Louie Austen’s shoes

After a restful night with Georg on the Hohe Warte, I drive into the city centre. It’s raining. All day long. In torrents. I find my way along unknown paths, have no destination but get there. People ask me for directions. I unpack my best Viennese “ey” and say “I don’t know that either, madam.”

In front of the abortion clinic on Fleischmarkt, a lone anti-abortion activist stands in the rain with his poster. Tip to the operators: stupid address! Move to Himmelpfortgasse, then it will work out with the neighbours. The junkies in the underground at Karlsplatz are as crowded as ever, while the Naschmarkt is pleasantly empty in the rain.

I have breakfast with Sabine at the Naschmarkt Deli, then we visit her brother. He has recently acquired a Finnish wildcat. Shortly before his diploma, he is afraid that the cat might reach the 1.5 metre total body length he is aiming for too quickly. Even the current 20 cm version is a cute but hard-biting little devil.

In the evening we have octopus at Il Mare. Then one of those wonderful, unexpected Viennese highlights. Louie Austen is a legend, has been at the top and at the bottom. Now he sings every Saturday in front of an illustrious audience at the Marriott. He has sung in front of thousands. Three metres from Louie, we sit in heavy armchairs at the bar with expensive drinks, watching and listening.

Next to the stage sits a bored-looking, ageing woman with a thick diamond necklace and a great quiff. In front of her is a young southern gigolo with gelled hair who is constantly being called. At some point, they both leave. A Bentley yawns on the right, two Guccis sip champagne in front, two Armanis giggle with or over a Chanel on the left. We’re having a great time in the middle of it all.

Louie looks straight up into the spotlights through his rose-coloured sunglasses, spreads his arms wide and beams like a schnitzel. He sings of love, pain and laughter. He wears an all-white suit, cufflinks, a white hat and tapered leather loafers with glittering stone appliqués that bob hypnotically to the light jazz. The best things in life are free.

It’s hard to go any further. Sabine manages it anyway. She leads me to the Bonbonière, a very small pub in a sultry velvet-walled, chandelier-and-candle puff style. The man at the piano is playing, the Viennese regulars at the bar are mocking the lack of modern art. The landlady is an old lady with the posture and hair of a former ballet dancer.

I miss my night bus and take another one to Grinzing. A Maltese guides me back to the Hohe Warte via a church. Three o’clock. Experiencing a lot means little sleep.