Scarf

From Current Issue | by Kevin Minh Allen

A red streetcar grates to a stop and engulfs a waiting crowd of people just as an equal number dribbles out of the exits. The departed line themselves along the street median to wait for the signal. Balled mittens shiver through the snow that early December throws into every crevice. Ice sheaths the double-headed eagle perched on the black iron gate, its wings beating body warmth aside.

As a runaway student, I liberated my burdened spirit in the middle of this genteel society that never forgave the outside elements for tracking grimy disorder into its uniform parlors. In their free time, the locals pointed at strangers who were astonished at how well everyone knew their place under the strictly guarded comradery in neighborhood bars.

One morning, on my way to a lecture, I passed in front of a frosted café window and saw suits and dresses hobnobbing while sipping the strongest cappuccino from the tiniest of cups. Hunching my shoulders in tighter I headed for the warm jet stream coming from the underground subway entrance and peeled my scarf from my thinning lips. As I stared out the trolley window at the streaking gray of Vienna, I remembered a line from a movie I saw with a red-haired woman from Slovakia:

“When walking the cobblestoned alleyways of this once imperial city, you may catch a glimpse of a carriage driver floating out of a café with broken reigns in his hand, silently calling for his stolen horse.”