by Frank Tallis
Drexler laughed. “Your mother's!”
“Yes. She's overprotective.” He permitted himself a crooked grin.
“The Hofburg, eh?” said Drexler. His expression suddenly changed. “But surely you'll need to get better examination results. You've hardly been applying yourself lately.”
“I am quietly confident.”
“The chances of you mastering trigonometry between now and the final examinations are—in my opinion—vanishingly small. If this is your great plan, Wolf, then I'm afraid I am singularly unimpressed.”
“Remember that,” said Wolf. “Remember what you just said. And when you're crouching behind a bush, cold, hungry, your boots covered in cow shit, trying to dodge the bullets of the next would-be king of the Carpathians, think of me. Yes, think of me, in my clean uniform with its razor-sharp creases, warm, well fed, accompanying the emperor to state openings and banquets, drinking champagne at the opera, and watching comedies at the Court Theater.”
“You are deluding yourself, Wolf.”
“Go to hell, Drexler.”
“Well—to be frank, I think that's a lot more likely than you going to the Hofburg.”
Wolf glanced at his watch. He flicked his cigarette into the air and stood. A powerful gust of wind made him stumble, and he steadied himself by touching the stone arc of a demon's wing.
“Drill,” he said.
The two boys set off, climbing over the bizarre terrain: fallen chimneys, a scattering of tiles—and the ruin of a small observatory. Inside the little cabin, Drexler spotted the rusting remains of an antique orrery. He would take a closer look next time.
“Where are you going?” Wolf called as Drexler veered off.
“This way.” Drexler gestured. “It's quicker.”
“You can't get down that way.”
“Yes, you can,” said Drexler, indignant.
They came to an area where the surface on which they were walking was interrupted by a deep channel. Water had collected at the bottom. Wolf looked over the edge and saw the reflection of his head, silhouetted against the bilious sky. It was a long way down, and there was no way around. The channel stretched from one side of the roof to the other.
“See?” said Wolf. “I told you we shouldn't have come this way.”
“What are you talking about?” said Drexler. “You just have to jump across. Some iron steps are attached to the side of the building—and they lead to a window. It's always open.”
“Jump across? Don't be ridiculous. The gap's too wide.”
“No, it isn't.”
“You'll break your neck.”
“I won't.”
Drexler took a few steps backward and then ran toward the precipice. He glided through the air and a second later landed safely on the other side. “See? Easy. It's narrower than you think.”
Wolf looked at Drexler, and then up at the octahedral spires of the Gothic façade.
“You're not scared, are you, Wolf?” Drexler called.
“Of course not.”
Wolf ran—but just before leaping, he pulled up short.
“Come on, Wolf—it's easy.”
“Your legs are longer than mine,” said Wolf. “You have an unfair advantage.”
“Life‘s unfair, Wolf! Now jump, will you?”
Another gust of wind destroyed Wolf's confidence completely.
“No.… I can't do it.”
“Well, you'll have to go the long way down—and you'll be late.”
Drexler raised his hand and loped off.
“Drexler,” Wolf fumed.
“What?”
Wolf's anger suddenly subsided. “Make up an excuse for me.”
Drexler nodded, found the top of the iron steps, and swung himself over the parapet.
37
LIEBERMANN MAINTAINED A PENSIVE SILENCE as the carriage rattled down the hill toward Aufkirchen. He appeared to be wholly occupied by the patterns produced by runnels of rainwater on the window. Raising his hand, he allowed his forefinger to trace the length of a silvery braid that was being blown sideways across the glass.
“Well?” said Rheinhardt.
Liebermann started. “I'm sorry Oskar. Did you say something?”
“Surely the rain cannot be so very interesting.”
“Forgive me,” said Liebermann, removing his hand from the glass. “I've been thinking.”
“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt. He made an interrogatory hand gesture, inviting Liebermann to elaborate.
A gust of wind buffeted the carriage, and the driver cursed loudly. Liebermann, ignoring the string of colorful expletives, made a steeple with his fingers and peered at his friend.
“I believe we can now be certain,” he began slowly, “that Zelenka and Frau Becker were lovers.”
Rheinhardt nodded. “I had not expected Sommer to be so candid.”
“Although, to be frank,” Liebermann continued, “with respect to this matter, I found your interview with Becker more revealing— and more compelling—than your interview with Sommer.”
Rheinhardt tilted his head.
“But Becker didn't say anything about his wife's liaison with Zelenka!”
“You will recall,” said Liebermann, “that he said his wife was compassionate and easily moved to sympathy. He then said that Zelenka had taken advantage of her kind nature. However, he hesitated for a fraction of a second in the middle of the sentence.”
“What of it?”
“Well, it sounded like this: ‘Zelenka took advantage of her’… and then Becker added, almost as an afterthought… ‘kind nature.’ Psychoanalysis teaches us that there is much to be learned from a careful study of the subtleties of speech. The truth was too much to hold back. He could not stop himself from telling us what he knew. Moreover, when you asked him why he hadn't mentioned Frau Becker's fondness for Zelenka before, he made a significant verbal blunder. He said: ‘Why should I have? It's entirely relevant’ Of course, what he meant to say was: ‘Why should I have? It's entirely irrelevant.’ The more an individual tries to conceal something of importance, the more he betrays himself with such errors! Finally, did you notice that whenever he spoke of his wife, he kept on touching his wedding ring? He was like a patient suffering from an obsessional neurosis, checking to ensure that some valued possession has not been entirely lost.”
“Most interesting,” said Rheinhardt, twirling his mustache, “Most interesting; however, the principal purpose of our visit to Saint Florian's today was to interview Herr Sommer, a man who you, for reasons still unclear to me, have always insisted would shine some light on the mystery of Zelenka's death. Now, as far as I'm concerned, our investigation has not been furthered greatly. He has simply confirmed what was already suspected: that Zelenka and Frau Becker were having an illicit liaison, that boys like Wolf torment scholarship boys, and that the headmaster turns a blind eye to such behavior.”
“I can assure you, Herr Sommer is…” Liebermann paused to select an appropriate word. “Involved.”
“How do you mean, ‘involved’? I don't understand.”
Liebermann tapped his fingers together. “Immediately after Sommer learned of Zelenka's death, he fell down some stairs and sprained his ankle—which gave him an ideal excuse to get away from Saint Florian's.”
“But it was an accident, Max! And it must have been a genuine accident or he wouldn't have volunteered the name of his physician, Professor Baltish. We can easily check his story.”
“No, Oskar. You misunderstand me. I am sure his sprain is real; however, as Professor Freud has explained, if one really examines the context of any accident, one can often see how it might have served some purpose. In other words, accidents are motivated. This motivation is, however, unconscious. The individual does not plan to have an accident. As far as he is concerned, it just happens.”
“All right, then, what does Herr Sommer's stumble mean?”
“Well, quite obviously, that he did not want to be questioned about Zelenka. He wish
ed to postpone questioning for as long as possible—and he stood to benefit in two ways. First, the police investigation might have been closed before his return, thus he would have succeeded in avoiding questioning altogether. Second, if the police investigation was still in progress on the date of his return, he would have had sufficient time to collect himself and would be better prepared. Of course, it was always possible that you would travel to Linz in order to interview him—but even if you had, he would still have secured himself a period of respite. The fact that he needed time to think things through suggests the existence of a complex situation in which many factors needed to be taken into consideration. I had always suspected Herr Sommer's involvement—from the moment you mentioned his accident; however, my suspicions were confirmed beyond doubt when he arrived an hour late. Again, his error speaks volumes. He did not want to be interviewed. He was still attempting to avoid you. And the question you must ask yourself, Oskar, is: why?”
Rheinhardt frowned. “What are you suggesting, Max? That Sommer killed Zelenka?”
“Zelenka died of natural causes.”
Rheinhardt rolled his eyes. “According to Professor Mathias, but you have already admitted that the more we probe the world of Saint Florian's, the more we discover conditions and circumstances ordinarily associated with murder.”
Liebermann stared at his hands, and continued to tap his fingers together. “He was lying about the article in the Arbeiter-Zeitung.”
“What?” said Rheinhardt.
“You asked him if he was aware of the article, and he replied: ‘No, no… I wasn't aware… no.’ He denied knowledge of the article four times. A perfect example of overcompensation.”
“But people often repeat things.”
“Not four times, Oskar,” said Liebermann. He paused, and then mischievously drove his point home with a repetition: “Not four times.”
“Why on earth would he lie about that?”
“Consistency. I think it highly unlikely that Professor Baltish's sanatorium takes a socialist daily… and needless to say, Sommer also lied about the numbers in Zelenka's textbook.”
“Did he?”
“Oh yes. Did you see how red his ears went?”
“I attributed that to embarrassment.”
“No. His laughter was completely false, and he was far too eager to stress that the numbers were random. His story about the memory game was complete nonsense—although, on reflection, I imagine it was probably the best bogus explanation that he, or anybody else, might fabricate.”
“So,” said Rheinhardt, his face becoming lined with intense concentration. “What have we surmised? First, Zelenka and Frau Becker were having a sexual liaison. Second, Sommer did not want to be interviewed after Zelenka's death, and third, he is a liar—his most notable lie being that the numbers in Zelenka's exercise book represent nothing more than a silly game.… What if…” The creases on Rheinhardt s face deepened. “What if Sommer learned of Zelenka's affair with Frau Becker, and conspired with Zelenka to blackmail her? He is clearly not a man of means. Their activities might have necessitated coded communications.”
Liebermann frowned, crossed his legs, and brushed a fold from his trousers. He was clearly unimpressed.
“Becker knew that Zelenka was ‘taking advantage’ of his wife. Therefore, his relationship with the boy must have been strained, difficult… and yet there is nothing to suggest that this was the case. In fact, Zelenka appears to have been something of a teacher's pet… sucking up to his science master and requesting extra assignments, which Becker was happy to provide.”
Rheinhardt suddenly remembered how Liebermann had behaved when Becker had left the room.
“Oh yes. Why did you taste Becker's medicine?”
“I wanted to know what it was.”
“And did you recognize it?”
“Yes, I think so—although it was an unusual prescription for headaches.”
Liebermann smiled faintly, and turned his face to the window, resuming his inspection of the runnels of rainwater. Rheinhardt, accustomed to his friend's irritating penchant for mystification, managed some halfhearted tutting to communicate his annoyance.
“It is all utterly infuriating,” said Liebermann. “Clearly, there is something going on at Saint Florian's… but it is almost impossible to ascertain what! I am reminded of the frustrating phenomenon of being unable to recall a familiar name. The name hovers at the periphery of awareness, and the more you try to remember it, the more it seems to evade recollection. Perhaps we should stop thinking about this right now—or Becker won't be the only one with a headache!”
38
THE SPECIAL TUTORIAL GROUP met in Professor Gärtner's rooms. On account of his age and seniority he occupied an entire lodge. It was his custom to spoil his favored pupils, and an impressive selection of pastries had been laid out on the table, ready for consumption when the tutorial was over: cheese and apple strudels, made especially for the professor by the school chef, and an artistically arranged spiral of ischler gebäck—fruit-conserve biscuits drizzled with chocolate.
The prospective feast was something of a distraction for most of the boys, who were gathered in a semicircle around their mentor. They stole quick glances at the spread, and their stomachs grumbled in anticipation.
Wolf, however, wasn't in the least troubled by the strudels and the sugary fragrances that sweetened the air. He had been transported by the strange declamatory prose that Professor Gärtner had been reading aloud from a slim cloth-bound volume. Even though the old man's voice was dry and wheezy, the text vibrated in Wolf's memory. Each word possessed a gonglike, resonance.
I teach you the Übermensch… the superman…
What is the ape to men? A laughing stock or a painful embarrassment.
And just so shall man be to the superman…
Where is the lightning to lick you with his tongue? Where is the madness with which you should be cleansed?
Behold, I teach you the superman: he is the lightning, he is the madness…
Gärtner sat in a high-backed leather chair. He was wearing his academic gown, and his short silver hair glittered in the lamplight. When he had finished his reading, he began a lengthy exegesis.
“What we are must be overcome. Man, as he is, must be destroyed. We must become something more than human… Homo superior. The philosopher is quite clear as to how this transition can be achieved. Man becomes Übermensch by his will to power—by abandoning old doctrines and replacing them with new ones, by rejecting societal ideals and so-called morality, by a continual process of overcoming arbitrary self-limitations.… The philosopher challenges us, throws down the gauntlet: Can you furnish yourself with your own good and evil, he asks, and hang up your own will above yourself as a law? Can you be judge of yourself and avenger of your law?”
The old man raised his head and looked around the room. Some of the boys shifted uncomfortably as his interrogative gaze made them painfully aware that they were not really listening. Wolf, however, leaned forward. He felt excited, but did not really understand why. The professor's gaze locked with his. Wolf was not unnerved by Gärtner's scrutiny: on the contrary, he welcomed it. The boy nodded his head.
Yes, he said silently to himself. I can be judge of myself—and avenger of my law
Professor Gärtner smiled at his most enthusiastic student.
39
LIEBERMANN WAS SITTING OUTSIDE Csarda—the Hungarian restaurant where Trezska had suggested that they should meet. Although the sky was overcast, it was not a particularly cold day. The table was well positioned and offered a clear view of the tree-lined boulevard along which crowds of people—from all walks of life— were making their way toward the amusements, beer-houses, concert hall, and theaters. A Carpathian peasant, wearing a white fur cap, was wandering somewhat aimlessly in front of the restaurant, obviously overwhelmed by the festival atmosphere of the Prater.
When Trezska arrived, Liebermann stood to greet her, bowed, and kisse
d her hand. Stepping back, he smiled, showing his admiration with tacit but unmistakable pleasure. She was wearing a maroon jacket, cut to accentuate the slimness of her waist. The garment was decorated with black braid and was slightly reminiscent of a soldier's tunic. The folded-back cuffs were threaded with silver. Her gray skirt—which clung tightly to the curve of her hips—was woven with a muted blue check. She had pinned her hair up, and her hat sprouted a plume of exotic feathers. On the lapel of her jacket was the same brooch that she had worn for her concert: a crescent of diamonds. Close up, the glittering stones looked large and very expensive: More expensive, thought Liebermann, than a budding concert violinist should be able to afford As soon as this thought had formed, it was followed by a second: A gift from an admirer, perhaps?
Ordinarily, Liebermann was not a jealous person but the experience of discovering Miss Lyd gate in the arms of her lover had affected him deeply. He had become mistrustful, suspicious. At once, the young doctor was disappointed with himself, annoyed that he had already inferred the existence of a shadowy competitor!
“Is anything wrong?” asked Trezska.
Liebermann was astonished. He had not, as far he was aware, betrayed his inner feelings with a frown.
“No, nothing's wrong.” Anxious to conceal his embarrassment, he risked a bold compliment. “You look wonderful.”
Trezska did not demur, but returned his smile.
Liebermann was relieved to find that their conversation flowed more naturally than he'd expected. He had judged that she might be, by nature, quite reserved—aloof, even; in fact, he was quite wrong. She was warm, friendly, and quick to laugh. He asked her if she had been to the Prater before, and she replied that she had—but only to eat at Csarda. She was not familiar with the amusements. Liebermann suggested that they should visit the Kaisergarten—to which she again responded with unexpected enthusiasm. From Liebermann's experience, beautiful, fashionably dressed women often allowed their hauteur to harden into a brittle carapace. Trezska's excitement was endearing.
