Vienna Blood

46

IT WAS LATE IN THE afternoon. The gas lamps had been lit, and most of the exhibition halls in the Natural History Museum were deserted.

Earlier in the day Liebermann had written a note to Clara and her family, apologizing for his rude and precipitate departure the previous evening. He had requested their forgiveness and promised a full explanation. In truth, however, he was still unsure what he was going to say.

Clara had sent a prompt reply to the hospital, coolly informing her fiance that the Weiss family would be expecting him for dinner at half past seven. The communication did not end with her customary list of gushing endearments. Liebermann folded the note into quarters, slipped it into his top pocket, and spent the rest of the afternoon concentrating on his patients: Fraulein Allers, who suffered from hysterical abdominal pains; Herr Fogel, who wept bitterly for no apparent reason; Frau Huhle, who could not stop washing her hands; and finally Herr Beiber, the monomaniac who had fallen in love with the Archduchess Marie-Valerie. As soon as Liebermann had finished his case notes, he remembered Clara's letter and felt a certain heaviness around his heart. This physical sensation was accompanied by a general sense of despondency.

On leaving the hospital, Liebermann decided that he might benefit from a brief sojourn in the Natural History Museum. Even if it failed to improve his mood, it would at least give him an opportunity to collect his thoughts.

Liebermann climbed up the great staircase and wandered unhurriedly through the main galleries. He peered into the glass cabinets and examined the exhibits: brightly colored birds; a rangy fox; a pride of lions; tarantulas, bigger than a man's hand; magisterial tigers and butterflies with crepe-paper wings of turquoise and yellow; a massive crab given as a gift by the emperor of Japan to Emperor Franz Josef; the fossilized remains of great lizards; the freestanding skeleton of a whale; and, finally, a prehistoric man and woman, huddled together in the dusty bed of their burial pit.

Here was an enduring marriage.

Liebermann tried to imagine his bones and Clara's, intermingled forever beneath the soil. But he could not do so. The proscenium of his imagination remained stubbornly dark.

A custodian was closing the large wooden door ahead. Behind it, a life-size lacquered papier-mache model of a stegosaur fell into shadow.

Liebermann turned, and retraced his steps.

The gas lamps in the Geological Hall had been dimmed, but the gemstones and geodes still played with the meager light. The effect was quite magical. As Liebermann strolled down the central aisle, he was accompanied by waves of coruscation. Rocks flared and glinted as though an invisible retainer were scattering stardust in his path.

Ensconced in a window seat on the far side of the gallery was a woman. Her flaming hair and straight back instantly announced her identity: it was Miss Lydgate. The Englishwoman's nose was buried between the covers of a book. With a quick, mercurial movement she turned the page. She seemed to be devouring the text at an alarming speed.

Liebermann approached, allowing his footsteps to sound more loudly. As he drew closer, her concentration broke and she looked up from the volume.

“Doctor Liebermann-what a pleasant surprise.” The words were spoken softly, dreamily, as if she were waking from a deep sleep. She was about to stand, but Liebermann gestured for her to remain seated.

“Miss Lydgate.” Liebermann bowed.

The gas lamps hissed and the unusual stillness was disturbed only by the distant groan of creaking hinges and the soft jangling of keys. The galleries were being closed off one by one.

“I came to see the meteorites,” said Amelia.

“Indeed,” said Liebermann, not altogether sure how to continue the conversation after such an unusual declaration. Fortunately, Amelia rescued them both from a potentially embarrassing hiatus with a polite inquiry. “How is Inspector Rheinhardt?”

“Very well.”

“And the investigation?”

“Progressing.” Liebermann felt disinclined to provide a more comprehensive answer. He did not want to spoil this unexpected rendezvous with talk of Salieri, blood, and mutilated corpses. “What are you reading?” he asked, willing their talk toward a more pleasant topic of conversation.

The familiar vertical crease appeared on her forehead and deepened.

“An indulgence. I would be better served by a textbook of anatomy; however, today I received some parcels from London, one of which contained this work of fiction.” She held up the slim publication. “A gift from my father.”

Liebermann translated the title and was somewhat puzzled. An indulgence? He did not think that a story about a timepiece sounded so terribly indulgent.

“The Time Machine,” he read out loud in English, “by H. G. Wells.”

“Yes, my father is a great admirer of the author, who-unlike his peers-is unusually conversant with scientific ideas.”

“It is a story about a clock?”

“No, the term time machine refers to something far more interesting. It is a device that can actually travel through time-which is itself ingeniously represented as a fourth dimension, supplementing the more familiar Euclidian measures of length, breadth, and thickness.”

Miss Lydgate handed the volume to Liebermann, who inspected the spine. The novel was published by a company called Heinemann. Liebermann wondered why Mr. Wells was published by a German firm.

“The narrator travels to the distant future,” Amelia continued, “where he discovers that humanity has degenerated into two separate species. The Morlocks, an apelike race who live below the surface of the Earth, and the Eloi, a helpless, feeble folk with childlike qualities. Although The Time Machine is only a…” The vertical crease on Amelia's forehead deepened as she searched for a precise term. “A scientific romance, I cannot help but feel that it was Mr. Wells's intention to provoke more than just excitement in his readers. Indeed, I am of the opinion that this story is also meant to serve as a kind of prophecy-or warning.”

Once again, Liebermann found himself entranced by this remarkable woman: her pedantic speech, her steady gaze, the power of her intellect.

“Warning?” he repeated her last word, hoping this modest prompt would provoke a lengthy exposition.

“In our modern world,” Amelia began, “there is an increasing rift arising between the rich and the poor. Moreover, there is a tendency for those who are born into the laboring classes to live-and workunderground. In London, for example, it is customary for household servants such as maids, cooks, and launderers to spend the greater part of their existence in basements and cellars. Indeed, it is not uncommon for serving people to use the terms upstairs and downstairs as appellations to distinguish the gentlefolk from their own kind. There are many more dramatic examples of the same phenomenon. Think of coal miners, whose terrible fate it is to descend into the very bowels of the earth. Think of train drivers, many of whom must now work underground- some never see the light of day. In fact, think of any great modern city: London, Vienna, New York. All are now built on a subterranean honeycomb of boiler rooms, tunnels, and workstations.”

The Englishwoman's eyes brightened.

“Mr. Wells seems to be suggesting that if the trend continues, the human race will eventually divide along the fault lines of social stratification. There will be fewer and fewer opportunities for intermarriage, resulting in subspeciation. We are destined to become Morlocks and Eloi.”

Liebermann handed the book back to her.

“It is an extremely interesting hypothesis, Miss Lydgate. However

…” He smiled kindly, not wishing to extinguish her enthusiasm with harsh criticism. “I find it somewhat implausible. Humanity has made its home in the snowy wastes of the Arctic, the sere deserts of Arabia, and the jungles of darkest Africa. Yet the basic human form has remained constant.”

“With respect,” said Amelia, clutching the book to her breast. “I would beg to differ. The human form is very pliable. Does the Eskimo look like the Bedouin? The Bantu exactly like his Nordic cousin?”

“No-but, to my knowledge, this has not resulted in any biological prohibition on procreation between races. In spite of our propensity to explore and inhabit different environments-which has inevitably resulted in some superficial variegated adaptations-we remain a single humanity.”

“But eventually, Doctor Liebermann, if such differences were to be exaggerated over millennia-over periods of time of the order required to turn, let us say, a carboniferous forest into coal-then surely-”

A custodian appeared at one end of the gallery. He clicked his heels and announced in an officious, haughty tone, “The museum is about to close.”

Amelia stood up and a faint smile flickered across her face.

“I would very much like to continue this conversation, Doctor Liebermann, but I am afraid that I must now collect my coat and hat from the cloakroom.”

Liebermann glanced at his wristwatch. He knew that what he was about to say was improper-and that if Miss Lydgate answered him in the affirmative, then he would almost certainly arrive late for dinner at the Weiss household. Even so, he heard himself saying, in a disembodied, airy voice, “But we can continue this conversation if you wish. There is a coffeehouse on Museumstrasse…” His invitation trailed off.

Miss Lydgate looked at him with her arresting, metallic eyes.

The hiss of the gas lamps seemed to become louder in the ensuing pause, filling the lacuna with a disconcertingly violent rush of sound. The custodian coughed impatiently.

“That is a delightful idea,” Amelia replied. “Tell me-where do you stand with respect to the writings of Jean-Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet?”