Mephisto Waltz

by F. R. Tallis

  “The matter is in hand. You will forgive me if I am not more forthcoming.”

  “As you see fit, lord marshal.”

  The discussion continued for another ten minutes, during which the lord marshal offered further “advice” on the seating plan and the menu. Then, rising from his chair he bowed and said simply, “Your honor.”

  Von Behring understood that his audience had come to an end. “I am most grateful for your guidance, sir.” He stood, returned the lord marshal’s bow, turned, and walked toward the gilded double doors, both of which miraculously opened before his arrival. A palace official was standing next to a Louis XIV sofa on the landing. “This way, please,” he said, directing von Behring toward a staircase with a sweeping gesture. Von Behring was glad to be on his way.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Herr Globocnik was lying on a gurney in one of the examination rooms of the General Hospital. His eyes were closed and his hands were crossed over his chest. A small, high window admitted a pastel light that made everything appear soft-hued. At the head of the gurney sat Liebermann, observing his supine patient closely.

  “You say that you killed Herr Bok in the Gallus and Sons piano factory . . .”

  “I did.”

  “The body has now been identified. The dead man was actually an Italian. His name was Angelo Callari.”

  “You have been misinformed, Herr Doctor.”

  “I have spoken to Inspector Rheinhardt on the telephone. He was categorical.”

  Globocnik’s head rolled from side to side on the pillow. “No, Herr Doctor. Inspector Rheinhardt has made a terrible mistake.” Liebermann remained silent. A marching band and horses’ hooves could be heard in the distance. Globocnik sniffed and added, “There is another possibility—a simple explanation for the inspector’s confidence. Herr Bok’s body might have been removed and replaced by Signor Callari’s.”

  “Why would anybody want to do that?”

  “I have no idea. But stranger things have happened in this world and there are some very odd people living in Vienna.”

  Liebermann crossed his legs, rested his elbow on the chair arm, and lowered his chin onto the palm of his hand. The marching band passed. “Herr Bok is still alive. Inspector Rheinhardt has spoken to him.”

  The silence deepened until it became a paradoxical roar.

  “Why are you doing this, Herr Doctor?” Globocnik asked. “Your purpose is beyond my understanding. Are we engaged in some sort of psychological game? Are you trying to trick me? I have confessed to a serious crime—the most serious of all crimes—and I accept that I must be punished. Please return me to my police cell and allow the legal process to run its course. I am not frightened of dying.”

  “Herr Bok is alive,” asserted Liebermann with flat certainty.

  “No, Bok is dead.” After a pause of several seconds Globocnik added, “He is dead . . . to me.”

  The qualification made Liebermann sit up. Was this the first chink in Globocnik’s defensive armor—indicative of residual insight—evidence of a surviving connection (albeit attenuated) with reality? “He’s dead to you . . . ,” Liebermann repeated softly, offering the qualification back to Globocnik, hoping that it would encourage him to open up a little more. But Globocnik simply bit his lower lip and sniffed. “What do you do for a living?” asked Liebermann.

  “I am . . . I am . . .”

  Liebermann was concerned that Globocnik’s hesitancy was meaningful, that his febrile brain was about to supply another fantastical answer, so the young doctor quickly interjected. “You work in an office.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Globocnik spoke grudgingly.

  “As a clerk?”

  “No business can succeed without good bookkeeping.”

  “Indeed.” Liebermann responded. “And you are an excellent bookkeeper. You were employed, I believe, by Herr Bok, who owns a shirt factory in Favoriten.”

  “It is true that Herr Bok and I had business interests in common.”

  Liebermann was amused by Globocnik’s grandiosity. “Herr Bok has alleged that you threatened him. Why did you do that?”

  “I didn’t threaten him, Herr Doctor. I killed him.”

  “There was a witness. Herr Bok’s secretary: Fräulein Mugoša.” Globocnik’s expression suddenly changed and for a fleeting moment anguish distorted his features. “Do you remember her?” Liebermann continued, “This woman—Fräulein Mugoša?”

  Globocnik took a deep breath: “Bok was a bad man. I think he must always have been a bad man. From birth I imagine. You see, it’s a question of morality . . . personal morality.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Rheinhardt and Liebermann were seated at the back of a coffeehouse near the university. Most of the other patrons were students, many of them reading textbooks or writing essays. It was getting dark outside and the head waiter, a haggard, careworn Hungarian, was lighting the gas lamps. The blue, naked flames shimmered through the cigar and cigarette smoke. Rheinhardt lifted a copper pot and poured himself a Türkische coffee. “Callari met Kruckel at a beer cellar in Leopoldstadt called The Golden Bears. Have you heard of it?”

  “Can’t say that I have,” Liebermann replied. “There’s a Renaissance building in Prague called The House of the Two Golden Bears. I walked past it a few years ago. Perhaps there is some connection?”

  Rheinhardt shrugged. “Kruckel is a journalist, a political agitator, and the senior representative of a socialist society called Fraternitas. Callari attended a Fraternitas meeting at Kruckel’s apartment.”

  Liebermann raised his cup and took a sip of his schwarzer. “Physical deformity engenders a sense of difference; oddity, exclusion from the mainstream. Callari would have been drawn toward an organization offering fraternity.”

  “He only arrived in Vienna shortly before Christmas.”

  “Not enough time to make mortal enemies, surely?”

  “Then perhaps he was pursued,” Rheinhardt speculated.

  “By men who wanted their money returned?”

  “I have heard that there are criminal families in southern Italy who adhere to a strict code of honor. Any violation of that code cannot be countenanced, and it is their practice to mete out punishments of the most extreme kind.”

  Liebermann shook his head. “If Callari were tortured, he would have told his tormentors where he had hidden the money and you would never have found it.”

  The young doctor looked up at an old print that was hanging on the paneled wall next to their table. It showed a horseman leading an army across a bridge, his sabre raised, galloping furiously toward a horde of turbaned warriors.

  “Zrínyi’s last charge,” said Rheinhardt.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It shows the Hungarian-Croat commander, Zrínyi, attacking the Ottomans at the siege of Szigetvár. All the Hungarians perished, but not without causing Suleiman the Magnificent so much grief that he had a seizure. It killed him I believe.”

  “Curious.”

  “What is?”

  “I’d never noticed it before.”

  Rheinhardt was mildly irritated by his friend’s preoccupation with the print. “How are you getting on with Globocnik?”

  Liebermann picked a cuticle off his finger and dropped it into the ashtray. “I have made some progress, but not as much as I’d hoped for.”

  “Would you care to explain?”

  “As you already know, I believe that Herr Globocnik experienced a trauma that could only be accommodated, psychologically, by the creation of complex delusional defenses. Although he is a man of modest achievement and plain appearance, I suspect that he is both proud and intelligent. Consequently, I am inclined to suppose that the trauma was injurious to his dignity and reputation. His homicidal fantasy serves two purposes: the restoration of self-respect and the promise of eternal release.”

  “What do you mean ‘eternal release’?”

  “Murderers are hanged. Globocnik is suicidal. He wants to die.”

&n
bsp; “Why?”

  “There are many reasons why a man might yearn to leave this world.” Liebermann smiled and added, “Did you see Fräulein Mugoša when you visited Herr Bok?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “A young woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Quite attractive—but not conventionally so?”

  “Well, yes . . .”

  “Was she, by any chance, wearing an eye-catching item of jewelery?”

  “As a matter of fact she was: a garnet ring. The stone was uncommonly large.”

  “Yes”—Liebermann nodded—“I thought as much.” Then looking back at the print he added, “I wonder why I didn’t notice this before. It is—after all—quite a striking image.”

  Rheinhardt’s expression darkened. “Max. Will you please stop being obtuse and just tell me what you’ve discovered!”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Eduard Autenberg had been talking for some time. He knocked the dottle from his pipe and continued: “The way forward, as I see it, is the complete and total abolition of government bodies. Indeed, the whole concept of government is inimical to our ultimate goal. The existing institutions must be replaced by a free collective of producers and consumers. There is a broad consensus concerning the struggle for better pay and working conditions. But what I am proposing is far more radical. Low wages are not the problem. It is wages per se that are the problem. We should seek to abolish the wage system altogether.”

  Della, who was stretched out on a chaise longue and obscured by a cocoon of Egyptian cigarette smoke, said, “And what would you replace wages with?”

  “Nothing,” Autenburg replied. “A perfect society has no need of money.” Axl Diamant was standing by the fireplace. He was about to say something but stopped when Della raised the hem of her skirt and examined the pointed toe of her shoe. She rotated her ankle and tapped the floor with her heel. Her stockings were bright red and only a eunuch would have overlooked the pleasing shapeliness of her calf. Eduard coughed, filled the bowl of his pipe with tobacco, and added, “I’m going to include this suggestion in my next pamphlet. I imagine it will cause quite a stir.”

  Diamant tore his eyes away from Della’s stocking and said, “Words. Really, what’s the good of words? It’s going to take more than words to make things better.”

  “Actually,” Autenburg huffed. “Words are very powerful things.” He relit his pipe and adopted a self-satisfied expression.

  Diamant pushed himself away from the fireplace, strode over to the window, and pulled the curtains aside. Staring down at the street below, he saw two Hasidic Jews, both dressed in long coats and large, circular fur hats. One of them was gesticulating while the other nodded. “What are we waiting for?” Diamant’s breath condensed on the glass. “Nothing changes. We talk and talk and talk and nothing ever changes. They use force to protect their interests: capital punishment, the police, the army—all at their disposal. So why shouldn’t we?” The Jews began walking and were followed by a mangy dog.

  “I am not troubled, Axl, by the moral question,” said Autenburg, drawing from his pipe. “I am as committed—in theory—as you are to propaganda by deed. But one mustn’t be rash.”

  “Nor must one be complacent . . .”

  Autenburg undid the top button of his waistcoat and shifted in his chair. “There would be little likelihood of escaping capture.”

  “No battle was ever won without sacrifice.” Diamant turned away from the window. Beyond Autenburg’s balding head he could see Della, lazily turning the tip of her pointed toe into the floorboard. “We must reestablish the standing of the movement in Vienna. We must stand proud—as equals—with Berne and Paris.”

  “Remember Hartmann,” said Autenburg.

  “Who?”

  “Lev Hartmann—of the People’s Will—who blew up the tzar’s train. After the explosion everything went red. As far the eye could see—red—red—a nightmare landscape, a bloodbath! But the air didn’t smell of iron, it smelled of sugar. It wasn’t blood or the remains of the tzar and his entourage that drenched the earth, it was fruit conserve. The train had been transporting jam to the imperial residences in the Crimea.” Autenburg chuckled softly. “The tzar had got off earlier and at the time of the explosion he was safe in Moscow.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “My point is this,” said Autenburg, raising his pipe. “Hartmann’s fiasco did little for the international standing of the People’s Will. If you want to better our reputation, then you must be absolutely confident of success. Ineffectual exploits, however bold, will earn us only the contempt of our peers and charges of hubris. Incompetence does not inspire terror and we must always be mindful of the effect our actions might have on the movement as a whole.”

  “Let me do what I think is right!” said Axl, angrily.

  “No,” said Autenburg with uncharacteristic firmness. “You do not have my permission. I have never denied you anything,” he added, glancing at his wife, “because belief in total equality demands that we transcend the limitations imposed upon us by convention. In this instance, however, there is a conflict of interest. I have responsibilities. I must answer to the executive and consider consequences.”

  Della shifted along the chaise longue and patted the seat. “Come—sit, Axl. Don’t be angry.” She closed her lips around the cigarette and the extremity burned. Then she pouted and released a thin stream of cigarette smoke.

  The young man studied her for a few moments and the cast of his expression changed. One kind of fire had been replaced by another.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Professor Seeliger crossed the Danube Canal, passing as he did so through the wide metal cage of the Sophie Bridge, and entered the wide-open green space of the Prater. He was clutching a sheet of blue notepaper on which someone—someone as yet unknown to him—had drawn a map and marked a meeting place. Professor Seeliger continued walking, glancing this way, then that, to a cultivated area divided by several pathways until he reached a particular lamppost. He checked the map again, in order to confirm that he had found the right location and consulted his pocket watch. Ten minutes early. He removed his top hat, tucked it under his arm, and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. It was cold, but he was perspiring and he unbuttoned his coat to cool down. Apart from some people he could see in the distance, there was no one else in his immediate vicinity.

  The light was just beginning to fade and mountains of gray cloud had collected at every cardinal compass point. Professor Seeliger had an unobstructed view of the massive lantern and sloping, circular roof of the Rotunda. The building had been constructed for the 1873 Vienna World’s Fair, and even though it was thirty-one years old, it was still the largest cupola construction in the world, superseding in size even the marvels of antiquity. However, there was nothing aesthetically appealing about the Rotunda; it looked completely alien, like a steel marquee erected by giant invaders from another planet. Professor Seeliger was reminded of The War of the Worlds, a terrifying new novel by the English author H. G. Wells: the German translation had only just arrived in Vienna. The thought of tentacled martians inhabiting the interior of the Rotunda made him feel even more uneasy. A gust of wind carried with it screams and an incongruous scrap of barrel organ music from the amusement park.

  Professor Seeliger tensed when he saw the figure of a man appear from behind a row of trees. He was carrying an umbrella and his gait was unhurried. The man approached, assuming a smile as he got closer. He was in his late thirties and well-groomed, not quite the scoundrel Seeliger had been expecting.

  “Good afternoon, Professor Seeliger.” The man bowed.

  Seeliger put his hat back on and said: “You are . . . ?”

  “Gerd Kelbling.”

  Removing the blue sheet of notepaper from his pocket, Seeliger shook the folds out and held it up: “What is the meaning of this?”

  “I think it’s clear enough—don’t you? Cooperate or go to prison.” Kelbling’s
German was perfect, but his stresses fell in slightly irregular places.

  Professor Seeliger was not accustomed to impertinence. He expanded his chest and said, “I hope you have considered the likely consequences—for you, I mean—of issuing such a threat to a man of influence.”

  “Indeed.” Kelbling’s smile broadened. “You have friends in high places, which is why I am quite certain that you will cooperate. You have worked very hard to win the trust of palace officials, judges, and generals, and you wouldn’t want all that effort—years of obsequious flattery and fawning, bootlicking and sycophancy—to go to waste, would you? And how would your wife react now, if your plans unraveled—at this point—just when your name is about to be submitted for the emperor’s approval? She would be inconsolable.”

  Seeliger spluttered, “Are you—are you acquainted?”

  Kelbling ignored the interruption. “Sometimes, I wonder which of you is the more ambitious?”

  The professor took a step backward. Another gust of wind delivered distant screams and further intimations of eternal torment. Seeliger opened his mouth to speak but no words were forthcoming. He simply stood there, gaping, like an idiot.

  “I know everything,” said Kelbling. He traced a circle in the air with the tip of his umbrella, creating an airy suggestion of the globe to emphasize his omniscience.

  Seeliger swallowed and said, “Speak plainly, please.”

  Kelbling feigned disappointment. “You know, Herr Professor, I was secretly hoping that we could dispense with specifics. Details always require bluntness, indelicacy. But . . . if that’s what you want.” Kelbling stabbed his finger against Seeliger’s chest. “You sir, are a thief. No different, in actuality, to the cutpurses who operate in the market squares. You have been embezzling university funds for well over a year now. Picking pockets—a little here—a little there—a small fortune. I understand that it’s not your fault really. It’s that wife of yours again: always wanting you to go back for more—a woman with expensive habits. We’ve all made that mistake. And so ambitious for Danuta and Gabriela!” Kelbling paused to watch a hot-air balloon rising above the amusement park then continued: “What would happen, I wonder, if the provost were to be informed? Can you imagine the brouhaha that would follow? The press would have a field day. Your wife would be beside herself, hysterical. Frankly, I think it would all be too much for her—she’d end up in one of the asylums. Am Steinhoff, most probably.”