicker here than in the city, blanketing the yard
an inch deep. Between the stables and servants’ wing,
a groom swept a path, his broom flinging powder left
and right. Across the yard, the overseer stood in his
open doorway, warm yellow-red light behind his
shoulders, curious about the station visitor.
In the vestibule, Lorenz awaited, taking Sykora’s
fur with the haughty deference of a lackey. They
ascended the stairs, Sykora leading, Lorenz trailing
with the coat. Cozy warmth enveloped them; below,
logs crackled in the hall’s fireplace.
On the first floor, Lorenz opened the door to the
mistress’s rooms, ushering the guest in. They entered
58an octagonal, blue-papered chamber. “Servus!”
Sykora said.
“Servus!” Lorenz replied.
They laughed, shaking hands. Matched in size and
strength, they shared similar noses and foreheads,
their faces strikingly alike. But Lorenz’s expression
leaned toward guarded vigor, Sykora’s toward genial
affability.
“Well, then,” the Fortuna chief said, rubbing his
hands, “here we are again. Where’s Helmina?”
“She’s waiting—come!”
Frau Helmina sat in her boudoir on a tabouret
inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ivory, a gift from
Herr Dankwardt’s oriental travels. She turned,
offering Sykora her hand.
“God greet you, Helma,” he said. “How’s it going,
what’re you up to? Sapperment, it always smells
divine here.” He thrust his short nose forward, lips
parting, inhaling deeply. “Nowhere smells as good as
your place. You’ve got a knack, I’ll give you that. So,
the loving husband’s away?”
“Yes, he’s in Krems. There’s a stallion show
tomorrow. He wants to buy something…”
“Bravo, tending to the estate. He’s capable. Happy
with him? Doing his duty at home and hearth?”
Sykora shook with good-natured laughter.
Helmina rose, standing between the two burly
men, slender and supple, like a fine steel blade
between two wooden clubs.
“Well, then, got nothing for me?” Sykora said, his
laughter subsiding into a chuckle. “A decent cognac
or something? That trip here’s a fair haul. Got a weak
spot in my stomach from it. The lord husband’s got
something in the house, I hope. No matter—Lorenz’ll
fetch it. Grab a cigar too, Lorenz. Right… now let’s
settle for a cozy chat.”
Lorenz nodded and left. As Helmina crossed the
black Afghan rug to lock the antechamber door,
Sykora sank with a contented sigh into a wide
cushioned chair behind a small, round Indian brass
table. His hand covered a quarter of its surface.
“You kept me waiting long for news, Helmina,”
he said, chewing with his massive jaws, puffing.
Helmina stood before him. “What was there to
write? Nothing important happened.”
“How’s the inheritance from the baron going?”
Helmina glared, annoyed. “What? Well… I don’t
know. We’re litigating. The relatives won’t yield,
claiming he was incompetent. They’re a vile lot. I
don’t know how it’ll end.”
“It’d be nice to have Rotbirnbach. But if it falls
through, it won’t kill us. We’ve got other irons in the
fire.”
Lorenz returned from the bedroom with a cognac
bottle, two glasses, and a cigar box. He poured a
glass, drank it, and nodded to Sykora, as if
confirming the cognac’s quality. Refilling both
glasses, he sat beside the guest on a low divan,
stretched his legs, and closed his eyes.
“Here’s the thing,” Sykora said after a sip, “we
need money. A lot of it.”
“I can’t give you anything,” Helmina said firmly.
“I’ve had bad luck lately. Struck out three times.”
“Yes, yes… it happens. Our bicycle and car
factories aren’t doing as well as they should either.
Lorenz must’ve mentioned, right?”
Lorenz nodded, eyes shut, a long, thin Havana
dangling from his teeth.
“But now we’ve got something new… something
splendid. I’ll say just this: Galician petroleum.
Galicia’s our European America. There’s still a
fortune to be made.