by F. R. Tallis
He emerged into a clearing and his progress was momentarily arrested by the sight of an enormous balloon, already inflated and rocking slowly from side to side. It was curiously alien—like a displaced Leviathan. Trotting across the grass, he hailed the balloonist: “Herr Wilstätter.” The balloonist extended his hand and helped Razumovsky climb into the basket.
“Good morning,” said Wilstätter. “You are most punctual.”
“I count punctuality among the cardinal virtues, Herr Wilstätter.”
“Oh, how I wish my wife could hear you say that.” Wilstätter chuckled. “She’s a complete stranger to timekeeping.” He was a slight man with delicate features.
“A female prerogative, if I am not mistaken,” Razumovsky quipped.
“Quite.”
“Are the conditions favorable?”
“The wind is moderate and easterly. Do you still wish to travel the maximum distance?”
“The maximum distance,” Razumovsky repeated.
Wilstätter expressed his willingness to comply with a bow. The balloonist’s expression became expectant. “Before we begin our ascent, might I ask—”
“Of course,” Razumovsky made an expansive gesture. “Of course.” He opened his satchel and produced a wad of banknotes bound together with rubber bands. “The second payment.”
Wilstätter took the wad and bowed again. “Thank you.”
“Aren’t you going to count it?”
“No. You are a gentleman.”
“Not all gentlemen are trustworthy.”
Wilstätter squatted and stuffed the wad into a holdall. “Very true; however, one of my petty vanities is to consider myself an excellent judge of character.” The balloonist stood before turning the valve key of a hydrogen cylinder and releasing the tethers. Almost immediately, the balloon began to rise. “Once we’re clear of these trees you can relax and enjoy the ride.”
Razumovsky became aware that the C.P.E. Bach—the Poco Adagio—was still sounding in his head; a ghostly performance that shimmered with intricate embellishments. Curtius was a fine pianist and he hoped that the misfit musician would enjoy his new life in Berne. He was already on his way to the Swiss capital, and, if everything went to plan, when he arrived, he would be met by a trusted comrade who would supply him with papers and introductions. One day, in the not too distant future, Curtius would wake with his arms around the waist of an enlightened and freethinking woman—preferably one with an interest in 18th-century keyboard music—and there would be no regrets.
“That’s it,” said Wilstätter. “We’re clear of the trees.”
A sudden wave of vertigo made Razumovsky grip his satchel. He squeezed the leather and felt the documents inside. He wasn’t a physicist, but he had some appreciation of the elegance of equations. Seeliger’s members and terms were—in their own way—as elegant as the compositions of C.P.E. Bach.
The glow in the east was intensifying. Already, the balloon had ascended high enough to reveal the principle features of Vienna. The first light of the rising sun was reflected in the water of the Danube Canal, the twisting course separating Leopodstadt and the Prater from Landstrasse and the Innere Stadt. North east of the canal was the broad, straight line of the river Danube itself. The street lamps created a shining web of crisscrossing lines that expanded outward from the blazing, distorted circle of the Ringstrasse.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said Wilstätter.
“Yes.” Razumovsky agreed. “Very beautiful.”
He began to think of the city’s destruction: shells, raining down in every district; massive explosions; palaces reduced to rubble; chamberlains crawling under tables; falling masonry; pampered women in ballgowns screaming; the tilted boxes in the opera house disgorging occupants and buckets of champagne into the pit; and most of all, he thought of the parasitic, senile emperor, limping through gilded corridors, past burning curtains and shattered windows. Razumovsky smiled and stroked his satchel.
The land to the west of the Vienna basin was a sweeping carpet of green, becoming more vivid with every passing second. Beyond Döbling, he would see the village of Grinzing, and beyond Grinzing, the snow-capped Kahlenberg mountain.
Turning his attention back to the city, he focused on the northwest quadrant. He had not thought about the Palais Khevenhüller since slipping out of the back entrance with Curtius. He hoped that Weeber was dead. Indeed, he hoped that they were all dead. It had been unfortunate that there were children present.
“Look at it,” said Wilstätter. “All laid out below our feet. Makes you feel like a god, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Razumovsky replied. The wind became stronger and the balloonist did not hear his passenger add: “Gods are obliged to make difficult decisions.”
After an interlude of silence Razumovsky engaged Wilstätter in a conversation about the fundamentals of piloting. Wilstätter demonstrated the valve key. “May I?” asked Razumovsky.
“You want to try it?” Wilstätter responded.
“Yes.”
“Very well. But not too much, eh?”
Razumovsky turned the key and the balloon began to rise. “Satisfying . . .”
“Indeed,” said Wilstätter. “Is this your first time in a balloon?”
“No,” said Razumovsky. “Many years ago I had the pleasure of ballooning across some of the remoter regions of Russia.”
“That must have been quite extraordinary.”
“Yes, very extraordinary—an unforgiving vastness.”
“And what were the circumstances?”
Razumovsky returned an oblique reply: “I was a younger man.” He turned and looked over the lip of the basket. The sun had fully risen and they were now moving fast over low hills and agricultural land. “Herr Wilstätter,” he called. “I thought I saw something.” He craned his neck. “Yes—there . . . there it is!”
“Please be careful. We don’t want any accidents. What did you see?”
“Something hanging, a length of material . . . it’s difficult to say. Perhaps we caught some bunting on the way up.”
“No—that’s impossible.”
“Yes, there it is again.”
“Let me see.”
Razumovsky stepped aside and allowed Wilstätter to occupy his former position. “It appears intermittently. Not dangerous, I hope.”
“Well . . .” Wilstätter was unwilling to commit. He had been gripping the wicker tightly but he let go in order lean farther out.
Razumovsky’s movements were fluid for a man of his age. He grabbed Wilstätter’s shins from behind and raised the ballonist’s feet off the floor. All that he had to do then was push the man’s slender body forward. Wilstätter’s scream faded and Razumovsky was just in time to see the accelerating human form shrink to a speck before its final transition into nothingness.
“Gods are obliged to make difficult decisions,” Razumovsky called down to the ground. Then, more quiety he added, “As of course, are demons.”
He wondered if Frau Wilstätter would be late for her husband’s funeral.
SIXTY-NINE
Liebermann was seated at the keyboard and Rheinhardt was standing beside him. The stout policeman had assumed an attitude of religious solemnity, his hands pressed together just below his chin. Liebermann played some introductory chords and Rheinhardt took a deep breath before singing the first line of Schubert’s “Der Kreuzzug”—The Crusade. Karl Gottfried von Leitner’s poem described a monk, standing by the window of his cell, observing the arrival of a host of knights—the crusader’s flag held aloft in their midst. The knights embark on a tall ship and sail away . . .
Stylistically, the music was composed in the evensong manner—backward-looking and evocative of cassocks, incense, and churches; however, Schubert’s show of piety was deceptive. Liebermann noticed that while the composer was ostensibly showing respect for the devotional tradition—the square harmonies and steady four-in-a-bar progressions—he was also cleverly subverting it. Schube
rt, even when restrained by a musical straitjacket, could still find enough room to refresh and reinvent. The composer was still minded to redeem tired, flat-footed orthodoxy with interesting melodic and harmonic inventions. Was Schubert mocking piety? Questioning authority? Rheinhardt took the harmonic bass, leaving the piano with the melody. Yes, Schubert was definitely up to something.
The young doctor reflected on the scene conjured by the poet’s words. It was a much romanticized view of the crusades—holy knights, setting off to fight for a just cause. The reality was very different: bloodshed, terror, indiscriminate slaughter.
The call to crusade had provided many nobles and peasants with an excellent pretext for exterminating Jews. Liebermann had learned about the Rhineland massacres when he was still young enough to be coerced by his father to attend synagogue. Thousands of Jews had been butchered and some Jewish women had chosen to kill their children, rather than leave them to the mercy of goodly Christian knights.
There would always be crusaders and crusades. Anarchists, socialists, pan-German nationalists—the crusading had never stopped. Hosts, crowds, mobs—united beneath a symbol on a flag—allowing the unconscious to discharge its primitive energies.
Rheinhardt was singing the last line. “Life’s journey, over the raging billows and across hot desert sands, is also a pilgrimage towards the promised land.”
Promised lands differ according to taste, thought Liebermann, but they all have one thing in common, the expulsion of certain groups. The promised land of the crusaders could never accommodate Muslims or Jews, just as the promised land of the anarchists required the expulsion of kings and capitalists. Professor Freud was right. The human being is a darkly driven creature.
Liebermann played the final cadence and looked up at his friend who was smiling benignly. It was evident that Rheinhardt had not been troubled by bleak reflections.
“What’s the matter?” asked Rheinhardt. “I didn’t get the phrasing wrong—did I?”
“No, of course not,” Liebermann replied. “It was perfect.”
“You don’t look very happy with the performance.”
“I was thinking about Schubert’s purpose—that’s all. There are certain aspects of this song that are quite enigmatic. One wonders what he was thinking.”
“Analyzing Schubert? Is nothing sacred?”
Liebermann shrugged and closed the piano lid. “Come, let us retire.”
They entered the smoking room and sat in front of the fire. Cigars were lit and brandy poured. Neither said anything for several minutes. Eventually, Liebermann crossed his legs, stretched his arms, and said, “No news of Mephistopheles.”
“None,” said Rheinhardt. “We will continue to make inquiries at those beer cellars and coffeehouses frequented by anarchist sympathizers but I am not very hopeful. In all likelihood the fiend has probably fled Vienna by now.”
“There is still the matter of discovering his identity.”
“I daresay, there are many activists in Vienna who have met him—but I very much doubt they knew with whom they were conversing at the time. Only the most exalted members of their chain of command would be granted an audience; a fascinating character, Mephistopheles. I suppose you’d love to have him laid out on a daybed recounting his dreams.”
“Not necessarily. He might prove interesting, but it is by no means certain.” The young doctor rested his rigid forefinger on his lips then added in a more confident tone: “One mustn’t forget, in spite of his intelligence and the tantalizing promise of his moniker, ultimately, Mephistopheles is a fanatic, and fanatics are all the same. His analysis might prove to be rather dull and predictable.”
“You’re protesting too much, Max.”
“Not at all, larger than life characters are often disappointing, clinically. I have undertaken analyses of several celebrated actors and singers and they have all been curiously shallow. Their big personalities are nothing but stagecraft and masks, and there is often very little of interest to be discovered behind those disguises—apart from insecurity, perhaps. I suspect that Mephistopheles’s complexities have been reduced and simplified by a monomania of ever increasing severity. Yes, monomaniacs are singularly uninteresting.” The young doctor laughed and looked at his friend, whose face was impassive. “Mono-maniacs . . . singularly uninteresting?” Liebermann replenished their glasses. “Did you discover why Mephistopheles chose the Palais Khevenhüller?”
Rheinhardt sipped his brandy and lit another cigar. “The event was a celebration of the life and career of Judge Georg Weeber. He’s a significant figure. The general public are not aware of his role but Weeber was largely responsible for crushing anarchy in Austria. He campaigned for what he called ‘international measures’ with the aim of standardizing European law so that anarchists couldn’t escape justice by crossing borders. In the mid-eighties, severe repressive measures were introduced and Austrian anarchy went into rapid decline. Anarchist publications were banned, meetings disrupted, and most of the principal agitators were imprisoned—some are still serving their terms. Stellmacher and Kammerer were executed; Penkert escaped to England, but was unable to influence political life in Austria thereafter. Within a few years, without leadership, the anarchists were a spent force in the Habsburg territories.” Rheinhardt tapped some ash from the end of his cigar before continuing. “Yes, Weeber was a formidable opponent and he never lost his zeal.”
“He sounds like another monomaniac.”
“You may be right. His views are nothing if not extreme. He makes no distinction between violent anarchists and those who simply subscribe to the philosophy. Only recently he proposed a revision of the Austrian penal code which would result in stricter sentences for all left leaning agitators—including pamphleteers.”
“Perhaps Weeber should be introduced to the writings of Professor Freud . . .”
“Why do you say that?”
“The professor has much to say about the consequences of repression. That which is repressed is guaranteed to return. It may reappear in a different form, but it will return.”
The two men fell silent and stared into the fire. A log collapsed, producing a shower of sparks.
Rheinhardt puffed at his cigar and said, “I’ve been talking to the bureau.”
“Hoover?”
“Yes—and his superior. I was expecting a certain amount of hostility—sour grapes. But I was pleasantly surprised. They were almost, dare I say this, friendly.”
“Ha!” Liebermann cried. “Of course! Hoover will be anxious to present the success of the Khevenhüller operation as a splendid example of cooperation between the bureau and the security office. I am sure that he will be very obliging—for the next few weeks at any rate.”
“How very right you are. I asked Hoover about Professor Seeliger’s military project and this time there were no equivocal responses and evasions. He actually gave me a straight answer. The project concerns rocketry.”
“Rocketry,” Liebermann repeated. “I had no idea the Austrian army possessed rockets.”
“They’ve been used since Napoleonic times as artillery—and of course the Chinese have been firing rockets since the Middle Ages. Our military are keen to develop a rocket that can carry a large quantity of explosives to distant destinations. The problem with rockets, however, is that they are extremely unstable. Professor Seeliger has been working on a new design that will enhance stability and improve long range accuracy. The Russians are doing much the same thing—which explains why the Okhrana got involved.”
“And now Seeliger’s documents are in Mephistopheles’s possession.”
“Not exactly: the adulterated documents.”
“If Seeliger is to be believed—”
“Do you doubt him?”
Liebermann drew on his cigar and exhaled slowly. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
“Then God help us all.”
“Indeed. I wonder—is Mephistopheles insane enough to attempt to construct his own rockets?
; “He couldn’t? Could he?”
“I don’t know. But if he does . . .”
“None of the capitals of Europe will be safe.”
“He will be in a position to engage in propaganda by deed on a scale which has hitherto been unimaginable.”
“Then let us hope and pray.”
“Hope by all means, Oskar. But don’t bother praying. That would be a stupendous waste of time.”
Rheinhardt pitched forward to give his bulk some helpful momentum and when he was upright he made his way to the fireplace. He picked up the poker and rearranged some of the logs. His ministrations made the wood burn with greater ferocity. “I was summoned to Commissioner Brügel’s office this afternoon.”
“Oh?”
“He said something rather unexpected.” Rheinhardt returned the poker to its stand and turned to face his friend. “He’s thinking of retiring in a few years.”
“Well, that’s excellent news. I was beginning to think the old boy would never go, that he intended to hang on for as long as possible—until his demise, in fact. I supposed that one day, after shouting chastisements at some poor unfortunate, vessels in his brain would rupture or his heart would fail.” Liebermann emptied his glass and drew on his cigar. “Such an ill-tempered, morose, dyspeptic individual. Did he say what swayed him? What made him decide?”
“Not in so many words. At one point he opened his drawer and produced a letter—a personal note of thanks from Archduke Ferdinand Karl. The commissioner can reasonably expect to be honored—and very highly too.”
