“Release her,” he ordered.
The broad-shouldered man looked over in the direction of his accomplices, both of whom were now cursing and crawling toward the alleyway. He swore, and pushed the woman forward with such force that she crashed into Liebermann, making him reel back. However, the maneuver was not a continuation of the fight. The coward simply ran off, and the wretched trio disappeared, yelling florid imprecations.
“You had better sit down,” said Liebermann.
He gestured toward a crate. “Are you hurt?”
The woman shook her head.
Liebermann bent down and examined her face. She pulled back a little, alarmed at the sudden proximity.
“I'm sorry, do forgive me. Your face… Your face is grazed.… I'm a doctor.” Liebermann touched her cheek gently. He could smell her perfume—a distinctive combination of fragrances. “There may be some swelling there tomorrow.”
He withdrew and stood up straight.
“Thank you,” the woman said. “Thank you, Herr Doctor… ?”
“Liebermann.”
“Liebermann,” she repeated. There was something odd about her intonation, as if she had expected his name to be Liebermann and was satisfied that the expectation had been confirmed.
“My pleasure,” said the young doctor, bowing.
She glanced toward the alleyway.
“We shouldn't stay here.” She spoke with a slight Magyar accent. “They could come back… and with more of their friends.”
“But are you recovered?” said Liebermann. “Perhaps a few more minutes—to compose yourself?”
“Herr Doctor, I am perfectly capable of walking.”
There was a note of indignation in the woman's voice, a note of pride. It was almost as if she had construed Liebermann's solicitous remarks as a slur—an imputation of weakness. Liebermann also noticed that, for someone who had just survived such a terrible ordeal, she was preternaturally collected.
She stood up, straightened her head scarf, and adjusted her clothing. She was wearing the short jacket favored by Hungarian women and a long, richly embroidered skirt. Liebermann offered her his arm, which she took—naturally and without hesitation.
On entering the alleyway, Liebermann picked up the bag he had discovered earlier. It was remarkably heavy.
“This must be yours.”
“Yes, it is. Thank you.” She took it, and they proceeded to the street.
“Well, Herr Dr. Liebermann.” The woman halted and released his arm. “I am indebted… a debt, I fear, that it will be impossible for me to repay. You have shown uncommon courage and kindness.” She took a step backward. “Good night.”
“A moment, please,” said Liebermann. “If you mean to walk these streets unaccompanied, I cannot allow it. I am obliged—as a gentleman—to escort you home.”
“That will not be necessary.”
Liebermann was dumbfounded. “But… but I insist!”
She smiled, and the proud light in her eyes dimmed a little.
“I have already caused you enough trouble.” She reached up and gently brushed his shoulder, where a hank of silk lining sprouted from the torn astrakhan.
“Think nothing of it,” said Liebermann, crooking his arm. “Now, where do you live?”
“Near the canal.”
“Then you must show me the way. I am not familiar with the third district and—to be perfectly honest—I was quite lost when I heard your cries.”
She nodded—and there it was, again. A curious, fleeting expression, as if his words had merely confirmed something that she knew already.
The woman set off, taking them through a maze of empty back-streets.
“What happened?” asked Liebermann, flicking his head back in the direction from where they had come. “How did you get into that…” He paused before adding “Predicament?”
“I had been to visit a friend,” said the woman “And was simply walking home. When I passed that alleyway, those… animals jumped out and grabbed me.”
Liebermann felt her shuddering.
“Did you not know that it is unwise for a woman to walk the streets at this time?”
“I am new to Vienna.”
“Well, one should be very careful.”
“I will be in the future.”
“It was most fortunate that I was carrying my sabre.”
“Yes, I was wondering—”
“A fencing competition,” Liebermann interjected. “Earlier this evening.”
“Did you win?”
“No, I lost. And quite ignominiously”
Liebermann asked the woman a few polite questions about her origins (she was indeed Hungarian) and expressed an earnest hope that the evening's events would not prejudice her opinion of Vienna and its inhabitants. She responded by saying that nowhere could ever displace Budapest in her affections—but that she would make every effort to comply with his request.
“What is your specialty, Herr Doctor?”
“Psychiatry.”
The majority of people reacted quite warily to this admission, but the Hungarian woman responded as though she thought his branch of medicine worthy of the utmost respect. “And where do you work?”
“The General Hospital.”
She urged him to continue, and he spoke for some time about his duties, the new science of psychoanalysis, and the patients in his care. She was very attentive, and asked him some extremely intelligent questions about the causes of hysteria.
“Yes,” said the woman pensively. “To study the human mind—a privilege—and endlessly fascinating.”
They arrived at their destination—a small apartment building at the end of a gloomy cul-de-sac. The woman did not have to wake a concierge to gain admittance—the door was standing wide open. A tiled arcade led to a courtyard, on the other side of which was a short iron staircase leading to a sheltered landing. A solitary gas lamp agitated the flagstones with a muted yellow lambency.
The woman stopped and—looking toward the stairs—said, “I think I can manage the remainder of the journey on my own.” The statement was nuanced with a hint of dry humor.
Liebermann found himself looking at the woman properly for the first time. She was very beautiful—but not in the sense that her features conformed to a classical ideal. Her beauty was less conventional—less finished, less tame. She had long dark hair tied up loosely in a head scarf. Her mouth was generous, and her long straight nose gave her face unusual strength. The arch of her eyebrows was gentle—the extremities rising rather than falling at the temple. This peculiarity created the illusion of otherworldliness, recalling storybook illustrations of elves and sprites. From her ears dangled two ornate silver earrings, encrusted with black stones. Liebermann remembered the way she had been insulted—Gypsy bitch— and there was indeed something Romany, something exotic about her appearance.
Hungarian women were reputed to possess a unique and potent beauty, and in her case the reputation was clearly merited.
Liebermann bowed and pressed his lips against her hand. Rising, he said: “I don't know your name.”
“Trezska Novak,” she replied.
Liebermann suddenly felt awkward. “Well, Fräulein Novak… good night.”
“Good night, Herr Dr. Liebermann.” She took a few steps, and then stopped and, looking back, added, “I am indebted—truly.”
He watched her cross the courtyard, ascend the stairs, and unlock the door of her apartment. Before she entered, she waved. Lieber-mann returned the gesture, again feeling awkward—as if his arm had become a cumbersome appendage. He heard the sound of a bolt engaging but did not move to leave. Instead, he continued to stare at the empty landing. The gas lamp sputtered.
Quite suddenly, Liebermann was overwhelmed with curiosity: he wanted to know more about Trezska Novak and regretted not having asked her more questions. He had talked too much about himself—the hospital, hysteria, Professor Freud. What was she doing in Vienna? And why was an educated woman living in such a district? Shaking his head, he rebuked himself—it was none of his business. He should be getting home.
Reluctantly, Liebermann made his way back to the street, where he became aware that his shoulder was hurting badly and that he was extremely tired (almost to the point of exhaustion). He set off toward the canal, praying that he would find a cab.
24
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, RHEINHARDT?”
“Following Herr Kiss, sir—as instructed by Inspector von Bulow. I began my surveillance outside his apartment in Landstrasse at six-thirty this morning and—”
Brügel shook his bovine head. Evidently he did not want to hear about Herr Kiss.
“Have you seen this?” The commissioner was holding a folded newspaper in his hand.
Rheinhardt shook his head.
Brügel handed him the Arbeiter-Zeitung.
“Do you know it?”
“Yes, a socialist daily—isn't it?”
“Sit down, Rheinhardt… and turn to page ten.”
An article had been circled in red ink.
The recent death, of a young cadet at Saint Florian's
oberrealschule
— reported in the Neue Freie Presse on the 19th of January—served to re-mind me of my own school days, spent at that very same educational establishment.…
Rheinhardt read on, his heart accelerating as his eyes were drawn down the page by words that seemed to stand out from the text in bold relief.
Sadism… cruelty… torture…
He made a supreme effort to calm himself, returned to the beginning, and attempted to read the article without skipping.
I was a pupil at Saint Florian's from 1893 to 1896 and can say, without fear of exaggeration, that these were the most unhappy years of my life.
The writer went on to describe a culture of violence, which he claimed was tacitly endorsed by the headmaster and senior members of staff. His most startling assertion, however, was that the suicide of a boy reported in 1894 was, in fact, a case of manslaughter, being the direct result of a heinous practice known as “doing the night watch.” This was a form of punishment meted out by older boys, in which the victim was made to stand on a dormitory window ledge from “lights out” until dawn. Sadly for Domokos Pikler a nocturnal cloudburst made the ledge slippery, and he fell to his death.
Rheinhardt drew the paper closer.
I hope that the authorities—such as they are—will be mindful of this, my candid and truthful revelation. Alas, for personal reasons my identity must remain undisclosed. Sincerely, Herr G., “Vienna.
When Rheinhardt had finished reading, he placed the newspaper on Brügel s desk.
“Pikler… Pikler,” said Rheinhardt. “I don't remember the name.”
“One of old Schonwandt's cases. He retired the following year… not a very competent detective.” The commissioner said nothing for a few moments—and his habitual scowl became even darker and heavier than usual. “This afternoon,” he continued, “I received a telephone call from one of the education minister's aides. He discoursed—at some length—on the importance of maintaining public confidence in Austria's military schools and hoped that, should the article you have just read come to the emperor's attention, Minister Rellstab will be able to assure His Majesty that the security office treats such accusations very seriously and that any fatalities occurring in military schools are always thoroughly investigated. I explained that you were still in the process of making inquiries… and that you would be submitting a final report on the death of Thomas Zelenka in due course.”
“But, sir… I can't possibly proceed with my pursuit of Herr Kiss and continue investigating Zelenka's death. Saint Florian's is situated in the woods: a long drive from the center of Vienna. It would take me—”
“You are no longer operating under Inspector von Bulow's command,” the commissioner interrupted.
“I have your permission to return to Saint Florian's?”
Brügel nodded dismissively He did not have the good grace to articulate an affirmative response.
“Thank you, sir,” said Rheinhardt, suppressing the urge to leap from his chair and exclaim with delight.
For once, Rheinhardt left the commissioner's office in a happy mood. He swaggered down the corridor, humming the ebullient victorious theme from the final movement of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony.
He rapped on von Bulow's door, waited an inexcusably long time for permission to enter, and found von Bulow hunched over his desk, writing a report with a gold fountain pen. The supercilious inspector did not look up. His bald pate shone like a billiard ball.
“Von Bulow?”
“Ah, Rheinhardt, I'm glad you're here.… There's something I need you to do this afternoon.”
Von Bulow kept his head bowed and continued with his task.
“I'm afraid,” said Rheinhardt, “that you'll have to get your assistant to do it.”
The shiny bald pate was suddenly replaced by von Bulow's angry face.
“What did you say?”
“You'll have to get your assistant to do it,” Rheinhardt repeated, enunciating each syllable as if he were talking to someone who was partially deaf.
“That isn't possible,” said von Bulow coldly. “He's otherwise engaged.”
“Then you'll have to do it.”
Von Bulow's eyes narrowed as he grasped the significance of Rheinhardt's airy insolence.
“What… what's happened?”
“I've been reassigned to the Saint Florian investigation.”
“Who has reassigned you?”
“Commissioner Brügel, of course.”
“But that's not—”
“Possible?” Rheinhardt smiled. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to collect Herr Kiss's photograph later this morning? I will have no further use for it.”
The look of shocked bemusement on von Bulow's face gave Rheinhardt inestimable pleasure.
On returning to his office Rheinhardt sat at his desk, where he found a note from Haussmann: Fanousek Zelenka would like to see you.
25
STEININGER, FREITAG, AND DREXLER were playing cards on the floor. They were sitting cross-legged on an old blanket that had been spread out for their comfort. The tableau they created recalled the Middle East: they might have been gamesters at a bazaar. Wolf was lying on some cushions a short distance away reading Beyond Good and Evil. They were all smoking, and the lost room was filled with gently undulating hazy veils of cigarette smoke.
“I'd like to get into the cavalry” said Steininger. “I have a cousin in the cavalry. He wears a very handsome uniform. He told me to join because you get to ride spirited horses and attract the attention of girls.”
“My father disapproves,” said Freitag.
“What? Of girls?” said Steininger, grinning.
“No, of the cavalry,” said Freitag. “He says it's corrupt. Who do you want to join, Drexler?
Freitag swigged some slivovitz from a bottle and handed it to Steininger.
“I haven't decided yet,” Drexler replied.
“You're not thinking of the civil service, are you?” said Freitag indignantly. “I can't think of anything more dull.”
Drexler looked over his spectacles. “I haven't decided yet,” he repeated calmly.
Steininger belched.
“Must you be so disgusting?” asked Wolf, without taking his eyes from his book.
Steininger shrugged, and, ignoring Wolf, said: “What about the infantry, Freitag?”
“The foot rags?” Freitag replied. “Possibly.”
Wolf tutted.
“What?” said Freitag.
“I suppose the infantry are all right,” said Wolf sarcastically. “If you want to die an utterly pointless death defending Greeks from Turks and Turks from Greeks.”
Steininger and Freitag looked puzzled.
“He's talking about Crete,” said Drexler.
“Crete?” said Steininger. “What about Crete?”
“That's where the Eighty-seventh were sent,” said Wolf. “The Christians rebelled against the Muslims, and the Greeks landed two thousand soldiers to help them overthrow the Ottoman sultan. The Eighty-seventh were sent over to separate the opponents—and they were given excellent new white uniforms so that they would be especially conspicuous in the bright sun and easy for agitators to pick off! Yes, you two join the infantry.… I can't think of anything more noble, can you, than to selflessly lay down one's life for one's Greek and Turkish brothers? Your parents will be most proud.”
Steininger pushed out his lower lip. “Well, it's easy for you to criticize us, Wolf. But you haven't told us where you're going.”
“Yes, Wolf, where are you going?” Freitag repeated, the pitch of his voice raised slightly in irritation.
Wolf sighed and—still without turning to look at them—said in pointedly weary tones: “I do not intend to prance around on a horse in order to attract the attention of witless females. Nor do I intend to waste my life in some garrison town—where the only person who can read without moving his lips is the local doctor. I do not intend to meet a premature end trying to suppress some meaningless peasants’ revolt in Transylvania, and I most certainly don't intend to stand between two barbarian races hell-bent on each other's annihilation, thousands of miles away from home. No… I have other plans.”
“What plans?” asked Freitag.
“Oh, do shut up, Freitag,” said Wolf. “Can't you see that I'm trying to read?”
26
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON when Rheinhardt arrived in Land-strasse. He had not forewarned the Zelenkas of his intention to visit; consequently, he was not surprised to find the bungalow empty. Removing a box of cigars from his coat, he passed the time puffing contentedly and contemplating the gasworks through a trail of rising smoke. Perhaps, on account of his elated state, these bleak edifices no longer looked ugly. They appeared romantic—like the dolmen tombs of mythic warriors, or the watchtowers of Valhalla.
Meta was the first to return. She immediately apologized—for no obvious reason—and ushered Rheinhardt through the door. The cramped living space was just as he remembered it: shadowy and claustrophobic. After offering him a chair, she began making tea.
“Your husband left a message—you wanted to see me?”
“Yes,” said Meta. “It's about Thomas's things.”
“Things?”
“His possessions.… We received a parcel from the school, yesterday morning.” She paused, and struggled to control a sudden swell of grief that made her chest heave. “His clothes, a little money… his schoolwork and some books. But something was missing. His dictionary.”
Meta came to the table and placed a cracked cup in front of the inspector. He thanked her, and indicated that she should continue.
“It was very expensive… Hartel and Jacobsen: bound in green leather, with gold lettering. Fanousek worked very hard to get the extra money we needed. We thought Thomas should have something like that—so that he wouldn't stand out so much. We thought the other boys would have such things.”
Meta sat down opposite Rheinhardt and searched his face for a response. He felt vaguely disappointed. His expectation had been that the Zelenkas would have something interesting to tell him— something that would help him solve the mystery of their son's premature demise. The loss of the boy's dictionary however valuable the book might have been, seemed rather trivial under the circumstances.
“Are you suggesting that it has been stolen?”
Meta shrugged. “We just want it back.”
Rheinhardt nodded. “I will make some inquiries.”
“Thank you, Inspector.”
His promise to make some inquiries was hollow, disingenuous. He might ask one or two questions, he supposed, but that was all.
Rheinhardt sipped his tea.
There was nothing more to say—and the silence became increasingly brittle. Yet the inspector was reluctant to leave. He did not want to depart under a pall of disappointment, feeling that his earlier high spirits had been dissipated and that he had wasted his time.
“You said that there were other things in the parcel. May I see them?”
“Yes,” said Meta. “Everything we received is in Thomas's room. I put the clothes in the chest—the other things are on top of it.”
She gestured toward the closed door. As before, she was disinclined to follow.
Rheinhardt entered the boy's room and was struck by its terrible stillness—more so than before. He recalled sitting in his parlor, listening to Therese playing the piano and Mitzi humming, he recalled contemplating the horror of being predeceased by one's own children, and as he recalled these things, he felt as if the back of his neck was being chilled by an icy exhalation. He turned around nervously, half expecting to see the Erlkönig.
The strange presentiment passed, and Rheinhardt was visited by a sad realization. Fanousek and Meta did not want Thomas's dictionary back in order to sell it. They wanted it back because it was Thomas's—and everything that Thomas had owned was here. This was all they had left of their son.
Rheinhardt knelt by the chest and began to flick through the boy's exercise books. The margins were filled with teachers’ comments— most were helpful, but a significant number were merely sarcastic. Beneath these exercise books was a much larger volume with hard cloth covers and thick yellow paper. It contained sketches: a vase, naked bodies in various Olympian poses, and a seated woman. They were not very accomplished works of art—the athletic figures in particular were flawed by errors of proportion. However, the seated woman was executed with just enough proficiency to suggest the distinctive lineaments of Frau Becker.
The next exercise book was full of numbers and algebraic equations. Throughout, the left page had been used for rough work and was a chaotic mess of scribbled operators and products. The opposite page, however, was much neater, showing, step by step, the precise method employed to calculate answers.
Something caught Rheinhardt's attention: a systematic regularity among the rough work—number pairs, arranged in neat columns of varying length. Rheinhardt had forgotten most of his school mathematics. Even so, he was reasonably confident that these pairings had nothing to do with Zelenka's calculations. Moreover, although some were in Zelenka's hand, most of them were in someone else's— someone whose numerals were much smaller. Inspection of the marginalia soon established that the additional number pairs had been produced by the mathematics master, Herr Sommer.
What did they mean?
Rheinhardt remembered that Liebermann—for reasons the young doctor had not cared to disclose—was of the opinion that Herr Sommer should be closely questioned. Liebermann's penchant for mystification was extremely irritating, but Rheinhardt could not suppress a smile, impressed as he was by his friend's perspicacity.
27
LIEBERMANN HAD SPENT MUCH of the afternoon conversing with a patient who had once been a distinguished jurist and who now suffered from dementia praecox. One of the symptoms of the old lawyer's illness was incontinence of speech. He had expounded upon a bizarre but entirely cohesive philosophical system that had been revealed to him—so he claimed—by an angelic being (ordinarily resident on Phobos, a satellite of the planet Mars). It was the jurist's intention to record this new doctrine in a volume that he maintained would one day become the scriptural foundation of a new religion.
The old lawyer's speech was ponderous, and after the first hour Liebermann's concentration began to falter. An image of Miss Lyd -gate insinuated itself into his mind, and, as was usually the case whenever he thought of the Englishwoman, he found himself wanting her company and conversation.
The jurist droned on, speaking of circles of influence, Platonic ideals, and the progress of souls; however, Liebermann had disengaged. The jurist's words carried no meaning and became nothing more than a soporific incantation.
Miss Lyd gate.
Amelia…
What an extraordinary woman she was. How different from all the other women he had met in his life. Liebermann thought of his adolescent infatuations, the dalliances of his university years—and Clara Weiss, to whom he had once been engaged: beautiful, amusing, and from a family much like his own. Yet he had not really enjoyed her company. Clara was too superficial, preoccupied as she was with fashion and society gossip. Unable to sustain a meaningful conversation, she was the very opposite of Amelia.
Liebermann whispered her name: the weak syncopation of the A followed by the subtle lilt of the last three syllables. The second of the four, he noticed, required him to bring his lips together—as in a kiss.
Amelia, Amelia…
How he wanted to see her, to sit with her in her modest parlor, breathing the subtly scented sweet must of old volumes, drinking tea, and listening to her precise and ever so slightly accented German. Something inside him, something profoundly deep, altered—an inner movement or shifting. The sensation was impossible to describe, but a memory came to his aid that captured—at least in part—the quality of his experience. Once, in the Tyrol, he had watched a great lake thawing. He had listened to the groaning sounds emanating from the frozen-solid surface—a doleful music reminiscent of human lamentation. Then, quite suddenly, the keening had been silenced by a thunderous crack. A jagged black rift had appeared, and two massive ice floes slowly drifted apart. This was how he felt now. As if something locked—something frozen—had suddenly been released.
It was a moment of revelation, every bit as mysterious as those described by the jurist.
He wanted to see Miss Lyd gate, not only because her conversation was stimulating, but also—more truthfully—because he was haunted. Yes, haunted! By the redness of her hair, the gleaming whiteness of her shoulders, the intensity of her pewter eyes, and the memory of her waist—held close—as they'd danced; by the precious rarity of her smile, the accidental touching of hands, and the ghostly imaginings that anticipate the transformation of sensual dreams into reality. In short, he wanted to see Miss Lyd gate because he was in love with her. He had never permitted himself to use that word before in relation to Miss Lyd gate, but as he did so now, he recognized that it possessed the authority of an indisputable diagnosis.
“Thank you,” said Liebermann, interrupting the jurist's disquisition. “Most interesting. We shall continue our discussion tomorrow.”
“But I have only just begun to explain the principle of equivalence,” protested the jurist.
“Indeed.”
“An essential teaching, particularly if you are to appreciate fully the moral implications of the principle of plurality.”
“Very true—I'm sure; however, regretfully, I really must draw our meeting to a close.”
Liebermann summoned a nurse and instructed her to escort the old jurist back to his bed. He returned to his office, where he made some perfunctory notes. Then, grabbing his new coat (another stylish astrakhan), he departed the hospital with long, purposeful strides.
Unexpectedly, the weather had become more clement. The air was warmer, and carried with it a foretaste of distant spring—the promise of renewal.
Liebermann felt elated, relieved of the onerous burden of pretence and self-deception. He would arrive at Amelia Lyd gate's door unencumbered by excuses or insincere justifications. It was not his intention to declare his love, but rather to initiate a process of change. His intercourse with Miss Lyd gate had always been formal. This was attributable, in part, to the Englishwoman's character (the famed reserve of that indomitable island race); but it was also due to their shared history, their past roles as doctor and patient, something of which had persisted well beyond the termination of Miss Lyd gate's treatment. If their relationship could be placed on a different footing, then perhaps there was hope.… She was a thoroughly undemonstrative person, yet he had reason to believe that honesty would now prevail. In the minutiae of her behavior, he had more than once observed—so he flattered himself—evidence of a burgeoning attachment. His love would be reciprocated! And if he was wrong? Well, so be it! At least, in Nietzsche's eternally recurring universe, the dissatisfaction, frustration, and pain arising from his inauthentic existence would be short-lived.
The young doctor had become so preoccupied by his racing thoughts that his journey through Alsergrund seemed to take no time at all. Suddenly, Frau Rubenstein's house reared up in front of him. He paused, collected himself, took a deep breath, and raised the knocker. Three decisive strikes announced his arrival.
What should I say to her?
On such occasions, it was usually Liebermann's custom to rehearse a speech of some kind—to decide upon a few ready phrases. But he had been too agitated to discipline his thoughts to this end, and he now found his head filled with a yawning emptiness.
He waited… and waited.
Perhaps… I shall invite her to the opera—or another ball?
More time passed—and he knocked again.
The door opened, and he drew back in surprise. It was not Miss Lyd gate's face that had appeared but the wrinkled visage of Frau Rubenstein.
“Herr Dr. Liebermann.”
“Frau Rubenstein.” He bowed and took her hand.
“I am afraid that Amelia is not here,” said the old woman. “She left about an hour ago.” After a slight pause, she added, “With a gentleman.” This addendum was colored by a frown and a note of disapproval.
“From the university?”
“No… no, I don't think so. His German wasn't very good.” Again, Frau Rubenstein hesitated before continuing. “And his English… There was something about it.… It sounded strange.”
But she never receives visitors, thought Liebermann. She never entertains.
“Was he a young gentleman?”
“Yes… about your age, I imagine.” The old woman's eyes narrowed. “Do you know him?”
Liebermann tried to conceal his unease with a smile.
“No.” He felt awkward—his arms seemed to stiffen in unnatural positions. “Did she say where they were going?”
“Yes,” Frau Rubenstein replied. “Café Segel.”
“I see. My apologies for disturbing you, Frau Rubenstein. When Miss Lyd gate returns, please tell her that I called. It was not a matter of”—his chest tightened—”importance.”
As he prepared to retreat, Liebermann noticed something odd about Frau Rubenstein's expression—a puckering of her lineaments indicative of concern. She seemed about to offer an afterthought, but instead shrank back into herself.
“Frau Rubenstein?” Liebermann enquired. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” said the old woman. “It's just…” Liebermann encouraged her to continue with a hand gesture. “Perhaps I am mistaken—but Amelia seemed… not herself.”
“Not herself?” Liebermann's soft repetition created a flat echo.
“A little upset, perhaps.”
Liebermann nodded. “Thank you. I will…” His sentence trailed off. What would he do? What could he do? “I am sure there is no cause for concern.”
He bid Frau Rubenstein good evening and set off down the road—his previously purposeful stride reduced now to a despondent shamble.
Miss Lyd gate's visitor was probably a foreign associate of her academic mentor, Landsteiner. In all likelihood, there was nothing to worry about. She had offered to show the gentleman a local coffeehouse, and he had agreed to the plan. Yet, as Liebermann made his way toward his apartment, he could not let the matter rest. He continued to ask himself questions, and in due course became increasingly uneasy. Why had Miss Lyd gate appeared upset? Frau Rubenstein was not confident in her judgment, but what if she was correct? What if Miss Lyd gate had left the house while distressed and in the company of a stranger?
Liebermann changed direction and headed off toward Café Segel.
His route took him across a busy thoroughfare where he dodged between carriages—and earned himself an imprecation from an angry driver. A tram rolled by, delaying him once again, before he reached the other side. Entering a warren of connected backstreets, he finally emerged opposite Café Segel—which occupied a whole corner.
Beneath a striped awning, tables and chairs had been placed outside. At one of these sat Miss Lyd gate, with a young man whose dress was somewhat irregular. The cut of his clothes was distinctly foreign—and the broad brim of his hat curled upward at the sides.
Miss Lyd gate was smiling at him. They were talking, intimately, with their heads bent forward. The man stood. He offered Miss Lyd gate his hand, which she took without hesitation. They were facing each other, and both remained curiously still—as if magically transfixed—staring with wonderment into each other's eyes. The man's arms rose and he embraced Miss Lyd gate, pulling her toward him—gathering her in, tenderly. He held her close, and planted kisses in the abundance of her hair. She offered no resistance: her surrender was voluntary—and total.
Liebermann raised the collar of his coat, turned away, and vanished into the shadows, reeling like a drunkard, inebriated by the potency of his own emotions—a heady concoction of disappointment, jealousy, and rage.
28
BERNHARD BECKER HELD HIS GLASS up to the light and stared into the vortex of dissolving crystals. Through the cloudy elixir, he could see the book-lined walls of his study. The entire room seemed to expand and contract in synchrony with his thumping heart. He threw his head back and poured the liquid down his throat, wincing at the astringency of the alcohol. Numbness spread around his mouth and lips.
He found himself thinking of something his wife had said about the young doctor, the one who had accompanied Rheinhardt a few days earlier.
Tall, handsome—with kind eyes. Yes, that was how she had described him.…
Becker experienced a flash of anger.
They had knowingly visited his wife behind his back. It was completely unacceptable.
Dishonest, improper, disrespectful!
And why had they asked Leopoldine about her dreams? Why did they want to know about her dreams!
Becker pressed his thumbs against his temples and made small circular movements with them.
His wife had been wearing her lace blouse, the one with the flesh-colored silk lining. He had told her more than once that he did not like this item of clothing—that it did not suit her. In fact, he thought it vulgar, cheap, and immodest. But he could hardly say so (she was oversensitive about such things, quick to take offense). It was typical, absolutely typical, that Leopoldine should have been wearing that blouse on the very day when Inspector Rheinhardt chose to call, with his tall, handsome colleague.
Becker was seized by the “urge” again—its arrival attended by a vague sense of guilt. A part of his mind, a very small part (no more than a token gossamer conscience) resisted—raising a faintly articulated objection. However, this inner voice of reason was soon silenced by a tidal flood of emotions: hurt, fury, and, most of all, burning, insatiable curiosity. He left his study and tiptoed across the landing, positioning himself next to the banisters. He leaned over the polished wooden handrail, listening intently. The distinctive whisper of a turning page informed him of the whereabouts of his wife. She was sitting in the parlor, reading one of her inane romantic novels. He nodded to himself, emitted a soft grunt of approval, and crossed the landing, before quietly turning the handle of their bedroom door. Once inside, he lit three paraffin lamps.
Becker paused and looked at Leopoldine s dressing table. The surface was littered with circular baskets overflowing with ribbons and hairpins, an assortment of brushes, and numerous unguents and perfumes. A gauzy nightgown was draped over the oval mirror—and an item of underwear had been discarded on the floor.
The word “slattern,” declaimed with biblical authority, sounded in Becker's head. He picked up the drawers—and tested the sensuous viscosity of the material with the tips of his fingers. His body trembled with desire and resentment. Throwing the garment aside, he edged toward the bed. He glanced once at the door—anxious not to be discovered. It reminded him of his adolescence, the perpetual stealing away, the fearful intensity of his need—and his immoderate indulgence in the solitary vice.…
Was it true? he wondered. What the doctors said about self-pollution? Did it really unhinge the mind?
Breathing heavily he reached for the eiderdown and ripped it back. Then, grabbing a paraffin lamp, he held it over the bedsheet and examined the stretched, taut linen with forensic scrupulosity. He pressed his nose into the fabric and sniffed, with fevered canine excitement.
Nothing different. Nothing strange. Only a familiar muskiness, the barely perceptible olfactory signature of their connubial mattress.
Becker walked around the bed, still swinging the lamp close to the white sheet, his eyes performing watchful oscillations. No traces. Thank God. No traces.
He felt relieved, and his shoulders relaxed. But his reprieve was short-lived. At once, he realized his error. Reaching down, he ran his hand across the crisp sheet. It had only recently been changed. Of course there would be no traces on this sheet!
He pulled at the tapering points of his beard: he noticed that his hand was trembling. In his head, he could hear the marrowless voice of his insubstantial conscience: this is madness. This is madness. Becker silenced it with a clenched fist, brought violently against his heart.
29
“OUTRAGEOUS,” SAID EICHMANN. “Absolutely outrageous! It's shocking that Austerlitz should have consented to printing it. But I suppose it's what we have come to expect from the Arbeiter-Zeitung… always trying to stir up dissent. They call themselves socialists but really they're just troublemakers!”
The headmaster shook his head with such violence that the artfully placed strands of hair raked across his crown were unsettled, revealing the baldness beneath.
“Do you remember Domokos Pikler?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Of course I do… a strange, solitary boy. Hungarian. And wouldn't you know it! They say that Hungarians are a melancholic race—have you heard that?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Pikler was a typical Magyar. I don't think I ever saw him smile. He killed himself, Inspector. He killed himself because he was afflicted with a profound constitutional melancholy.”
“What about this punishment? ‘Doing the night watch?’ “
“I've never heard of it. The product of a fevered imagination, as were the author's other wild—and frankly ludicrous—allegations.”
“Do you have any idea who this Herr G. might be?”
“No. Pikler's death was almost ten years ago. Long enough for me to forget which pupils were here at that time. I could go through the old registers, if you wish? Seeing the names of former pupils sometimes jogs my memory.”
“I saw Frau Becker recently” said Rheinhardt. “On Saturday, in fact.” The headmaster raised his eyebrows, inquisitively. “She is of the opinion,” Rheinhardt continued, “that Thomas Zelenka was bullied—and that such behavior is commonplace at Saint Florian's.”
“Yes… Frau Becker,” said Eichmann, leaning back in his chair and smiling. “Well, if I may be blunt, Inspector, you shouldn't treat anything she says too seriously.” He then adopted a more complicit tone of voice. “I trust you are a discreet man, Inspector? This is a delicate matter, and I would be mortified if my deputy were to discover that I had been less than complimentary about his wife.”
Rheinhardt nodded.
“In spite of her…” Eichmann searched for a word that might serve as a diplomatic substitute for the several pejoratives that had obviously just occurred to him. But, failing, he was forced to declare, “In spite of everything about her”—when he said the word ‘everything,’ he traced an annulus in the air, implying some vague and disagreeable totality—”my dear wife, Ursula, did all that she could to welcome Frau Becker into our small but vitally important community of masters’ wives. However, it was soon evident that Frau Becker did not enjoy the company of her peers. She found Ursula and the other wives… old-fashioned. The girl means well—I have no doubt—but her attitude to the boys was hopelessly naïve. She would have believed anything Zelenka told her—and would have lavished sympathy when a reprimand for disloyalty or unmanly conduct would have been much more appropriate.”
This last sentence was said with an air of finality. Eichmann picked up a little bell on his desk and rang it loudly. The door opened and Albert entered.
“Permission to report—ready to escort the inspector, sir.”
“Thank you, Albert,” said the headmaster. Eichmann then turned to Rheinhardt and said: “I am sorry to say that—once again—you will be unable to interview Herr Sommer. He has still not recovered from his accident.”
“I see,” said Rheinhardt.
“Even so, Herr Sommer has written to me, and I understand that he intends to return by the end of the week.” The headmaster reached for a sheet of paper on which were listed several names. “Now… the boys you wished to interview. They are all waiting upstairs. I must confess to being more than a little intrigued by this request—and I wonder why, exactly, you believe that these particular pupils will be able to assist you with your investigation?”
Rheinhardt did not respond.
The headmaster continued, “But of course, I understand that it is not for me to question your methods.”
Rheinhardt rose from his seat, bowed, and joined Albert by the door.
“Inspector?” Eichmann called out. Rheinhardt stopped and turned to face the headmaster. “How long do you intend to continue this investigation? Another week? Another month?”
Rheinhardt shrugged. “Until I am satisfied.”
Eichmann was clearly irritated by Rheinhardt's abstruse answer. Dispensing with any further courtesies, he dropped his gaze, signaling that the audience was now over.
Rheinhardt set off with his guide. The old soldier chose an extremely convoluted route—descending a floor before rising two floors in a different part of the building. Eventually, they began to ascend a familiar-looking staircase that disgorged them in front of the disused classrooms. Rheinhardt could hear youthful voices emanating from one of the half-open doors. He looked in and saw a dozen boys lounging around in an atmosphere of relaxed, carefree disregard. Some were leaning back on chairs with their feet up, others were playing cards; two were arm wrestling, and a few others were standing suspiciously by an open window. Although none of the boys were smoking, the air was hazy and smelled of tobacco. As soon as they noticed the inspector, they all fell silent, put on their shakos, and stood to attention.
“At ease,” said Rheinhardt, amused by their reaction.
He introduced himself and explained that he wished to speak to them individually and that in due course he would summon them one at a time. Then, instructing Albert to sit in the corridor (where the old veteran would no doubt fall asleep), he entered the same classroom that he had made use of on his previous visits. Settling himself at the teacher's table, he took out his notebook and examined his list of names, all of which were associated—to a greater or lesser extent—with the idea of hunting or predation.
Jäger, Fuchs, Falke, Wolf…
Prior to that moment, Rheinhardt had been excited by the prospect of conducting these interviews. Yet, now that he was sitting there, about to proceed, he felt a certain uneasiness that shaded into despondency. The boys next door had all been selected because of Isidor Perger's responses to Liebermann's inkblots. The young doctor's rationale had sounded very persuasive at the time—his vocabulary carrying with it the imprimatur of scientific authority: projection, involuntary imagination, the unconscious. All very impressive; however, in the absence of Liebermann's advocacy, the whole enterprise seemed less certain, its suppositions wanting, the outcome more uncertain. Thus, when Rheinhardt went to call the first boy, he was feeling far from optimistic and, perhaps, faintly ridiculous.
Rheinhardt s despondency deepened over the course of the first four interviews. The two Fuchses on his list—Ferdinand and Lear— were big, gangly, amiable fellows. They were respectful, quick to smile, and completely devoid of vulpine cunning. Penrod Falke turned out to be a rather small, and frankly effeminate, first-year student, and Moritz Jäger was an unlikely persecutor of scholarship boys—being one himself. None of them had known Zelenka very well, all denied the existence of bullying at Saint Florian's, and all shook their heads—apparently mystified—when Rheinhardt asked them about “doing the night watch.”
The fifth boy, Kiefer Wolf, was quite different.
At first he behaved impeccably, but very soon he began to show signs of boredom and impatience—he sighed, toyed with his sabre, and looked around the room in a distracted fashion.
“Did you know Thomas Zelenka?”
“No.”
“You must have spoken to him.”
“No—I don't think so.”
“But he was in your year.”
“There are many people in my year whom I don't speak to.”
“Why's that?”
“I don't know. I just don't.”
“Perhaps there is something about them?”
“Possibly.”
“Perhaps you feel that you have nothing in common?”
“Perhaps.”
“That they do not come from very good families?”
“Their origins are of no consequence to me.”
“Then why don't you speak to them?”
“One cannot be familiar with everyone.”
“You don't dislike them, then?”
“Dislike them? I am indifferent to them.…”
There was nothing particularly incriminating about the boy's answers, except a general evasiveness; however, his facial expressions were becoming increasingly provocative. An ugly smirk occasionally disturbed the neutrality of his thin mouth, and his declarations of ignorance were delivered in a tone rich with sarcasm. It was an accomplished performance, in which tacit mockery never quite amounted to insult—but came very close.
The boys who were still waiting in the next room had been getting progressively louder. Rheinhardt could hear squeals of delight, the sound of scraping chairs, and running. They seemed to be playing a game of some kind. Strange, thought Rheinhardt, that those same young men (who only an hour before had been smoking and playing cards like hardened campaigners) were now enjoying the infantile pleasures of tag. Such was the peculiarity of their age.
Wolf raised his hand to his mouth as if politely covering a yawn— but his steady gaze and relaxed neck muscles showed that the gesture was pure artifice.
“Are you tired?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Yes,” Wolf replied, without inflection. “We were practicing drill—at sunrise.”
The boy smiled.
Rheinhardt watched the bloodless lips curl, and, as they twisted, he observed in their convolution, in their counterfeit charm, something unsettling.
Policeman's intuition…
He had trusted his instincts before, and he must trust them again.
This was not an ordinary smile. This was a cruel smile, a malignant smile. This was the smile of a sadist.
“You tortured Zelenka, didn't you?” said Rheinhardt softly. “You and your friends. You held that poor boy down, and you cut him.”
A peal of good-humored laughter sounded through the walls.
Wolf's smile did not vanish—if anything, it intensified.
“That is a very serious allegation,” he said calmly.
“I know,” said Rheinhardt.
“The kind of allegation,” Wolf continued, “that one should make only when one has sufficient evidence. And I know for a fact, Inspector, that you have nothing of the kind.”
Rheinhardt was unnerved by the boy's confidence. By his steady, silky delivery.
“My uncle,” added Wolf, “will be most aggrieved when he hears about your conduct.”
“Your uncle?”
“Yes. My uncle Manfred.”
“What has your uncle got to do with this?”
“A great deal.” Wolf's lips parted, showing his even teeth. “He is not only my uncle but your superior. He runs the security office: He is Commissioner Manfred Brügel.”
30
LIEBERMANN SAT, HIS CLENCHED FIST against his cheek, his forefinger extended, tapping his temple, while the old jurist again discoursed at length on the principle of plurality as revealed to him by the angelic being from Phobos. But the young doctor was not really listening. His mind was wholly occupied by the events of the preceding evening. A monochrome re-creation of Miss Lyd gate repeatedly surrendering herself to the mysterious stranger's embrace flickered in his head like the moving images of a kinetoscope. This harrowing, cruel coup de théâtre was accompanied by an interminable torrent of inner speech: Why didn't she tell me about him? Why should she? She was not obliged to tell you anything! Her private life is no concern of yours.… But she must have known that I… that I… You were indecisive—you dithered and procrastinated. Unforgivable. And so it continued throughout the morning—an endless stream of questions, remorse, and self-recrimination.
After the old jurist, Liebermann saw a young woman with a pathological fear of spiders, a civil servant who derived pleasure from dressing in his wife's clothing, and an utterly miserable “comic” actor. The peculiar and ironic condition of the latter would ordinarily have piqued his interest, but Liebermann was completely unable to focus on what the man was saying. Eventually, the young doctor was forced to concede defeat. There was no point in proceeding—he was in no fit state to practice. He fabricated an excuse that would account for his absence, and retired to a nondescript coffeehouse located behind the hospital.
On entering the establishment, he felt somewhat ashamed of his white lie—particularly so on observing that all the other patrons were absconding medical students trying to recover after a night of excessive drinking.
Liebermann stirred his schwarzer and sank into a state of ruminative abstraction. In the play of light on the surface of his coffee he saw—once again—a trembling suggestion of Miss Lyd gate falling into the arms of her lover.
Although the notion was unjustified, Liebermann could not rid himself of the feeling that he had been deceived, and the longer he sat, ordering schwarzers, smoking Trabuco cheroots, and thinking, thinking, thinking, the less unreasonable his position seemed. Miss Lyd gate had given him the impression that she was a bookish intellectual: refined, elevated, untroubled by baser instincts, with little or no interest in gentlemen. The young doctor tapped his cigar, and a long cylinder of fragile ash dropped onto the tabletop, creating a star-burst of white ash. How could he, the most astute judge of character, have been so wrong! (Like all psychiatrists, he had immense difficulty grasping the fundamental truth that self-understanding is considerably more problematic than understanding others.)
A dark thought, like a black storm cloud, rolled over the flat horizon of his consciousness. Miss Lyd gate had once suffered from hysteria… and he had treated her. He remembered something that Professor Gruner, the former head of department, had said to him— a warning that he had instantly dismissed: As we all know, the female hysteric is cunning, malicious, and histrionic. She is a consummate seductress. The credulous physician is easy prey.
At the time, Liebermann had considered Gruner an old fool: unsympathetic, misogynistic, and an advocate of barbaric electrical treatments. Yet now, as Liebermann sank deeper and deeper into a quagmire of unhappy, bitter confusion, he found himself reviewing his opinion.
“No,” he said, quite suddenly—surprised and embarrassed to discover that he had spoken the word aloud. An unshaven medical student sitting at the next table raised his head and looked around the room with bleary bloodshot eyes.
I cannot blame her! I cannot think this way!
Annoyed at his own weakness, annoyed at his willingness to entertain a pernicious, morally bankrupt account of hysterical illness, annoyed at the ease with which he had condemned Miss Lyd gate (just like the patriarchal women-hating psychiatrists he most despised), Liebermann sprang up from his chair. He tossed some coins onto the table and departed the coffeehouse, eager to put his unsavory descent into self-pity and despair behind him.
Liebermann walked back to the hospital at a brisk pace. He went directly to his office, where he applied himself to revising the wholly inadequate patient notes he had made earlier.
There was a knock on the door.
“Enter,” Liebermann called out.
A man appeared, wearing a smart uniform with orange and gold piping, two rows of buttons bearing relief eagles, and a green hooded cloak. The splendor of his appearance (which revealed the typically Viennese fondness for civic grandeur) vastly inflated the importance of his station and function.
“Herr Dr. Liebermann?” he asked, breathlessly.
“Yes.”
The telegraph messenger handed Liebermann an envelope and retreated a few steps. He lingered in the doorway. Liebermann dug deep into his pockets but could find the makings of only a sorry tip, having disposed of most of his change in the coffeehouse.
Liebermann opened the envelope and found a note inside, written in an elegant, looping hand.
Dear Dr. Liebermann,
I trust this note will discover your whereabouts—as I have had to improvise your address. We did not speak of music, but I have a strong feeling that it is important to you—that you possess a musical soul. This evening, I will be performing a selection of Tartini's works for violin.
(
A ticket is enclosed.) I very much hope that you will come. Please accept my apologies for giving such short notice.
Once again, thank you for your most timely assistance.
With fond greetings,
Trezska Novak
So that's why she's in Vienna! She's a violinist!
Liebermann raised the note and passed it under his nose. He recognized the woman's perfume: the upper register, a combination of clementine and mimosa, the lower, white amber and musk.
“Trezska Novak.” He said her name out loud, affecting a Hungarian accent. It tripped off his tongue with a jaunty dance rhythm. For the first time that day he smiled. Not a great, radiant smile, but a smile nevertheless.
31
ON LEAVING THE HOSPITAL, Liebermann walked to Café Landtmann, where he ordered a large plate of Wiener schnitzel followed by two slices of topfenstollen. His appetite, which had been notably absent, had suddenly returned. As his fork sliced through the crumbly pastry, the fragrance of lemon zest, cinnamon, and rum intensified. He relished the sharp flavors, which seemed to revive all his senses: the world became more vivid.
By seven o'clock he was on a tram, which took him to the nearby seventh district. He soon found the small concert venue where Trezska was playing. Examining the billboard, he discovered that she was sharing the platform with two other musicians: a pianist, József Kál-man, and a cellist called Bertalan Szép. The concert seemed to be part of a cultural initiative and was sponsored by Árpád Arts, a charitable foundation promoting young musicians from Hungary.
Liebermann entered the building, deposited his coat in the cloakroom, and purchased a program. He loitered in the foyer for a few minutes and studied the audience. They were entirely unremarkable, although there were more Hungarians present than might ordinarily have been expected. Capturing an usher's attention, he was guided to a central seat in the fourth row. The auditorium was already quite full, and an obese woman, wearing a feather boa and a floral hat, scowled at him when she had to stand up to let him pass.
As he settled down, Liebermann noticed a group of men advancing up the side aisle. They were dressed in elegant black suits and looked, so Liebermann thought, like representatives of the charitable foundation. One of them sported an award of civil merit: a large cross, hanging from a violet and green ribbon—the Royal Hungarian Order of Saint Stephen. Among their number, Liebermann was surprised to glimpse the white tunic and gold sash of an Austrian general. He did not get a very clear view of the man, but he saw that he was carrying a bouquet of flowers. The dignitaries took their seats— all in the front row—and almost immediately the lights dimmed.
A door at the back of the stage opened, and József Kálman—a thin, sallow man with sunken eyes—marched to the piano. He played some fanciful pieces by Karl Goldmark and a selection of mazurkas, nocturnes, and ballades by Stephen Heller. Liebermann judged Kálman to be technically proficient, but his interpretations were far too literal. Be that as it may, the audience was determined to praise the young artist, and responded with vigorous applause and hearty cries of “Bravo! Bravo!”
The cellist, Bertalan Szép—a stout fellow with comically horripi-lated hair—was an altogether more accomplished performer. He produced an excellent account of Bach's Suite Number Six in D major, managing to make the melancholy voice of his instrument sing with joy. He continued his recital with an amusing transcription of an orchestral interlude by a Russian composer, titled The Flight of the Bumblebee—the conceit of the piece being that its curious chromatic melody emulated precisely the frantic buzzing of the busy insect. When Szép took his bow, Liebermann was pleased to bring his hands together with genuine enthusiasm.
Contemplating the vacant platform, Liebermann found that he was peculiarly excited by the prospect of seeing Trezska Novak again. He began to wonder if his recollection of her was accurate: the full mouth, the strong nose, and those striking eyebrows. She had seemed very beautiful—at the time—but they had met under exceptional circumstances. Perhaps his heightened state of emotion had affected his perception of her. He was hoping—rather anxiously— that his memory had not deceived him, and that the woman who was about to occupy the stage would prove to be an exact copy of the woman he had rescued in Landstrasse.
The door at the rear of the stage opened and Trezska Novak materialized out of the shadows. Liebermann was not disappointed. Indeed, so arresting was her appearance that the audience produced an appreciative soughing that preceded their applause. She was wearing a black satin dress, and her hair fell in thick lustrous locks around her shoulders. Above her heart, she had pinned a brooch—shaped like a horned moon—which burned with a fiery white adamantine light. Her expression was serious and purposeful. She curtsied, gripped the violin beneath her chin, and waited for the clapping to subside. Then, closing her eyes, she drew her bow across the strings.
A strange, improvisatory scraping filled the hall: the opening bars of Tartini's G-minor sonata, more popularly known as The Devil's Trill (on account of the composer's insistence that it was revealed to him by Satan in a dream). The melody was serpentine, sinister, and creeping, occasionally finding a major key and offering the listener hope, only to dash it again by twisting back into a tonal wasteland of eerie ambiguities.
Liebermann had heard The Devil's Trill performed once before, at the Saal Ehrbar, but it had not affected him so deeply. In that concert, the work had been performed with a piano accompaniment, which had only diminished the music's power. The lone voice of the violin was more haunting, more mysterious—imbued with a raw, chilling urgency.
Of course, thought Liebermann. When the devil played to Tartini, he played alone!
Trezska did not open her eyes, but communed with her violin, swaying and rolling from side to side. The demonic obliquity of her eyebrows and the rapture of her playing stirred in Liebermann memories of Faust: a capricious notion that this woman might once have gambled with her soul in exchange for greater mastery of her instrument. The sheer spectacle of her performance charmed the audience into forgiving any technical deficiencies. She was like a magician, artfully misleading by means of a carefully choreographed danse macabre.
The conservative second movement was followed by the opening bars of the third, a fortissimo howl that might have escaped from the mouth of a doomed Florentine in Dante's hell. Jerking rhythms led to fluid accelerandi and savage down-bowed chords. Then the famous trills: frenzied, dizzying, convulsive, becoming louder and louder— climbing in pitch and volume. Trezska leaned backward, and her tresses tumbled off her shoulders. Her eyes opened. In the sulfurous gaslight they appeared incandescent with infernal rage. When the music finally reached its arpeggiated dissolution into nothingness, almost everyone listening had been persuaded that this extraordinary composition was, indeed, the devil's handiwork.
Trezska completed her recital with a less dramatic piece: Tartini's Pastorale for violin in scordatura. Gradually, its gentle rusticity and bucolic breeziness dispelled the stench of brimstone, and visions of eternal torment were replaced by idyllic vales, drones, pipes, and slumbering shepherds.
When the final notes had faded and Trezska had removed the violin from beneath her chin, the audience responded with noisy delight. Several of the dignitaries in the front row jumped to their feet—and others seated behind copied them, clapping and cheering. Through the mass of bodies, Liebermann caught a glimpse of white and gold— and saw Trezska bend to take the bunch of flowers from the Austrian general.
After collecting his coat from the cloakroom, Liebermann left the hall and set off toward the Ringstrasse. He passed a Bosnian hawker, in crimson fez and pointed slippers, who attempted to sell him a kettle and an inlaid snuffbox. The sound of Tartini's diabolical trills still persisted in the young doctor's mind. They had acquired a siren-like quality, exerting a subtle tractive power that slowed his step. Moreover, he had begun to question the propriety of his precipitate departure. Trezska Novak had sent him a personal invitation. Surely it was discourteous to leave without congratulating her. This simple point of etiquette was frequently observed in musical circles, was it not? Such were his justifications.
Liebermann stopped, turned around, and made his way back to the concert hall, slipping down a side alley that led to the artists’ entrance. He rapped on the door, which was opened by a porter. Jangling some loose change in his pocket, he asked the functionary to convey his compliments to Fräulein Novak. Some silver coins changed hands and the porter disappeared. A few minutes later the door reopened and Liebermann was admitted into a narrow corridor. A few gentlemen were standing at the far end: one of them was Bertalan Szép. He was smoking a cigar, and his arm was casually slung around the shoulders of his cello case. The porter indicated Trezska's dressing room.
A gentle tap on the paneling produced an invitation to enter.
Trezska was seated in front of a large mirror.
“How good of you to come.”
“It was my pleasure.”
She did not stand to greet her visitor but remained perfectly still, conversing with Liebermann's reflection.
“I like to sit quietly after a concert.” She smiled softly. “I find it… necessary.”
“Yes. One needs to recover after expending so much emotional energy—and the pieces looked physically taxing, too. It was a very impressive performance: I have never heard the great G-minor sonata played unaccompanied before.”
Something like a shadow passed across Trezska's face. “I was pleased—although some would say that I took liberties with the andante… and the allegro was somewhat uninspired, don't you think?”
Liebermann understood that a musician of her quality was not seeking a blithe denial.
“The problem lies—at least in part—with the composition itself. The allegro is musically inferior. Even so… I enjoyed it immensely.”
“You are fond of music,” said Trezska, her gaze becoming more penetrating. “I was right—wasn't I?”
“Yes.”
“What is your instrument?”
“The piano.”
Trezska looked satisfied, almost smug, and without uttering a single word managed to communicate something like: Yes, of course you're a pianist—how could you be anything else?”
Now that he was close to her, Liebermann noticed that Trezska's cheek was still a little swollen. She had used make-up to disguise her injury.
“How is your graze?”
“Sore… but getting better.”
“Good.”
There was a knock on the door, followed by the appearance of Szép. He acknowledged Liebermann with a bow, and said to Trezska: “We are off to Csarda.… Kiss is coming. Count Dohnányi and his guest will be joining us later.”
Liebermann noticed that Trezska's eyes flicked toward the bunch of flowers she had been given, now laid on top of her dressing table.
She shook her head.
“I'm going home,” said Trezska. “Tell Kiss to get me a cab.”
“Going home?” said Szép, evidently surprised.
Trezska touched her head. The gesture was languid and affected, like that of an operatic diva.
“A headache,” she said, with unconvincing indifference. “Please tell the count that I am sorry—I know he will be disappointed.”
“Very well,” said Szép. He shrugged, and left the room.
Trezska's gaze met with Liebermann's reflection again, and her cunning smile invited him to acknowledge the insincerity of her exchange with Szép. She stood up, her dress rustling, and turned to face him. For the first time that evening they looked at each other directly. Her expression changed, switching from mischievous complicity to something more serious. Liebermann stepped forward and took her hand in his. He kissed her long delicate fingers, on which he detected the distinctive fragrance of her perfume: the clementine was particularly sweet.
“Forgive my presumption, but I would…” Liebermann hesitated before continuing his sentence. “I would very much like to see you again.”
32
“WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME?”
Wolf punched Perger as hard as he could. His knuckles sank into the soft area of the lower back, just to the right of the spinal column. The boy cried out in agony—and Wolf punched him again. The force of the second blow pushed the boy forward, and he fell to his knees. Wolf's hand closed around his victim's mouth.
“Just shut up! Not another sound. Ask me again—and I swear I'll… I'll…” Nothing came to mind, and once again Wolf resorted to violence. He brought his knee up into the space between Perger's shoulder blades, which produced simultaneously a sharp crack and a sickening dull thud.
“Now get up!” Wolf grabbed Perger's collar and pulled him to his feet. “And keep going.”
They followed the landing until they reached the pitch-black space beneath an ascending staircase. Wolf pushed Perger away and crouched down, feeling for the ridge of the trapdoor.
“Wait here. If you try to run away you'll regret it. Do you understand?” Perger didn't reply. “Do you understand?” repeated Wolf, emphatically.
“Y-y-yes,” stuttered Perger.
Wolf lowered himself into the lost room, lit the paraffin lamp, and hung it on the nearest beam.
“Perger?”
A terrified face appeared in the square aperture.
“Get down here—No. Not like that, you fool. Sit on the edge and push yourself off.”
The younger boy dropped onto the crate but immediately lost his balance and toppled off. He did not attempt to get up but remained very still, sprawled out on the floor.
“You clumsy idiot.”
Wolf trod on Pergers buttocks, using the springiness of the flesh to add lift to his step. He got back onto the crate, reached upward, and pulled the trapdoor closed.
“Now… get up.”
Perger tried to stand, but before he could get to his feet, Wolf jumped off the crate and delivered a kick to his ribs. Perger rolled over, groaning.
“I said, get up.”
Perger looked at his tormentor, his eyes wide with fear.
“W-W-Wolf… I can't get up. I c-c-can't—not if you won't let me.”
“I swear to God, Perger…”
The boy scrambled to his feet while Wolf strolled over to the suitcase and rummaged through the contents. He returned, smoking a cigarette.
“Stand beneath the lamp.”
The boy obeyed, and Wolf slumped back in the old wicker chair. He said nothing, but simply watched—and smoked. The thin line of his mouth and the enamel glaze of his stare betrayed no emotion. Only the sound of Perger's heavy breathing broke the cruel and protracted silence.
“Take your clothes off.”
“W-what?”
“You heard.”
Wolf leaped up and jabbed the burning end of his cigarette at Perger's face. The younger boy jerked back to avoid contact and immediately began to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. When he had finished, he stood naked, his body trembling and his gaze lowered to the floor.
Returning to the wicker chair, Wolf sat down and stubbed out his cigarette beneath the heel of his boot. Without pause, he lit another and resumed his relaxed but attentive attitude. The point at which his foot had made contact with Perger's chest was now marked on the boy's skin by a red circle, which promised to mature into a livid bruise. Wolf found the injury curiously satisfying—not merely because it represented the exercise of power, the making of his own morality, but also because of an elusive aesthetic quality. The expected transformation of hue (through scarlet, yellow, purple, and black) was comparable, in Wolf's estimation, to the seasonal transformation of leaves between summer and autumn—only more exciting. Why did poets make so much of one but not the other? A thought came into his mind, an abridgement of the aphorism from Beyond Good and Evil that had made such a deep impression on him: Perhaps there are no phenomena, only interpretations of phenomena.
Wolf sucked on his cigarette and blew out a steady stream of smoke.
“What did you tell him?” he asked.
Perger looked up, his features blending confusion with fear.
“Who?”
“The fat policeman—the detective.”
Perger shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Oh, but you did,” said Wolf. “I know you did.”
“I didn't,” cried Perger. “I didn't tell him anything… not the first time. I didn't say a thing. And the s-s-second time, he came with a doctor…. He played chess with me—and showed me p-p-patterns… inkblots… and asked me what I could see in them… and he asked me about the bakery… and t-t-ticks… and… and…”
“Enough,” shouted Wolf, stamping his foot. “Talk sense! You're gibbering like a lunatic!”
Perger emitted an odd whimpering sound, and pulled frantically at his short hair.
“I didn't s-s-say anything, Wolf. I swear… I swear on my mother's life.”
“Ha!” said Wolf. “Swearing on the life of a Galician whore is hardly a warrant of honor. That won't save you.”
“I s-s-swear… I didn't say anything.”
“Then why did the fat policeman want to speak to me—after he had spoken to you?”
“He didn't speak to me. It was the doctor. He spoke to me, but about chess, and his seeing game.… He showed me p-p-patterns, inkblots, and asked me if I could see anything in them… and he asked me about Zelenka.… I said Thomas was my friend, and that Thomas liked Frau Becker… but nothing else.”
“That's it. I've had quite enough of your slippery answers, Perger!”
Wolf flicked his cigarette across the floor. It rolled away, trailing orange sparks. Then he stood up and marched over to his victim. He was carrying a revolver. The younger boy cringed as Wolf pressed the gun's barrel against his temple.
“What… did… you… say?”
Wolf pronounced each word emphatically, and underscored each syllable by pushing the gun hard against Perger s head.
“I don't think you understand the gravity of your situation,” said Wolf. Then, letting his tongue moisten his upper lip, he added: “Kneel.” He angled the revolver so that it exerted a downward pressure, and pushed Perger to his knees.
“Please… I beg you,” sobbed Perger. “I'll do anything… anything you want.… Please don't kill me.”
The thrill of prepotency coursed through Wolf's veins, swelling his heart and galvanizing his loins.
I'll do anything… anything you want.
Wolf stared down the length of Perger's back, at the pale, unblemished planes of skin sloping away and curving out of sight. His gaze followed the descending vertebrae, and lingered on Perger's tense calf muscles. The soles of the boy's small feet were slightly wrinkled. To his great embarrassment, Wolf found that it was not only his victim who was shaking—he himself had begun to shake too.
“I know what you used to do for Zelenka,” he said softly. “He told me. And now… now you'll do it for me.”
With his free hand, Wolf began to loosen his belt.
33
THE CARRIAGE TURNED OFF the Schottenring at the university and rattled down a long road that took them through the ninth and seventeenth districts.
“Herr G's article in the Arbeiter-Zeitung,” said Rheinhardt, “came to the attention of one of the aides in the education department. He wanted to make sure that if His Majesty got to hear about it, Minister Rellstab could inform him that something was being done, that the matter was being properly dealt with. Brügel—with typical bad grace—performed a volte-face, and I was told, somewhat obliquely, to resume the investigation.”
Liebermann polished his fingernails on his coat sleeve and examined them closely.
“How did Eichmann react when you questioned him?”
“He said that it was all nonsense: that Pikler suffered from constitutional melancholy and had obviously killed himself, that he had never heard of the ‘night watch’… and he said these things with absolute conviction. He didn't look like a worried man—someone trying to keep secrets.”
“Are you trying to discover who ‘Herr G.’ is?”
“I've assigned Haussmann to the task.” Rheinhardt squeezed one of the horns of his mustache and checked the revived point for sharpness with his forefinger. “I also asked Eichmann about Frau Becker.”
Liebermann looked up, his eyebrows elevated in interest.
“He described her,” Rheinhardt continued, “as gullible, naïve, and indulgent—inclined to believe the claims of any boy seeking attention and sympathy. In addition, she seems to have made little or no effort to be accepted by the headmaster's wife and her circle. Indeed, I suspect that Frau Becker might have been quite outspoken— openly criticizing the school and Frau Eichmann's opinions.”
The carriage halted in order to let some traffic pass at a crossroads. Looking out of the window, Liebermann observed a Coptic priest standing on a corner. He had a long black beard and was wearing a mitre. A purple waist band was wrapped around his long dark green cassock. The driver cracked his whip, and the priest slowly slipped from view.
“Later the same day,” Rheinhardt continued, “I interviewed some of the schoolboys. You know, the ones who had names suggestive of hunting and predation.”
“And… ?”
“Well, I must be candid with you, Max. At first, I had my doubts. That test of yours, the inkblots you showed Perger… The entire enterprise seemed very fanciful.” Rheinhardt reached into his pocket and produced a small box of slim cigars. He offered one to his friend, which Liebermann took. “And to make things worse,” he continued, “the first few boys were amiable, good-natured, harmless fellows.” Rheinhardt struck a vesta and lit Liebermann's cigar, and then his own. “However…” Rheinhardt leaned back and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I then questioned a boy called Kiefer Wolf and… well, there was definitely something about him.”
“What do you mean, ‘something’?”
“He was insolent, rude, supercilious… but that wasn't it. No… it was when he smiled. I thought…”
“What?”
The inspector shook his head. “Oh, what's the use! I can't explain—and you are sure to say something disparaging about policeman's intuition.”
“Not necessarily. I must confess that I am developing a grudging respect for your clairvoyance!”
“See? I knew it!”
“Oh, Oskar, you are being oversensitive. Please continue.”
“All right, then, I'll say it plainly: he gave me a bad feeling. In fact, he gave me such a bad feeling that I somewhat rashly accused him of torturing Zelenka. I wanted to see how he would react.”
Rheinhardt looked troubled, and drew on his cigar. “He was very calm… just sat looking at me with dull gray eyes. He pointed out that I had made a very serious and unsubstantiated allegation. Then he advised me that he was going to tell his uncle.”
Liebermann smiled. “Commissioner Brügel?”
Rheinhardt puffed out his cheeks and let the air escape slowly. “How did you know that?”
“A slip of the tongue that you made earlier.” Liebermann made a dismissive gesture. “But it is no matter.… I wonder why Brügel never mentioned that he had a nephew boarding at Saint Florian's.”
“I don't know.”
“And has the boy written or spoken to his uncle?”
“It's difficult to say. I haven't seen Brügel since Wednesday.”
Liebermann tapped his cigar above the ashtray set in the carriage door.
“But you didn't do anything very wrong, Oskar.”
“No, that's true. But it complicates matters, doesn't it? Brügel is always irascible. He's hard enough to deal with at the best of times. When he discovers that I have accused his nephew of torturing Thomas Zelenka…” Rheinhardt's sentence trailed off, his head shaking from side to side.
“Perhaps Brügel has some inkling of his nephew's character,” continued Liebermann. “Which would explain why he attempted to stop your investigation.… Is it possible that he was protecting his family's interests? Their reputation?”
Rheinhardt considered the young doctor's insight—but did not see how it helped him very much.
“I am in a rather difficult position now. Even if Wolf did torture Zelenka, it doesn't get us very much further with respect to explaining the boy's death.”
“Well, this is what we find when we follow hunches instead of reasoning things out.”
“See?” said Rheinhardt. “You can't stop yourself from mocking me! I have something to show you.” Rheinhardt handed Liebermann a mathematics exercise book. “This was Zelenka's—it was returned to his parents with his other effects. Although…”
“What?”
“There was one item missing. A dictionary.”
“Is that important?”
“I don't think so—but Zelenka's parents do. They said it was very expensive. They had to save up for it. Anyway…” Rheinhardt pointed at the exercise book. “You will see that there are columns of paired numbers on the pages designated for rough work. Similar pairs can be found in the marginalia—written in the master's hand.”
“Herr Sommer?”
“Herr Sommer. I am no mathematician, but these numbers seem to have nothing to do with the surrounding calculations.”
“You think they are… what? Coded messages?”
Rheinhardt nodded.
“Oskar,” said Liebermann, sitting forward, “may I have your notebook and a pencil?”
His expression was eager.
“Of course.”
Liebermann stubbed out his cigar and folded the exercise book so that it would remain open. He then transcribed some of the number pairs into the notebook, and next to these wrote some letters of the alphabet. He repeated the process several times, before flicking over a page and starting again. This time, he constructed an alphanumeric table. He soon became completely engrossed in his task, and Rheinhardt—deprived of conversation—stared out the window.
The rumbling of the carriage wheels on cobblestones was shortly accompanied by noises indicative of frustration. Liebermann shifted his position, tutted, grumbled under his breath, and tapped the pencil against his teeth. His crossings-out became more violent, the flicking of pages more frequent, and eventually he declared: “Impossible… nothing works. I thought it was going to be a simple substitution cipher!”
Rheinhardt turned to face his friend.
“I asked Werkner to take a look—he's one of our laboratory technicians at Schottenring. He's usually quite good at this sort of thing. But he didn't get very far either. Indeed, he was of the opinion that I might be mistaken.”
Liebermann bit his lower lip, and his brows knitted together.
“I wonder,” said Rheinhardt. “Do you think we should consult Miss Lyd gate? She is a woman of such remarkable intelligence—and she has helped us before.”
The young doctor's posture stiffened.
“She is indeed very gifted… but I do not know whether her talents extend to cryptography.”
Liebermann handed the notebook and pencil back to Rheinhardt.
“Yes,” said the inspector. “But it is permissible—is it not—to request her assistance again?”
Rheinhardt looked at his friend quizzically.
“You may do as you wish,” said Liebermann, picking a hair from the fabric of his trousers.
34
BERNHARD BECKER sat behind his desk, gazing uneasily at his two guests. His pupils were enlarged and his fingers were drumming on his blotting paper.
“Inspector,” said Becker, “you must understand, my dear wife is a very sensitive woman. She is compassionate and easily moved to sympathy. I believe that Zelenka took advantage of her…” He hesitated for a moment and added, “Kind nature.” Becker peered over his gold-rimmed spectacles. “Of course bullying takes place at Saint Florian's. I don't deny it. But such behavior is commonplace in military schools, and it is no more a problem for us than it is for Karlstadt or Saint Polten. Zelenka led my wife to believe that terrible things happen here… extraordinary things. But this is simply untrue.”
“Did you read Herr G.'s article in the Arbeiter-Zeitung?”
Becker smiled—a haughty, disparaging smile.
“Yes. The headmaster showed it to me.”
“And?”
“It is utterly absurd,” said Becker. His tightly compressed lips suggested that he was disinclined to elaborate. For a moment he toyed with a spoon, which was standing in an empty glass on his desk.
“When we spoke last,” said Rheinhardt, “you did not mention that Frau Becker had a particular fondness for Thomas Zelenka.”
The deputy headmaster's expression became severe.
“Why should I have? It's entirely relevant.” From the tone of his voice it was clear that Becker had meant to say the exact opposite. He maintained his defiant expression for a few moments, but this gradually softened into doubt as he recognized his error. “Irrelevant!” He blurted out the correction as if emphasis and volume would negate his blunder. “Let me be candid, Inspector,” Becker continued. “I knew that Zelenka's death would cause Poldi much distress—and I saw no purpose in bringing her to your attention.”
“You wished to spare her a police interview?”
“Yes, Inspector, I did. And I believe I was correct to do so. Your surprise visit achieved nothing—as far as I can see—save to remind Poldi of Zelenka's demise, which made her tearful all week!”
“I am sorry,” said Rheinhardt. “Obviously, this was not our intention.”
“Well,” said Becker, harrumphing as he stroked his forked beard.
“I trust,” interjected Rheinhardt, “that you will convey our sincere regrets to Frau Becker.”
Becker grumbled an assent and added: “If you intend to interview my wife again, you would perhaps be courteous enough to request my permission first?”
“Of course,” said Rheinhardt.
At that point there was a knock on the door, and Professor Gärtner appeared.
“Ahh,” said the old man, with timorous uncertainty. “Deputy Headmaster, Inspector Rheinhardt.” He did not acknowledge Liebermann. “I am sorry to interrupt, but could I have a quick word— Deputy Headmaster? It's about my report to the board of governors.”
“Excuse me,” said Becker, rising from his chair and leaving the room.
As soon as the door closed, Liebermann reached forward and snatched the empty glass from Becker's desk.
“What are you doing?” asked Rheinhardt.
The young doctor did not reply. Instead, he sniffed the contents, and held the glass up to the window. The weak sunlight revealed a viscous puddle of liquid at the bottom. He then ran a finger around the inside of the glass, collecting a patina of white residue, which he licked off.
“Bitter—followed by the slow emergence of aromatic flavors…”
“That's his medicine,” said Rheinhardt. “He took some when I was here before. He gets headaches.”
Liebermann wiped the inside of the glass with his finger again, and rubbed the residue into his lips and gums.
“I know what this is.” He replaced the glass and adjusted the spoon so that it was standing in exactly the same position as when Becker had left. “And I certainly wouldn't prescribe it for headaches. It's—”
Liebermann fell silent as the door opened and Becker reentered the room.
“My apologies, gentlemen,” said Becker curtly.
Liebermann straightened his necktie and smiled winsomely at Becker as he sank back into his chair.
For reasons not clear to Rheinhardt and Liebermann, the deputy headmaster launched into a tedious homily on fraternity, explaining how it should be considered the most cardinal of virtues. Occasionally he lapsed into ponderous rhetorical German, and Rheinhardt suspected they were listening to a set speech that he had bored many a schoolboy with during countless morning assemblies. In due course, the inspector took out his fob watch and declared that time had positively flown by—and that they were now in great danger of being late for their appointment with Herr Sommer.
“Would you like me to call Albert to escort you?” asked Becker.
“No. I think we can find our own way.”
“Good. Herr Sommer lives in the fourth lodge—on the ground floor. You will find his name on the door.”
“Thank you,” said Rheinhardt.
The two guests got up to leave. However, the inspector hesitated a moment and said, somewhat tentatively, “Might I ask, Deputy Headmaster, where you and your wife met?”
Becker frowned and replied “Styria.”
“Indeed?” Rheinhardt prompted.
“I met her while I was on a summer walking holiday. She was…” He swallowed before proceeding. “She was a waitress—at one of the guesthouses.” A slightly pained expression twisted his mouth.
“Forgive me for asking a delicate question,” Rheinhardt continued, “but has Frau Becker asked you for more money recently—in addition to her usual housekeeping?”
The deputy headmaster's cheeks reddened with embarrassment and anger.
“Our domestic arrangements are a private matter.”
“I'm sorry,” said Rheinhardt. “I did not mean to offend.”
Aware that they had now very much overstayed their welcome, Rheinhardt and Liebermann removed themselves from the deputy headmaster's office with unceremonious haste.
35
RHEINHARDT AND LIEBERMANN PAUSED by the statue of Saint Florian. Close by, some cadets were presenting arms, and beyond them more boys could be seen quick marching around a square of tar-grouted macadam. An order from a rifle lieutenant brought the fast-moving column to an abrupt halt. The two friends looked at each other, and their gazes communicated a mutual disquiet—a tacit suspicion of martial virtues.
They walked around the school building, past another parade ground, and found the path that led to the lodges. Two rows of small terraced houses came into view. The final house at the end of the second row had HERR G. SOMMER painted in small white letters on the door. It was sandwiched between the names of two other masters: Herr Paul Lang and Dr. Artur Düriegl. The second of these was barely visible, being much faded and partially scratched out.
Rheinhardt rapped on the door with the plain iron knocker, but there was no response. He tried again, and whistled a snippet of melody from Schubert's Unfinished Symphony.
“He's not in,” said Liebermann.
Rheinhardt consulted his pocket watch.
“Sommer sent me a telegram yesterday, confirming that he would be here at two o'clock. How very odd. What should we do?”
“I am confident that he will come—but we may have to wait awhile.”
“What makes you say that?”
Liebermann shrugged his shoulders and pretended that his remark was nothing more than a superficial off-the-cuff observation.
“Come, Oskar,” said Liebermann cheerily. “Let us find somewhere to sit.”
Behind the living quarters the two men discovered a bench. It was positioned to afford a picturesque view of the hills. Ominous banks of nimbostratus were gathering in the east; however, the prospect had a certain romantic charm—particularly when the wind became stronger, bending the trees and sweeping flossy tatters of cloud overhead. Rheinhardt and Liebermann made some desultory conversation but soon fell silent, choosing instead to smoke cigars and contemplate the brooding majesty of the landscape.
Once again, Liebermann found himself thinking about Miss Lyd -gate. The image of her falling into the stranger's embrace flickered into life—accompanied by a flash of anger. He had to remind himself that such feelings were unjustified. She had not misled him. He had not been deceived. However, he soon discovered that his anger could not be extinguished, only diverted. If he wasn't being angry with her, he was being angry with himself. It was most frustrating. He did not want his peace of mind to be hostage to a memory. Besides, there was something to look forward to now.… He was taking Trezska Novak to the Prater on Saturday. He should be thinking about her—not about Amelia Lyd gate!
Almost an hour had passed before Liebermann nudged Rheinhardt, alerting him to the approach of a pitiful figure hopping along with the aid of a crutch, his right leg bent at the knee to keep his bandaged foot from touching the ground.
The two men rose from the bench and introduced themselves.
“Inspector Rheinhardt, Herr Dr. Liebermann,” said the man, propping himself up. “Gerold Sommer.” In spite of his disability, he accomplished a perfectly respectable bow. “Please… this way.” He glanced up at the sky. “I think it's about to rain.” Stabbing the ground with his crutch, he propelled himself up the path with renewed energy.
The mathematics master led Rheinhardt and Liebermann back to the lodges. As he searched his pockets for the key, he asked: “Have you been waiting long, gentlemen?”
“Since two o'clock,” Rheinhardt replied.
“Why so early, Inspector?”
“That was the time you specified, Herr Sommer.”
“Good heavens. I could have sworn I'd said three.” He unlocked the front door and pushed it open. “If I am mistaken, I do apologize. I usually have a very good head for figures.”
Sommer ushered his visitors through a narrow hallway and into his study. The overall impression was one of neglect and untidiness. A table had been pushed up against one of the walls. Its top was covered in exercise books and various calculating instruments: a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree protractor, triangles, compasses, and a very large slide rule. Sommer's library was scattered around the floor, with some volumes being lined up against the baseboard. Beneath the window a row of large tomes supported a precariously balanced second tier.
Sommer limped over to a scuffed leather reading chair and attempted to sit down. He refused Rheinhardt's assistance and managed, in due course, to position himself so that he could fall back safely. He landed heavily on the cushion.
“Please, gentlemen,” said Sommer. “There are two stools beneath the table.”
Rheinhardt pulled one out for himself, but Liebermann declined the offer. It was his preference to stand.
“Well,” said Sommer, staring at Rheinhardt with large, moist eyes. “How can I assist?”
The mathematics master was in his early thirties. His hair was parted in the center and his mustache was neatly trimmed. He was a handsome man; however, the nobility of his face was mercilessly subverted by a pair of protruding ears.
Rheinhardt glanced at Sommer s bandaged foot.
“I fell down some stairs and sprained my ankle,” Sommer continued, feeling obliged to explain his condition. “It was extremely painful. The joint became horribly swollen. Like this.” He demonstrated with his hands. “I thought I'd done myself a very serious injury; but, fortunately, it turned out to be nothing more than a torn ligament. I've been convalescing near Linz: a small sanatorium run by Professor Baltish.” He looked across the room at Liebermann. “Do you know it, Herr Doctor?” Liebermann shook his head. “A very fine establishment,” Sommer added, his gaze oscillating nervously from one guest to the other.
“Herr Sommer,” said Rheinhardt, detecting the man's discomfort and trying to disarm him with an avuncular smile. “Your accident— when did it happen?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“When, exactly?”
“I could hardly forget. It was the day we heard the dreadful news about Zelenka.”
“We?”
“Herr Lang and myself… The headmaster came to tell us that morning.” Sommer shook his head. “We were stunned.”
Rheinhardt asked the mathematics master about the dead boy.
It transpired that he had known Zelenka very well, choosing to describe him as a favorite. However, when he talked about his relationship with the boy, he said nothing that Rheinhardt didn't already know. Indeed, repeated exposure to certain words and phrases— mature, sensitive, an able student, interested in science, could be shy—had rendered them almost meaningless.
As Sommer spoke, Liebermann sidled toward the window and surreptitiously examined some of the book titles. The larger volumes were mathematical texts and standard works of reference—a dictionary, an atlas, an encyclopedia—and on top of these were some histories of ancient Greece and a volume titled The Nude—Photographic Studies.
“Tell me, Herr Sommer,” said Rheinhardt, shifting his plump haunches on the hard wooden stool, “what do you know of Zelenka and the deputy headmaster's wife, Frau Becker?”
Sommer's expression altered, his eyes quickened by curiosity.
“Zelenka was very fond of her. I know that because he told me so. And I believe that fondness was reciprocated…” His sentence ended on an imperfect cadence as if he had intended to say more but had changed his mind.
“ ‘Fondness,’ Herr Sommer?”
The mathematics master sighed. “Ordinarily I would be more circumspect, but as this is a police matter… I must confess, I have heard things said. It is possible that Frau Becker and Zelenka…” He raised his eyebrows and nodded knowingly.
“Frau Becker and Zelenka were, what? Having a sexual relationship?”
“Well, I don't know about that,” said Sommer, taken aback by Rheinhardt's directness. “I don't know what went on!”
“Then what are you suggesting?”
“That their friendship was not… entirely innocent. The boys make jibes at one another. You overhear conversations in class, in the corridors.… And Herr Lang—”
“Herr Lang?”
“Look, Inspector, Lang's a decent enough fellow. I don't want to get him into trouble.”
“We will treat everything you say confidentially.”
“Thank you, thank you.… Herr Lang is the art master—he lives upstairs. Sometimes he comes down for a brandy and cigars. Naturally, we talk…. I am certain he knew that something was going on.”
“What did he say?”
“That the boy had a crush on Frau Becker, that he had made some drawings of her, that they had spoken, and that the boy had said things… I don't know what. But, evidently, enough to make Lang suspicious.”
“We spoke to Frau Becker about a week ago,” said Rheinhardt, producing his notebook and flicking through the pages. “She said that Zelenka and boys like him—that is to say, boys from poor backgrounds—are often bullied and persecuted at Saint Florian's.” Rheinhardt leaned forward. “Is that true?”
The muscles around Sommer's jaw relaxed and he smiled faintly. He seemed strangely relieved.
“Yes, that is true. The boys do terrible things to each other—quite terrible.”
“What, exactly?”
“In the past, some boys have confided in me—spoken of their torment. Weapons have been used… knives, sabres.”
“And who is responsible for performing these abominable acts?”
“There are ringleaders, of that I'm sure. But none of the boys I've spoken to would ever disclose their identities. They are simply too fearful.”
“Do you know a boy called Wolf? Kiefer Wolf?”
“Yes—I do…”
“Is it possible that he is a ringleader?”
“Wolf, Wolf,” Sommer repeated the name, and stroked his chin. “It wouldn't surprise me—he is a deeply unpleasant boy.”
“And who else do you think might be involved?”
“Steininger, perhaps… and Freitag… and another boy called Drexler. I've often seen them together, smoking—just outside.” Sommer gestured toward the window. “There's a plane tree they stand under.”
“Herr Sommer, have you spoken to the headmaster about this?”
“Yes, I have. And Lang has too… but… This is confidential?”
“Indeed.”
“Professor Eichmann has never been very concerned about such behavior. This may be because he thinks that bullying is inevitable and that there is little point in trying to stamp it out. However, I am also of the opinion that he believes bullying serves some educative function. Through bullying, the boys are prepared for the harsher realities of life.… It is not a view that I would subscribe to, but I know that there are many masters who would not disagree with Professor Eichmann.”
“Who?”
“Osterhagen, Gärtner…”
Rheinhardt scribbled their names in his notebook.
“You won't tell them, will you?” said Sommer anxiously. “You won't tell them it was me who—”
“No,” Rheinhardt cut in. “Rest assured, you have my word.”
“Good,” said Sommer, worrying a loose stud on the arm of his chair.
“Are you aware, Herr Sommer, that an anonymous article— extremely critical of Professor Eichmann—has been published in the Arbeiter-Zeitung?”
“No, no,” said the mathematics master, shaking his head. “I wasn't aware. No.”
Rheinhardt summarized Herr G.'s comments and allegations.
“Have you heard anything about this punishment, this so-called ‘night watch’?”
“No… no, I can't say I have.”
“What about the boy who died—Pikler? Do you know anything about him?”
“No, I'm afraid not. I wasn't teaching here then.”
Rheinhardt looked up at Liebermann to see if he wished to ask a question. But the young doctor signaled that he was content to observe and listen.
“Do you recognize this?”
Rheinardt handed Sommer Zelenka's exercise book.
“Yes, of course.”
“Then could you tell me the significance of these numbers?” Rheinhardt turned some pages. “You see… here, and here… these number pairs in the margin are in your hand.”
“Ah yes,” said Sommer, suddenly laughing. But his laugh was far too loud for someone whose eyes appeared so fearful. “Yes, they are a kind of game I used to play with Zelenka. A memory game. I would write some numbers down and he would try to remember them… and then he would write some numbers down, and I would try to remember them.”
“But there are only a few numbers in most of the columns. Look here, for example: 2 24, 106 11, 34 48… It would be no great feat of memory to remember these.”
“I know—and I couldn't agree more.” Sommer's protruding ears turned red. “It was quite ridiculous.”
“Why did you arrange the numbers in pairs?”
“No reason, really. I happened to do so the first time and Zelenka copied thereafter. It became a convention. They are completely random. Just random numbers, that's all.”
“And what was the purpose of this… this game?”
“Amusement.”
“Amusement?” said Rheinhardt, incredulously.
“It amused Zelenka.” Again Sommer laughed. “Ridiculous, I know.”
Rheinhardt looked at Liebermann.
“Herr Doctor, would you like to ask Herr Sommer any questions?”
“No,” said Liebermann.
“Are you quite sure?” said Rheinhardt.
“Yes,” replied Liebermann. “Quite sure.”
36
WOLF AND DREXLER WERE SITTING on the roof of Saint Florian's, close to the upper stories of an old tower. The lower stories, still intact, were not visible. They were below the roof itself. The tower may once have been freestanding, or part of the old religious foundation that predated the school. But the capricious architecture of Saint Florian's—having an organic quality—had somehow absorbed this ancient edifice. It was now a redundant cylinder of stone that sank through three floors. No one had yet discovered a way of getting inside the tower. Walls closed it off. A doorway in the basement might have been the original entry point, but it too had been sealed off with enormous stone slabs.
Why would one do that? thought Drexler. To keep people out? Or to keep something inside?
On a parapet that circled the turret were three winged gargoyles—one of which, Drexler realized, bore a striking resemblance to Professor Gärtner.
“So,” said Drexler, “what are you going to do?”
Wolf did not react.
“I'm intrigued,” Drexler added. “I won't tell anyone.” He stood up and pushed his cigarette into the gargoyle's mouth. “If there is a hell, I wonder if such things exist.…”
“You should stop reading those stupid Hoffmann stories: you're becoming fanciful.”
“Come on,” said Drexler, ignoring Wolf's jibe. “What's this plan of yours?”
Wolf blew out two streams of smoke from his nostrils.
“I'm going to get a position at the Hofburg—and in due course join the emperor's personal guard.”
“No… seriously, Wolf,” Drexler said, pressing him.
“I am being serious.”
Drexler leaned forward to inspect Wolf's face.
“Yes,” Drexler said, more to himself than to his companion, “I think you are.”
“My uncle is head of the security office,” Wolf continued. “He's quite well connected—and can pull a few strings. It wasn't my idea originally.… It was my mother's.”
Drexler laughed. “Your mother's!”
“Yes. She's overprotective.” He permitted himself a crooked grin.
“The Hofburg, eh?” said Drexler. His expression suddenly changed. “But surely you'll need to get better examination results. You've hardly been applying yourself lately.”
“I am quietly confident.”
“The chances of you mastering trigonometry between now and the final examinations are—in my opinion—vanishingly small. If this is your great plan, Wolf, then I'm afraid I am singularly unimpressed.”
“Remember that,” said Wolf. “Remember what you just said. And when you're crouching behind a bush, cold, hungry, your boots covered in cow shit, trying to dodge the bullets of the next would-be king of the Carpathians, think of me. Yes, think of me, in my clean uniform with its razor-sharp creases, warm, well fed, accompanying the emperor to state openings and banquets, drinking champagne at the opera, and watching comedies at the Court Theater.”
“You are deluding yourself, Wolf.”
“Go to hell, Drexler.”
“Well—to be frank, I think that's a lot more likely than you going to the Hofburg.”
Wolf glanced at his watch. He flicked his cigarette into the air and stood. A powerful gust of wind made him stumble, and he steadied himself by touching the stone arc of a demon's wing.
“Drill,” he said.
The two boys set off, climbing over the bizarre terrain: fallen chimneys, a scattering of tiles—and the ruin of a small observatory. Inside the little cabin, Drexler spotted the rusting remains of an antique orrery. He would take a closer look next time.
“Where are you going?” Wolf called as Drexler veered off.
“This way.” Drexler gestured. “It's quicker.”
“You can't get down that way.”
“Yes, you can,” said Drexler, indignant.
They came to an area where the surface on which they were walking was interrupted by a deep channel. Water had collected at the bottom. Wolf looked over the edge and saw the reflection of his head, silhouetted against the bilious sky. It was a long way down, and there was no way around. The channel stretched from one side of the roof to the other.
“See?” said Wolf. “I told you we shouldn't have come this way.”
“What are you talking about?” said Drexler. “You just have to jump across. Some iron steps are attached to the side of the building—and they lead to a window. It's always open.”
“Jump across? Don't be ridiculous. The gap's too wide.”
“No, it isn't.”
“You'll break your neck.”
“I won't.”
Drexler took a few steps backward and then ran toward the precipice. He glided through the air and a second later landed safely on the other side. “See? Easy. It's narrower than you think.”
Wolf looked at Drexler, and then up at the octahedral spires of the Gothic façade.
“You're not scared, are you, Wolf?” Drexler called.
“Of course not.”
Wolf ran—but just before leaping, he pulled up short.
“Come on, Wolf—it's easy.”
“Your legs are longer than mine,” said Wolf. “You have an unfair advantage.”
“Life‘s unfair, Wolf! Now jump, will you?”
Another gust of wind destroyed Wolf's confidence completely.
“No.… I can't do it.”
“Well, you'll have to go the long way down—and you'll be late.”
Drexler raised his hand and loped off.
“Drexler,” Wolf fumed.
“What?”
Wolf's anger suddenly subsided. “Make up an excuse for me.”
Drexler nodded, found the top of the iron steps, and swung himself over the parapet.
37
LIEBERMANN MAINTAINED A PENSIVE SILENCE as the carriage rattled down the hill toward Aufkirchen. He appeared to be wholly occupied by the patterns produced by runnels of rainwater on the window. Raising his hand, he allowed his forefinger to trace the length of a silvery braid that was being blown sideways across the glass.
“Well?” said Rheinhardt.
Liebermann started. “I'm sorry Oskar. Did you say something?”
“Surely the rain cannot be so very interesting.”
“Forgive me,” said Liebermann, removing his hand from the glass. “I've been thinking.”
“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt. He made an interrogatory hand gesture, inviting Liebermann to elaborate.
A gust of wind buffeted the carriage, and the driver cursed loudly. Liebermann, ignoring the string of colorful expletives, made a steeple with his fingers and peered at his friend.
“I believe we can now be certain,” he began slowly, “that Zelenka and Frau Becker were lovers.”
Rheinhardt nodded. “I had not expected Sommer to be so candid.”
“Although, to be frank,” Liebermann continued, “with respect to this matter, I found your interview with Becker more revealing— and more compelling—than your interview with Sommer.”
Rheinhardt tilted his head.
“But Becker didn't say anything about his wife's liaison with Zelenka!”
“You will recall,” said Liebermann, “that he said his wife was compassionate and easily moved to sympathy. He then said that Zelenka had taken advantage of her kind nature. However, he hesitated for a fraction of a second in the middle of the sentence.”
“What of it?”
“Well, it sounded like this: ‘Zelenka took advantage of her’… and then Becker added, almost as an afterthought… ‘kind nature.’ Psychoanalysis teaches us that there is much to be learned from a careful study of the subtleties of speech. The truth was too much to hold back. He could not stop himself from telling us what he knew. Moreover, when you asked him why he hadn't mentioned Frau Becker's fondness for Zelenka before, he made a significant verbal blunder. He said: ‘Why should I have? It's entirely relevant’ Of course, what he meant to say was: ‘Why should I have? It's entirely irrelevant.’ The more an individual tries to conceal something of importance, the more he betrays himself with such errors! Finally, did you notice that whenever he spoke of his wife, he kept on touching his wedding ring? He was like a patient suffering from an obsessional neurosis, checking to ensure that some valued possession has not been entirely lost.”
“Most interesting,” said Rheinhardt, twirling his mustache, “Most interesting; however, the principal purpose of our visit to Saint Florian's today was to interview Herr Sommer, a man who you, for reasons still unclear to me, have always insisted would shine some light on the mystery of Zelenka's death. Now, as far as I'm concerned, our investigation has not been furthered greatly. He has simply confirmed what was already suspected: that Zelenka and Frau Becker were having an illicit liaison, that boys like Wolf torment scholarship boys, and that the headmaster turns a blind eye to such behavior.”
“I can assure you, Herr Sommer is…” Liebermann paused to select an appropriate word. “Involved.”
“How do you mean, ‘involved’? I don't understand.”
Liebermann tapped his fingers together. “Immediately after Sommer learned of Zelenka's death, he fell down some stairs and sprained his ankle—which gave him an ideal excuse to get away from Saint Florian's.”
“But it was an accident, Max! And it must have been a genuine accident or he wouldn't have volunteered the name of his physician, Professor Baltish. We can easily check his story.”
“No, Oskar. You misunderstand me. I am sure his sprain is real; however, as Professor Freud has explained, if one really examines the context of any accident, one can often see how it might have served some purpose. In other words, accidents are motivated. This motivation is, however, unconscious. The individual does not plan to have an accident. As far as he is concerned, it just happens.”
“All right, then, what does Herr Sommer's stumble mean?”
“Well, quite obviously, that he did not want to be questioned about Zelenka. He wished to postpone questioning for as long as possible—and he stood to benefit in two ways. First, the police investigation might have been closed before his return, thus he would have succeeded in avoiding questioning altogether. Second, if the police investigation was still in progress on the date of his return, he would have had sufficient time to collect himself and would be better prepared. Of course, it was always possible that you would travel to Linz in order to interview him—but even if you had, he would still have secured himself a period of respite. The fact that he needed time to think things through suggests the existence of a complex situation in which many factors needed to be taken into consideration. I had always suspected Herr Sommer's involvement—from the moment you mentioned his accident; however, my suspicions were confirmed beyond doubt when he arrived an hour late. Again, his error speaks volumes. He did not want to be interviewed. He was still attempting to avoid you. And the question you must ask yourself, Oskar, is: why?”
Rheinhardt frowned. “What are you suggesting, Max? That Sommer killed Zelenka?”
“Zelenka died of natural causes.”
Rheinhardt rolled his eyes. “According to Professor Mathias, but you have already admitted that the more we probe the world of Saint Florian's, the more we discover conditions and circumstances ordinarily associated with murder.”
Liebermann stared at his hands, and continued to tap his fingers together. “He was lying about the article in the Arbeiter-Zeitung.”
“What?” said Rheinhardt.
“You asked him if he was aware of the article, and he replied: ‘No, no… I wasn't aware… no.’ He denied knowledge of the article four times. A perfect example of overcompensation.”
“But people often repeat things.”
“Not four times, Oskar,” said Liebermann. He paused, and then mischievously drove his point home with a repetition: “Not four times.”
“Why on earth would he lie about that?”
“Consistency. I think it highly unlikely that Professor Baltish's sanatorium takes a socialist daily… and needless to say, Sommer also lied about the numbers in Zelenka's textbook.”
“Did he?”
“Oh yes. Did you see how red his ears went?”
“I attributed that to embarrassment.”
“No. His laughter was completely false, and he was far too eager to stress that the numbers were random. His story about the memory game was complete nonsense—although, on reflection, I imagine it was probably the best bogus explanation that he, or anybody else, might fabricate.”
“So,” said Rheinhardt, his face becoming lined with intense concentration. “What have we surmised? First, Zelenka and Frau Becker were having a sexual liaison. Second, Sommer did not want to be interviewed after Zelenka's death, and third, he is a liar—his most notable lie being that the numbers in Zelenka's exercise book represent nothing more than a silly game.… What if…” The creases on Rheinhardt s face deepened. “What if Sommer learned of Zelenka's affair with Frau Becker, and conspired with Zelenka to blackmail her? He is clearly not a man of means. Their activities might have necessitated coded communications.”
Liebermann frowned, crossed his legs, and brushed a fold from his trousers. He was clearly unimpressed.
“Becker knew that Zelenka was ‘taking advantage’ of his wife. Therefore, his relationship with the boy must have been strained, difficult… and yet there is nothing to suggest that this was the case. In fact, Zelenka appears to have been something of a teacher's pet… sucking up to his science master and requesting extra assignments, which Becker was happy to provide.”
Rheinhardt suddenly remembered how Liebermann had behaved when Becker had left the room.
“Oh yes. Why did you taste Becker's medicine?”
“I wanted to know what it was.”
“And did you recognize it?”
“Yes, I think so—although it was an unusual prescription for headaches.”
Liebermann smiled faintly, and turned his face to the window, resuming his inspection of the runnels of rainwater. Rheinhardt, accustomed to his friend's irritating penchant for mystification, managed some halfhearted tutting to communicate his annoyance.
“It is all utterly infuriating,” said Liebermann. “Clearly, there is something going on at Saint Florian's… but it is almost impossible to ascertain what! I am reminded of the frustrating phenomenon of being unable to recall a familiar name. The name hovers at the periphery of awareness, and the more you try to remember it, the more it seems to evade recollection. Perhaps we should stop thinking about this right now—or Becker won't be the only one with a headache!”
38
THE SPECIAL TUTORIAL GROUP met in Professor Gärtner's rooms. On account of his age and seniority he occupied an entire lodge. It was his custom to spoil his favored pupils, and an impressive selection of pastries had been laid out on the table, ready for consumption when the tutorial was over: cheese and apple strudels, made especially for the professor by the school chef, and an artistically arranged spiral of ischler gebäck—fruit-conserve biscuits drizzled with chocolate.
The prospective feast was something of a distraction for most of the boys, who were gathered in a semicircle around their mentor. They stole quick glances at the spread, and their stomachs grumbled in anticipation.
Wolf, however, wasn't in the least troubled by the strudels and the sugary fragrances that sweetened the air. He had been transported by the strange declamatory prose that Professor Gärtner had been reading aloud from a slim cloth-bound volume. Even though the old man's voice was dry and wheezy, the text vibrated in Wolf's memory. Each word possessed a gonglike, resonance.
I teach you the Übermensch… the superman…
What is the ape to men? A laughing stock or a painful embarrassment.
And just so shall man be to the superman…
Where is the lightning to lick you with his tongue? Where is the madness with which you should be cleansed?
Behold, I teach you the superman: he is the lightning, he is the madness…
Gärtner sat in a high-backed leather chair. He was wearing his academic gown, and his short silver hair glittered in the lamplight. When he had finished his reading, he began a lengthy exegesis.
“What we are must be overcome. Man, as he is, must be destroyed. We must become something more than human… Homo superior. The philosopher is quite clear as to how this transition can be achieved. Man becomes Übermensch by his will to power—by abandoning old doctrines and replacing them with new ones, by rejecting societal ideals and so-called morality, by a continual process of overcoming arbitrary self-limitations.… The philosopher challenges us, throws down the gauntlet: Can you furnish yourself with your own good and evil, he asks, and hang up your own will above yourself as a law? Can you be judge of yourself and avenger of your law?”
The old man raised his head and looked around the room. Some of the boys shifted uncomfortably as his interrogative gaze made them painfully aware that they were not really listening. Wolf, however, leaned forward. He felt excited, but did not really understand why. The professor's gaze locked with his. Wolf was not unnerved by Gärtner's scrutiny: on the contrary, he welcomed it. The boy nodded his head.
Yes, he said silently to himself. I can be judge of myself—and avenger of my law
Professor Gärtner smiled at his most enthusiastic student.
39
LIEBERMANN WAS SITTING OUTSIDE Csarda—the Hungarian restaurant where Trezska had suggested that they should meet. Although the sky was overcast, it was not a particularly cold day. The table was well positioned and offered a clear view of the tree-lined boulevard along which crowds of people—from all walks of life— were making their way toward the amusements, beer-houses, concert hall, and theaters. A Carpathian peasant, wearing a white fur cap, was wandering somewhat aimlessly in front of the restaurant, obviously overwhelmed by the festival atmosphere of the Prater.
When Trezska arrived, Liebermann stood to greet her, bowed, and kissed her hand. Stepping back, he smiled, showing his admiration with tacit but unmistakable pleasure. She was wearing a maroon jacket, cut to accentuate the slimness of her waist. The garment was decorated with black braid and was slightly reminiscent of a soldier's tunic. The folded-back cuffs were threaded with silver. Her gray skirt—which clung tightly to the curve of her hips—was woven with a muted blue check. She had pinned her hair up, and her hat sprouted a plume of exotic feathers. On the lapel of her jacket was the same brooch that she had worn for her concert: a crescent of diamonds. Close up, the glittering stones looked large and very expensive: More expensive, thought Liebermann, than a budding concert violinist should be able to afford As soon as this thought had formed, it was followed by a second: A gift from an admirer, perhaps?
Ordinarily, Liebermann was not a jealous person but the experience of discovering Miss Lyd gate in the arms of her lover had affected him deeply. He had become mistrustful, suspicious. At once, the young doctor was disappointed with himself, annoyed that he had already inferred the existence of a shadowy competitor!
“Is anything wrong?” asked Trezska.
Liebermann was astonished. He had not, as far he was aware, betrayed his inner feelings with a frown.
“No, nothing's wrong.” Anxious to conceal his embarrassment, he risked a bold compliment. “You look wonderful.”
Trezska did not demur, but returned his smile.
Liebermann was relieved to find that their conversation flowed more naturally than he'd expected. He had judged that she might be, by nature, quite reserved—aloof, even; in fact, he was quite wrong. She was warm, friendly, and quick to laugh. He asked her if she had been to the Prater before, and she replied that she had—but only to eat at Csarda. She was not familiar with the amusements. Liebermann suggested that they should visit the Kaisergarten—to which she again responded with unexpected enthusiasm. From Liebermann's experience, beautiful, fashionably dressed women often allowed their hauteur to harden into a brittle carapace. Trezska's excitement was endearing.
They inspected the menu, and while they did so Trezska extolled the virtues of the head chef. She insisted that Liebermann try his gulyás.
“They do it correctly here… a traditional recipe, not like the heavy goulashes you might be used to. Gulyás was originally a shepherds’ dish—the midday meal. It shouldn't be too rich.”
As on all Hungarian tables, there were three rather than two condiment shakers: one for salt, one for pepper, and a third for paprika. When the gulyás arrived, Liebermann was given a soup, instead of a stew, and at the bottom of his bowl he found large tender chunks of mutton. Trezska offered Liebermann the paprika shaker, which he declined—his gulyás having already been seasoned quite enough for his taste.
“Well, what do you think?” asked Trezska.
“Good—very good,” he replied. The gulyás was just as Trezska had described: wholesome rustic fare, but fragrant with tangy herbs and spices.
From inside the restaurant, a small band consisting of a cimbalom player and two violinists began a mournful waltz. Swooping glissandi and complicated embellishments suggested a Gypsy origin. It caught Liebermann's attention.
“An old folk song,” said Trezska, “Dark Eyes. It's all about a young hussar who is rejected and throws himself into the Tisza.”
A capricious smile played around her lips.
Their conversation turned to more serious music. They discussed the Bach violin and keyboard sonatas, Marie Soldat-Röger s interpretation of the Brahms D-major concerto, a new Russian opera, and the distinctive tone of pianos made in Vienna. After which, Liebermann encouraged his companion to talk about her own musical accomplishments. Trezska had only just begun to build a reputation as a solo artist in Budapest, having spent two years studying in Rome and Paris; however, she had won several scholarships, a competition in Prague, and had even played at a private function in Berlin for her celebrated countryman, the virtuoso Joseph Joachim.
“Do you have any more concerts planned? In Vienna?”
“No, sadly not: next year, perhaps.”
“Oh,” said Liebermann. “Then, how long will you be staying?” he added hopefully.
“In Vienna? Another month or so. My old violin professor has arranged for me to take some lessons with Arnold Rosé.”
Liebermann repeated the name. He was most impressed. Rosé was the concertmaster of the philharmonic.
“What pieces will you be studying with Rosé?”
“Beethoven's spring sonata—and Mozart's E minor.”
“I am familiar with the spring sonata, of course, but I'm not sure that I've ever heard the E minor.”
“Not a great work, by any means. But it is one for which I have a particular affection. It is the only violin sonata that Mozart wrote in a minor key.” Her black eyes flashed at Liebermann. “There! You see? It must be true what they say about Hungarian melancholy.”
The gulyás was followed by coffee and two enormous slices of dobostorte: each wedge was comprised of seven alternating layers of sponge and chocolate cream. The dobostorte—named after its creator József Dobos—had become, in just over ten years, the first world-famous Hungarian dessert. And deservedly so, thought Liebermann. The chocolate cream was dense, buttery, and exquisitely rich.
After discreetly paying the bill, Liebermann offered Trezska his arm, and they set off in the direction of the amusements. As they got closer, they were absorbed into a bustling, noisy crowd. The air was filled with the babble of several languages: German, Hungarian, Slavic, and even occasional snatches of Arabic. On either side, marquees and little huts began to appear. Fortune-tellers, sausage vendors, a troupe of acrobatic dwarves, strong men, and belly dancers were all plying their trade. The most bizarre attraction was an “electrocution extravaganza”—where a long line of venturesome young men were awaiting their turn to be galvanized.
“Where are we going?” asked Trezska.
“Venice.”
Trezska threw Liebermann a puzzled look, but the young doctor simply smiled—as if to say You'll see.
They continued walking until they came to a wide concourse that was dominated by a massive double arch. Capital letters running across the top read: VENEDIG IN WIEN—Venice in Vienna. The structure was decorated with ornate moldings, at the center of which was a bas-relief of a winged lion, the symbol of Saint Mark. Two giant planets hovered above the columns at either extremity.
“What on earth?” Trezska's pace slowed.
“A re-creation of Venice,” said Liebermann, tracing an arc in the air with his hand. “Here, in Vienna.”
“What… you've reconstructed the whole of Venice, in one of your parks?”
“Well, not exactly… but something very close to it.”
Trezska's expression communicated a mixture of amusement and surprise at this astounding demonstration of Viennese hubris.
“Extraordinary,” she whispered.
They passed beneath one of the arches and were immediately transported to northern Italy. Renaissance villas overlooked a piazza, on which ladies and gentlemen were milling around—smoking, talking, and sipping champagne—as if they were attending a society function.
“Come on!” Liebermann tugged Trezska's arm. “This way.”
They crossed the square, ascended a broad stone staircase, and came to a canal on which black lacquered gondolas were sedately moving in opposite directions.
Trezska leaned over the balustrade and burst out laughing. “Ridiculous.”
“Let's get one. There's no better way to see Venice.”
Only a short distance away, several empty gondolas were tied to colorful mooring poles. Liebermann hired the services of a gondolier and helped Trezska into the boat. Once she was seated, he said “Just one moment,” dashed over to a champagne pavilion, and returned, slightly breathless, carrying a bottle of Moët and two glasses.
The gondolier cast off and guided his vessel through a network of canals. They glided beneath bridges, past grand palazzos and theaters, past old churches, and through gardens of exotic trees. In due course, the illusion overcame Trezska's resistance. She sipped her champagne, suspended disbelief, and succumbed to the romance of the world's most magical city.
Sensitive to the demands of the situation, the gondolier sought out a small, secluded pool, overlooked by a façade whose design recalled the Doge's Palace. The door of a little café opened directly onto the water, and from inside came the jangling of mandolins. The gondolier moored his vessel and, catching Liebermann's eye, winked and vanished into the café.
Immediately, the young doctor and his companion drew closer together. They lowered their voices, and began to speak more intimately. Liebermann told Trezska about his family: his garrulous mother, his disapproving father, his two delightful sisters. He told her about the district where he had grown up, the schools he had attended, and his time at the university. He told her about the cities he had visited and about his fondness for English literature and London. And after a short hiatus, during which they both listened to the delicate, persistent thrumming of the mandolins, Trezska reciprocated. She told Liebermann about her father, who had also been a violinist— but who had died when she'd been very young. She told him about her mother, whose aristocratic family had disowned her when she had married below her station. And she told him about her life in Budapest: of Castle Hill, shrouded in autumn mists, the scent of violets in the spring, and the magnificent, ruthless winters, which froze the Danube, making it possible to walk from Pest to Buda.
The gondolier reappeared, and soon they were off again, drifting through the gently lapping waters. On the floor, the empty bottle of champagne lay on its side, rolling with the gentle movement of the boat. Liebermann leaned back, and felt Trezska's head resting on his shoulder. An easy silence ensued, one that did not require filling. Above Liebermann s head, the strip of sky between the roofs was becoming darker.
When the gondola reached the landing from which they had begun their odyssey Liebermann helped Trezska out with one hand while tipping the gondolier with the other.
“The champagne has made me feel sleepy,” said Trezska. “Shall we go for a walk?”
“If you like.”
“Away from all these people…”
“Yes, of course.”
Liebermann led Trezska out of the make-believe world of Venedig in Wien and off toward the Freudenau. They strolled down the Haupt Allee, talking with less urgency—increasingly more at ease. As they progressed, Liebermann became conscious of a sudden plunge in temperature. It was getting windy, and a few drops of rain had begun to fall.
“Quick,” said Liebermann, “let's shelter under there.”
A large solitary plane tree was close by, and they dashed to take cover beneath its canopy of tangled branches. The patter of rain became louder, and the Prater was bathed in an eldritch luminescence. A subtle flickering illuminated the clouds, and a low rumbling followed. Then, quite suddenly, there was a bright white flash, a tremendous clap of thunder, and the skies opened, releasing a torrential downpour.
Liebermann noticed that Trezska looked agitated. Her eyes were wide open and she had begun to pace.
“It's all right,” said Liebermann. “It'll soon stop.”
His solicitous remark had no effect. She continued to appear uneasy. Liebermann wondered whether she was pathologically frightened of thunderstorms. But the sky had been getting more overcast throughout the day, and she had showed no obvious signs of distress. He dismissed the thought: a brontophobic would have been anxious to get inside hours ago.
“What's the matter?” Liebermann asked.
Trezska attempted a smile, but failed miserably.
“I…” She hesitated and lowered her eyes. “I don't like it here.”
“Well,” said Liebermann, puzzled. “The rain will stop—and then we can leave.”
“No. I think… I think we should go now.”
“But we'll get soaked.”
“It's only rain. Come, let's go.” Trezska looked at the sky and pouted.
“Are you afraid?”
She paused for a moment, and then said: “Yes.”
“But it's just—” There was another flash and a boom so loud that the ground shook. “A storm.”
“Come,” she said. “I'm sorry. We can't stay here.”
“But why not?”
“We just can't!” A note of desperation had entered Trezska's voice. While Liebermann was still trying to think of something to say, she added, “I'm going.” And with that she marched out into the violent weather.
Stunned, Liebermann watched her, as she held her hat in place while striding determinedly back toward the amusements. Then, realizing that he was not being very gentlemanly, he ran after her.
“Trezska?”
When he caught up with her, he removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders. She did not slow down to make his task any easier.
“We must get away. Now hurry.”
They maintained their pace, walking briskly into sheets of cold rain. Liebermann s clothes were soon drenched, his hair was plastered to his scalp, and a continuous flow of water streamed down the back of his neck.
Whatever is the matter with her? thought Liebermann.
There was another flash, but much brighter than its predecessors. The grass seemed to leap up, each blade sharp and distinct in the dazzling coruscation. The rain looked momentarily frozen, becoming rods of crystal suspended in the air, and a fraction of a second later there was an explosion—a great ripping, accompanied by a shower of bark and smoldering splinters. Liebermann swung around and saw flames licking the trunk of the scorched plane tree. They had been standing exactly where the bolt had struck. If they had not moved, they would have been killed.
40
COMMISSIONER MANFRED BRÜGEL looked troubled. In his hands he held a letter.
“Well, Rheinhardt, this is all very difficult—very difficult indeed. But let me assure you, I would have wanted to talk to you had I received a complaint from any of the Saint Florian pupils. The fact that I am related to Kiefer Wolf is really of little consequence. You understand that, don't you?”
“Yes, sir.”
The commissioner was visibly disturbed by the transparency of his own deceit. He coughed into his hand, mumbled something about professionalism, and then concluded his introductory remarks by repeating the word “good” three times.
Rheinhardt was accustomed to feeling a sense of foreboding whenever he entered the commissioner's office. But on this occasion the presentiment of impending doom was fearfully oppressive.
“Now, according to my nephew,” said Brügel, “you went to Saint Florian's on Thursday the twenty-ninth of January in order to conduct some interviews. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You interviewed my nephew—and several other boys.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Whom I presume you had previously identified as suspects?”
Rheinhardt crossed his legs and shifted uncomfortably. He could see where this line of questioning might lead and sought to divert the conversation elsewhere.
“Prior to interviewing the boys, I had spoken to Professor Eich-mann, the headmaster, about the Arbeiter-Zeitung article and—”
Brügel waved his hand in the air. “Yes, yes—we can discuss Eich-mann later.” He glanced down at the letter and continued, “The boys you interviewed—they were suspects?”
“Well, only in a manner of speaking.… They were boys who I thought might be able to tell us more about the bullying at Saint Florian's. If the Arbeiter-Zeitung article—”
Again, Brügel cut in: “And how did you identify these… these suspects?”
“With the help of Herr Dr. Liebermann.”
The commissioner snorted. “And how did Dr. Liebermann identify them?”
“He used a psychological technique to probe the mind of Isidor Perger, the boy who wrote those letters to Thomas Zelenka.”
“And what was this psychological technique?”
Rheinhardt grimaced. “He showed Perger”—Rheinhardt's expression became more pained—”inkblots… and asked the boy what he saw in them.”
“Inkblots.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And by inkblots, you mean… ?”
“Blots of ink… on paper, sir. I am sure Dr. Liebermann would be willing to explain how the procedure works.”
“That won't be necessary, Rheinhardt.”
The commissioner took a deep breath and was evidently struggling to contain himself. A raised vessel appeared on his temple, in which Rheinhardt detected the pulse of Brügel s fast-beating and furious heart.
“And is it true,” said the commissioner, in an uncharacteristically controlled voice, “that you accused my nephew of torturing Thomas Zelenka?”
For a brief moment, Rheinhardt found himself wondering whether it was not such a bad idea, at this juncture, to simulate a fainting fit. He could very easily relax his muscles and allow his ample frame to slide off the chair, after which he would be lifted onto a stretcher and conveyed to the infirmary, where he might rest, sleep perhaps, even dream of walking holidays in the Tyrol. On further reflection, he decided that he had better get the ordeal over with.
“Sir,” he said resolutely, “you will appreciate, I am sure, how a direct accusation will sometimes unnerve a suspect. That forceful assertions can even produce a confess—”
“It's true, then,” Brügel interrupted.
“Yes,” Rheinhardt sighed. “Yes, it is true.”
“And on what evidence did you base this accusation?” asked Brügel.
Policeman's intuition, thought Rheinhardt. Your nephew's crooked smile.
Rheinhardt shook his head and murmured something that barely qualified as language.
“I beg your pardon?” asked Brügel.
“Nothing… nothing very firm, sir.”
The commissioner folded the letter and placed it in a drawer. He then leaned across his desk and began to lecture Rheinhardt on one of his favorite topics: the importance of maintaining standards. Gradu ally, Brügel's voice took on a hectoring tone, and in a very short space of time he was thumping the desk with his fists and reprimanding Rheinhardt for running a shoddy, incompetent investigation. His anger, which he had succeeded in suppressing for so long, now boiled over. The commissioner roared and spat out his invective with apoplectic rage.
As Rheinhardt listened to this tirade, he experienced it not intellectually, or even emotionally, but physically. It was like being bludgeoned with a heavy club. The irony of his situation did not escape him. He was being bullied. Bizarrely he too had become one of Wolf's victims.
When the commissioner was spent, he leaned back in his chair, breathing heavily. His face had turned red, and some foamy spittle had collected in his muttonchop whiskers.
“Please accept my apology, sir,” said Rheinhardt.
The commissioner grunted and granted the disgraced inspector permission to leave.
When he reached the door, Brügel called out:
“Rheinhardt.”
“Sir?”
The commissoner was suddenly changed. He looked smaller: older, wearier, and perplexed. It was an extraordinary transformation.
“He's my youngest sister's boy,” said Brügel. “Her only child. He's no angel, but he would not… No, you are quite wrong. And consider yourself lucky. This will go no further. I'll see to that.”
Had Liebermann been present, he would have had much to say about the commissioner's sudden transformation, and his curious, incoherent adieu. But Rheinhardt was in no fit state to consider such things. Eager to leave, he bowed, clicked his heels, and left the commissioner's office like a man escaping a fire.
41
ISIDOR PERGER WAS SITTING on a stool, flanked by Steininger and Freitag. In front of him stood Wolf. The blond boy drew his sabre and held it up close to Perger s face.
“Well,” he said. “What do you see?”
Perger shrugged. “Nothing.… Your sabre, Wolf.”
“Are you blind, Perger?” asked Steininger.
“No,”
“Then why can't you see it?”
“See w-what? I can't see anything.”
“I'll hold it closer,” said Wolf, thrusting the blade forward. Perger flinched. “Does that help?” Wolf added.
“I… I can only see the b-blade… the b-blade of your sabre.”
“Now,” said Wolf, “for the last time: I want you to take a long, hard look—and tell me what you see.”
Wolf tilted his sabre so that it caught the yellow flame of the paraffin lamp. A scintilla of light traveled around its sharp, curved edge.
Perger squinted. “Yes, there's… s-s-something on the blade. A speck of something.”
“Good,” said Wolf. “And what do you think that might be?”
“R-rust?”
Wolf sheathed his sabre and began to clap. He brought his hands together with slow, exaggerated movements.
“Very good, Perger,” interjected Freitag, unable to conceal his mirth.
“Yes, very good indeed,” Steininger repeated.
“What a pity, then,” continued Wolf, “that this should have eluded your attention.”
Steininger and Freitag shook their heads and tutted.
“You should have put more into it,” said Steininger.
“More elbow grease,” said Freitag, frowning and miming the oscillating action of polishing a sword. Then, unable to resist a cheap joke, he allowed his arm to drop, re-creating the movement in front of his crotch.
Steininger began to guffaw, but Wolf silenced him with his glazed, humorless stare.
“I'm afraid, Perger,” said Wolf, “that you must be punished. However, I am not sure yet what form this punishment should take. Now, even as I speak, I notice that my boots could do with a good clean. Would you be willing to clean my boots, Perger?”
“Yes, Wolf.”
“Would you be happy to lick them clean?”
“Yes, Wolf.”
“Including the soles? Although I feel obliged to tell you that I went to the stables today and stupidly trod in some manure.”
“Y-yes, Wolf.”
“My boots could do with a clean, too,” said Freitag.
“And mine,” said Steininger.
“Well,” continued Wolf. “How about that, Perger? Would you be willing to lick Freitag's and Steininger s boots too?”
“Yes, Wolf.”
“And you see,” said Wolf, assuming a fatigued expression, “in agreeing so readily, you demonstrate the inadequacy of the punishment. It simply isn't enough. A fellow like you needs more! Something that will leave a lasting impression, something that will remind you to perform your duties more diligently in the future… something that has a reasonable chance of countering your extraordinary laziness!”
Wolf produced a revolver from his pocket. He released the cylindrical block and showed Perger that one of the six chambers contained a cartridge. Then, swinging the cylinder back into alignment, he spun it until it halted with a click. He cocked the hammer with his thumb.
“Here,” said Wolf, offering the gun to Perger. “Take it.”
The boy took the weapon in his shaking hands.
“Put the barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger. The odds are very much in your favor.”
“No, Wolf.… I c-c-can't.”
“Ah, but you c-can, and you w-will!” said Wolf.
Perger's eyes brimmed, and tears began to roll down his cheeks.
“Don't be pathetic, Perger!” Wolf shouted. “Put the barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger. Now!”
Perger raised the gun, but its ascent was slow—as if it had become too heavy to lift. Indeed, Perger's entire body seemed to have become weak and floppy. He began to sway, and his eyelids flickered. Freitag and Steininger gripped his tunic and held him upright.
“Don't swoon like a woman, you—you… you Galician whore's son!” He grabbed Perger's wrist and pulled it up, shoving the gun barrel between the boy's lips. Then, covering Perger's hand with his own, he applied a minute amount of pressure to the distraught boy's trigger finger.
“Here, let me help. Come on, Perger, be brave. I'm not going to do it for you.”
Perger emitted a strange keening.
Suddenly there was a creaking sound, followed by the thud of feet landing on the floorboards and the uihump of the trapdoor closing. A few moments later Drexler appeared.
“What's going on?” he asked.
“Perger s playing Russian roulette,” Wolf replied.
“Yes,” said Steininger. “He's unhappy at Saint Florian's—and has decided to end it all. He's not the first.”
“And he won't be the last,” said Freitag.
“A tragic waste,” said Steininger.
Drexler walked over to Perger and eased the revolver out of his mouth. Perger's hand slowly descended to his lap. He rested the gun on his thigh and bowed his head.
“What on earth do you think you're doing, Drexler!” Wolf shouted.
The other boy didn't reply. He simply shook his head and bit his lower lip.
“Look, Drexler,” Wolf continued, “I don't know what's got into you lately, but my patience is running out. You're always spoiling things. And if you carry on like this, well, I am obliged to say—you won't be welcome here for very much longer.”
Wolf threw a glance—a silent appeal—in the direction of Steininger and Freitag.
“Yes, Drexler,” said Steininger. “This is our place… and if you're not going to join in…”
“You should stay away,” said Freitag.
Drexler ignored the two lieutenants and took a step closer to Wolf.
“Let him go, Wolf. Look at him.” He gestured toward the hunched, crumpled figure on the stool. “This is pathetic.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, this is pathetic!” It was now Drexler's turn to include Steininger and Freitag. “Can't you see, you two? It's all getting out of hand. These stupid games—”
“You've lost your nerve, Drexler,” Wolf cut in. “Go on— admit it.”
“It doesn't take very much nerve to pick on Perger!”
“More nerve than you have—evidently.”
“It's cowardly, Wolf!”
“What?”
“You heard.”
“How dare you call me a coward! How dare you!”
Wolf snatched the revolver from Perger's loose grip and pointed it toward Drexler.
“Go on, then—shoot,” said Drexler.
“You think it's a blank cartridge. Don't you?”
Once again, the intensity of Wolf's gaze surprised Drexler, and he was unsettled by a tremor of doubt.
“I'm a coward, am I?” Wolf continued.
Unexpectedly, he released the cylinder, spun it, and cocked the hammer. Then he pressed the barrel against his own temple and grinned: a maniacal rictus.
Behold, I teach you the Übermensch.
The Übermensch balks at nothing.… The Übermensch has no fear.…
“Wolf?” said Freitag. He could not conceal his anxiety.
Wolf pulled the trigger. A dead click.
“Who's the coward now? Eh, Drexler?” He said, handing over the revolver.
Drexler examined the weapon. His mouth went dry and he became aware of an ethereal whistling in his head. Steininger and Freitag were looking at him—their expressions showed intense concentration rather than their usual brutish insouciance. Drexler gripped the end of the barrel between his teeth and squeezed the trigger.
Another dead click. The whistling stopped.
Without hesitation, Wolf took the weapon back, prepared it for firing, and pointed the muzzle between his own eyes. He was still grinning his deranged grin, but this time his hand was shaking. A film of sweat had appeared on his brow. When his finger finally closed on the trigger and the silence was broken only by the hammer's fall on another empty chamber, he burst out laughing and threw the gun at Drexler. The other boy snatched it out of the air.
“Only three left, Drexler,” Wolf said. “Your turn.”
Drexler looked at the gun, and then at Wolf. He cocked the hammer. The distance that he usually interposed between himself and the world had suddenly vanished. Reality stormed the ramparts of his senses, and he became acutely aware of the minutiae of existence: the systolic and diastolic components of his pulse, the expansion and contraction of his lungs, the passage of air in his nostrils, the taste of metal in his mouth, and the lost room, with its familiar contents— the suitcase, the wicker chair (and the permanent fragrance of tobacco, fear, and erotic discharge)—this haven of shabby delights— every part of it acquired a vivid immediacy. He was alive and he did not want to die.
“This is absurd,” said Drexler. He lifted the revolver and looked into the end of its barrel. Its circularity suggested eternity, and its blackness oblivion. There were other things he could be doing at this moment in time: making love to Snjezana, reading Hoffmann, or simply smoking on the grounds and watching the moon rise. He shook his head.
“Oh, you're all insane,” he said contemptuously, tossing the revolver aside. It landed a few feet away. There was a loud report, a bright flash, and a hazy cloud of gunpowder smoke rose up like a spectral apparition.
“My God,” said Steininger.
“It… it was live!” gasped Freitag.
In their state of shock, the two lieutenants had loosened their grip on Perger's tunic. The prisoner fell forward and sprawled facedown on the floor.
“Get up, Perger,” said Wolf.
The boy did not reply.
Wolf nudged him with his foot. The body was inert.
“Get up, Perger,” Wolf repeated.
Drexler fell to his knees and rolled the body over.
“Oh no… God, no.” A dark stain had appeared on Perger's tunic.
Silence.
“What shall we do, Wolf?” said Freitag softly.
Steininger took a step back. The color had drained from his face. He was fearful, dismayed.
“Perger?” said Drexler, pushing at the body. “Perger? Can you hear me?”
There was no response. The dark stain was expanding—an almost perfect circle, close to Perger's heart.
“Christ,” said Steininger. “He's dead.”
“No,” said Freitag. “He can't be…”
Drexler grasped the fallen boy's hand. “Come on, Perger, wake up!”
“It's no good, Drexler,” whispered Wolf. “You've killed him.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you! It was you who had the gun last.”
“But it wasn't my…,” cried Drexler, incoherent with desperation. “I didn't… I…”
“Wolf's right, Drexler,” said Steininger. “It was you who had the gun last.”
“Yes,” Freitag agreed. “If you hadn't thrown the gun, Perger would still be alive.”
42
INSPECTOR RHEINHARDT HAD COPIED the number pairs from Zelenka's exercise books onto a single sheet of paper, which he now handed to Amelia Lyd gate. The Englishwoman fell silent, and simply stared at the figures. Time passed. She was obviously attempting to decipher them, and Rheinhardt was reluctant to disturb her. He glanced across the room at Haussmann and raised a finger to his lips.
Eventually Amelia looked up.
“Are you absolutely sure that these numbers represent coded messages, Inspector?”
“Well, not absolutely.… However, it was Dr. Liebermann's opinion that Herr Sommer did not tell us the truth when he said that these numbers were a memory test, and I am inclined to agree. The commitment of random number pairs to memory is surely an activity from which both pupil and master would derive very limited plea sure. And such an activity would be unlikely to keep them amused over a period of several months. Therefore, if the numbers are not a memory test, then they must be some kind of code.”
A vertical crease appeared on Amelia's brow.
“My father—also a schoolmaster—insisted that I learn the value of the mathematical constant pi to fifty decimal places. Successful recitations were the source of considerable pleasure and amusement to both of us. Indeed, my father could barely stop himself from joining in when I reached the final ten digits: six, nine, three, nine, nine, three, seven, five, one, zero. There! I can still recall the sequence quite clearly. For those who enjoy mathematics, numbers can be a very satisfying entertainment; however, it is undoubtedly the case that for the nonnumerical such pleasures are as recondite as music is to the tone-deaf.”
Rheinhardt did not know how to respond. He glanced at Haussmann, tacitly requesting assistance, only to discover that the young scoundrel was biting his lower lip and that his shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.
“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt. “Indeed…” He twisted the waxed horns of his mustache and said: “Am I to take it, then, that you do not share our view?”
“I am not taking issue with your conclusion, Inspector—merely the reasoning that you employed to reach that conclusion.”
“Ah,” said Rheinhardt, more encouraged. “Then you accept that the numbers might be a code?”
“Yes,” she said, a little hesitantly. “But if they are, the code is not conventional. That much I can determine already.”
“I see.”
“May I take this with me?” She raised the paper in her gloved hand.
“Yes, of course.”
“I will give it careful consideration.”
“Once again,” said the inspector, “I am much indebted.”
Amelia rose, and Rheinhardt kissed her hand.
“How is Dr. Liebermann?” she asked.
“Well.”
Unusually for her, the Englishwoman looked a little flustered.
“I have not had the pleasure of his company of late, although the fault is entirely mine. I have been somewhat preoccupied with… matters… various matters.” Amelia fumbled with her reticule and then added: “Would you be so kind as to convey my best wishes to the good doctor?”
“Consider it done, Miss Lyd gate.”
“Thank you, Inspector—you are most kind.”
“Haussmann,” Rheinhardt addressed his assistant. “Please escort Miss Lyd gate out of the building and hail her a cab.”
“That really won't be necessary,” said Amelia. “I am perfectly capable of finding my way out of the security office. Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
She looked blankly at the two men, and left the room.
Rheinhardt raised his finger and silently shook it at Haussmann.
The young man blushed, and in an effort to excuse himself whispered: “I'm sorry, sir, but her manner is so peculiar.”
The inspector was unable to disagree.
43
TREZSKA STOOD BESIDE LIEBERMANN’S PIANO. Their gazes met—and, simultaneously, they began to play. The opening violin melody was fluid and generous—an outpouring of enchanting sweetness. Although the subtitle “Spring” was added to Beethoven's F-major sonata after his death, it was extraordinarily appropriate, capturing completely the mood of the work. The music was bright and blooming—fresh, bursting with vital energy—but there were depths implied by the poignant changes of harmony that elevated this sonata above the usual conventions of pastoral writing. Beethoven, the most human of composers, never merely observed nature—he engaged with it. Thus, the gamboling of lambs and the blossoming trees—which the music so readily suggested—served to introduce a more profound philosophical program. This was not a sterile description of a season—tuneful meteorology—but an inquiry into that most awe-inspiring of all vernal phenomena: romantic love.
When they reached the adagio molto espressivo, Liebermann took advantage of the slower tempo to steal glances at Trezska. Her eyes were closed and her body arched backward as she drew her bow across the strings of her instrument. She had unpinned her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders. Liebermann marveled at how strands of such midnight-blue blackness could also shine so brightly. His stare dropped—briefly—to her compressed cleavage, and then down to the slim girdle of her waist. In the pianissimo passages he could detect the creaking of her corset. He inhaled her fragrance, not just the clementine and mimosa of her perfume, but her entire olfactory signature. Liebermann knew that the French had a word for this sensuous bouquet—the totality of a woman's smell—but it had slipped from his memory.
After they had finished playing the spring sonata, Trezska wanted to repeat certain passages again. She was unhappy with the scherzo, and wondered whether the rondo had not been played a little too fast. She flicked the pages of the open score back with the tip of her bow.
“Allegro ma non troppo,” she said curtly.
They discussed some technical details and she asked Liebermann about the quality of her performance.
“Well,” he said, evidently apprehensive, “it was very beautiful… a very lyrical reading…”
“However?”
“You inserted a few glissandi in the adagio, which is not really how the Viennese like their Beethoven.” Not wishing to be harsh, he added, “I am simply pointing this out because Rosé will almost certainly object.”
“And… ?” Trezska prompted, demonstrating her percipient sensitivity: she had detected another unexpressed caveat in the cast of Liebermann s features.
“The vibrato,” said Liebermann. “Again, perhaps a little too much for Viennese tastes.”
“I see,” she said. Then, tapping the open page with her bow, she indicated that she was ready to repeat the rondo.
As they played, Liebermann thought back to what had happened two days earlier on the Prater: the tree, Trezska's prescient anxiety, and the lightning strike. In the carriage, driving back to Landstrasse, Trezska had at first been preoccupied, but by the time they had crossed the Danube canal, her spirits had rallied. She had grasped Liebermann's hand, squeezed it affectionately, and thanked him for a wonderful day. It was as though the lightning strike had never happened—and, strangely, they had not spoken about it since. Before they parted, he had invited her to his apartment to practice the spring sonata, so that she might be better prepared for her lessons with Rosé. “Yes,” she had said. “If you don't mind—that would be very helpful.”
When they had finished the rondo, Trezska tuned her violin, and put more rosin on her bow. She played a few scales and, between these, the fragment of a melody. It was so exotic, so distinct, that it immediately aroused Liebermann's interest.
“What was that?”
“A folk song: did you like it?”
“Yes. It sounded rather… unusual.”
Trezska played another angular phrase. “I learned it from a peasant woman. It had been taught to her by her mother, who had learned it in turn from her mother—the woman's grandmother. The song is called The Reaper—and it has been passed down, so she said, from mother to daughter, for countless generations. I asked her how old it was and she replied, ‘As old as the world.’
Trezska drew her bow across the lower strings and produced a primitive, haunting melody. It was based on a simple modal figure— but was executed with excessive and wild ornamentation. The meter was irregular, changing every few bars. It was a sound that conjured an image of people working the land, engaged in perpetual back-breaking toil: it suggested great plains and an overarching sky—the scorching summers and bitter winters of an infinite steppe.
“Quite extraordinary,” said Liebermann.
“The real music of my country,” Trezska said proudly.
“Would you play some more?”
“No, not now. Another time. We have work to do.”
“Of course.”
They played some more Beethoven, and a few Mozart sonatas— including the little E minor. In due course, Liebermann raised his wrist and pointed to his watch. The law decreed that music-making in Vienna had to cease at eleven—and it had just gone half past ten.
“It is getting late—and, sadly, we must bring our music-making to an end. Besides, you must be tired. Shall we find you a cab?”
Trezska smiled, and shook her head. “That won't be necessary. I have no intention of returning to Landstrasse.”
She glanced through the open double doors and across the landing, to what she clearly hoped was Liebermann's bedroom.
44
GEROLD SOMMER PEERED OUT of his window. He was grateful that the sky had cleared and the moon was shining brightly. A lamp at this hour would be conspicuous on the grounds of the school. He put on his coat, picked up a paraffin lamp and a box of matches, and hopped down the corridor on his crutches. Thankfully, Lang was a heavy sleeper. Sommer turned the key carefully and pushed the front door open. The air was freezing. He thought of returning to his room to get some gloves and a hat but decided against it. Too much noise.
The path sparkled with frost and was easy to follow. It took him to the front of the school. He passed the statue of Saint Florian and entered the courtyard. It was much darker beneath the cloisters, and it was at this point that he lit his lamp. He adjusted the wick so that it provided just enough illumination for him to find his way—but no more.
Once inside the school, he progressed to the back of the building and with great difficulty descended a flight of stairs that led to a large damp basement room, one wall of which was covered in lockers. They were arranged in alphabetical order. Sommer lowered the lamp, and read the names: Zehrer, Zeigler, Zelenka. He pulled the wooden door open and waved the lamp around, attempting to illuminate the shadowy recess.
Nothing.
He placed the lamp on the floor and thrust his hand inside the locker, frantically exploring the space with his fingertips.
Still nothing.
He cursed under his breath.
“Looking for something?”
It was a young voice—one of the boys.
Sommer started and swung around.
On the other side of the room the speaker struck a match. The flame slowly rose to meet the end of a cigarette and cast a yellow light over the distinctive features of Kiefer Wolf. “It's no good, sir,” said the boy, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “All Zelenka's possessions were removed. Well… with the exception of one item.”
Sommer swallowed.
“What… what was it?”
“The only thing that I thought was worth taking: a rather fine dictionary.”
“Give it to me.”
“Why should I?”
“It's of no use to you.”
“True. But it's clearly of considerable use to you!”
As Wolf drew on his cigarette, his face reappeared—infernal, in the red incandescence.
“What do you want, Wolf?”
“Only that you continue to honor our arrangement.”
“I've already said that I would. I'll keep my word.… You don't need that dictionary as well!”
“Have you read much Nietzsche, sir?”
“What?”
“Nietzsche—the philosopher.”
“I know who he is, boy!” said Sommer, suddenly angered. “According to Nietzsche,” said Wolf, “you can never have enough power.”
45
LIEBERMANN WAS UNFAMILIAR WITH ZIELINSKI’S—but it was where Trezska had insisted that they meet: a small, dilapidated coffeehouse, close to her apartment in Landstrasse. He had chosen to sit at the rear of the coffeehouse on one of several quilted benches, arranged in pairs, with an oblong table between: a small velvet drape increased privacy by partitioning the heads of adjacent patrons.
Liebermann looked at his wristwatch. Trezska was late. As time passed, he began to look at his wristwatch with increasing frequency, succumbing by degree to worries about her safety. He was considerably relieved, therefore, when the door opened and she finally appeared. The young doctor waved, capturing her attention. Trezska smiled and rushed over, flushed and a little agitated.
“I'm so sorry. My first lesson with Rosé—it lasted much longer than I'd expected.”
Liebermann stood and kissed her on the cheek. Now that she had arrived, the wait that he had endured seemed inconsequential.
“How was it? The lesson?” Liebermann asked.
Trezska pulled a dissatisfied face. “I could have played better.” She beckoned a waiter: “Absinthe… and some sugared almonds.”
Liebermann shifted along the bench and invited Trezska to sit next to him. She slid her violin case under the table and sidled up close.
“Forgive me,” said Trezska. “I am exhausted. Rosé is a demanding teacher—and very pedantic. At one point, he even questioned the way I was holding my bow! The Mozart was acceptable but the Beethoven…” She shook her head. “Very poor.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“I don't know. Perhaps I allowed myself to become overawed.… The performance was too timid.”
“What did Rosé say?”
“He was polite enough—but clearly unimpressed. He wasn't happy with my phrasing and thought that I was treating certain rhythmic figures too freely; however, if I had been more at ease, I am sure I could have produced a more confident performance. Then he might have been better able to understand what I was trying to achieve and less inclined to seize on what he saw as technical deficiencies.”
“Perhaps you will be able to communicate your intentions better next time? You will be more accustomed to Rosé—and less anxious, no doubt.”
Trezska took his hand and squeezed it affectionately—an expression of gratitude for his solicitous remarks.
The waiter returned and deposited Trezska's order, along with a carafe of water, on their table. She reached out and turned the bottle so she could examine the label. It showed an eighteenth-century dandy in a striped jacket and Napoleonic hat being approached by a flower girl. The legend read JULES PERNOD, AVIGNON.
Liebermann asked Trezska about Rosé's teaching practices, and then indulged in a little musical gossip.
“Did you see his wife?”
“No.”
“She is Director Mahler's sister. They married only last year. In fact, the day after the director himself got married. They say that when Rosé was at Bayreuth, the orchestra lost their way in the middle of Die Walküre. He stood up and with great skill managed to get them all playing together again. Mahler was in the audience and is supposed to have exclaimed—‘Now, that's what I call a concertmaster!’ “
“How is it that you know so much about Rosé?” asked Trezska, a line of perplexity appearing across her forehead.
“This is Vienna,” said Liebermann—as if no further explanation were necessary.
Trezska lifted the bottle and poured a small quantity of absinthe into two tall glasses. The liquor shimmered. It was translucent, like melted emeralds.
“Watering absinthe is something of an art,” said Trezska. “One must conduct the ritual with the same reverence that the Oriental peoples reserve for their tea ceremonies.”
She picked up a miniature perforated trowel and balanced it across the rim of her glass. Taking a lump of sugar from the bowl, she placed it on the pinholes. Then, tilting the carafe, she allowed a weak, twisting trickle of water to douse the sugar. The white crystals dissolved, and opaque droplets fell into the glass, turning the elixir a milky green. After a few moments, the absinthe became magically opalescent. It seemed to emit a pale glow, like the mysterious light of fireflies. The air filled with a redolence that was difficult to describe— a sickly bouquet with coppery traces.
“How long have you been drinking absinthe?” Liebermann asked.
“Oh, for some time now: I first became partial to the green fairy‘s charms while I was studying in Paris.”
“Yes, it is something of an institution there, I understand.”
“More than that—a religion.”
Trezska maintained the steady flow of water.
“You know,” said Liebermann, “I once read a monograph by the distinguished Parisian physician Dr. Valentin Magnan, of the asylum of Sainte-Anne. In it, he identified a specific neurological condition that he styled ‘absinthe epilepsy’ Magnan contends that absinthe can affect the motor centers of the cerebellum and the paracerebellar nuclei, producing convulsions and hallucinations of sight and hearing.”
“It is also the inspiration of poets,” said Trezska, “the favored spirit of visionaries, and an extremely potent aphrodisiac.”
Their eyes met. Liebermann smiled and pushed his glass toward her.
“You doctors,” she said, watering the second absinthe. “You seem to find fault with everything. You'll be saying that smoking is bad for you next.”
Liebermann drew on his cigar. “Well, I must admit, it has been suggested… but that can't be true.”
“How is it cured, this absinthe epilepsy?”
“Magnan recommends long cold baths—up to five hours—and purges of Sedlitz water.”
“In which case, I would rather suffer from the illness than endure its treatment! Prost!“
They lifted their glasses and touched them together. The controlled, gentle collision produced a low-pitched clunk. Liebermann took a tentative sip and savored the unusual flavor.
First, a strong impression of anise, but then the arrival of other registers, seeping out slowly, teasing the palate—a suggestion of mint, a tarry undercurrent of licorice…. After he had swallowed the absinthe and it had numbed the back of his throat, he became aware of an unpleasant medicinal aftertaste—as if an iron button had been dissolving in the saliva beneath his tongue.
“Well?” asked Trezska. “What do you think?”
“Interesting—”
“Any hallucinations?”
“No, but I can well believe a sufficient quantity might induce them!”
“It happened to me once,” said Trezska nonchalantly. “I was sitting in a café on the Place Pigalle. I had been drinking with friends and fell into a kind of stupor.… I felt a summer breeze on my face and heard the sound of a brook. The sun shone down on my closed eyes.… It was all very vivid—and seemed to last forever.… When I was finally roused, I collected my things together and walked toward the door. Yet I could still feel the heavy heads of flowers brushing against my skirt.”
She turned to face Liebermann. Her expression was shadowed with dark sensuality. The absinthe glistened on her lips—an enticement that he was simply unable to resist. Liebermann leaned forward and kissed her. When they drew apart, she smiled and, taking his hand, locked her fingers between his.
Liebermann could now see why Trezska had been so insistent that they meet in Zielinski's. It was the kind of establishment where a couple could become quite intimate without attracting much attention.
Trezska asked Liebermann about his work at the hospital, and he told her about the deluded jurist who claimed to be in conversation with an angelic being from Phobos. She listened intently and, after he had finished, said: “But how can you be sure that this old man is deluded?” Then they embarked on a philosophical discussion about the nature of reality, a conversation that became less and less coherent as they imbibed larger quantities of absinthe.
Liebermann gazed out into the coffeehouse through a dense pall of cigarette and cigar smoke. The clientele of Zielinski's was comprised of workmen, artists, and a few women whose abundant cleavages and raucous laughter declared their profession. Music was provided by a zither player: an unkempt gentleman with an eye-patch and wild white hair. He plucked an itinerant melody that at times became nothing more than a random selection of pitches. Occasionally something recognizable would emerge—a fragment of Strauss or Lanner, but no more than a musical paring, flotsam on a wash of watery strumming. No one seemed to mind, and indeed, after a while, Liebermann began to find the abstract ambient qualities of the zither player's improvisations quite pleasing.
Liebermann stared into the pallid opalescent mixture in his glass. He took a deep breath and asked:
“What happened… that day, on the Prater?”
“Ah,” Trezska replied. “I was wondering when you were going to ask.”
“You had what? A premonition?”
She sighed. “You are a doctor… a man of science. You do not believe in such things, I am sure.”
“I…” Liebermann was conscious of his own deceit but could not stop himself. “I have an open mind.”
Trezska did not look convinced.
“There are many respectable scientific societies,” Liebermann continued, “that take a serious interest in paranormal phenomena. Even Professor Freud, the most ardent of skeptics, has demonstrated a certain willingness to entertain the idea of mind-to-mind communication—telepathy.”
Trezska's features softened, indicating that she had decided to give her companion the benefit of the doubt.
“Yes, I do get strong feelings sometimes. It is supposed to be in my blood… my mother's side.”
“Second sight?”
“Whatever you want to call it.”
Liebermann's expression became troubled. “But could it not be that… we were walking in an open space and, rather foolishly, chose to stand under the tallest tree. This, of course, would be the tree most likely to attract lightning. If we had discussed our situation, we might have concluded that we were in danger.” Liebermann sipped his absinthe. “Now, could a similar process have taken place in your unconscious mind? You were not aware of the process but experienced only its product or consequence—namely, fear. Comparable dissociative processes operate in dreams and serve to disguise their meaning.”
Trezska playfully tapped Liebermann's cheek. “Why must you try to explain everything?”
“It is generally better to understand things… than not.”
Trezska selected a pink sugared almond from the bowl and pressed it between her lips. As she sucked the icing from the nut, she pouted. This repetitive and subtle movement aroused in Liebermann a desperate desire to kiss her again.
“According to my mother,” said Trezska, “her side of the family are related to the house of Báthory.”
Liebermann's expression became blank.
“You've never heard of Erzsébet Báthory?” Trezska continued. “The vampire countess?”
“What?” Liebermann laughed.
“She was a Transylvanian noblewoman. Legend has it that she first killed and then bathed in the blood of nearly a thousand young maidens—simply to preserve her beauty.”
Trezska produced a faint, ambiguous smile. Liebermann could not determine whether she was being serious or joking. He began to feel distinctly odd: woozy, detached. His vision blurred and he moved his head backward and forward to regain his focus.
“Are you all right?” Trezska asked.
The strange jangling of the zither sounded peculiarly loud—a concatenation of gongs and bells.
“I fear,” said Liebermann, “that Dr. Magnan's speculations concerning the effects of absinthe on the brain may be correct.” His speech was slurring. “Indeed, I would hazard a guess that the active chemical ingredients have just reached my cerebellum and my paracerebellar nuclei, with predictable consequences.”
“Perhaps I should take you home?” said Trezska.
He felt her hand unlock from his, and the heat of her palm on his thigh.
“Yes,” Liebermann replied. “Perhaps you should.”
46
IT WAS THE DEAD of night. A thick mist had descended into the valley, and the four boys had to consult a compass to find their way. They assiduously avoided footpaths, and as a result their progress was slow. The ground was muddy and treacherous—an adhesive mulch that made each step effortful. Boggy hollows were brimming with ice-cold filthy water that filled their boots and soaked their trousers. Sometimes the trees would grow closer together, and the spaces between would become congested with prickly leafless bushes. Then the boys were unable to move forward, and had to retrace their steps and find some other way.
Wolf led the group. He carried a paraffin lamp, the light of which barely mitigated the darkness. Freitag followed, carrying a shovel, and straggling behind, striving to keep up, were Drexler and Steininger, each grasping the corners of a large, sagging jute sack.
Suddenly, Wolf raised his arm. The others stopped.
“What is it?” whispered Freitag.
Wolf beat the air with his hand, a burst of quick downward movements indicating that the others should be quiet.
The boys froze, and listened intently. Wolf lowered the wick of his lamp, and attempted to peer through the opaque veils of turbid brume. Something scampered away, and Wolf sighed with relief. He consulted the compass again and pointed slightly to the left.
“Wolf,” said Steininger. “Wolf, I can't go on.”
“Keep your voice down.”
“It's too heavy. Let's do it here.… There's no need to go any farther, surely.”
“Freitag, you take over.”
“No, Wolf, I'm exhausted. Drexler can carry it on his own—it's all his fault.”
“It is not my fault!” said Drexler angrily. “If you hadn't insisted on playing your stupid games!”
“I said keep your voices down!” said Wolf.
“Really, Wolf,” said Steininger, dropping his end of the sack. It landed with a dull thud. “We've been walking for hours. We don't need to go any farther.”
“And we have to get back, remember,” said Freitag.
“And what about our uniforms?” said Steininger. “We can't arrive for drill practice looking like this! We'll need time to get them cleaned up.”
“I'll wake Stojakovic,” said Wolf.
“No,” said Drexler. “We can't involve anybody else! Not tonight.”
Wolf paced around the circle of trees in which they were standing. He then tested the ground with his foot, kicking up some turf.
“It's not too hard,” he said.
“Then let's get started,” said Steininger, snatching Freitag's shovel and driving its pointed blade into the earth.
Drexler leaned against the nearest trunk and rested his forehead on his coat sleeve. His moment of repose was at once disturbed when he opened his eyes and observed in the contours of the bark a peculiar arrangement of knots, whorls, and ridges that suggested the lineaments of a human face—an old, deeply lined face, with bushy eyebrows and a long wavy beard. The sad eyes were full of anguish. It was as if some unfortunate soul had been magically incarcerated in the timber. The image reminded Drexler of the fantastic stories of E.T.A. Hoffmann. The boy drew back—and felt a freakish chill that made him shiver.
“How deep should the trench be?” asked Steininger.
“How should I know?” Wolf answered irritably.
“But what if animals…”
“Dig him up?”
“Well, yes.”
“What animals?”
“I don't know, but it's possible, isn't it?”
“All right,” said Wolf, glaring. “Make it deeper!”
Drexler looked over at the abandoned sack and considered its contents. He felt a wave of pity and regret. The swell of emotion that made his eyes burn was only just containable, but his self-control gave him no satisfaction. He knew that this was just the beginning. There would be worse to come: guilt, nightmares, and various forms of mental torture. The terrible millstone of his secret would weigh heavily on his conscience for the rest of his life, and would eventually drag him down to the depths of hell. He had never believed in such a place before, but now it all seemed quite plausible.
He turned away and stared into the darkness.
Steininger's digging was creating a hypnotic rhythm: the crunch of the blade penetrating the soil—a heave of effort—and then the dull rain of soil on leaves. Its regularity was comforting and lulled Drexler into a kind of trance. Once or twice, he noticed discontinuities of consciousness: he was so tired that he must have nodded off.…
Freitag gasped: a sudden intake of breath, cut short and invested with the rising pitch of surprise.
Steininger stopped digging.
An owl hooted.
“What is it?”
“I thought… I thought I saw something move. Over there.”
“What?”
Freitag's voice shook. “It was big, like a bear.”
“Don't be so ridiculous,” said Wolf. “If it was a bear, we'd soon know about it!”
“I didn't say it was a bear—I said it was like a bear. Really, I did see something. Something big.”
“Pull yourself together, Freitag,” Wolf commanded.
Freitag shook his head. “I'm going. I don't like it here.”
Wolf grabbed his arm. “Look, it's just your imagination! There's nothing out there!”
He gestured between the trees and raised his lamp. Nothing was visible, except the restless mist.
Freitag swallowed—subdued by the steel in Wolf's eyes.
“Yes…” Freitag smiled—somewhat desperately. “Yes… of course. My imagination.”
“Don't be a fool, Freitag,” said Wolf, releasing his grip.
Drexler said nothing, but his heartbeat was thundering in his ears. He had seen something too—exactly as Freitag had said: something large and lumbering—big—like a bear. He marched over to Steininger.
“Give me the shovel. You're too slow, Steininger. Let's finish this business and get away from this awful place.”
47
THE WAITER SWOOPED BY, skilfully replacing Rheinhardt's empty soup bowl with a dish containing dumplings, fried pork chops, a slice of boiled ham, frankfurter sausages, and a steaming mound of cooked sauerkraut. Rheinhardt inhaled the meaty fragrances and dressed his meal with large dollops of bright yellow mustard. Looking over at his companion, he noticed that Liebermann was toying with his food, rather than eating it, fishing noodles out of his broth and watching them slither off his spoon like tiny serpents.
“What's the matter—lost your appetite?”
“Yes. I'm feeling a little fragile, to be honest. Last night I…” He massaged his temple and winced. “I drank too much.”
“Well, there's no better cure for a hangover than a big, hearty meal. Finish your soup and try the onion steak… or the Tyrolean liver. Something substantial!”
Liebermann stirred the contents of his bowl and observed the stringy ballet with glum indifference.
“I saw Miss Lyd gate on Tuesday,” Rheinhardt added breezily.
Liebermann looked up from his soup. “Did you?”
“Yes. I showed her the number pairs from Zelenka's book.”
Liebermann's expression was unusually flat: a peculiarity that Rheinhardt attributed to his friend's intemperance of the night before.
“Was she able to assist?”
“Well, she said that the numbers might represent some form of code—but, if so, one of a very unconventional type. She promised to study them and give an opinion in due course.”
Liebermann nodded.
Rheinhardt sliced his dumpling and speared a strip of boiled ham.
“This is quite, quite delicious,” he said, chewing with more volume than was really permissible according to the standard prescriptions of etiquette. “Oh, and Miss Lyd gate said something about not having had the pleasure of your company lately… and being otherwise engaged—and that I should convey her best wishes when I next saw you.”
Liebermann set his jaw and mumbled something inaudible, which Rheinhardt was perfectly content to accept as a token of gratitude.
The arrival of a pianist was received with restrained applause. The musician adjusted the height of his stool, flicked the tails of his coat, and sat down slowly. When his hands fell on the keyboard, the coffeehouse filled with a mournful dirge. The marchlike accompaniment suggested the trudging feet of a regiment of soldiers, every one of whom yearned to return home. It was an inconsolable song of reminiscence and lamentation.
“Brahms?” asked Rheinhardt tentatively.
“Yes,” Liebermann replied. “Hungarian Dance Number Eleven in D minor. It's usually heard in a four-hand arrangement… and he's playing it very slowly.”
“Still…”
“It is very affecting, yes.”
“I rather like it.”
They listened for a few moments, until a subtle modulation in the music suddenly released them from its thrall.
“So tell me,” said Liebermann. “What happened with old Brügel? Did the nephew carry out his threat?”
Rheinhardt rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
“Yes. He did write to the commissioner, informing him of my accusation. Subsequently, I was summoned by Brügel and given a complete dressing down. He was furious—I've never seen him so angry.”
“His overreaction confirms my earlier speculation. He knows what sort of a boy Wolf is. He is simply trying to safeguard the interests of his family.”
Rheinhardt waved a piece of sausage on the end of his fork. “When I was leaving, Brügel became more subdued. He said that Wolf was the only child of his youngest sister. The boy was no angel, he admitted, but he said I was quite wrong about him.” Rheinhardt paused, his eyes becoming less focused. “There was something about the way he referred to his sister… an uncharacteristic tenderness.”
“In most families,” said Liebermann knowingly, “the eldest son is often the youngest daughter's special protector—and a mother cannot help but idealize her only child. One does not need to be a very great psychologist to understand Brügel's motive. He loves his sister, and he is trying to stop you from breaking her heart. That is why his anger was so immoderate.”
Liebermann sat back in his chair, satisfied with his perspicacity. He noticed with irritation that a wayward spot of broth had landed on the cuff of his jacket. He tutted, reached into his trouser pocket, and pulled out a monogrammed silk handkerchief. As he did so, some pink sugared almonds fell and scattered onto the floor. The young doctor reached down, picked them up, and placed them on the tablecloth.
Rheinhardt stopped chewing.
“Sugared almonds,” said Liebermann, with a sheepish half smile.
“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt.
“I wasn't expecting them to be there.”
“Evidently not,” said the inspector, resuming his chewing, and revising his estimate of how much alcohol his friend had imbibed the previous evening.
Liebermann wiped his cuff clean. Trezska must have put the almonds in his pocket while they were both inebriated—or perhaps he had put them there himself; these innocent bonbons aroused in him a peculiar sense of incompletion and imminence. He stared at the almonds and began to play with them on his napkin—as if he might stumble upon an arrangement that would release their mysterious secret.
He remembered something that Trezska had said: she had praised the mind-altering properties of absinthe: the inspiration of poets… the favored spirit of visionaries. Why was that important? As hard as he tried, he couldn't think why.
“Are you feeling unwell?” Rheinhardt asked.
Liebermann dismissed his solicitous remark with a peremptory hand gesture.
They had returned to his apartment and made love. He could remember that well enough. Then, afterward, he had been lying in bed, still feeling very odd—and… That was it! He had experienced a flash of insight: something to do with almonds, and something very, very important.
“Ha!” Liebermann exclaimed.
“Whatever is the matter, Max?” said Rheinhardt, somewhat irritated by his friend's eccentric behavior.
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