Deadly Communion

32

Erstweiler appeared comfortable, but a muscle beneath his left eye was quivering.

‘To be honest, Herr doctor, I didn’t like my father. He was a domineering man who always thought he was right. I don’t know how my mother put up with him. She was the opposite: a diminutive, genial creature, always prepared to listen to both sides of an argument. My grandfather — my mother’s father — was somewhat impecunious, and I suspect that her family forced her into the marriage. Father was not wealthy, by any means, but he had a secure job in the railway office.’ Erstweiler produced a crooked, sardonic smile: ‘Although he never ascended as far up the bureaucratic hierarchy as my brother — and was never obliged to don the garb of a general!’

Liebermann waited. He could see in his patient’s eyes that memories were surfacing.

‘I remember,’ Erstweiler continued. ‘I once accompanied my father on a trip to Vienna. I forget why. Indeed, I’ve forgotten virtually everything that happened, except one thing. We were walking past the Stephansdom and my father said we should climb to the top in order to see the view. We began our climb, and almost immediately I felt apprehensive. I looked out of the narrow windows and it made me feel dizzy. I remember seeing the Habsburg eagle on the cathedral roof … the city below. I didn’t want to go any higher: I thought the whole spire might tumble down. My father asked me what was the matter and I said: I don’t feel well.’ The memory was so vivid that Erstweiler’s voice suddenly acquired the timbre of a frightened child’s: ‘Nonsense! said my father. There’s nothing wrong with you!’ Again, Erstweiler’s voice changed, becoming officious and unsympathetic. ‘He dragged me up — higher and higher — and I began to cry. He lost his temper and called me cowardly, told me to be a man … told me to stop acting like a milksop. When we reached the viewing room at the summit I sat down on a bench and refused to look out. Even a glimpse of those rooftops, so far below, made my head spin. He pointed out a girl in a pink dress and said, Look! Even she has more courage than you! My father was disgusted with me. He left me there, on my own, full of shame and anger, while he walked around — enjoying the view. I longed for my mother. If she had been present, she would never have let this happen … After a while, I asked my father if we could go down. No, he said. I want to hear the Pummerin. He told me that the great bell had been made from the melted cannons that the gutless Turks had left behind when they fled the city. What did I care … about that?’

Erstweiler sighed and twisted his hospital gown in his hand until it bit into his skin like a tourniquet.

‘He was always talking about honour — doing what was right. He always saw faults in others, never in himself.’

‘Did you ever disobey your father?’ Liebermann asked.

‘No. Well, not in his lifetime, anyway.’

Liebermann leaned forward: ‘I’m sorry?’

‘He judged thieves harshly. He said that they should have their hands cut off.’

‘You stole something?’

Erstweiler nodded.

‘What?’ asked Liebermann.

‘A trivial thing.’

‘Yes, but what was it?’ Liebermann pressed.

‘Actually …’ Erstweiler hesitated before saying, ‘It was a kimono for Frau Milena.’

How strange, thought Liebermann, that this disclosure should be connected with reminiscences of his father.

‘Why did you do that?’

‘I felt sorry for her. Kolinsky never buys her anything. He is a miser. Her wardrobe was pitiful … rags. I received a delivery of silk kimonos at Winkler’s warehouse — a large delivery of thirty garments. It’s my job to register the stock. I marked one missing and took it home.’ Erstweiler shrugged. ‘Was that so wrong?’

‘Your father would have said so.’

Erstweiler released his hospital gown, allowing the blood to flow back into his fingers.

‘I’ve had enough today.’

‘Did Frau Milena like your gift?’

‘Yes. She looked … She loved it.’

Liebermann noted the slip.

‘Herr doctor … I’m feeling tired. Can we stop now?’

‘Have you had any more dreams?’

‘None that I can remember.’

Liebermann made some quick notes.

Spire — beanstalk. Ogre — father. Frau Milena — goose.

Hand cut off — punishment for masturbation? Desire?

Sophocles.

I’ve always doubted it. But perhaps Prof. F is right!

‘The English fairy-story dream.’

‘What about it?’

‘Have you had any similar dreams since we last spoke?’

‘No. Herr doctor? Can we finish? I really am very tired.’