Vienna Blood

37

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON and the hospital was uncharacteristically quiet. Even the most distressed patients, whose mournful cries could usually be heard reverberating down the corridors, had fallen silent. Perhaps it was the cold. The hospital heating system had been unable to withstand the Siberian temperature, which had advanced through the walls and was now taking possession of every ward. Many of the patients were still in bed, shivering under starched sheets.

Herr Beiber's bulging stomach rose and fell beneath the loose hospital gown. He was a short, stocky man who possessed a mutinous mustache and beard of a startling orange-yellow hue. From Liebermann's vantage, he could see that the poor fellow was going bald. A lightly freckled tonsure had been exposed on his crown. He looked like a mendicant friar. In fact, Herr Beiber worked for a firm of accountants whose offices were close to the Graben.

“She is such a fine woman.” His voice was rich and mellow. Declamatory, like an actor's. “Her skin is like china, and her eyes burn with an ardent fire.” He stretched his legs on the divan and wiggled his toes, the extremities of which had turned blue with cold. “Are you familiar with Plato's Symposium, Herr Doctor?”

“Not really.”

“It is one of the earliest works on love. According to Greek legend, human beings were once double-headed creatures with four legs and four arms; however, we humans were then a proud race, and Zeus resolved that we should be humbled. To this end, he devised a punishment. He cut each body in half-producing two creatures where there had formerly been only one. Thereafter, each incomplete being yearned to be reunited with its other half. It is a legacy that affects us to this day. We are not properly born into this world. We are unfinished.”

“And you believe this Platonic doctrine?”

“It is not a question of belief, Herr Doctor. It is something I know to be true.”

“But surely it is just a metaphor… a fable.”

“No, Herr Doctor. It is something that I have experienced, something that I have lived.”

The line of Herr Beiber's mouth curved gently to form a saintly introspective smile. His fingers interlocked on the crest of his stomach, and he sighed with pleasure.

“But how?” asked Liebermann.

“When we discover our counterpart, the power of mutual attraction is irresistible-it is an overwhelming and undeniable truth. I could as much doubt the Platonic doctrine as I could doubt the existence of this divan.” He rapped the wooden side panel to emphasize his point. “For that reason, I am happy to go through this… this procedure. You seem a pleasant enough chap, and I have no reason to doubt your sincerity. I am content to lie here, Herr Doctor, and answer your questions in good faith, because I know that whatever obstacles are placed in our path, she and I will be together one day. It would be easier for you to stop the sun from crossing the heavens than to prevent our ultimate union.”

Liebermann opened Herr Beiber's file and made a simple note.

Monomania. Platonic myth-paranoia erotica?

“But how can you say that this power of attraction is mutual?” Liebermann persisted. “The lady in question has never corresponded with you, spoken to you, or given you the slightest indication that she even knows of your existence.”

Herr Beiber began to chuckle quietly to himself as if he were party to a private joke. “That is what you think, Herr Doctor!” Herr Beiber tapped the side of his nose with a chubby index finger.

“I am mistaken?” asked Liebermann.

“Herr Doctor, it was not I who noticed her first-it was she who noticed me.”

Liebermann decided to humor the clerk. “Can you remember the first time she noticed you?”

“Yes. It was a Sunday afternoon last summer. I had been to the zoo and was walking to the streetcar stop, just beyond the Schonbrunn Palace. It was a glorious day, a little too hot for my liking, and I paused just outside the main gates to catch my breath. I turned to look at the palace, which was bright yellow in the sunshine. I squinted against the glare, and something… something drew my attention to the fourth floor. There are five windows below the balustrades of a roof balcony. I saw something moving behind the middle window… and I knew that it was her.”

“You could see her from that distance?”

Herr Beiber smiled benignly, as if Liebermann had asked an innocent but stupid question.

“It was her,” he said again, with quiet confidence.

“What did she want?” asked Liebermann.

“Initially, just to capture my interest-to reveal herself.”

“And what did you do?”

“I acknowledged her signal with a gesture-”

“What kind of gesture?” Liebermann interrupted.

The clerk rocked his head from side to side. “That, Herr Doctor, is something I cannot disclose.”

“Very well,” said Liebermann. “What happened then?”

“I caught my streetcar and went home. As you can imagine, I was quite restless. I kept going over in my mind what had happened, and found it almost impossible to sleep. But the more I thought about it, the more it became clear to me that the communication had had greater meaning… and the more I contemplated this meaning, the more I found myself possessed by a giddy excitement. Was it possible? I wondered. Was it really possible that such an exalted personage should have feelings for an ordinary chap like me? A humble accountancy clerk in the employ of Hubel amp; Wiesel. It seemed absurd, ridiculous, but I could not deny the great swell of emotion in my breast. The bright fire of recognition was burning in my soul… She had found me, and I was powerless to resist.”

Herr Beiber's face flushed a little as he recollected his night of transfiguration.

“I returned to the palace at various times over the following week. I spent long hours, waiting-often in darkness. But I knew that she would sense my presence and would come to the window, eventually. She was, I am sure, as overwhelmed and frightened, yes, frightened, by the experience as myself… She needed to see me there, beyond the gate, steadfast and true. She needed to be reassured, comforted, and fully persuaded that what we were both enduring was absolutely real. Be that as it may, the certainty of our fate was inescapable. The communications became clearer and more numerous. She was desperately unhappy, and I resolved to rescue her.”

“Which was when you had your altercation with the palace guards?”

“Indeed. It is regrettable that I failed in my attempt-but I am no way dissuaded from this course of action. She cannot-poor lady- escape the clutches of her royal keepers, and I am obliged to persevere.”

Although Liebermann had found the deluded clerk's story mildly amusing, he could not help himself from feeling a sharp pang of pity. It was sad that this otherwise ordinary gentleman had suffered some convulsion in his psyche, a disturbance that made him believe wholeheartedly in a romance that had supposedly begun in the mythic glades of ancient Greece.

Closing his eyes, the little man added, “I will do whatever is necessary.” For the first time, Herr Beiber's tone sounded somewhat sinister.

Liebermann leaned back in his chair and picked a hair off his trousers. It was a wiry, auburn strand. He had no idea who it had originally belonged to.

“Herr Beiber,” he began. “You said that her communications became clearer and more numerous… How else has she communicated with you?”

The clerk plunged a hand down the front of his gown and pulled out a postcard. He said nothing but simply held his hand out, allowing Liebermann to take the card.

It was a family portrait. A balding gentleman wearing spectacles sat to the right with a young girl on his lap. He was wearing a military-style uniform with braided fastenings and a high collar. Next to him sat a striking woman with a long, elegant face. Her hair was pinned up and she too dandled an infant. Other children, somewhat older, stood on either side of their parents.

Liebermann recognized the striking woman immediately. It was the emperor's daughter, the Archduchess Marie-Valerie, who was the subject of Beiber's fantasy.

“I don't understand,” said Liebermann.

“Look at the table,” said Beiber.

In the foreground of the picture was a small wooden structure. It was unobtrusive-a prop, no doubt, carefully positioned to satisfy the compositional requirements of the royal photographer. A closed book had been placed on the surface, its embossed spine facing the viewer.

“Can you see it?” asked Beiber. “I can see the table-and a book.” “Exactly,” said Beiber. “She put it there.” “And what does it mean?” asked Liebermann. “Surely you do not need to ask such a question, Herr Doctor.” Liebermann tilted the postcard to get more light. “I'm sorry, Herr Beiber, but I really can't-” “The book, Herr Doctor. Can't you see what it is?” The postcard lacked sufficient definition to make the title readable. “Forgive me, Herr Beiber, but my eyesight is rather poor,” said Liebermann politely. “Perhaps you can enlighten me?”

“Plato's Symposium!” exclaimed Beiber, clapping his hands together. Liebermann sighed, and underlined paranoia erotica.