Fatal Lies

68

As Liebermann marched through the streets of Alsergrund, his thoughts took the form of questions and doubts: moreover, his general disquietude was exacerbated by an unpleasant fluttering sensation in his chest. It made him feel light-headed and breathless. He put his hand in his pocket and touched Miss Lyd gate s note.

He wondered why he had accepted her invitation, when he might just as well have replied with a polite refusal. Even though it had been his intention to decline, Liebermann had found himself writing courteous phrases that moved-inexorably-toward a bald statement that she should expect him at the appointed time.

What was Miss Lyd gate s purpose? Would she give him some indication, however small, of her changed circumstance, or would she eschew mention of her romantic involvement altogether, choosing instead to pour tea, offer biscuits, and share with him her latest philosophical enthusiasm. He was not sure he could tolerate such a conversation. The temptation to press her for some revelation-or even a complete confession-might be too powerful to resist.

Liebermann was surprised by the strength of his feelings-and shamefully aware of their proprietorial nature. He thought of Professor Freud, the most rational of men, driven to the very brink of demanding satisfaction-because of jealousy. He thought of Dr. Becker, motivated to kill another human being-because of jealousy. And he thought of himself, reeling away from the Cafe Segel, delirious with disappointment and rage-because of jealousy.

It was an ugly destructive emotion, and as a civilized man he felt obliged to overcome his primitive urges. Yet the desire to possess a woman exclusively was an indelible feature of the male psyche, and to repress such feelings would simply promote-according to Professor Freud-the development of hysterical and neurotic symptoms. Modern man must either wallow in the mire of his animal instincts or deny them and become mentally ill.

A fragment of conversation:

That man… The one who stopped you outside Demel's.

What?

The man who called you Amelie-Franz…

Oh yes. Strange, wasn't it?

You knew him, really, didn't you?

Are you jealous?

Liebermann didn't want to be jealous. But there was one thing he didn't want to be even more, and that was mentally ill.

In due course, Liebermann arrived outside Frau Rubenstein's house. He rapped the knocker three times and waited. A few moments later, the door opened and Amelia Lyd gate was standing in front of him. She was wearing a simple white dress and her hair fell in blazing tresses to her shoulders. Her eyes-which never failed to astonish him-seemed to be reflecting a bright blue light: the harsh blue of an Alpine lake or glacier. Unusually, she smiled-a broad, uninhibited smile. Its radiance imbued her face with beatific qualities. Indeed, there was something about her appearance that reminded Liebermann of religious iconography: she might easily have replaced the angel in a Renaissance Annunciation.

“Dr. Liebermann.” Her voice floated over the traffic. “I am delighted you could come. Please, do come in.”

As was his custom, Liebermann spent a few minutes with Frau Rubenstein before following Amelia up the stairs to her apartment. Although Frau Rubenstein's conversation had been unremarkable, he thought he had detected a certain wry amusement in her tone-a certain knowingness. He might even have commented on this had he not had other things on his mind.

“It must be nearly a month since you last visited us,” said Amelia. “I believe it was shortly after the detectives’ ball.”

“Yes,” Liebermann replied. “Mid-January I think.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him: “How time flies… Unfortunately, I have not had sufficient opportunity to organize dancing lessons with Herr Janowsky… but I still intend to do so.”

“You have been busy… at the university?”

“Yes,” she replied. “And there have been other matters…”

Again she looked over her shoulder and smiled.

When they reached the top landing, Amelia Lyd gate ushered Liebermann into her small parlor. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he came to an abrupt halt. There, sitting at the gateleg table, on the chair that he had so frequently occupied, sat the gentleman in whose arms Miss Lyd gate had swooned outside the Cafe Segel. The man looked relaxed. His legs were crossed, revealing one of his boots, which was stitched with an ornate and somewhat garish pattern. His wide-brimmed hat was hanging off the back of his chair, and he sported a curious necktie that seemed to be no wider than a shoelace.

The gentleman stood up and extended his hand.

“You will forgive me for addressing you in my native language, Herr Dr. Liebermann, but I have a strong suspicion that your English will be very much superior to my German-which is lamentably poor. It is a great honor to meet a man of whom I have heard such good report.” He grasped Liebermann's hand, and squeezed it hard. The man's English was peculiarly inflected. Indeed, it was very different from the English that Liebermann remembered from the time he'd spent in London. Nor was the man's clothing particularly British-looking.

“Permit me to introduce myself,” the man continued. “Randall Pelletier-Lyd gate-at your service, sir.” “You are Miss Lyd gate's… cousin?” Amelia came forward. “No. Randall is my brother.” “But…” Liebermann looked at the woman standing beside him. She was glowing with pride. “It was my understanding that you do not have-”

“A brother… Indeed.” Amelia interrupted him. “That was my understanding too, but apparently I was mistaken.”

Liebermann was thrown into a state of confusion. He experienced a sense of intense relief-almost joy-but was then immediately alarmed by his reaction. He was in love with Trezska-wasn't he? “I think,” said Liebermann. “I think… you had better explain.” “With great pleasure,” Amelia replied. “However, before we proceed, you will no doubt require refreshment-so I must first make some tea.”

“Many years before making the acquaintance of Greta Buchbinderthat is to say Amelia's mother-our father, Samuel Lyd gate, had enjoyed a brief but intimate dalliance with an actress: Constance Vaughn.” Randall's voice was mellow, and his narrative flowed like the song of a lyric tenor. “Their acquaintance was prematurely ended when the English Shakespeare Company-with whom Constance played as a principal-boarded the White Star vessel Oceanic, bound for New York. The company was embarked upon a tour of America that would take them through the southern states. Although Constance had promised to write to Samuel Lyd gate, he never heard from her again-and so he never learned that she had departed from Liverpool pregnant, carrying his child. Constance-my mother-was an unconventional woman. She was impulsive, prone to violent passions, and-I fear-in her youth might reasonably have been described as a little… cranky.”

“I'm sorry?” Liebermann said.

“Mentally unstable,” Amelia interjected in German.

“Ah, of course. Please continue.”

Randall took a sip of Earl Grey.

“In New Orleans, the English Shakespeare Company performed two tragedies and a comedy. One of these tragedies was Romeo and Juliet — and my mother played the lead. In the audience was a local businessman called George Pelletier. So impressed was he by the young actress that he sent her flowers and showered her with gifts. A single dinner engagement sufficed to convince him that she was the love of his life, and he proposed that they should be married. My mother, being an indefatigable romantic-her senses assailed by the exotic sights and sounds of New Orleans, drunk with the prospect of adventure and excitement-agreed to the proposal immediately, and one week later when the English Shakespeare Company left town, they did so with one less actress in their troupe.

“I do not know whether my mother and her new husband discussed my paternity-but what I do know is that I was raised in the belief that George Pelletier was my father, and he accordingly treated me like a son. Indeed, a boy could not have wished for a more devoted parent…He died five years ago, and if grief is a measure of affection, then the depth of my sorrow confirmed the strength of our bond. He was a kind, generous man, and I continue to miss his counsel and laughter. Alas, this great loss was soon to be compounded by another. Last year my mother succumbed to a tubercular infection, and on her deathbed-for reasons that I still can only guess at-she decided that the time had come to reveal the truth concerning my provenance. I discovered the name, occupation, and nationality of my real father: a revelation the effect of which-I trust you will appreciate- cannot be overestimated.

“Lyd gate is not so common a name in the British Isles, and, having resolved to begin my inquiries among the better educational establishments of London, I was soon rewarded with success. However, I was reluctant to approach Samuel directly. I did not know what manner of man he was-or how he might respond if I presented myself at his door.

“I am accustomed to uncovering facts-it is, indeed, what constitutes the greater part of my work. I decided that I should discover a little more about Samuel's circumstances before alerting him to my existence. I wanted to know more about him in order to better judge whether or not my appearance would be welcome. My agent in London later informed me that Samuel Lyd gate had a daughterAmelia-who was currently studying at the University of Vienna…

“Dr. Liebermann, you cannot imagine how this intelligence affected me. A sister. I had a younger sister!” Randall looked at Amelia, and his expression, Liebermann noticed, was still-in spite of the passage of time-incandescent with joyful disbelief. “I do not know why I was so profoundly moved-but moved I most certainly was. Further, it occurred to me that there might be certain advantages if I took the trouble to contact my sister before I approached my father: a younger person might be less rigid-better equipped to assimilate such dramatic news. She might even be prepared to act as a kind of intermediary. So I resolved to travel to Vienna… and here I am.”

“A remarkable story,” said Liebermann. “Truly remarkable.”

The subsequent discussion was somewhat circular, returning again and again to reiterations of the fact that Randall Lyd gate's history was-without doubt- remarkable! Indeed, it seemed to Liebermann that repetitions of this nature were something of a necessity and an unspecified number were required before the conversation was free to proceed beyond general expressions of amazement. Eventually, however, a turning point was reached and the issue of how best to inform Samuel Lyd gate of Randall's appearance was given careful and sensitive consideration.

Liebermann's curiosity had been aroused by something that Randall had said earlier, and at an appropriate juncture he said:

“I trust that you will not consider my question impertinent. But you mentioned in passing that your work involves… uncovering facts? What is it that you do?”

“I am an archaeologist,” said Randall.

“And a respected authority,” said Amelia, “on the ancient civilizations of Mexico and Peru.”

“Please… Amelia,” said Randall, embarrassed by his sister's advocacy. “Most of my work takes place in old libraries-poring over ancient maps and mythologies. But on occasion it is my privilege to visit the holy places of the Toltecs, where it is still possible to find- and save-examples of their sublime artistry.”

“The Toltecs?”

“A race alluded to in a migration myth as the first Nahua immigrants to the region of Mexico. The name ‘Toltec’ came to be regarded by the surrounding peoples as synonymous with ‘artist,’ and as a kind of hallmark that guaranteed the superiority of any Toltec workmanship.” As Randall spoke, his voice acquired a mellifluous, dreamy quality, and his eyes seemed to search out a far horizon. “Everything in and about their city was redolent of the taste and artistry of its founders. The very walls were encrusted with rare stones, and their masonry was so beautifully chiseled and laid as to resemble the choicest mosaic.”

It transpired that Randall had clearly inherited some of his mother's appetite for adventure. For he often accepted commissions from North American universities and museums to journey south- into sometimes remote and dangerous territories-in order to recover lost treasures, the existence of which he ascertained from close readings of native legends (recorded by historians with exotic names such as Zumarraga and Ixtlilxochitl).

As the evening progressed, the conversation ranged over an extra ordinarily broad range of topics: Amelia's research under the supervision of Landsteiner, King Acxitl, dream interpretation, the hallucinatory properties of certain desert mushrooms (an example of which, curiously, Randall happened to have in his pocket), Nietz sche's concept of eternal recurrence, and the syncopated music of the black people of New Orleans (which Randall obligingly whistled while tapping his foot).

Discussion of rags and ragtime led, by some oblique conversational maneuvering, to the waltz, which prompted Amelia to enthuse- at some length-about the ball she had attended with Liebermann. Randall-to Liebermann's surprise-expressed much interest (perhaps anthropological) in Fasching, and the young doctor found himself offering to take both brother and sister to the clock makers’ ball, which was scheduled to take place the following week.

When Liebermann finally took his leave, he felt quite dazed. It had turned out to be an evening very different from the one he had expected. He walked the streets for some time-smoking and thinking-before returning home. When Miss Lyd gate had said goodbye, she had reached out and gently touched his hand. After taking a few steps he had looked back, and the image of her standing in the doorway had impressed itself on his memory. Her white dress had billowed in the breeze, and strands of her spun copper hair had streamed across her face. She had pushed them aside, revealing those arresting eyes. The smile that had been fleetingly present throughout the entire evening was gone, and her expression was intense, penetrating-as if she were looking directly into his soul. Lieber-mann identified the thought as fanciful, but nevertheless felt a shiver of unease.

He had been so very wrong about Miss Lyd gate. Indeed, on reflection, Liebermann concluded that in matters of the heart he had something of a gift for being wrong…