The Fourth Man
It was in Vienna after the war. I had gone in search of one of our writers — a chap by the name of Holly Martins. It’s too kind calling him a writer — he was really a talentless hack grinding out cheap pulp Westerns. But I had made the mistake of giving him an advanced on his latest magnum opus — Two Lonesome Doves and a Horse, the abomination was called. Then he had scarpered. I meant to get my money or the manuscript back, then Martins could go hang himself.
Vienna at that time was a bombed out shell of a city divided into four sectors by the French, British, Russians, and Americans. The locals were either black marketeers, Nazi war criminals on the run, or Eastern refugees trying to defect. Perfect place for scum like Martins to hide out. The worst part was the bloody zither music that was always playing — it was enough to drive one mad!
I took a cab straight from the airport to Martins’ last known address in the British sector. But it seemed that I had arrived too late — there was a black wreath on the door of his requisitioned flat. “Herr Martins is kaput,” the porter said.
“What do you mean ‘kaput?’” I demanded.
He shrugged and made a slicing gesture across his throat. “He hung himself. Over a fräulein, I think. You just missed him — he is on his way to the cemetery. I hope he can find parking — the cemeteries in Vienna are very busy these days.”
I thanked him for his information and got directions to the cemetery. I wasn’t pleased to be prophetic. It was just like Martins to skip out on a debt by hanging himself — and over a woman, no less! Filthy creatures! I never knew what Martins saw in them.
They were just lowering the coffin into the grave when I caught up with the funeral procession. There were only three mourners: two British army officers and one Eastern European actress — presumably the “fräulein.”
I approached the senior officer — Callaghan, I think his name was — but he was less than receptive: “Another one? First Martins, now you! There is a flight out of Vienna first thing tomorrow. Be on it, or I shall have you arrested for impersonating Graham Greene.”
“Never heard of him,” I said.
The junior officer was more forthcoming — Crabs, I think his name was: “Martins gave a lecture at one of our readings on the modern novel. Most interesting.”
“Martins? What the devil does Martins know about the modern novel? I mean ‘did’ know about the modern novel? The man was a total fraud.”
“His views on the relative merits of Zane Grey and James Joyce were controversial but refreshing,” Crabs said. “We hadn’t had this much excitement at one of our lectures since the Blitz.”
Crabs was obviously insane. I reluctantly approached the “fräulein.” But all I got out of her was a catatonic “first Harry, now Holly. I don’t want to live. I’m going to move back to Czechoslovakia and marry a Communist potato farmer who will beat me.” Actresses are so bloody melodramatic!
The whole lot was balmy. I sat down on the coffin to have a think; it gave a hollow creak. Acting on a sudden suspicion, I tore open the lid. Sure enough, it didn’t contain Martins; it didn’t even contain a human corpse. It was a dead parrot, some poor cockatoo with its neck broken. Even in death Martins was a plagiarist, shamelessly cribbing from Monty Python.
“Ahah!” I said, waving the dead parrot. “Martins is alive! He faked his death to avoid paying his debts or turning in his manuscript! Martin is alive, I tell you! Alive!”
But the mourners had already departed. I was left standing alone in the cemetery holding my dead bird.
***
The Weiner Riesenrad — the Vienna Giant Wheel — in the Russian sector is the world’s tallest ferris wheel. Some Austrian with an inferiority complex built it at the end of the previous century so he could look down on his city. In my opinion, giant ferris wheels are a symptom of a civilization in decline; I’m glad London hasn’t got one.
It was here in my present gloomy state that I went to contemplate my options. I had no money, no manuscript, and no Martins. I could return home empty handed, but how would I justify my expense report? Then, just as the omnipresent zither music was reaching a crescendo, and I was getting a splitting headache, a miracle or literary coincidence occurred:
“Hello, old man.” It was Martins! He had materialized as supernaturally as a ghost.
“Well, you’ve got some cheek!” I said. “How did you know I was looking for you? How did you know where to find me?”
Martins chuckled that annoying, superior chuckle of his. “Anna told me you were looking for me. My actress friend. She swam through the sewers in record time to convey the message. Even after everything that’s happened she’s still loyal, the little masochist. As to how I knew where to find you, it was easy to guess given your predilection for ferris wheels. Let’s go up and chat in private.”
I allowed Martins to buy two tickets using my money and we boarded the ferris wheel. We had the compartment to ourselves. Once we had ascended to the top, I confronted him:
“Now see here, Martins. Have you completed Two Lonesome Doves and a Horse or not?”
Martins chuckled again. “I’ve given up on literature, old man. It’s for suckers and mugs. I’ve taken over my old friend Harry Lime’s black-marketing racket. I can get you tyres, petrol, good reviews on Danube.com — whatever you like. I realized posthumously that Lime was correct, that this was where the money was. And Anna of course likes to be kept in style.”
“What you wrote was hardly literature,” I said. “Still you used to respect books. You used to say you’d rather write a bad book than none at all.”
“Take a look at those ants down there,” Martins said. “Do you really think they care about books, good or bad? Highbrow literature or lowbrow genre fiction? In the future nobody will even bother with books. In Switzerland they had brotherly love — they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? Heidi. So long…what was your name again?”
“Henry.”
“So long, Henry.” Martins shoved me from behind. The carousel door flew open. The last thing I heard, as the ground rushed towards me and the ants looked up in horror, was the sound of zither music getting louder and louder.
Robert Brenner is a satirist, critic, and porkatarian. He regularly blogs for the Huffington Post. In addition, his work has appeared in New York Magazine, the Barnes & Noble Review, Open Salon, Theory In Action, Medium, and Happy. He is a graduate of the Writers Institute at CUNY. He lives in New York City with his wife.