was his name?’
‘I didn’t ask.’
We watch a family with two teenage children sit down at the next table. The tail-coated waiter gives them each a leather-trimmed menu.
‘Wonder how he ended up on the street,’ she says.
‘I wonder what he’s doing in Vienna,’ I say. ‘It’s hardly the most welcoming place for people like him.’
The police recently carried out a major purge of all the homeless people on Schwedenplatz, and they vanished in one night. There was a rumour they’d been shipped off to a little village by the Hungarian border. Lobotomy, forced sterilisation and the slaughterhouse had also been mentioned.
The waiter comes with our order. He places a cherry gateau in front of Rebecca, while I get a Himbeer Harmonie – a half-moon dessert made of raspberry mousse. For a long time neither of us says a word, and all that can be heard is the sound of dessert forks scraping against plates.
‘So, are you planning to go?’ Rebecca asks finally. ‘On Saturday?’
‘I haven’t decided yet,’ I say.
Actually I’ve already made the decision to meet him again. It’s not like I have anything else to do.
On Saturday I’m sitting on the same bench at seven o’clock.
When an older couple sit beside me I give them an irritated glance and look around impatiently. A noisy group of Italian school kids with identical red-and-blue backpacks walk by. An elderly lady wearing a mink coat. A loved-up couple with their arms round each other’s shoulders. A mother with a little boy who’s fallen asleep in his pushchair. Three businessmen who aren’t saying a word to one another. Two girls taking photos of each other in front of the opera house. A teenage boy running towards the metro station. A tall woman stuffing chunks of baguette into her mouth. A boy carrying a double-bass case. Several couples holding hands. But no big hairy guy.
Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Suddenly I realise how pathetic I am. How desperate. That I’m actually looking forward to a date – or whatever this is – with a tramp. That this is the level I’ve sunk to and that I was enough of an idiot to actually think he’d come. I try to swallow the lump in my throat and get out my mobile to ring Rebecca. She won’t judge me; she’ll just say the right things. That he’s obviously a retard. That he doesn’t know what he’s missing. That there are plenty of other fish in the sea. That in any case I deserve much, much better (which I obviously do, he is homeless after all). But I’m even embarrassed to call Rebecca. Now twenty minutes have passed.
Then I see him. He comes cycling through the crowds on a little kid’s bike. When he catches sight of me his face breaks into a smile. Several people turn to stare at the giant bearded cyclist. He stops in front of me and carefully leans the bike against the bin by the bench.
‘You’re late,’ I say.
‘I didn’t think you’d come,’ he says. ‘It was Kobra who said I should probably just check whether you were here or not. And you are – wow!’
I look at the little bike.
‘Is it yours?’ I ask.
He nods his shaggy head.
‘Yep, I bought it and everything. Paid five euros.’
‘Did you buy it from a child?’
‘No, a man. A very small man,’ the homeless guy says and starts laughing.
Today I notice more details. He’s wearing a dark-green, long-sleeved T-shirt, a dirty grey sweater and jeans with holes in them, and he’s using a pale-blue rope as a belt. He’s barefoot and his feet are dark brown with dirt. On his hands there are several grazes and the knuckles on his right hand are covered in scabs. It looks as though he’s trimmed his beard a little – unlike his hair, which looks even larger and more matted than last time. And his face really is beautiful under all the facial hair. If Hagrid from the Harry Potter books had been younger and hotter he would have looked like this. But today I also notice that he’s emitting a pungent, rancid smell.
‘What’s your name anyway?’ I ask.
‘Ben,’ he replies. ‘And sorry, but I’ve forgotten yours.’
‘Julia,’ I say. ‘Are you homeless?’
‘Yes,’ Ben replies. ‘But I just came from a house we might try to squat in. Kobra and the other punks are still there.’
‘Are you a punk?’
‘Nah, but the first time I came to Vienna I walked past Kobra and we started chatting. Then we shared a bottle of vodka and after that I got introduced to the rest of the gang. He might come with me when I go to Berlin.’
‘Where do you live now?’
‘In a bush in the Stadtpark,’ he says. ‘But there’s a rumour the police are going to turf us all out soon.’
I’m so fascinated by Ben and the circumstances of his life that I can’t help but ask more questions.
‘How did you end up homeless?’
Ben scratches his beard and looks pensive.
‘I’m not really, I was just travelling around Europe and, well, the money ran out.’ He laughs again. As if everything – including him and me and life – are just one big joke.
‘Where are you from? Originally?’
‘Canada,’ he replies. ‘You been there?’
I shake my head. ‘No. But I’ve always wanted to go.’
‘Oh you got to! There’s no culture there of course. Not like here. Just a load of rednecks. But the mountains! And the air! Standing on Wreck Beach and just breathing that fresh mountain air. Or driving the pick-up to Bouleau Lake to go fishing. Man, I miss Canada!’
His boyish enthusiasm is such a contrast to his almost frightening size that I have to smile.
As we talk we’re walking along Ringstrasse, which circles the first district. At some point we buy ourselves hot dogs from an Imbiss kiosk and a bottle of red wine from Billa. I pay for the wine and Ben pays for the hot dogs with a heap of change he digs out of his jeans pocket. The drunks that hang out in front of the Imbiss kiosk watch with interest as Ben counts out the coins on the metal counter. When it turns out he has enough they look relieved and almost pat him on the back.
‘How old are you?’ I ask before taking a bite of my hot dog.
‘Twenty-four,’ Ben replies.
‘What?’
