Fatal Lies

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 theatre 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.