Fatal Lies

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. “Cafe 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 Cafe 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 Cafe 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.