Vienna Blood

12

THE MAID ADDRESSED BETTINA in a hushed voice. “It's Herr Frankel. He won't go without seeing you. He said that he has some very important documents for Herr Weiss.”

Bettina rolled her eyes, glanced up at the ceiling, and addressed Liebermann and Clara.

“One of Konrad's business associates, Moritz Frankel. I don't know what's wrong with him. He insists on delivering contracts in person and won't leave anything with our servants. He's always worried about things getting lost or stolen. I'm sure it's an illness. Perhaps you should see him as a patient, Max?”

Liebermann shook his head. “I think not.”

Rising, Bettina touched her little son's nose. “Leo, Mutti's going outside. Be good for Uncle Max and Auntie Clara.” She then glided toward the door, veering sideways to avoid baby Emil's head. “This shouldn't take too long,” she added, glancing back at her guests.

As soon as the door had closed behind Bettina, Clara looked from Leo to Emil and back again. Her face was shining with joy and mischievous excitement. She seemed to be in a quandary, unsure of which nephew to play with first. Gleefully casting the customs of gentility aside, she jumped up from her seat, lowered herself to the floor, and began crawling on all fours toward Emil.

“I'm coming to get you,” she announced, extending the syllables and dropping her voice an octave to achieve a hint of menace. “I'm coming.”

Leo, who was seated on a high wooden chair, was so impressed by the irregularity of his aunt's behavior that he could not stop himself from emitting a high-pitched squeal. The toddler was dressed rather formally in a red-striped coat with gold buttons, a velvet hat, and a diminutive bow tie. Clara looked up. “That's it, Leo, warn your little brother… I'm coming, I'm coming.”

Liebermann was humbled by Clara's insouciance, her natural capacity to derive intense joy from such innocent pleasures. She was a woman with many faults-she could be superficial, preoccupied by social trivia, and prone to worthless gossip-but emotional dishonesty was not one of them. Her love was simple and direct, free of unnecessary cerebral complications.

“I'm coming to eat you up,” Clara panted.

As Liebermann looked on, tender feelings gave way to desire. The sway of Clara's hips, the pointed heels of her leather boots, and the glimpse of a silk undergarment soon destroyed the fragile purity of his reverie.

“Max?”

“Yes?” He shifted uncomfortably.

“Quick. Get me the Perzy.”

“The what?”

Clara turned. “The snow globe! It's on the mantelpiece. Next to your elbow.”

Liebermann picked up what appeared to be a crystal ball mounted on a black gypsum base. Inside the globe was a minute replica of the Riesenrad-the giant Ferris wheel on the Prater.

“This?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“Shake it and you'll see.”

He did so. Suddenly the enclosed world was animated by a violent snowstorm-thousands of white flakes whirled around within a cyclone of invisible turbulence.

“Ha!” cried Liebermann. “Ingenious.”

“Haven't you seen one before?”

“No.”

“You must start taking an interest in the real world, Max! They've become very fashionable. Herr Perzy started making them a few years ago. He has a shop in Hernals.”

Liebermann handed Clara the globe. She shook it and placed it in front of Emil's face. The infant was lying on his stomach, the upper half of his body raised on thick, stocky arms, the extremities of which were lost in a pillow. He was wearing a long white lacy smock and little woollen shoes. His enormous round head bobbed up and down, supported precariously by a thin neck.

“Look, Emil. Snow!”

The infant continued to survey his surroundings in an unfocused state of wonderment and confusion. Then, suddenly catching sight of the glittering ball, his mouth opened, allowing a thin but unbroken line of dribble to fall slowly to the floor, where it fed an expanding pool of transparent saliva.

“Oh, good heavens!”

Clara handed the snow globe back to Liebermann, produced a handkerchief from nowhere with the dexterity of a stage magician, wiped Emil's mouth, mopped the floor, and scooped the child up in her arms. Liebermann found the artless ease with which she dealt with the predicament curiously affecting.

Liebermann bent his knees and squatted down beside her.

Clara's eyes were closed, and her lips were pressed up against Emil's plump red cheek. The child gurgled and produced the immature throaty music of infant laughter. Liebermann had never seen Clara looking so content, calm, or beautiful. When she opened her eyes, something passed between them. Unspoken, but powerful: the promise of intimacy and children of their own.

Liebermann swallowed, and felt an uncomfortable lump in his throat.

Clara reached out and touched Liebermann's face. The contact was as gentle as the brush of a falling leaf.

“What is it, Max?”

The door opened and they both turned toward the sound. It was Bettina. “What are you two doing on the floor? You're worse than the children-I can't leave you alone for two minutes!”