Fatal Lies

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 gulyas.

“They do it correctly here… a traditional recipe, not like the heavy goulashes you might be used to. Gulyas 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 gulyas 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 gulyas having already been seasoned quite enough for his taste.

“Well, what do you think?” asked Trezska.

“Good-very good,” he replied. The gulyas 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-Roger 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 Rose.”

Liebermann repeated the name. He was most impressed. Rose was the concertmaster of the philharmonic.

“What pieces will you be studying with Rose?”

“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 gulyas 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 Jozsef 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 Moet 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 facade whose design recalled the Doge's Palace. The door of a little cafe 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 cafe.

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.