The Habsburg Cafe by Andrew Riemer

beyond the earlier and less demanding of the Master’s works, their time would have been even shorter. Despite their precautions, the affair—as was inevitable—came to the attention of the court. What threats, ultimatums, cajolements or bribes were offered is not precisely known. Nor are the details of the events at the hunting lodge on the night of 29 January 1889 quite clear. What is known, however, is that the next morning, the young Baroness’s body was discovered in her bed, while nearby in a pool of blood lay the body of the Archduke.
    These events make up a sordid tale: an impressionable girl, a dissolute prince of the blood, intrigues, spying and treachery. It has been transformed nevertheless into a romantic myth: Marie and Rudolf, at least for Austrians, have joined Héloïse and Abélard, Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde as martyrs of tragically doomed true love. And so their story reappears, prettified, disinfected and sentimentalised, on the covers of these cheap little romances in the bookshops of Mariahilferstrasse. Marie is always depicted as the epitome of angelic sweetness, fragility and dedication to love. Rudolf, who inherited the squat, almost peasant-like physique of the male members of his family, is pictured (of course) in dashingly Byronic guises. As always, the ugly, the brutal and the dissolute are transformed into the noble, the sentimental and the heroic by the strong drug of nostalgia.
    The pulp industry that fills these bookshops is no different from the merchants of escapist romances elsewhere in the world. The difference lies in the curious though very strong sense of location that colours these books ranked neatly on their imperial shelves. This is your history, they seem to be sayingto the dumpy ladies who are standing in front of these shelves pondering their choice. Perhaps the Viennese have been persuaded that their history, their glorious past, is not the familiar story of brutality, chicanery and hypocrisy that seems to be the fate of all people and all régimes. History has been converted for them into romance. Nostalgia has transformed a brutal past into a seductive dream. Everything is dedicated to feeling, sensation and sentiment. Mayerling happened only a little over a hundred years ago. You may easily visit the place and shed a sentimental tear over Marie and Rudolf. The Habsburgs are gone—though perhaps one day they may come back—but the ’Burg is still there. Romance and passion may be found beneath the surface of a dull world—you only have to search for it, these little books seem to be saying.
    An intangible yet obviously strong bond appears to bind this world to its fantasy past. The citizens of the theme park appear to have accepted these illusions as reality. Sentiment, nostalgia and the allure of the relatively recent past, even where it led to suffering, defeat and death, define for these people the essence of being Austrian. To the east the former Soviet Empire is disintegrating just as their own Empire—one that had ruled over most of those territories and people—disintegrated when the Elisabeths, Rudolfs, and Ferdinands were felled by their own hands or by the assassins’ bullets. But why concern yourself with the horror and brutality in what is still called (in this year of the palindrome) Yugoslavia? Why should you be be distressed by the fate of the orphans of Romania? The real life is here, in the eternally fascinating story of Sissy on her horse, Marie in the arms of her Rudolf, and Maximilian, eyes clear with courage and defiance, standing before the firing squad.
H APPILY E VER A FTER
    The Volksoper is a dull-looking building near a clattering and clanging tramway viaduct. It is, as its name suggests, a theatre for the masses. In the past its repertoire was devoted almostexclusively to that peculiar genre, Viennese operetta, which was (and remains) a vehicle for conveying the most outrageous fantasies