Death And The Maiden

31

‘Now, Haussmann, stand by the table, and for heaven’s sake keep still,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘This is a very delicate procedure.’

Rheinhardt knelt by the stove, opened the door, and inspected the blackened papers within. The charred remains looked very much like a bundle of letters. Unfortunately, the lowest sheets in the bundle had been reduced to ash and most of the surviving sheets had fused together. Only the upper leaves looked as if they might be saved. Rheinhardt slipped a clean square of paper beneath the uppermost sheet. Holding his breath, he lifted the brittle remnant off the top of the carbonised bundle and stood up. He then took a few misjudged steps and watched in despair as the blackened sheet glided lazily towards the floor. It shattered as it landed, giving Rheinhardt cause to swear with uncharacteristic ferocity.

Haussmann looked on with sympathy.

‘Bad luck, sir.’

‘Nothing to do with luck, Haussmann — that was sheer incompetence!’

Rheinhardt returned to the stove and repeated the manoeuvre, insinuating the clean paper again beneath the uppermost leaf. As he withdrew his hand, only half of the leaf came away. This time, the pace of his departure from the stove was funereal. He crossed to the table and allowed his precious cargo to slide onto a rectangle of glass that had already been prepared with gum. The burnt paper was horribly warped and he pressed the crisp surface with his fingers. He was able to depress some of the blisters but others broke up, creating jagged mosaics. It wasn’t ideal but it was better than nothing. Moreover, when he examined his handiwork his spirits lifted at the sight of some ghostly lettering.

‘We’ve got something.’

‘Well done, sir.’

Rheinhardt repeated this painstaking process several times, but the task of removing sheets from the top of the bundle became increasingly difficult. It became impossible to slide the clean paper into the crumbling mass without causing extensive damage. In the end, he had to settle for the retrieval of a few ‘corners’ before it became impossible to proceed further.

‘Observe,’ said Rheinhardt to his assistant. ‘The ink appears grey, or a different shade of black against the dull black of the paper. This doesn’t always happen when letters are burned. One must assume that the outcome depends to a very large extent on the chemical composition of the ink. Be that as it may, as you can see, our efforts have not been wasted.’

Rheinhardt lifted the first pane of glass and turned it towards the window. The writing manifested in grey loops.

‘See, Haussmann: best interests … in the meantime … we should … and therafter I earnestly hope that …’

The young man frowned.

‘Not very-’

‘Informative?’ Rheinhardt cut in. ‘No. However, a word of advice: dripping water hollows a stone.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘So said a Roman poet. Oh, never mind …’

The second sheet of paper was blank, but the third contained phrases that made Rheinhardt’s heart quicken: affection for you is not in doubt … constancy and truth … our meeting when …

Rheinhardt indicated the text and beamed at his assistant.

‘A love letter, sir?’

‘I would say so.’

The next two fragments contained nothing more than a few words, but the final fragment, a triangular piece with two straight edges, showed the correspondent’s name. Rheinhardt allowed the light to play over the signature. There was something magical about the way in which the script flashed in and out of existence. The characters were black, a black of preternatural depth. They stood out in sharp relief against the pitch neutrality of the scorched background.

From your dearest Karl

‘Sir?’ Haussmann had detected Rheinhardt’s sudden change of expression. The older man’s cheeks had become flushed with excitement.

‘Haussmann. Tell me — what does that say? Can you see the letters?’

‘From your dearest … Karl.’

‘That’s what I thought. Dripping water, eh?’