Vienna Blood

50

HERR BEIBER SHOWED NO signs of anxiety or discomfort. He seemed perfectly content to be lying on a hospital divan, following the young doctor's injunction to say-without censorship-anything that might come into his head. Indeed, it seemed to Liebermann that the accountant was enjoying himself.

“I can remember, one morning-about a month or so ago, just before the snow started falling-I was standing outside the Schonbrunn Palace.” Beiber raised his hand and let it fall onto his stomach, making a loud slapping sound. “It was very early. The mist had only just lifted, and I knew-I just knew-that she was still asleep. I imagined her, slumbering in a gilded four-poster bed, her sweet nose pressed into soft, downy pillows. Now, at that moment I saw this fellow making his way toward me-a musician, carrying a cello on his back. And it struck me, all at once, that it would be a truly wonderful gesture to arrange a little concert-so that she might wake to the strains of some beautiful love song. There's a famous, oft-quoted line, by an English author: If music be the food of love, play on…”

“Shakespeare,” said Liebermann.

“Is it?

“Yes. Twelfth Night.”

“Perhaps I saw it at the Court Theater. To be honest, I can't remember. Anyway, I thought it a most agreeable sentiment, so I raised my hand and the cellist halted. I asked him if he would be kind enough to play a love song, for the Archduchess Marie-Valerie. He was an odd fellow… something about him… Oh, it doesn't matter. He went to move off and I begged him to wait a moment. ‘I'll make it worth your while,’ I said. ‘Naturally.’ He didn't respond. ‘What shall it be?’ I asked. ‘Two krone?’ I thought it a generous offer-but the fellow didn't budge. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘let's call it three kronen.’ Still-no response. ‘Four, five, ten?’ Still nothing. So, more out of curiosity than anything else, I offered him twenty, then fifty, and finally, one hundred krone. And do you know what? He still didn't accept. Instead, he said: ‘The Archduchess won't be able to hear.’ I disagreed. ‘My good man’-I said-‘it's a very still, quiet morning. The cello has a full, deep voice-of course she will be able to hear.’ He shook his head. ‘I can assure you,’ he said, ‘she won't. This is the summer palace-there's no one home.’ And then he walked off. It wasn't empty, of course. The fool was totally wrong. She was in the palace- I knew it!”

A note of petulance had crept into his final exclamation. But he sighed, pulled at his vibrant orange-yellow beard, and continued, speaking more calmly now.

“Such a shame… If he had been more of a game fellow, it would have been a glorious way for her to wake. Those sweet eyelids, still heavy with sleep, fluttering open. Her head turning, to hear better the sweet melody… she would have known that it was me, of course.”

He closed his eyes and blissfully contemplated the imaginary royal chamber.

“Herr Beiber,” said Liebermann. “If you were… united, with the Archduchess Marie-Valerie, how do you think you would spend your time together? What would you do?”

“That is an interesting question, Herr Doctor,” said the accountant, “and one to which I have devoted much consideration. You will forgive me, however, if I correct your language slightly. It is somewhat misleading. The question is not if-but when. When the Archduchess Marie-Valerie and I are united, how shall we choose to spend our time together?”

“Very well,” said Liebermann.

“We shall take walks. We shall go to concerts. We shall read poetry. We shall hold hands. I shall spend whole days gazing into her soft, compassionate eyes. I shall comb her hair. We shall talkendlessly-about our miraculous love, and we shall tell and retell the story of our coming together.”

Herr Beiber licked his lips and continued to enumerate.

“I shall fill her pen with ink when she wishes to write letters. I shall open doors for her when she wishes to pass from one room to the next. I shall give her roses…”

Herr Beiber went on in this vein for some time; the life that he envisaged for himself as the Archduchess's consort was curiously sterile. It was nothing more than a series of frozen tableaux: tiny gestures of affection and tired romantic motifs.

Liebermann coughed in order to interrupt the mundane litany.

“Herr Beiber.” He paused and looked down at the freckled bald patch. “I am sorry, but… What of erotic feelings?”

“What of them?”

“You have not mentioned them.”

“Why should I? I am in love with the Archduchess. Have I not made myself clear?”

Liebermann tapped his index finger on the side of his temple.

“Herr Beiber,” said Liebermann, “have you ever experienced sexual relations with a woman?”

The great romantic looked somewhat flustered.

“I… erm… There has never been anyone… special to me. No.”

“Does the idea of sexual congress frighten you?”

Beiber laughed. “Good heavens, no, Doctor. What a ludicrous idea!”

Liebermann was familiar with the work of the French neurologist Guillaume Duchenne, particularly his The Mechanism of Human Facial Expression. Although Beiber's mouth had curved upward, the orbicularis oculi muscles around his eyes had not contracted. The smile was-without doubt-false.