Fatal Lies

23

Liebermann was sitting at the table of an inauspicious coffeehouse in Landstrasse with Signor Barbasetti, his fencing master, and two other pupils with whom he was moderately acquainted: Brod and Lind. They had just taken part in a competition. However, none of the three aspirants had performed very well.

Signor Barbasetti concealed his disappointment with a lengthy and somewhat philosophical disquisition on the art of fencing, the conclusion of which was that much could be learned from the close examination of small errors.

Yes, like psychoanalysis, thought Liebermann.

Unfortunately, Barbasetti chose to demonstrate the truth of this maxim by recounting and itemizing the failings of his students in such detail that any bonhomie slowly ebbed away, leaving in its place an intransigent atmosphere of gloom and despondency. Earlier than antici pated, the men rose from their seats, enacted the requisite courtesies, and parted company.

Liebermann was not familiar with the city's third district-and because his mind was still occupied by his mentor's excoriating critique, it took him some time to register that he had strayed from his intended route and was now hopelessly lost. He had wandered into an area consisting mainly of building sites and decrepit terraces: squat buildings with ruined stucco and rotten window frames. The air smelled damp, tainted with a trace of stagnancy (not unlike sewage). At the end of the road a mangy dog was standing beneath a streetlamp, feeding on something in the gutter. As Liebermann approached, the dog stopped eating and gazed up at him with minatory pale lupine eyes: it emitted a cautionary growl, and then began to gnaw on an object that cracked loudly in its mouth. Liebermann turned the corner, and peered down another poorly lit road.

Even though a few windows showed signs of occupancy, most were dark. Indeed, since leaving the coffeehouse Liebermann had not encountered another human being. It was unnaturally quiet, suggesting abandonment and dereliction. He glanced at his watch-and discovered that it was much later than he had thought.

Liebermann halted to consider his position. If he had been going toward the canal, then he would be able to follow its course into town. If, on the other hand, he had been traveling in the opposite direction, he was sure to come across a train line-which would serve the same purpose.

As he contemplated his options, the oppressive silence was broken by a scream-a woman's voice, crying for help. The volume and shrillness of the sound startled Liebermann, who spun around, trying to determine where it was coming from. He then sprinted toward the source, his footsteps sounding loud on the cobbled street. But he had not gone very far when the cries faded. His pace slackened.

An upstairs window flickered into life, its luminescent rectangle inhabited by the silhouette of a man in his nightshirt. The dog began to bark. Ahead, the road curved into darkness.

Where is she?

Liebermann was breathing hard.

The screams had sounded very close. Yet the arc of doors that lay ahead revealed nothing more than the reflected glimmer of a second streetlamp.

Liebermann had no choice but to continue. He quickened his pace and almost missed an opening between two houses-a narrow alleyway. Skidding to a halt, he wheeled around. He could hear scuffling-movements and a whimper. Treading softly he ventured into the passage. His foot made contact with something soft and yielding. Reaching down, he discovered a woman's bag.

Suddenly, voices. Rough-edged voices, speaking in a harsh working-class dialect.

Liebermann edged forward, taking great care not to make a sound. The alleyway led to a walled yard, dimly lit by a streetlamp located on the other side of the enclosure. The yard was strewn with crates, bottles, and other detritus. A woman was struggling to free herself from a broad-shouldered man who, standing behind her, had clamped a hand over her mouth and wrapped an arm around her waist. Another two men stood in front of the captive, jeering and making obscene remarks. It was obvious what they intended to do.

Liebermann stepped out of his tenebrous hiding place and called out: “Let her go.”

The leering duo turned. It was impossible to see their faces in the half-light.

“Let her go,” Liebermann repeated.

One of the men laughed.

“What are you gonna do about it?”

“I must insist that you let her go.”

A stream of profanities ended in humorless guffaws.

“Leave us alone,” the other man said. “Leave us alone, all right? Or you're gonna get hurt. Badly.”

“Yeah, run along-college boy.” This came from the man who was restraining the woman. She began to wriggle. “Keep still, you Gypsy bitch,” he hissed. The woman groaned as the villain tightened his grip.

Liebermann stood firm.

“Right,” said the nearest man. Liebermann saw him make a swift movement-and the glint of a blade flashed in the man's hand. He began to move forward. “Let's see if I can change your mind.”

“As you wish,” Liebermann replied.

The young doctor had been holding his sabre under his arm. Grabbing the hilt, he pulled it from the scabbard-producing as he did a satisfying ring of resonant steel-and held the sword aloft. Its appearance was greeted with a gasp and another stream of profanities. However, the man with the razor continued his approach, and his companion followed.

Liebermann could now see his adversary's features. He was bald, with swollen ears, a snout nose, and a scar that crossed his lips, disfiguring his mouth. It was a brutish countenance, suggesting the haphazard adhesion of lumps of clay. Liebermann searched the eyes for signs of intelligence but found only savage stupidity and an appetite for mindless violence.

The man jumped forward with surprising speed, swiping his razor close to Liebermann s face. But Liebermann had the superior weapon. Before the man could retreat, the young doctor's sabre had slashed through his forearm. The thug cried out, dropping the razor and falling to his knees. His companion, however, had armed himself with a large plank of wood, from which projected several nails. He was taller than the bald man, and more agile. Dodging Liebermann s first lunge, he swung the plank hard against the doctor's side. It was not a painful blow, but had sufficient force to make Liebermann stumble.

While Liebermann was trying to right himself, the tall man landed a second blow on his shoulder. This time it was extremely painful-sharp and searing. A nail had penetrated his skin, and as he pulled away, he heard the sound of ripping.

“Again,” the bald man shouted.

His companion raised his makeshift club, but on this third occasion he lifted it too high, exposing his torso and conceding the vital second that Liebermann required. The young doctor swung his sabre horizontally, creating a glimmering semicircle, the edge of which, if it had been displaced by another two inches, might well have proved fatal. The tall man buckled over-a torrent of blood gushing from his abdomen.

Liebermann waited until the tall man's rapidly weakening legs gave way, and then marched over to the woman and her captor.

“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, Fraulein 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.