Down another short set of steps to a waist-high cement wall with FRIEDHOF DER NAMENLOSEN in thick block letters. On the other side of the wall were perhaps a hundred graves. Almost all had identical black metal crosses at the head of the humps of earth. At the bottom of each cross was a square that looked like a small chalkboard for something to be written, but only a handful had names and dates recorded in white script. The rest were blank. Nevertheless, there were a surprisingly large number of flowers and wreaths on these graves. It touched me to think that people came out here to pay tribute to the anonymous dead. What inspired them to do that? Someone kept the candle burning in the chapel; someone brought fresh bouquets of flowers. Was it someone’s job? Did the city of Vienna pay salaried homage to a few dead no one knew or cared about? Or was it simply the kindness and respect of some good souls? I hoped it was that. A sudden rage in my chest hoped it was that. Here and there stood a few regular stones with names and dates and the causes of death. But they were rare and looked out of place among all the other black crosses.

I walked to one anonymous grave and, putting a hand on the marker, looked at Jesse. “This was a man. His name was Thomas Widhalm. Committed suicide in 1929 by jumping into the Danube. His body washed up, as did a lot of the others, right over there on that hook of land that divides the canal from the river. He was from the town of Oggau but came to Vienna to study medicine. The great pride of his family. But he was gay, which nobody knew of course, and when he found out he had gotten syphilis from sleeping with a fellow student, he killed himself. After the family hadn’t heard from him for two months, they sent his younger brother Friedrich to Vienna to find him. But Friedrich hated Thomas, and after a week of halfhearted searching, he went home and told their mother her favorite boy had run off to Germany. At the end of the war, Friedrich was killed by the Russians when they invaded Austria. They shot him when he tried to keep them from a cache of Nazi bicycles.”

A couple of feet over, I touched the top of the next anonymous cross. “Margarete Ruzicka. She came from Czechoslovakia. From Bohemia.” I closed my eyes and thought a minute until I saw her face clearly and knew everything about her. It was like driving through thick fog into clearness. One moment nothing; the next, a view that went on for miles. She had been hired by a wealthy Viennese family with a villa in Hietzing and a summer residence in Meran to take care of twin baby boys. I saw her packing her cheap suitcase, saying goodbye to her family, riding the train to Vienna with her head pressed to the cold glass window. Trying to see everything at once. She said to herself a hundred times, “I’rn going to Vienna; I have a job in Vienna.” Then her shy dip of the head and curtsey when she was introduced to the master of the house. Her terrible claustrophobia that first week away from home. In her tiny room at night she tried to read the Bible but had no heart for it; she tried chanting “Vienna” to herself as she had on the train, but nothing helped.

Things slowly got better for her, but what she didn’t understand, because she was naive and silly, was why the master, who smelled of würst and ‘4711’ cologne, was around too much of the time, watching her, watching her constantly. Then that night in spring when he came to her room and took her for the first time. She thought, There is nothing I can do now. Nothing I can do about this. I’m not pretty; why does he want me? For the first time in her life she began looking in mirrors whenever she got the chance. Rape had made her vain. He ignored her after that, stopped looking at her altogether, except when he took her. His breath was always bad, his skin always cool. She would look at him, thinking all the time, What will I do if he tells? What will I do if he tells my mother? And then her period didn’t come and another maid who was kind and jealous told her she must run. So she left the house and disappeared into the city.

One afternoon a customer wouldn’t pay her for the ten minutes of sex he’d just had, and when she complained, he slit her throat as neatly as if he were opening a letter.

“How do you know?”

I blinked and realized my mouth was open. I closed it and looked down at her grave. “Because I had one of your dreams last night. I dreamed I met Philip Strayhorn. Do you know who he was?”

“No.”

“He was a well-known actor who killed himself a while ago. We were lovers once for a short time, but that wasn’t what we were about. He was my friend and I admired him.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“Come on. Let’s go sit on the wall there. I could tell you the names and histories of every person in here. All their hopes and hatreds; the secrets they thought were so important but weren’t… Not that it matters. Did your person glow?”

We were up on the wall and he turned to me, confused. “Glow? What do you mean?”

“The dead person you talked to in your dream. Who was it?”

“A kid I knew in school. What do you mean, glow?” His voice was testy and suspicious.

“Strayhorn glowed. Not like a lamp, but there was a definite… illumination to him. His whole body.

“I dreamed I was sitting in a steak house I like in New York. Gallagher’s. I was looking at the menu and Phil came in as if we had a date for dinner. We shook hands, and he sat down and asked what was good here. It was all very calm and comfortable.”

“Were you surprised?”

“No. I understood immediately why he was there and what was about to happen, but it didn’t bother me. We both ordered sirloins and mashed potatoes. Dinner with a dead man.”

“What did he say?”

“He asked if I had any questions. I asked why he glowed. He explained it to me and I understood.”

“What?” Jesse’s eyes widened, and, sitting up straight, he pushed himself forward with his hands. “You understood? What did he say?”

“I can’t tell you. You know that. But I did understand.”

“I can tell you anything I heard, Wyatt. I can tell you anything you want to know about my dreams. Ask whatever you want.”

“I can’t. My situation is different from yours.”

“Why? Well, what the hell can you tell me? Did you learn anything that’ll help us?”

“Yes. I understood every answer he gave to my questions.”

“No!”

“Every one. But I was careful. Most of the time we just chatted. I’d ask him something only if I thought I could understand the answer, and it worked.”

“Was he surprised?”

“No, he seemed pleased, even congratulated me once.”

“What can it do for us?”

“It means that for the time being you and McGann will be all right. Nothing more will happen and you will not dream again. Strayhorn specifically said that—you two are okay as long as I continue to understand his answers.”

“Then McGann was right: you are the one who can save us.”

“Save? I don’t know. At least for now. But who knows what will happen next? It reminds me of the Arabian Nights. But instead of having to tell good stories night after night to keep from being killed, I have to understand a dead man’s answers. So far, so good after one night. What’ll happen in the long run? Anyone’s guess.”

“But you’re sure for now that McGann and I will be okay?”

“You will, yes. I don’t know about me. He didn’t say anything about that. Plus, I didn’t ask to be saved—I asked for knowledge. He asked whether I’d rather survive or know? I said, ‘Won’t I be able to protect myself better if I know some things?’ He nodded and, well, that’s when he congratulated me.”

“I don’t understand this. What do you mean, know or be saved? What is there to know? You mean the big questions? That’s stupid! You’ll get all those answers when you die, if there’s anything to know! What’s more important for any of us now than surviving?”