The Keeper of Hands

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Sometimes he fancied himself a character from one of Schnitzler’s early dramas: Anatol, the Lothario who is ever on the prowl for a sweet young thing.

He sported a thin moustache and the neatly oiled and brushed hair of such a womanizer, carried a walking stick, and dressed to the nines even on days when he did not feel particularly compelled to join the hunt.

A fellow has to keep up appearances, even if there is no one to appreciate the effort.

Today, however, there most definitely was a woman to impress. It was May Day — and a bright and cheery day it was, he thought.

He had seen her throwing flowers to those red-nosed rowdies carrying socialist banners at the head of the parade. Silly young thing, she could hardly understand the politics she was thus espousing. He would take her in hand, educate her in the ways of the world, and get that socialist claptrap out of her mind.

The horse-chestnut trees were in full bloom along the Prater-Allee, their white-and-pink blossoms dazzling. Even the red sashes the paraders wore diagonally across their chests were luminescent today.

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