Death And The Maiden

2

The pianist of the Cafe Imperial began playing Chopin’s Waltz in B minor. Liebermann recognised it immediately, a curious, wistful melody which trickled down the keyboard over a brisk left-hand part, executed on this occasion with staccato lightness. At the point where the ear expected repose, the melody suddenly began again, creating a peculiar impression of autonomy, as if the music possessed a will of its own and was determined to continue. This rallying quality produced in Liebermann’s mind a corresponding image of a dancing couple who — in spite of being exhausted — revolved, just one more time, only to find themselves caught up in a waltz without end.

‘Maxim, did you hear what I said?’

Mendel Liebermann was looking at his son with an expression of censorious displeasure.

‘No, father … I didn’t.’

Mendel sighed.

‘I said, isn’t it time you thought about getting married?’ Liebermann was stunned and blinked at his father in mute disbelief. The subject of marriage had been assiduously avoided after Liebermann had broken off his engagement with Clara Weiss, the daughter of one of Mendel’s oldest associates. ‘You know how I feel about what you did.’ The old man touched his chest and grimaced as if he was suffering from indigestion. ‘Even so.’

They had never really discussed the broken engagement and, in a sense, there was nothing to discuss. Mendel’s sense of duty and rigid principles precluded any possibility of sympathetic understanding. When his wife had pleaded their son’s case, Mendel had been perfectly capable of grasping her argument: Maxim and Clara were fundamentally incompatible and the marriage would be unhappy. But such considerations were wholly irrelevant once a man had given his word. A man must always keep his word.

‘No, father,’ said Liebermann. ‘I haven’t thought about getting married again. Not since …’ He paused, and summoned the courage to say her name. ‘Not since Clara.’

Mendel took a mouthful of guglhupf — a sponge slice, sprinkled with icing sugar. ‘Do you want to get married?’

Liebermann held his father’s gaze and his reply, when it came, was indignant. ‘To the right person, yes.’

‘And is there anyone …?’ The sentence trailed off as Mendel’s confidence ebbed away. He was not used to speaking intimately with his son and making such an inquiry felt awkward.

‘No,’ said Liebermann, doubly discomfited by his father’s frankness and his own duplicity. There was someone for whom he had very deep feelings, but he was not inclined at that moment to reveal her identity. He was as confused as he had ever been concerning Amelia Lydgate and he knew that he would be incapable of giving a coherent account of his troubled fixation. Besides, she wasn’t Jewish.

‘You’re a young man, Maxim,’ said Mendel, ‘but not that young. When I was your age-’

‘Yes, I know,’ Liebermann interjected. ‘You were married and had already started a family.’

‘Well, you don’t want to end up like your Uncle Alexander, now, do you? An ageing roue?’

‘Father, many years must pass before I can be reasonably described as ageing and I can assure you, whatever you may think, my general conduct is far from dissolute.’

‘I was just voicing a concern, that’s all.’ Mendel took a sip of Pharisaer coffee and, picking up a starched napkin, wiped a residue of whipped cream from his moustache. ‘What happened … with Clara. I don’t think what you did was honourable.’ He waved his hand in the air, as if simply recalling his son’s misconduct had fouled the atmosphere. ‘Nevertheless, you are my flesh and blood and the thought of you being unfulfilled gives me no joy.’

Why was the old man talking to him like this? Had he finally found it within himself to forgive?

‘But I am happy,’ said Liebermann. ‘I have my work, my friends.’

‘Yes, these things are associated with a kind of happiness,’ said Mendel. ‘But not true happiness, not the kind of happiness that comes from marriage and children. These experiences are essential. They are sacred.’ Liebermann flinched at this last word. The movement was so pronounced that his father noticed. ‘It isn’t so foolish, Maxim, to believe that we have been put on this Earth for a purpose.’

There were many subjects that Liebermann preferred to avoid when conversing with his father and religion ranked highly among them. He was greatly relieved when Mendel’s train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of Bruno, the waiter.

‘Herr Liebermann, another pharisaer?’

‘Yes, Bruno, and another schwarzer for my son.’

‘Herr Doctor Liebermann, you have hardly touched your Mohnstrudel. I trust it is to your satisfaction?’

‘Yes, Bruno,’ said Liebermann. ‘It’s very good.’

The waiter bowed and dashed off, vanishing behind the open lid of the piano.

‘You remember Blomberg?’ said Mendel. ‘You met him at my lodge.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘He has a daughter. Twenty years old. Very pretty.’

Ah, thought Liebermann. So this is what it’s all about!

Liebermann shook his head. ‘Not yet, father. It really is too soon.’ Mendel acknowledged his son’s request with a brusque nod, and finished his guglhupf in silence. The B minor waltz came to a close, and the pianist, responding to a smattering of applause, began a second Chopin waltz: the languid E flat major. Their conversation continued in a desultory fashion until Liebermann, observing the time, announced that he was expected at the hospital.

‘You’d better hurry along, then,’ said Mendel. Liebermann had the distinct impression that his father was relieved to see the back of him. Bruno arrived with Liebermann’s coat and soon the young doctor was standing on the Ringstrasse waiting for a cab. The hazy fog had still not lifted and the air smelled damp and autumnal. A woman wearing a feathered hat passed by and he found himself staring at her retreating figure. The slimness of her waist and the curve of her hips held his attention; interest slowly transmuted into desire.

Marriage, thought Liebermann. Maybe the old man has a point.

A cab drew up and he stepped towards it, but another gentleman had hailed the vehicle while Liebermann had been distracted by the woman in the feathered hat. Liebermann watched as the carriage pulled away and set off towards the looming mass of the opera house, his brain teeming with thoughts and the nervous melody of Chopin’s B minor waltz.