The tourist mob orbits Stephansdom as if they’ve never seen a cathedral before. It’s June, and the river cruisers have invaded Vienna. This cobbled square is Ground Zero for every walking tour.

I focus on three groups snaking through the throng toward me. The tour guides hold makeshift banners aloft, one flag, one furled umbrella, and a placard.

Each guide tows an undulating line of tourists. The tourists wear lanyards around their necks from which black boxes dangle. The plastic boxes transmit the guide’s voice directly into the group’s earbuds, blotting out the noise of the herd. The days of shouting guides are a thing of the past.

I see one tourist stop for a photo, her arms raised high to capture the towering spires of the cathedral. The others bunch up behind the gawker. A gap separates this bunch from the leaders. They panic, then surge forward like distracted ducklings chasing mama duck.

A voice crackles in my left ear.

“Kemo, you copy?”

I key my mic.

“Standing by, Sabe. Do you have a favorite?”

“Roger that. Red Viking, female guide, Austrian accent. Channel four. You’re up.”

“Genau, red Viking. Hat, no hat?”

“Floppy sunhat. Yellowish.”

“I am on it.”

“Hurry. They’re close.”

I drop my rucksack and rummage inside. The red placard is easy. We have the cruise lines covered. I clip the placard to an extendable wand and grab a beige sunhat. It will have to do.

I’m in position, hidden behind a pedicab. I risk a quick peek and mark the leader. It’s a big group, maybe twenty total. Michi, the pedicab driver, grins at me, shakes his dreadlocks.

“Ich bin bereit.”

Michi is perpetually stoned and always ready for mischief. I have to stifle a laugh.

The tour guide passes just in front of the pedicab. The group bobs along behind their guide. Someone stops, raises a camera, and breaks the line. A perfect gap!

I slap the pedicab. Michi stands on the pedals. The pedicab lurches forward and back as Michi mugs for the crowd. The tour group is cut off. The stragglers bunch up, trying to find a path around this sudden obstacle. I raise my placard high and tap the sending unit on my belt. Michi squirts out of the way. The first thing the lost tour members see and hear is me.

“Entschuldigung, folks. Sorry about that. Now, if you’ll step this way, we’re heading around the north side of the cathedral. The view is better, and it’s not so crowded. Keep together, everyone.”

This is the critical moment. Move fast, talk fast, and smile. My signal should override the real leader, but if not, I’ll have to run.

I turn toward the north tower, waving my red placard above my head. If the first duckling takes the bait, the rest will follow. Don’t look back, be ready to run. I kick into my spiel, laying on the soft Austrian accent.

“If you look closely at the lower walls of the cathedral, you might see signs of damage to the relief carvings. In the sixteenth century, wooden market stalls were built right up against the cathedral. Unfortunately, since the only lights were candles and oil lamps, the stalls tended to catch fire.”

Sabe’s voice crackles in my ear.

“You got ‘em, Kemo! Great catch. I make it twelve total.”

I bounce the placard up and down to acknowledge him.

“Okay, folks, we’re going to step into this passageway. It’s very narrow, so please keep together.”

Sabe is better at the patter, but I do my best. I keep up a running commentary as I lead the ducklings into a pedestrian-only passage. At the end of the passageway, I step left onto a shadowed street and wait. A dozen smiling faces emerge and fill the sidewalk.

“This is Blutgasse, which translates as Blood Street. In the fourteenth century, it was known as Kothgässel, or dirt alley. Medieval Vienna backstreets were often clogged with sewage and waste. Just imagine the smell.”

I see the smiles and nodding heads. We’ve got them. Now to keep them moving.

“Just ahead, we will see the Mozart House.”

I wave the placard, and they follow. It’s like having a magic talisman. At the end of Blutgasse, we bang straight into the Mozart Haus. Every tourist knows Mozart. Mozart and Empress Sissi are the twin pillars of Viennese tourism.

While our hijacked group shoots photos, my eyes find Sabe. He’s at the back of the line, smirking like a monkey. I love his smirk and his weird American sense of humor. That’s one of the many reasons I married him.

I believe marriages are stronger when two people share a hobby. It works for us. This little deception is our hobby, and we’re good at it.

Sabe came up with the idea. Not surprising. He has more crazy ideas in one morning than most people have in a month. That’s another reason I married him. But like a lot of creatives, follow-through is not his strong suit.

Where Sabe does concepts, I do details. The research for the different placards, that was me. Putting together the kit, also me. Sabe worked out how to pirate the broadcast systems, but I had to keep after him.

Sabe’s voice cuts into my thoughts.

“Kemo, they’re getting restless.”

I snap out of my thoughts and key my mic.

“Has everyone got their photos? Excellent. We’re going to swing around the end of the building and then into another famous passage. Please follow me.” 

I lead them onto Strobelgasse, slow down to let them ogle the fancy shops, and then it’s a quick jog into a tiny, cobbled lane.

“We are entering Essiggasse. Those of you who know a bit of German will recognize the word vinegar. The street name honors Ferdinand Pichler, a vinegar dealer who had his business here.”

We pop out of Essiggasse and swing left onto Bäckerstraße. I keep up a running commentary as we pass the posh bars. One more passageway and then a quick right onto Rotenturmstraße.

I keep the commentary flowing, fast and full of historic tidbits. While it’s true that we highjack tour groups, it’s also fair to say we give an excellent detour. Every fact I spiel out has been researched. Sabe is a demon for details, and he loves his adopted city. Not as much as he loves me, but still.

My eyes scan the line of little lambs. Yes, they’re smiling and nodding, smartphones swiveling back and forth to grab photos. And there’s Sabe at the tail end, grinning back at me. 

We’ve waylaid these folks, but they’re having fun. They won’t find their way back to Stephansdom, but it’s not as if Sabe and I are going to maroon them on a desert island. We’re going to maroon them someplace much nicer. Plus, they will have a great story to share when they arrive back home.

“Is everyone here? Good. We are turning onto Fleischmarkt, which means meat market. In the thirteenth century, this was the butcher’s lane.”

The group swings into line behind me.

“Please note the architecture on either side of us. Here are some of Vienna’s best Jugendstil and Neoclassical façades. Just ahead, you can see where Fleischmarkt ends at the Jerusalem-Stiege, the Jerusalem Steps. This is one of the few locations where you get a true sense of what medieval fortified Vienna looked like. As we climb the stairs, you will be entering a portion of the city that has stood here for more than a thousand years.”

At the foot of the stone steps, Sabe slips past with an impish grin. I try to ignore him, but it’s not easy.

“The tower you see on your right is the Kornhäuselturm. The tower is thirty-five meters tall and is often called Vienna’s oldest skyscraper. Please mind your footing as we ascend the steps and take your time.”

At the top of the steps, my clutch of ducklings ooh and ahh at the view. When everyone has their quota of photos, I lead them onto Judengasse and turn right.

“Now we come to what I believe is the highlight of our tour. You see before us a small church, quite modest compared with the cathedral, yes? But this is no ordinary church, my friends. This is Ruprechtskirche, or the Church of Saint Rupert. St. Rupert’s is built in the Romanesque style and is more than one thousand years old. It is considered the oldest church in Vienna. The church is dedicated to Saint Rupert of Salzburg, patron saint of the salt merchants of Vienna. And, sadly, most visitors to our fair city have no idea that it exists.”

I wave my hand at the small square and then up at the old stone church.

 “This is one of my favorite places in all of Vienna. I’m happy we’ve had a chance to share it with you.”

Sabe appears beside me. I smile at him, then turn back to our happy captives.

“Before I turn you loose to explore this hidden gem, I would like to call your attention to one more sight. You see the canal laid out below us? We are standing at the edge of old Vienna, on top of a fragment of the city walls.”

Sabe takes my hand. His fingers, warm and strong, entwine themselves in mine.

“Please note the stairs descending the left side of the wall. These stairs appear in the famous noir film The Third Man, filmed in 1949. In one scene, Martins and Anna flee down these very same steps. And now, we will do the same. Auf Wiedersehen.”

Sabe spins me around, and we run.

A few heartbeats later, we are racing down the stairs hand-in-hand, laughing like schoolkids. At the foot of the stairs, we dash to our right, past Jazzland and out onto Schwedenplatz.

As soon as we are out of sight, I sling off my rucksack. Inside go the red placard, the extendable wand, and the incriminating sunhat. Thirty seconds later, we melt into the crowd and head for the U-Bahn station.

Sabe wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close.

“That was great! I’m so proud of you!”

I dig my elbow into his ribs.

“Sprich Deutsch, bitte!”

He laughs and pulls me tighter.

“Ja, ja, ich bin stolz auf dich und ich liebe dich sehr.”

“Und ich liebe dich.”

“Lucky me. Now let’s get gone.”

A few steps later, we turn into the station entrance and vanish beneath the streets of Vienna. As we ride down the escalator, I lean into Sabe.

“Do you think they’ll be okay?”

He laughs.

“Sure they will. They’ve all got smartphones. A few calls, and the tour folks will rescue them. They’ll be back on the boat in no time.”

“They’re going to catch us if we keep this up.”

“You’re probably right, my beautiful wife.”

I shake my head as we step off the escalator.

“You’re crazy.”

Sabe turns, a wicked grin on his handsome face.

“You married me.”

---

Marco Etheridge is a writer, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over 180 reviews across Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Europe, the UK, the USA, and India. Marco’s story “Power Tools” was nominated for Best of the Web 2023 and is the title of his latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco serves as a contributing editor for Hotch Potch Literature and Art and as a reader for Marrow Magazine. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.