Death And The Maiden

64

The Town Hall rose up above the Christmas market in all its Gothic splendour and its soaring spires, patinated with early evening frost, sparkled beneath a crescent moon. Liebermann pulled Amelia closer to him, and when she turned her head he kissed her quickly on the lips. She was wearing a long green coat, embroidered with elevated black curlicues, and a hat, artfully worn so as to display waves of luxurious red hair.

They laughed at their own audacity.

There had been a Christmas market held in Vienna for over six hundred years, and the Viennese were old hands at transforming seasonal commerce into a fine art. The little park in front of the town hall was filled with people, the crowd constantly fed by an endless stream of humanity pouring in off the Ringstrasse. Above the stalls and traders, paper lanterns swung beneath the branches of tall trees, and the air was suffused with fragrances: roasted chestnuts, mulled wine, exotic spices, frankincense, chocolate, Arabian teas, sugared fruit, almonds, pumpernickel, scented soaps, cologne, mustard, and scorched sausages. The olfactory melee was overwhelming.

The couple passed by a vendor selling spirits from a miniature alpine cabin, its interior crammed with multicoloured bottles. Liebermann’s gaze travelled across the alcoholic spectrum, slowing for a moment as it passed over the eldritch glow of the absinthes.

In a tiny enclosure, small children were riding ponies around a circular track.

Squeezing through the throng, they came upon a group of musicians playing Schrammelmusik. The small band, consisting of a zither player, accordionist and two violins, were giving a lively account of a popular drinking song. A group of noisy revellers had gathered around the musicians and were attempting the yodelling chorus, which required a dropped beat to be supplied by the collision of steins — a requirement that was causing much spillage and merriment.

‘Come,’ said Liebermann. ‘Let’s move on.’

Eventually they arrived at the arched entrance of the town hall, where an enormous Christmas tree had been erected. It was bedecked with ribbons and candles and exuded a fresh resiny smell. A small choir of six gentlemen — wrapped up in woollen scarves, red-cheeked, and with bright, fervid eyes — were standing next to the tree, fully exploiting a portamento which climbed to the very highest note of Stille Nacht.

‘Liebermann?’

The young doctor turned and almost reeled back when he discovered who had spoken his name.

‘Director Mahler.’

‘My dear fellow,’ said the director, smiling warmly and shaking Liebermann’s hand. ‘How are you?’

‘Very well, thank you.’

Before Liebermann could reciprocate, the director was gesturing at the woman standing next to him. ‘Allow me to introduce my wife.’

Alma Mahler was reputed to be one of the most beautiful women in Vienna. Liebermann was rather surpised by her appearance. Although very pretty, she was not as striking as he had supposed. She had rather soft rounded features, and a winning if rather cautious smile. Groomed eyebrows traced delicate arcs above her large inquiring eyes, and, like Amelia, she too wore her hat at a precipitous angle to show off her hair to best advantage.

Alma raised her arm, allowing her gloved hand to fall at an angle from the wrist.

Liebermann bowed and brushed the fawn leather with his lips.

‘Frau Director.’ Then urging his companion to come forward, he said: ‘My fiancee, Miss Amelia Lydgate.’

Amelia inclined her head.

‘You are English?’ asked the director.

‘Yes.’

‘And where are you from, exactly?’

‘London.’

‘Ah, London,’ said the director. ‘I travelled there once to conduct a German season at Covent Garden. I learned a little of your language — not a great deal, I’m afraid — and gave your countrymen a second opportunity to hear Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen.’

‘Was it well received?’ asked Amelia.

‘Yes, the audiences were very enthusiastic. I left exhausted, but also convinced of a deep affinity between the English and German peoples.’ The director addressed his wife. ‘This is Herr Doctor Liebermann, my dear. Do you remember me mentioning him back in the autumn? The fellow who managed to get Schmedes back on stage when there was that awful business going on with the Hermann-Bundler: the one who helped to weed out Treffen.’

Alma’s face brightened with recognition.

‘Ah yes, the psychiatrist, of course. You are a man possessed of remarkable talents, Herr Doctor.’

Liebermann was embarrassed by the compliment and made a humorous self-deprecatory remark.

‘So,’ said the director. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Nowhere in particular,’ Liebermann replied. ‘We just came to see the market.’

‘Well, why don’t you join us? We were on our way to meet some friends at Cafe Landtmann.’

‘Yes, do join us,’ said the director’s wife, stepping forward and clutching Liebermann’s arm.

Liebermann looked to Amelia to see what she thought. She was nodding her head.

Extricating himself from Alma’s eager grip, he reached out and took Amelia’s hand.

‘Thank you, Herr Director. We would be delighted to join you.’

The two couples made their way down the wide boulevard that led to the Ringstrasse. As was often the case, Liebermann thought that he might be dreaming. He was going to the Cafe Landtmann, with Amelia Lydgate on his arm, in the company of Director Mahler and his wife.

Sometimes the city in which he lived seemed to be a place of boundless possibilities.

He glanced back at the town hall, and wondered if the newly re-elected demagogue was ensconced in the clock tower, gazing down from behind one of those many black windows on his domain.

There might be difficult times ahead …

But he wasn’t prepared to ruin the evening thinking about them now.