Fatal Lies

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.