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'Schuschnigg's half of what Dollfuss was,' says the waiter, 'and you know what's amazing? Dollfuss was such a little man. I used to watch him going out and coming in, you know. I mean, he was a tiny one - with all his clothes too big for him. Really, he was almost an elf. But it didn't matter at all, did it?'
'How do you know?' says Zahn, 'that it was Otto Planetta who came in here?' Then Zahn notices the waiter's size. He's a very small waiter. And the hand that holds the meat shears is more fragile than my mother's.
The Fourth Zoo Watch: Monday, 5 June 1967 @ 9.00 p.m.
THERE'S A NIGHTWATCHMAN, all right. But as far as I know, there's just one.
I waited an hour after dark, and I didn't see anyone. Nevertheless, I promised myself I wouldn't come out from behind the hedgerow until I knew the whereabouts of the guard. And a half-hour ago I saw a light I knew was inside the zoo. It was a glow, coming from the Small Mammal House. The light had probably been on since nightfall, but I hadn't noticed it as being actually inside the zoo - and not a reflection from Hietzing. At first I was frightened; I thought the Small Mammal House might be on fire. But the light didn't flicker. I went along my hedgerow to the corner of the fence line that gave me the best view. Trees in my way, a cage looming up here and there; I couldn't see the doorway, but I could see the eaves under the tiled roof, taking on a glow that had to come from the ground in front of the building. It had to be that; after all, there are no windows in the Small Mammal House.
I may have been sure of myself, but I was careful. Inching along stooped over - at times on all fours - against the cages and pens. I startled something. Something got up right next to me and thrashed into a gallop; snorted or whinnied or harumphed. I went down along the ponds of Various Aquatic Birds - all with fairly high pool curbs and signposts here and there: histories and bird legends. I had good cover round the ponds, and I found a spot with a clear view of the Small Mammal House's door. It was open; there was a light coming down the long hall and landing outside, thrown back up against the building. I think the light comes from an open room round the corner at the end of the hall. You remember the Small Mammal House - all those corridors winding round and round, in the fake night of infrared?
I did some thinking while I waited. It might not have been the nightwatchman's room at all; it might have been a light left on to give the nocturnal beasts a chance to sleep - in a daylight as illusory as their infrared night.
I nested in a shrub and leaned my arms on a pool curb. I read the nearest bird legend in the moonlight. It had to do with auks. The Hietzinger Zoo has only one member of the auk family. It is the least auklet, described as small and wizen-faced, and rather stupid; it has been known to wander down the paths, where it can easily get stepped on. In fact, the king of the auk family was such a stupid bird it became extinct. The great auk was last seen alive in 1844, and the last dead great auk, to be seen, was washed ashore at Trinity Bay, Ireland, in 1853. The great auk was both inquisitive and gullible, the legend says. If quietly approached, it would stand its ground. It was a favorite to provision fishing vessels; fishermen stalked the shorelines, approaching quietly and beating the auks with clubs.
Pretentious bird legend! Do they mean that the great auk was stupid - or that stupid men extinguished the great auk?
I looked about for the great auk's surviving kin, but I found no silly least auklet - not wandering down the paths, either, or dolting underfoot.
I was watched for a while. Something webfooted tottered down the pool curb to me, stopped a few feet away and garbled softly - wishing to know whom I came to see at such an odd hour. It flopped down in the water and paddled past below me, gurgling - perhaps complaining; I believe, from its backswept head, it was an eared grebe, and I'd like to think it was encouraging me.
I got a little stiff and damp among the ponds, but I got to see the guard. He came out in the hallway of light and squinted out the door. Uniformed, holstered, and although I couldn't really see - certainly armed; he took his flashlight for a walk down the dim hall and through the dark zoo - not as dark as I would wish it; there's too much moon.
But, oh, it's oh
so easy!--
Watching
Watchmen.
(CONTINUING:)
THE HIGHLY SELECTIVE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF SIEGFRIED JAVOTNIK: PRE-HISTORY I
9 March 1938 - and every Wednesday teatime - my Grandmother Marter straightens fork tines. Grandfather Marter is impatient with the Pflaumenkuchen; the plum skins are blistered from the oven, and anyone can see the cake's too hot to eat. But my grandfather always burns his tongue. Then he paces in the kitchen; he sneaks more rum in his tea.
'I hate this waiting for the damn cake to cool,' he says. 'If the cake were started earlier, we'd have it ready with the tea.'
And Grandmother aims a fork at him. 'Then you'd want to have tea sooner,' she says. 'Then you'd start your waiting sooner, and move everything up so we'd be having our tea on top of lunch.'
Zahn keeps his teacup in his lap, so he's ready when Grandfather comes round the table, sneaking rum. Grandfather tilts the bottle from his hip.
'Watch out for my Hilke, Zahn,' he says. 'Watch out she's not a know-it-all like her Muttie.'
'Muttie's right,' says Hilke. 'You'd fuss around and burn yourself, no matter when the cake came out of the oven.'
'You see, Zahn?' says Grandfather.
'The forks are all straight,' Grandmother announces. 'Nobody's going to stab a lip now!' she crows. 'Real silver, you know, Zahn - it's so soft it bends easy.'
'Muttie,' says Hilke, 'Zahn's got a job now.'
'But you're in school, Zahn,' says Grandfather.
'He's driving a taxi,' Hilke says. 'He can drive me around.'
'It's just a part-time job,' says Zahn. 'I'm still in school.'
