Fatal Lies

65

“I am sorry to disturb you, Herr Sommer,” said Rheinhardt. “But a matter has arisen that requires clarification-and I believe you will be able to assist us.”

The mathematics master peeped out from behind the door. His bloodshot eyes shifted from one visitor to the other. Liebermann inclined his head.

“I trust,” Rheinhardt continued, “that we have not arrived at an inconvenient time.”

“Did you send me a telegram, Inspector?” said Sommer. “If so, it was never delivered.”

His breath smelled of alcohol.

“Unfortunately,” said Rheinhardt, “circumstances did not permit me-on this occasion-to extend such a courtesy.”

“Well,” said Sommer. “Since you ask, Inspector, I am rather busy at present. I wonder whether we could postpone our-”

“No,” interrupted Rheinhardt, extending his hand to stop the insidious progress of the door toward closure. “That will not be possible.”

The firmness with which Rheinhardt spoke made Sommer flinch.

“I see,” said Sommer, taking a step back. “In which case, you had better come in.”

Sommer limped down the hall and guided them into his study. He pulled two stools from under the table and offered his guests some schnapps; however, his hospitality was politely declined. Liebermann noticed that the schnapps bottle was almost empty and a little shot glass was already out on the table. There was nothing in the room to suggest-as Sommer had asserted-that he was in the middle of a task requiring sustained attention.

The mathematics master sat down in his leather reading chair and immediately started talking.

“Allow me to congratulate you, Inspector. None of us would have imagined Dr. Becker capable of such a heinous crime. What an extraordinary turn of events. And yet-you know-I have to say-if I am honest-I never really liked the man. I accept that one should never speak ill of the dead, but the fact of the matter is that Becker was a cold, unapproachable fellow, and quick to express disapproval. He once reprimanded me for gossiping, when I was merely sharing a humorous anecdote with Lang about an old master called Spivakov” Sommer watched nervously as Liebermann approached the window. “I am not sure,” Sommer continued, “that I can tell you very much more about him-but I will endeavor to do my best. Now, you said something needs to be cleared up-or was it clarified?”

Liebermann reached down and picked up a book from the floor. He opened it and examined the frontispiece.

“I notice, Herr Sommer, that you have purchased a new dictionary,” said the young doctor.

“Why, yes,” Sommer replied. “My other one was getting old.”

“Not so old, surely. It was-I believe-a Hartel and Jacobsen… and was published only three years ago.”

“You are most observant, Herr Doctor,” said Sommer. “Yes, I did have a Hartel and Jacobsen, but…” He swallowed, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. “It wasn't very good on technical terms. Not enough detail. My new dictionary is much better suited to my purposes.”

Liebermann turned and walked back across the room. He sat on a stool, opened his bag, and pulled out a large green volume.

“Then why, Herr Sommer,” said Liebermann, “were you so anxious to acquire this?”

The color drained from the mathematics master's face.

“What… what is it?” The hollowness of Sommer's voice betrayed the insincerity of his question.

“Thomas Zelenka's Hartel and Jacobsen dictionary.”

For several seconds the mathematics master presented a blank visage-as if the efferent nerves supplying his face with emotional expressivity had suddenly been severed with a cheese wire. Then, quite suddenly, a burst of galvanic twitches preceded a loud exclamation.

“Ah yes-of course,” cried Sommer, clapping his hands together. “You must have heard something or other from that boy Wolf!”

“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt.

“Yes… you see, it's a rather expensive dictionary and one thatI'm ashamed to say-I recommended to Zelenka. I should have given the matter more thought, particularly given Zelenka's enthusiasm for the sciences. As you know, Zelenka came from a poor family, so, on my return from Linz, I naturally wanted to make sure that this very valuable item had been safely returned-with the rest of his effects-to his parents. I made some inquiries and discovered that the dictionary had gone missing. I suspected that Wolf was the culprit-and subsequently challenged him. He protested his innocence and made some idle threats.” Sommer paused to shake his head. “Such a disagreeable boy. Now it seems that you have succeeded where I failed. How did you know that Wolf had it? I'm intrigued.”

Liebermann leaned forward and dropped the dictionary on Sommer's lap.

“The number pairs that appeared in the marginalia of Zelenka's exercise books-written in your hand, and his-correspond with the location of certain words in this dictionary. The first number refers to the page; the second number refers to the precise position of a particular word. Herr Sommer, we know what you were writing to each other. We now understand the… nature of your relationship.”

Sommer looked up at the young doctor. A faint smile flickered across his face, and a sound escaped from his mouth-an incomplete, forceful exhalation that carried within it a musical note of surprise. In spite of its brevity, this small vocalization was curiously dramatic, communicating both shock and resignation. The smile faded, and Sommer's features crumpled. He buried his head in his hands and began to sob.

“You knew that an autopsy would take place,” Liebermann continued, “and that the cuts on Zelenka's body would be discovered. However, you reasoned that these wounds would most probably be attributed to bullying, persecution, or torture-rather than to an erotic predilection. To reinforce this misconception, you wrote to the Arbeiter-Zeitung, in the guise of a former-and disaffected-pupil, Herr G. In this article, you denounced the culture of cruelty at Saint Florian's, and made reference to an invented punishment-'doing the night watch’-which had supposedly caused the accidental death of an unfortunate Hungarian boy called Domokos Pikler. In fact, Pikler did not fall to his death-he jumped. He suffered from suicidal melancholia. Your ruse was extremely effective. You did not fail to observe the cardinal rule of successful dissimulation: the inclusion of at least some of the truth.”

The mathematics master looked up and pulled the sleeve of his quilted jacket across his nose, leaving a trail of mucus on the faded silk. On his eyelashes, the remnants of tears caught the fading light.

“What did I do wrong?” Sommer asked Liebermann. “I did not coerce Zelenka. I did not force him. He wanted to do those things. He was a young man-but not so young as to be unconscious of his own actions, and insensible of their consequences… I did not corrupt him. Our physical intimacies-however repugnant you might find them-created bonds of affection. Deep bonds. I know you will recoil if I claim that we knew love. You have opinions, no doubt, concerning the degree to which love can exist under such circumstances. We inverts are disqualified, on medical grounds, from admission into the higher realms of emotional life… although greater men have disagreed with that view in the past. Have you read the Erotes by Lucian, Herr Doctor?”

“No.”

“Two men debate the merits of loving boys compared to loving women. The defender of love for women argues that such love serves procreation, and is therefore more natural-a superior love. But his opponent reverses the argument. He agrees that love for boys is indeed a cultural rather than a natural phenomenon. But this shows that those who practice love for boys-or who have the imagination to derive pleasure from unusual acts-rise above nature. Love for boys is not yoked to primitive, animal passions. When the imaginative lover makes love, he does so with his aesthetic sensibilities fully engaged. When he makes love, he is-in a way-creating a work of art. He rises above the carnal. When the dialogue of the Erotes reaches its final pages, an adjudicator concludes that love for boys is the natural predilection of philosophers. It is the highest love…”

Sommer clenched his fist.

“What did I do wrong?” He repeated his question. “You are a doctor and will describe me as a degenerate, an invert, a deviant. But may I remind you that it was Becker who killed Zelenka, not me! Respectable Dr. Becker, who would never have attracted such degrading appellations. And is it so very wrong to try to preserve one's position, one's livelihood? Had I been candid, I would have lost everything. You are fortunate, Herr Doctor, that your erotic instincts are directed toward socially acceptable aims. You did not make that choice-as I did not choose to be as I am. We are simply what we are-and what I am was not always judged to be bad. That is only the opinion of doctors in these modern times, and one day, opinions may change again. Therefore, do not judge me so unkindly… The moral heights that you occupy are not so elevated as you think.”

Liebermann did not respond. Instead, he stood up and addressed Rheinhardt.

“I'll wait for you outside.”