Vienna Blood

64

LIEBERMANN ARRIVED HOME LATE to find his serving man hovering anxiously in the hallway.

“Ernst, what is it?”

“Your mother is here.”

“My mother?”

“Yes.”

“Where is she?”

“In the music room.”

Ernst took Liebermann's astrakhan coat.

“When did she arrive?”

“At eight-thirty, sir.”

Liebermann glanced at his wristwatch. It was ten-fifteen.

“She's been here all evening! Thank you so much for waiting.”

“It was my pleasure, sir.”

Liebermann took a deep breath and entered the music room, where his mother was seated on the sofa. For a moment she did not react. She looked small, hunched, and worried. Then, with remarkable alacrity, she was standing and looking vaguely combative.

“Maxim!”

“Mother…”

Liebermann walked over to her and hesitated before kissing her. She pulled a curious face (which somehow managed to combine condescension with compassion and resignation) and offered him her powdery cheek.

“I suppose you've heard,” said Liebermann.

“Yes, I've heard. And when did you intend to tell us, exactly?”

“Tomorrow. I'm sorry. I had to get back to the hospital.”

“The hospital, the hospital, always the hospital. You know, sometimes I think your father's right. You would have been better off managing one of the factories. Sit down, Max.”

He did as he was told and his mother sat back down on the sofa beside him.

“I'm sorry, Mother-really I am.” Rebecca Liebermann shrugged, made an ambiguous gesture with her hand, and picked a speck of fluff from her son's trousers. “How did you hear?”

“Jacob spoke to your father.”

“Ah…”

“He's furious. When I left Concordiaplatz, he was threatening to disown you.”

Liebermann swallowed. “Did Herr Weiss mention Clara?”

“Yes.”

“How is she?”

“They're sending her away with her Aunt Trudi for a while.”

“Where?”

“I don't know-just away.”

“I wanted to see her, but Herr Weiss forbade it.”

“Can you blame him?”

Liebermann shook his head. “All I wanted was to behave honorably-that's all.” Liebermann fingered a loose button on his jacket. “Months ago, you asked me whether she was really the onewhether I really loved her. I thought I did, but I was wrong. I don't love Clara-well, at least, not like I should. I didn't know that then, but I know it now. And if we had gone ahead with the marriage, it would have been a bad marriage. A marriage based on a lie. What possible good could have come of that? I wasn't only thinking of myself-I was thinking of Clara too.”

Rebecca stopped her son from worrying the button on his jacket. “Leave it alone-it'll come off.” She took his hand in hers and squeezed his long, elegant fingers. “I had my suspicions.”

“You did?”

“Mother's intuition. I know you think I'm a silly old fool when I say such things, but it exists, whether you like it or not.”

Liebermann looked into his mother's eyes. They were glinting, but there were no tears.

“What shall I do about Father?”

“Stay away from him-for a while. He's writing you a letter. Ignore it-he's upset, that's all. You know what he's like. And if you do respond, remember that he's your father. I'll do what I can.”

Rebecca tucked a stray strand of her son's hair behind his ear-one of her tics that Liebermann found most irritating (but which he was now content to forgive)-and stood up abruptly.

“I've got to go,” said Rebecca. “It's late. Your father didn't want me to come in the first place.”

“But we've hardly spoken-and you've been waiting here all evening.”

“It doesn't matter… I've seen you. That's enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“All that education, and sometimes you still don't understand anything.” On her way to the door she paused by the Bosendorfer. “I never get to hear you play these days. I used to love listening to you play.”