By Kate Mueser

I knew I’d made a terrible mistake when I saw the waistcoats, the flowing hems over high-heels. Of course they were done up like royals: It was a ballroom dance class in a Viennese palace. How silly that I’d come in jeans and sneakers.

My German had improved since the semester began, but I relied on a dictionary to decipher the instructions. Dressy was confused with comfortable, which made sense in the moment. Dancing is a sport—just not in Vienna.

Redeemingly, I’d arrived with time to spare, so I jogged back to my shared sublet on the Ringstraße. When I returned, sweating in a suitcase-creased skirt, the teacher was queuing the dancers. Now I was also late. I blushed under the finger-pointing cherubs on the filigreed ceiling and fell into place.

 Repeated by opposing mirrors, an infinite number of women were rowed against equally endless men. My partner was an Austrian with a Janker, gelled hair and terrified eyes. After a stiff greeting came the one-two-three. I was in Vienna to study music; finding the downbeat was a piece of cake. His marionette movements made synchronizing more difficult. When the music stopped, I was relieved to sidestep along the male cogwheel. 

Each new pairing began with an identical greeting. Where are you from inevitably followed what’s your name. My accent, or perhaps my answer (California), proved an asset. The men—some leaders with rhythmic feet, others passive with dewy hands—were charmed. My faux pas was forgotten.

Andreas was the first to suggest drinks after class. He wore a bow tie and Italian shoes. We drank Blauer Zweigelt and ate Toast Hawaii with ham and pineapple. While he maundered in cobbled English, I excavated German words I didn’t remember learning. Over crumbs and sediment, he realized he’d forgotten his wallet. I paid with the last of the sepia Schilling in mine. At year’s end they would be obsolete.

The line-up loosened as the weeks scuttled past and we were allowed to chose our own partners. Most often, Martin was standing by in scuffed Oxfords. We danced fluently, even when the music shifted, trying tango after mastering the waltz.

“You have to let me lead,” Martin said, planting his foot between mine with the ease of a home-field team.

“You’ve done this before,” I said in unflecked German, not mentioning that following was not my forte. I hadn’t known men who took initiative without taking over.

“Here, we learn to dance in school.” 

I did not say that we learn to keep score.

We met the other American students for Melange, took late afternoon walks in manicured rose gardens. I texted him benign abbreviations from my burner phone: AKLA, BB, GDN.

On a call home, I alluded to Martin. We hadn’t kissed, I added, wondering what I’d misunderstood.

“Then he must really like you,” my mother said.   

I flew to California for Christmas and passed out packages of Mozart balls. After three weeks of watery coffee, my German faded. I went back to music school in Indiana and told my roommate that Vienna’s most imposing buildings were an illusion, architectural babies made to look ancient. The practice rooms in the music department smelled like last year.

In February, a package arrived at the dormitory. My name had been penned in slender script, the blue sticker read Luftpost. Inside was a small Sachertorte, Vienna’s chocolate and apricot cake. It bore the seal of the real Hotel Sacher. Martin had included a simple note: Liebe Grüße aus Wien.

Pushing aside packs of noodles and chips, I found a knife and offered a slice to my roommate. She had never left Indiana. 

“Is it still good? It’s traveled so far.”

I cracked the smooth glaze with the blade and took a bite. “Chocolate that rich never goes bad.”

~~~

Kate Mueser is a widely published writer of novels, flash fiction and poetry. She is also a literary translator (German/English), speaker and classically trained pianist. Kate grew up in California and lives in Munich, Germany. Find her at katemueser.com.