Vienna Secrets lp-4

by Frank Tallis

  When the conversation started up again, an invisible curtain seemed to have been drawn across the table, separating Gabriel Kusevitsky and Liebermann on one side from Asher Kusevitsky and Schnitzler on the other. The two literary gentlemen clearly had some business to discuss.

  “So,” said Liebermann, addressing Kusevitsky, “how is your research progressing?”

  “Very well,” Kusevitsky replied, straightening his stylish purple necktie. He was looking much smarter. Liebermann observed a small pearl in the tie knot. “I have already collected a considerable amount of fascinating material. I am now utterly convinced of Nietzsche’s assertion that in dreams some primeval relic of humanity is at work.”

  “Have you reported your preliminary findings to Professor Freud?”

  “Of course, and he was delighted with my results.” Kusevitsky smiled, though the contraction and release of facial muscles was so brief that it was more like a twitch. “Through such research, Professor Freud believes that psychoanalysis may claim an elevated position among the historical sciences, superseding even archaeology. The mental antiquities that lie buried in the deepest stratum of the mind will be aeons older than anything excavated in Egypt.”

  The waiter returned with Liebermann’s coffee.

  A fragment of Asher’s conversation intruded: “… A secondary purpose of The Dybbuk… to raise Jewish consciousness.” The sentence was drowned by applause as the pianist began a sentimental Landler. It obviously had special significance to some of the regulars.

  Kusevitsky described several dreams in which he identified the presence of universal symbols: kings, queens, sages and devils, towers, skeletons, and stars. All of them were supposed to have a specific meaning, each being an inherited residue resulting from generations of repeated human experience.

  Liebermann remained unconvinced. He could accept that dreams contained symbols. That much was incontrovertible. But the idea that dreams could be understood in terms of fixed representations and that these representations were invariant from generation to generation seemed faintly preposterous. Adopting such a view made psychoanalysis seem indistinguishable from fortune-telling. A doctor became no different from the charlatan mystics on the Prater, reading off the meaning of dreams as if they were nothing more than the psychological equivalent of a pack of tarot cards.

  “I wonder,” said Liebermann, his eyes sparkling with mischief, “what you will make of this, then, Kusevitsky-a dream reported to me by one of my patients.” He paused in order to recollect his own dream of Miss Lydgate in the tropical garden. “Let us, for reasons of confidentiality, call my patient Herr D, a professional gentleman in his twenties suffering from…” Again Liebermann paused before adding, “Obsessional indecision and doubting.”

  Kusevitsky gave his tacit consent.

  “The dream,” Liebermann continued, “was as follows: Herr D found himself in a vast garden of exotic flowers and high trees. A woman, with whom he had become acquainted through his work and whom I shall call Fraulein Lisa, appeared beside him, naked. She then spoke to him, saying something like, ‘I won’t lie below you. I am your equal.’ Consequently they began to argue. During the course of this argument, Fraulein Lisa pronounced the name of Herr D’s father, who then appeared, sitting on a throne.”

  While Liebermann was recounting the dream, he was unnerved by changes in Kusevitsky’s expression. The young man’s eyes were opening wider and wider. His initial interest had undergone a strange metamorphosis, becoming, with its final transition, something closer to shock or fear.

  Liebermann pressed on. “The old gentleman said to his son, ‘It isn’t good for you to be alone.’ Herr D pointed toward where he thought Fraulein Lisa was still standing, but she had in fact vanished. There. What do you make of that?”

  “Extraordinary!” said Kusevitsky, his voice sounding slightly strangulated. “Quite, quite extraordinary! I must see this patient.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t.”

  “Surely you would have no objection? And it would not be so onerous for him to sit with me for an hour or two. Could he not be persuaded if told, for example, that he would be helping to advance scientific knowledge? You did say he was a professional gentleman.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Kusevitsky. He has left the country.”

  “Do you have his address?”

  “I can look, but why?”

  “He is Jewish, of course-this patient.”

  “Yes, he is, but he’s not very religious.”

  “Even better. I don’t suppose you’d know whether or not he was familiar with Hebrew creation myths?”

  “Well, because you ask,” said Liebermann tentatively, “I think I can say with some confidence that the answer to that question would be no.”

  “In which case, Herr D’s dream is a remarkable example of an archaic remnant. Its elements correspond exactly with the legend of Lilith, as recounted in The Alphabet of Ben Sira. Herr D is Adam, his father is God, and Fraulein Lisa is Lilith.”

  “And who, may I ask, is Lilith?”

  “Adam’s first wife.”

  “I thought he was married to Eve.”

  “He was. But according to many Jewish sources, Adam had another wife before her: Lilith. She was a fiery and rebellious woman, refusing to obey her husband and God. Her fate was to become the queen of demons. She was much feared in ancient times, and is still feared today by the Hasidim. Some believe she makes infernal off-spring by stealing wasted seed, a belief that might explain the origin of the taboo against masturbation.” Kusevitsky sat back in his chair, recovering from his excitement. “Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary. Please promise me that you’ll look for Herr D’s address. I would be most indebted.”

  “Of course,” said Liebermann. “I’ll do my best.”

  Liebermann was perplexed. He could not-would not-accept that his dream had been shaped by a racial memory, a narrative template buried deep in his own unconscious. The only other explanation was cryptomnesia, the spontaneous recall of something forgotten without any memory of having learned it. But this was hardly a compelling alternative. Where would he have encountered the Lilith legend before? And why should it have been so powerfully repressed? Kusevitsky, now less agitated, extracted a further assurance from Liebermann that he would look for Herr D’s address; they exchanged visiting cards, and the subject was allowed to drop from their conversation.

  “And how are things at the General Hospital?” asked Kusevitsky.

  Liebermann sighed. “Actually at present not very good. I’ve run into some difficulties.”

  Once again, he was obliged to provide a summary of the events surrounding the death of the young Baron von Kortig.

  “My dear fellow, I am so sorry,” said Kusevitsky. “If there’s anything I can do?”

  Liebermann shook his head. “No, but thank you for your kind offer.”

  He became aware that the conversation on the other side of the table had stopped. Asher Kusevitsky and Schnitzler had been listening.

  “They won’t be happy,” said Asher bitterly, “until they’ve got us out of the theatres, out of the hospitals, and, in the end, out of Vienna altogether! That’s what they really want. They want a purge. They treat us like a plague…”

  “Mmmm…” Schnitzler hummed, the note rising and falling. “Very interesting. Very interesting indeed.” He did not look sympathetic, like Gabriel, or angered, like Asher-merely curious. In fact, Liebermann thought he saw the author’s lips twisting to form a sardonic smile. “A story with definite potential,” Schnitzler added. “Yes, definite potential. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, Liebermann, could you tell it again, starting from the very beginning.”

  64

  Herr Poppmeier was lying on a rest bed, his hands behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. His youthful face had assumed an expression of perplexity. Liebermann, who was seated out of his patient’s view, was waiting for the salesman to resume speaking. The session had not been very productive.
In fact, none of Herr Poppmeier’s sessions had been very productive. When asked to freely vocalize whatever came into his mind, without censorship or restraint, his chain of associations invariably led back to items included in the Prock and Hornbostel catalogue. In due course, Poppmeier said, “I had another dream last night. Do you want me to tell you about it?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Liebermann, eager for something substantial to work on.

  “It’s not the first time either. I’ve had it before.”

  “A recurring dream…”

  “Yes.” Poppmeier crossed his legs. “Do you have a cigarette?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I’d love a cigarette right now.”

  Interesting, thought Liebermann.

  “Arabelle wants me to give up smoking,” Poppmeier continued. “She doesn’t like the smell of tobacco. I’ve tried, but it’s extremely difficult. I get so irritable, and then feel guilty afterward. I can be quite disagreeable.”

  The salesman seemed unaware that he had strayed off the subject. Liebermann made a note: Delay-resistance?

  “Herr Poppmeier,” said Liebermann, “you were going to tell me about your recurring dream?”

  “Oh yes, so I was.” The salesman bit his lower lip. “It’s like this…” He drummed his fingers on the mattress. “I’m staying in a hotel, a very pleasant hotel with red carpets and gilt mirrors and busy waiters and miniature palm trees, a little like the Kaiser in Steyr, and-this is most peculiar, even embarrassing-I am a priest.” Poppmeier laughed nervously. “I am sitting in the foyer, listening to a string trio, when I am approached by the concierge and asked to give the last rites to a dying child.”

  Mention of the last rites made Liebermann sit up.

  “Go on…”

  “I am escorted to a room that is full of my jewelry samples-rings, pendants, brooches. The rings are from the Prestige range and feature some very attractive stones imported from Bohemia. The pendants are heart-shaped, silver-with two opals set in a decoration of perpendicular silver bars. The brooches-”

  “Herr Poppmeier,” Liebermann cut in. “Your dream?”

  “Oh yes… There is a child in a bed, being cared for by a pretty nurse. For some reason, which I cannot justify, I refuse to perform the sacrament and leave.”

  Poppmeier resumed chewing his lower lip.

  “Is that it?”

  “Yes. An absurd dream, but always remarkably vivid.”

  “When did it first occur?”

  “Difficult to say.”

  “Do you think you’ve been having it for years? Months?”

  “Not years, exactly-but for quite a long time.”

  “A year, then?”

  “About that, yes.”

  Liebermann flicked through his notes and found the entry he was looking for: Frau Poppmeier: Gravida 3/Para II. Intrapartum death-1902 (early?).

  Poppmeier’s wife had been pregnant twice before her current pregnancy and the second pregnancy had ended in the tragedy of a stillbirth. The timing was exact.

  65

  “Yes,” said Asher Kusevitsky, addressing Professor Priel. “Schnitzler had some interesting things to say about Lautenburg. The man’s a fool, just as I thought. I won’t be sending him any of my scripts in the future.”

  The walls of Professor Priel’s parlor were covered in examples of modern art. They were mostly allegorical works, in which personifications of philosophy poetry, or music were rendered in a style that owed a considerable debt to Klimt. The figures, usually women, stared out full-face against a background of strong tonal contrasts. In addition, there were numerous contemporary portraits, some of which were quite disturbing. Sketches and watercolors of troubled individuals-emaciated, gaunt, their skin discolored, suggestive of putrescence. The models might have been recruited from a mortuary.

  All the art that Professor Priel possessed had been made by impoverished young men who had benefited from a Rothenstein creative bursary. Although he wasn’t particularly fond of the portraits, he recognized that they were original and most probably indicative of a significant trend. He had not, however, purchased them as an investment. He had bought them to bolster the confidence of the young artists. They were always delighted to see their work hanging on his walls.

  The only non-modern piece in Professor Priel’s collection was a plaster cast reproduction of Michelangelo’s Moses. It occupied a central position on the sideboard. Even though it was only a fraction of the size of the original, the copy was still powerfully evocative: Moses the lawgiver, seated like a Titan or a great warrior, his muscled arm resting on the commandment tablets, his long beard a wild tangle of writhing serpentine spirals.

  A servant arrived with tea for the professor’s guests and a glass of magnetized water for the professor. A daily circuit of the Ringstrasse and a glass of magnetized water was-so he believed-the key to a long and healthy life.

  “Gabriel,” Asher continued, “tell Professor Priel about Liebermann and the von Kortig business.” He then turned to face Priel. “Listen to this. It’s quite scandalous.”

  Gabriel Kusevitsky repeated Liebermann’s story.

  When he had finished, Professor Priel was silent, his head slowly shaking from side to side.

  “It’s political, of course, and what worries me is where it could lead,” said Asher. He spoke quickly, making expressive gestures with his hands. “I mean to say, if Liebermann is dismissed-and they get away with it-who will be next? Where will it end? Lieutenant Gustl has already cost Schnitzler his rank in the reservists, and I don’t believe for one minute that it was because he broke the code of honor by writing it, as the authorities insist. It cost him his rank because he is a Jew. One can see where this is going. There are passages in The Dybbuk where I am critical of the church. If things continue like this, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if an official turns up and closes down the theatre.”

  “Liebermann,” said the professor. “What’s his first name?”

  “Max,” said Gabriel. “Professor Freud speaks very highly of him. I’ve read a few of his case studies and was most impressed by his paper on paranoia erotica. It would be a great shame if his career was blighted because of political opportunism.”

  “Oh, then I really must do something,” said Professor Priel.

  Gabriel sipped his tea and returned the cup to its saucer. On landing, it produced an unusually loud chime.

  “Be that as it may,” Gabriel continued, “he is not very active in our circle. He has not associated himself with our charitable organizations and causes.”

  “Is he a member of the lodge?”

  “No, I don’t think he is. I met him there when Professor Freud gave his last talk, but I had never seen him there before-and have not seen him there since.”

  “I don’t think that should concern us,” said the professor. “He is a talented young man with prospects. He needs help, and I may be in a position to provide it. Rothenstein has some exceptional lawyers in his employ. One can’t just stand by and watch something like this happening. Asher is quite right. In the end, if something isn’t done, we’ll all be affected. Never forget what Councillor Faust was proposing in his article. Where can I find him, this Liebermann fellow?”

  Gabriel was dressed in the very same jacket that he had been wearing in the Cafe Central. He reached into his pocket, found Liebermann’s card, and gave it to Professor Priel.

  “He works at the General Hospital.”

  “Good. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Priel took a swig of magnetized water. He could feel the energy coursing through his veins, invigorating and refreshing his nerves and muscles. He looked over at the reproduction of Moses. A good man’s work was never done.

  66

  Nahum Nagel was sitting behind the counter of the general store, watching the scales seesaw. He was deep in thought.

  Everybody was convinced.

  Everybody was expecting salvation.

  But was it really go
ing to happen? When the thugs came again, what should he expect? Would the ground tremble as its massive feet stomped down the alleyway? Would the shop door be thrown open, would it duck beneath the lintel and grab the villains? Would it rip off their heads, right there, on the other side of the counter, before his very eyes?

  The gossip went round and round in his head, like whispering in a cloister.

  Alois Gasse… mud… Prague… golem…

  Upstairs, his father was coughing. If they didn’t move very soon, the old man would die.

  Nahum removed one weight and added another. The scale tipped and began, through its slow reciprocal motion, to negotiate a different resting point. As the dishes rose and fell, it struck Nahum that the process was like a dialogue between two parties: offers made, rejected, reviewed, and finally accepted. The angle at which the scale bar finally came to rest was, in effect, a compromise.

  Nahum’s thoughts crystallized.

  The universe that God made is imperfect. That is what Isaac Luria taught his disciples. We have no need of complex philosophical arguments to explain why God has let evil into the world. Its presence is a mistake. The vessels broke and must be repaired. Humanity can either assist in the process of healing or compound the disintegration of all things through acts of self-interest and cruelty. Luria places the fate of everything not in the hands of God but in the hands of humanity: the peddler, the kitchen maid, and the street cleaner. Everyone is responsible.

  The familiar sound of hobnailed boots resonated in the alley. It grew louder, and the door swung wide open. Haas entered the shop and strolled up to the counter, kicking a tin of olive oil over as he came forward.

  “Well,” he said. “I believe you owe me some money.”

  “Where is your friend?” Nahum asked.

  “Why? Have you missed him?” Haas laughed.

  Nahum stared at the scales.

  The zaddik had spoken with conviction.