Missing Persons by Hartmut Lange

On the next day the weather improved. There was a gloriously bright sky, vapour was starting to rise from the streets and squares, Henninger was still in Venice.
But surely he had intended to take the night train to Vienna, on which a bed was reserved for him? And was he not certain that he would be in trouble with his bank in Berlin if he continued to stay away without explanation and without their having any means of contacting him? What had happened?
Nothing very extraordinary. Henninger was having a pair of shoes made for him, a pair of made-to-measure shoes in the finest leather; he had selected the style he wanted, and they were to be ready in a week at the latest.
“FRANZ, Regno delle Scarpe su Misura,” read the lettering above the shop window that Henninger had discovered, right by a bridge, behind the Campo Maurizio, and at first he had insisted on immediately trying on some new shoes, as his old ones were soaked. His request was refused, but in a friendly manner. They had no ready-made shoes, they said, but would be willing to make a cast based on his foot measurements, and that he was assured that shoes from the house of FRANZ would withstand all weathers.
Henninger liked the courteously restrained manner in which they advised him, and was fully aware how inappropriate it was to enter a shop like this merely with the aim of getting rid of a soaked pair of shoes. He looked around, and they showed him a collection of classic and more modern styles. Their shoes were sent to all parts of the world, they explained to Henninger, so that in the end he was prepared to hand over his calling card. Once the measurements had been taken he was allowed to specify all the details according to his own wishes, and he ordered lace-up shoes with three pairs of eyelets, and asked that the pattern on the toecap should be kept as simple as possible. Before he left the shop he was given a pair of light rubber galoshes, and a date was set for the fitting. They assured him that at that stage he could still have some adjustments made to the uppers.
No sooner had Henninger left the shop than he started to regret his decision. On the other hand, ‘Where in all the world,’ he thought, ‘can one still have shoes made-to-measure and sent to one’s home?’
He considered it essential to keep the appointment that had been arranged. And as a result he was able to experience Venice in perfect weather. He stayed on at the same hotel, and went back to the station to change the sleeping-car reservation.
“Two days more or less will hardly make any difference now,” thought Henninger. And that afternoon, when, in a more confident mood induced by the weather, he made another attempt to reach the centre of the city on foot, he had the encounter for which he was somehow already prepared.
‘‘You have done the right thing,’’ he heard someone behind him say. The person spoke German correctly, though with an accent. In a flash Henninger remembered the comment of the hotel employee in Vienna. “An Arab or an Indian,” he thought, turning round, and there, sure enough, not three paces away from him, stood the figure he had seen fleetingly in Vienna and then again only yesterday in St Mark’s Square. He was wearing a cape, with the hood tipped back. He smiled, and Henninger saw that he was wearing sandals without socks.
‘‘You have done the right thing,’’ the man repeated, and began, as if he had some right to do so and as if Henninger had taken him into his confidence, to talk about the firm of FRANZ and about what a bad thing it was to buy one’s shoes in just any shop or, worse still, in the bargain section of a department store.
He introduced himself. Henninger did not catch his name, but readily took the hand that was held out to him, and when the stranger offered to help him if he was having difficulty in finding his way in Venice, he accepted this offer with equal willingness.
“Who knows, perhaps I shall be rid of him in half an hour,” thought Henninger, trying to take his eyes off the sandals.
First the stranger showed him several churches, stopping for a particularly long time in front of San Giacomo dall’ Orio.
“How could he have known,” thought Henninger, while the other kept walking up and down the steps leading to the portal, “that I went into the shoe shop? He must have followed me from St Mark’s Square, in the rain, immediately after he disappeared. It’ll soon become clear why he’s so interested in me. He’s sure to be after my money,” he thought, but at the same time he felt slightly ashamed of this suspicion, for one thing was certain: the man did not look like the usual thief or swindler. He seemed to be an educated person, speaking English some of the time, and his mannered intonation reminded Henninger of his time in London.
“I know what these people are like,” he thought. “First they act like snobs, then they suddenly turn up in sandals.”
The man smiled, commented on various points of interest, and seemed so cheerful and matter-of-fact that Henninger went on with him although he was still confused. After some time the stranger said that he must go now, there was something he must see to, but he suggested that they should meet again around midday—he named a restaurant—and then he disappeared, just as he had appeared, calling out something to Henninger in the familiar tone of a long-standing acquaintance. Henninger resolved not to agree to any further meeting, either in the restaurant, the name of which he had already forgotten, or anywhere else. On no account would he stay any longer in Venice.
“If I don’t make it to Vienna today, I want at least to reach Udine or the Italian border. It’ll be best if I go to the shop at once. I’ll get them to send the shoes to my address in Berlin,” he thought, trying with the aid of the street map to work out the shortest way to the Campo Maurizio.
He had to take the vaporetto again, this time to San Samuele, which he had marked with a cross on his map, and less than half an hour later, after insisting on paying the bill for the shoes, he returned to his hotel. He was conscious of an urge to hurry. He packed his suitcase and looked around the room, and when the telephone rang he hesitated to lift the receiver.
“I’ve no reason to hide,” thought Henninger, but he let it ring, and also failed to open the window, as he had intended, to let in some fresh air. He locked the case, sat down on the bed and waited.
When he finally appeared at the reception desk to hand in the key there was no one there, and he briskly walked, suitcase in hand, the short distance from the Lista di Spagna to the station. He felt a sense of relief. And when exactly it was that he saw the cape, or rather the hood hanging down over the shoulders, when it was that he decided not to ignore the stranger who suddenly appeared ahead of him, but to overtake him and give him a friendly smile as he passed, Henninger could not have said. He knew only that when he was no longer expecting it, someone touched his elbow from behind.
‘‘What a coincidence. We are taking the same train,’’ said the stranger, and Henninger noticed that he too was carrying a suitcase. They boarded the train to Tarviso.