Vienna Blood

67

THE EXHIBITION WAS WELL attended, providing Liebermann and Rheinhardt with a degree of anonymity. Somewhere behind the milling crowd a string quartet was playing a gentle landler.

Occasionally Rheinhardt leaned closer to his friend and pointed out a particular individual.

“That fellow there-the distinguished-looking gent-that's Von Triebenbach. And the woman he's talking to is Baroness von Rautenberg-Olbricht's patron.”

They stood in front of a full-length portrait of Wagner's Brunhilde.

Rheinhardt nodded toward the entrance. “Plump fellow with the ruddy complexion-Counselor Hannisch. He's talking to-”

“Professor Foch,” Liebermann interrupted.

“Of course, you know him.”

The counselor and the professor made an odd couple. Foch wore his usual funereal garb, and Hannisch was dressed in a green suit with a bright blue cravat.

“I know of him,” Liebermann said, correcting Rheinhardt.

Liebermann resumed his scrutiny of the Valkyrie. She wore the horned headdress of a Viking, thick furs, and her spear was tipped with a daub of red paint. Rheinhardt's head swiveled around.

“No Aschenbrandt.”

The general hubbub rose in volume, swelling with the sound of jovial greetings and cries of satisfaction. Close by, the crowd parted, affording Liebermann and Rheinhardt a glimpse of a short man whose hand was being squeezed by a colonel of the infantry.

“The artist,” whispered Rheinhardt.

Olbricht was delayed for a few moments before continuing his tour of the room. Seeing Rheinhardt, he smiled, revealing his stunted teeth.

“Ah, Inspector, I am so glad you came.”

Rheinhardt gestured toward his companion. “My friend, Dr. Max Liebermann.”

Olbricht acknowledged the younger man's presence but did not bow.

At that moment a very attractive young woman, her hair fashioned in dangling coils of gold, broke through a drab wall of suited figures.

“You will excuse me,” said Olbricht.

“Of course,” said Rheinhardt.

“Herr Olbricht,” cried the young woman. “There you are! I promised my father I would find you-he wishes to introduce you to Hofrat Eggebrecht.”

“Of course, Fraulein Bolle-I am yours to command.”

They linked arms and vanished behind two chattering dowagers whose bony fingers sparkled with diamonds.

The young doctor looked a little perplexed.

“What is it, Max?”

Liebermann lowered his voice. “His face…”

“What?”

“There is something about it…”

“Ha! Didn't I say so! And wasn't it you who scolded me! What was it you said? You went on about Lombroso again!”

Liebermann grimaced. “Please accept my apology.”

“I do so with… with munificence.”

They moved along the wall, stopping to look at each painting.

The dwarf Alberich and the three Rhine maidens; a mage standing in a pentacle decorated with runic symbols; a blind skald weaving his spell by the hearth in a timbered hall.

“Do you like them?” asked Rheinhardt, surprised that his friend was examining the images so closely. He knew that Liebermann's artistic preferences were modern and could not understand why he was spending so much time in front of each canvas.

“Definitely not.”

“Then please can we move along. We will never finish the exhibition at this rate!”

Liebermann sighed and followed his friend.

The next canvas was a large battle scene crammed with tiny figures. It reminded Liebermann of the work of Hieronymus Boschparticularly The Last Judgment, which was permanently exhibited in the art school. But when he drew closer to the canvas, it was apparent that Olbricht did not possess Bosch's technique, nor any of his humor. Liebermann fished his spectacles out from the top pocket of his jacket and pressed his nose up close to the painting.

“What on earth are you doing, Max?”

“Looking at the detail.”

A rather large burgher said “Excuse me, sir” in a gruff voice, indicating that Liebermann was in his way. He was wearing an artificial white carnation in his buttonhole, signaling his membership of the Christian Social party. The young doctor apologized and took a step back. The burgher narrowed his eyes at Liebermann and said something to his wife. Neither the young doctor nor his companion needed to hear the words to comprehend the nature of the slur. Rheinhardt was about to challenge the burgher but Liebermann raised his hand. They moved away quietly.

“Disgraceful,” said Rheinhardt. “You really should have let me-”

“Oskar,” Liebermann cut in. “It happens all the time. Come now, let us continue with the exhibition.”

The next canvas showed a woman with flaxen hair looking out at an infinitely receding Roman army. It was titled Pipara: The Germanic Woman in the Purple of the Caesars. Liebermann read an accompanying note: Adapted freely from the two-volume novel by Guido von List, recounting the legendary rise of a German slave to the position of empress in the late third century.

“What a fine woman,” said Rheinhardt, innocently.

The young doctor did not reply. He studied the painting for some time, and motioned that he was ready to move on. Then-strangely- at the last moment he found himself unable to proceed. His feet seemed fixed to the floor. It was as though the painting were exerting a strange influence, producing immobility.

Liebermann's mind was suddenly invaded by a haunting image: the shopgirl he had met on the streetcar-her carmine glove, receding into the gloom.

Rheinhardt, who had already taken a few steps away, paused and looked back at his friend. “Max?”

“This painting…” Liebermann whispered.

The string quartet struck up the introductory bars of a Strauss waltz. Liebermann recognized it immediately: Vienna Blood. Suddenly the spell was broken and he was walking toward his friend, an enigmatic smile raising the corners of his mouth.