Vienna Blood

49

THEY WERE SEATED BESIDE one of the Belvedere Sphinxes. A great wedge of snow had collected between the statue's stone wings, and her expression suggested wounded pride. Beyond the sunken hedge gardens and frozen fountains, the lower palace was shrouded in a nacreous winter mist.

Clara's mood was congruent with the landscape: frigid and unforgiving. They had barely spoken since leaving the Weisses’ house.

“Your father was very understanding,” said Liebermann, softly.

“He had to be civil,” said Clara. “He accepted your apology because he doesn't want to cause any arguments. Especially now.”

“Is he angry with me, then?

“Max, I am angry with you.”

Liebermann sighed, and looked down at his shoes. “It was important, Clara. Extremely important.”

“I'm sure it was… But so was going to the opera with my family. You ruined the evening. For all of us.”

Liebermann raised his hands in the air, as if beseeching the Sphinx to support him. “The Magic Flute is the key. I had to let Inspector Rheinhardt know immediately.”

“Did you? It couldn't have waited for an hour or two?”

“No. I have seen what this madman does. People's lives are at risk.”

“Has he struck again, then, this madman of yours?”

“No, he hasn't. But-”

Clara cut in, “Then it could have waited!” She managed to contain her anger for a few moments before it boiled over again.

“And why were you late for dinner yesterday?”

“I had a fencing lesson.”

The lie came all too easily.

“I thought your lessons were in the morning?”

“Signore Barbasetti was indisposed last week.” Liebermann spoke in an even voice, all the time staring into the Sphinx's face. Her expression seemed to change from wounded pride to disapproval. “We had rescheduled the lesson for yesterday evening. Unfortunately, I got rather overinvolved… and forgot the time.”

Clara shook her head. “And what does that tell us about your… your attitude?”

Liebermann was somewhat taken aback by this curious question. “I'm sorry?”

He turned to face Clara, whose dark eyes now seemed unusually penetrating.

“I remember,” she began slowly, as if the act of remembering were hard. “I remember you once said that everything means somethingeverything we do, however small: slips of the tongue, minor accidents, not being able to find things… So what does forgetting our dinner engagement mean?”

Liebermann felt as if the earth had shifted. He had underestimated her. She was more than just pretty, amusing Clara-a young woman from the right kind of family, with the right kind of background, his fiancee, a future wife. She had depths, some of which neither he- nor anybody, perhaps-would ever know, and a basic, inalienable right to be happy on her own terms. She had many faults, but at least she was honest, which was more than he could say of himself at that moment.

“Well?” Clara insisted.

Liebermann knew what he must do-and the mere thought of it brought him close to the edge of an inner precipice. Darkness and despair were aching to swallow him.