Death And The Maiden

42

Liebermann entered his apartment clutching the day’s mail. He sorted through the letters looking impatiently for one that had been addressed in Amelia’s distinctive hand, but was disappointed. Overwhelmed by tiredness, he dropped the unopened envelopes into his writing bureau and found himself drawn towards the featureless cabinet in which he kept his spirits. He angled his head to study the contents: slivovitz, becherovka, vodka, and a quarter-full bottle of absinthe. He picked up the absinthe, held it up to the light and, after a moment of perilous indecision, sensibly decided against the idea. Instead, he poured himself a glass of slivovitz and sat down at the piano.

Brosius’s Three Fantasy Pieces stood on the music stand. He played through the second of these, before essaying a few of Zemlinsky’s Rustic Dances. He then felt a strong urge to hear some Chopin and lifted the Opus Nine Nocturnes out of the piano stool. After a satisfactory rendition of the B flat minor, he rewarded himself with a warming swig of alcohol and positioned his hands in readiness for the opening bars of the E flat major. His mental preparations were interrupted by the sound of someone knocking at the front door. His first thought was that it must be one of Rheinhardt’s emissaries. However, he immediately dismissed the idea, having only recently bid the inspector goodbye at the Schottenring station.

Liebermann rose from his seat and went to investigate. He was amazed to find his erstwhile fiancee leaning nonchalantly against the door jamb.

‘Clara?’

‘You look surprised to see me.’

‘Well … I am.’

‘Didn’t you get my letter?’

‘Your letter?’

‘I sent you one this morning. Didn’t you get it?’

Liebermann remembered the unopened correspondence in the bureau. ‘I might have.’

‘What do you mean, you might have?’

‘I’ve only just returned from Hietzing. I haven’t had time to open my letters yet.’

‘No time? You were playing the piano. I could hear you.’

‘Yes.’ Liebermann extended the word until its thinness aroused suspicion.

‘I see.’ Clara took a step backwards. ‘This isn’t quite the welcome I was expecting. I will write to you again and-’

‘No. Don’t go!’ He had not forgotten the gratitude he had felt when she had generously forgiven him, the sweet relief, the heady release from oppressive guilt. The last thing he wanted now was to offend her. ‘I’m so sorry, Clara. Whatever will you think of me? Please, do come in.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Of course.’

Liebermann took her hat and coat. As she turned he was enveloped by her perfume, a heavy scent that recalled the overlarge exotic blooms and humid heat of a greenhouse. Clara was wearing an impressive gown of blue silk, trimmed with silver. The neckline was low but a crescent of diaphanous gauzy material covered the swell of her breasts. Liebermann’s expression must have betrayed his appreciation. She looked up at him with dark eyes that communicated quiet amusement and satisfaction.

Liebermann ushered Clara into the music room.

‘So …’ he said, as she lowered herself onto the sofa. ‘It is good to see you again.’

Clara pointed towards the cigarette box.

‘May I?’

Liebermann came forward — performing a little leap — eager to be hospitable. He flicked open the box’s lid. Clara took a cigarette and allowed him to light it for her. She then looked meaningfully at the bottle.

‘Slivovitz?’ said Liebermann.

‘Please.’ He collected a second glass from the cabinet and poured his guest a generous measure. ‘Thank you. What were you playing? Chopin?’

‘One of the nocturnes. Do you still play?’

‘I stopped for a while but I’ve started again. The easy preludes and one or two of the mazurkas. Herr Donner thinks I’m making very good progress.’ She narrowed her eyes suddenly. ‘What were you doing in Hietzing?’

‘I was with Inspector Rheinhardt.’

Clara nodded and proceeded to talk about a concert that her piano teacher had recommended. When she paused, she drew on her cigarette and looked at Liebermann with searching intensity. He was reminded of how much she had changed. He found this more worldly, mature incarnation of Clara somewhat disconcerting. She spoke fluently and easily — as she always did — gliding from one subject to the next, but beneath her monologue ran an elusive undercurrent, another level of communication that resisted interpretation.

Liebermann was distracted by the brightness of her lips — and by the poppy-red stain that had appeared on her cigarette.

Even after their chance meeting, the likelihood of ever again seeing Clara in his apartment had seemed so very remote that he had not given the possibility any prior consideration. Mentally unprepared, he found himself struggling to accept the reality of her presence: a problem which was compounded by injudicious nervous drinking.

As Clara continued talking, the reason for her visit did not become any clearer. Liebermann was tempted to ask outright, What are you doing here? But he was far too polite. It even crossed his mind that he might excuse himself and read her letter, but Clara could see the bureau from where she was sitting and such a manoeuvre would almost certainly invite comment. Time passed, and their conversation remained in a curious state of unresolved suspension. The dialogue had circled through a number of topics, none of them very consequential, and had arrived back at the starting place: music.

‘Let’s play a duet!’ said Clara. Her words were slurred. Since she had not imbibed enough slivovitz to get inebriated in his company, Liebermann concluded that she must have been drinking prior to her arrival. The excessive use of perfume had perhaps been a ploy to disguise the smell of alcohol.

‘I don’t know …’ he responded warily.

‘Oh, come now, Max! It’ll be fun.’ Her exclamation was strained as she forced gaiety into each word.

‘I’m not even sure I have any duets.’

It was a weak lie. ‘At least take a look,’ Clara pleaded.

Liebermann found an edition of the Opus 39 Waltzes by Brahms and held it up. ‘Could you manage these?’

‘Yes, of course.’

They sat at the Bosendorfer and Liebermann set the tempo by counting aloud. Clara attempted a bar or two of the B major and then abruptly stopped playing. ‘No, not this one, something a little slower.’ She turned some pages. ‘Number three. Let’s play number three.’

The G sharp minor was short and poignant, typically Viennese in its blending of emotions, happiness and sadness brought together by the magic of a musical truce. The bitter-sweet melody, full of delicious regret, kept a wistful smile on Liebermann’s face until the final bars resolved all ambiguities in favour of undiluted melancholy. They played a few more of the slower waltzes, and Liebermann became acutely aware of the warmth of Clara’s body, the heat generated by their thighs touching. Her proximity, her heavy perfume, the slivovitz and the music were beginning to have an effect.

Liebermann listened to the whisper of Clara’s skirts as she changed position. She said nothing, but there was a tacit command in the protracted silence, a demand for attention. He turned slowly. Clara’s hair was slightly dishevelled and the gauze that covered her breasts was damp with perspiration.

‘Max …’

She said his name and brushed his cheek with the back of her fingers.

Liebermann remembered seeing Clara with her cavalry lieutenant outside the Imperial. He remembered the way the man had touched her and the proprietorial feelings the sight of their intimacy had aroused. He still found her very attractive. Clara tilted her chin, offering her parted lips. For a moment Liebermann experienced a kind of metaphysical torture as his emotional instincts were pulled in opposite directions. Then, quite suddenly, something snapped in his mind and he found himself clumsily rising from the stool.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Liebermann, not quite sure how he should behave. ‘I think we should stop there.’ He moved to the table and automatically filled his glass. ‘Would you like another?’

Clara shook her head.

‘Oh, Max. Please don’t go through some silly act, pretending that nothing’s happened. What are you trying to do? Spare my feelings?’

‘I can’t …’ he said, vainly hoping that another swig of slivovitz might help.

Clara crossed the floor and stood in front of him. ‘I know you want to. We were stupid … we denied ourselves for no good reason.’

‘I can’t,’ he repeated again. ‘It wouldn’t be right.’

There was something in his tone that gave away more than he had intended.

‘My God — you’re not … you’re not involved with someone, are you?’ Liebermann did not deny it, but the hesitation was enough. Clara made a gesture in the air, a kind of pushing away. ‘I know where my coat is,’ she added with unnatural self-control.

When she got to the door Liebermann called out: ‘Clara … I’m sorry.’

She repeated the same distancing hand gesture and said, ‘Mazel tov.’ He couldn’t tell what she meant by this. Her voice was still neutral.

On the landing outside his apartment Liebermann leaned over the hand rail and watched her running down the the stairs. Her blue skirt flickered in the gaslight and suddenly vanished.

Liebermann leaned back against the landing wall and, addressing the ceiling, said: ‘That went well …’