by Frank Tallis
The young doctor shook his head, indicating that he could not recall so precise a reference.
‘Get me a kerchief from her breast,’ Freud intoned. ‘A garter that her knee has pressed.’
The professor nodded, impressed by his own apposite example.
‘When, then,’ asked Liebermann, ‘does the situation become pathological?’
‘When the longing for the fetish passes beyond the point of being merely a necessary condition attached to the sexual object and actually takes the place of the normal aim, and, further, when the fetish becomes detached from a particular individual and becomes the sole sexual object.’
‘Do you believe the polymorphous disposition has limits? Or do you believe that anything can become sexually arousing?’
‘If you harbour any doubts,’ said Freud, pushing the cigar box towards his guest, ‘then you need look no further than the pages of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis.’ Freud stubbed out his own cigar, lit Liebermanns, and then took another for himself. ‘Moreover,’ he continued, touching the end of his cigar to the flame and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I am not so sure that Krafft-Ebing’s cases — however disturbing — exhibit behaviours that are qualitatively different from those which might be observed also in the bedroom of a respectable household.’ Freud glanced again at his manuscript: ‘The most common and the most significant of all perversions — the desire to inflict pain upon the sexual object and its reverse — received from Krafft-Ebing the names sadism and masochism. As regards to sadism, the roots are easy to detect in the normal. The sexuality of most male human beings contains an element of aggressiveness — a desire to subjugate; the biological significance of it seems to lie in the need for overcoming the resistance of the sexual object by means other than the process of wooing. Thus, sadism would correspond to an aggressive component of the sexual instinct which has become independent and exaggerated and, by displacement, has usurped the leading position.’
‘What you suggest implies that — given the right constellation of influences — any of us might have become one of Krafft-Ebing’s monsters.’
‘Indeed.’ Freud toyed with one of the statuettes that stood next to the cigar box — a vulture with a worn, featureless head, perched on a pedestal. ‘Binet was the first to maintain that the choice of a fetish is an after-effect of some sexual impression, received as a rule in early childhood …’ He spoke these words dreamily, and Liebermann sensed they were more like a private afterthought than a conclusion. The tone of Freud’s voice conveyed two rather contradictory meanings. On the one hand, he seemed glad that he was not the only person to entertain such ideas, but on the other, he appeared slightly resentful of the fact that he must concede intellectual priority to another theorist.
A silence prevailed, during which time the smoke haze intensified to such an extent that everything in the room acquired the flat colour-tones of a sepia photograph.
Liebermann had learned enough to give him confidence in his speculative diagnosis of thanatophilia. Freud’s new ideas on deviance seemed to legitimise all possibilities. With respect to the erotic instinct, anything was possible. Wishing to make the most of his time with the great man, Liebermann resolved to test his views on another topic.
‘I have an interesting patient,’ the young doctor ventured, changing position to disturb Freud’s reverie.
The professor looked up: ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I have an interesting patient,’ Liebermann repeated. ‘At the hospital: a gentleman who thinks he’s seen his doppelgänger — and now must die.’
Freud waved his cigar, indicating that he wished to hear more. Liebermann adopted the telegraphic style of medical men when summarising a case history: ‘Herr E. Born in Tulln: worked as secretary to a councillor in the Town Hall: lost his job when his employer died: came to Vienna — and is currently employed as an importer’s administrator.’ After sketching Erstweiler’s background, Liebermann recounted his patient’s descriptions of seeing his double.
Freud puffed repeatedly on his cigar until the smoke which he was producing became so abundant that he all but vanished behind it. Liebermann sensed that the great man was deep in thought and waited respectfully. Eventually, Freud cleared his throat.
‘The idea that we possess a double most probably originates from our earliest experience of reflections. In a mirror, we see ourselves as something separate, removed; however, this illusion must have preceded the invention of the looking-glass. Our primitive ancestors would have viewed their “doubles” in the surface of still water — or even as a tiny homunculus in the eyes of others. Thus, as soon as human beings could form the concept of self, experience of reflections would have suggested the existence of another self. We must conclude, therefore, that the idea of the double is deeply rooted in the human psyche.’
Freud seemed pleased with this initial exposition, and smiled before continuing: ‘Now, let us turn our attention to religious teachings. In all cultures, the idea of the double appears in the guise of a soul — a spiritual doppelgänger. And wherever we find religion, we also find the terror of oblivion. So …’ He paused to produce another volcanic cloud. ‘It is possible that the double represents a defence against the destruction of the ego, as the soul — the first double of the body — is an insurance against annihilation. The operation of this defence is evident in the burial rites of ancient Egypt, where it was commonplace to make images of the dead in lasting materials.’ Freud pointed to a tiny bronze box with the figurine of a bird on its lid. ‘See here: this coffin for a sacred animal. Late period. Between about seven hundred and three hundred BC.’ He was unable to resist stroking the falcon’s beak. ‘The desire for eternal life springs from the soil of unbounded self-love, from the primary narcissism which dominates the mind of the child and of primitive man. But when this stage has been surmounted, the double reverses its aspect. From having been an assurance of immortality it becomes an uncanny harbinger of death. It is in this form that the double is better known to the German-speaking peoples.’
The professor took another cigar from his cigar box.
‘And there may be another process at work: it may be that material offensive to the ego — unacceptable fantasies, all the strivings of the ego which adverse external circumstances have crushed, and all our suppressed acts of volition — are projected outwards to something foreign. But such material cannot be disowned completely, and the object into which this undesirable material is incorporated takes the form of another self.’
Liebermann wanted to discuss this point further, but the professor had returned to an earlier theme: ‘Doubling as a preservation against extinction also has its counterpart in the language of dreams. If one of the ordinary symbols for a penis — a tower, let us say — occurs in a dream doubled — thus, two towers — the doubling must be regarded as the warding-off of castration.’
Freud picked up another cigar and lit it. He was about to put the used match in his ashtray when he noticed that he had not finished the cigar he had been smoking. He had simply put it down for a few moments and forgotten that it was there.
‘Mmm … two cigars,’ he muttered.
His expression darkened, and with evident unease he stubbed out his old cigar and put the new one into his mouth.
25
RHEINHARDT WAS SEATED NEXT to his wife Else, and further down the park bench his eldest daughter, Therese, was reading a book. His younger daughter, Mitzi, was deliberating with another girl whether or not to get on the merry-go-round (which had been commandeered by two boys wearing short trousers and flat caps). A group of mothers, dressed rather too finely for the occasion, were conversing in the shade of a tree, while two nursemaids rocked perambulators in order to keep the tiny occupants asleep.
‘I was speaking to Frau Gaul this morning,’ said Else. ‘She went to the opera on Saturday to see Pagliacci. She said it was wonderful.’
Since the discovery of Adele Zeiler’s body in the Volksgarten,
Rheinhardt had had few opportunities to spend time with his family. The normality of sitting in the park with his wife and daughters was like a spiritual emollient.
‘Would you like to go?’
‘Yes,’ Else replied, somewhat surprised by her husband’s response. He was always so busy that it had not occurred to her that he might act on Frau Gaul’s recommendation.
‘Then we shall go.’ Rheinhardt paused for a moment before adding, ‘In fact, we’ll all go — and to blazes with the expense. Would you like to see Pagliacci, Therese?’
His daughter looked up from her book, making heroic efforts to hide her excitement. In actuality she had not been reading at all, only pretending to do so while listening to her parents’ conversation.
‘Yes, father, very much.’
Therese’s composure reminded Rheinhardt that his daughter was on the cusp of adulthood. Once the transition was complete, the child whose hair he had kissed and whose little hand had gripped his forefinger so tightly in front of the lion’s cage at the zoo would be gone. It was a loss that he accepted philosophically, but to which a part of him would never be fully reconciled.
‘Good,’ he said decisively. ‘I’ll get some tickets this evening.’
Rheinhardt felt his wife’s hand covering his own. She squeezed his fingers together and by means of this subtle gesture communicated more gratitude and affection than could ever be expressed using words. The fact that something so consequential could pass between them in a public place, without notice, was further evidence — as far as Rheinhardt was concerned — of the miraculous nature of his marriage.
‘Is it a very long opera?’ asked Therese, craning forward in readiness for her father’s answer.
‘No, my dear,’ Rheinhardt replied. ‘It is very short.’
Therese gave a curt nod signalling her approval and applied herself once again to the task of simulated reading.
On the other side of the children’s enclosure, through the wooden struts and bars of a climbing frame, Rheinhardt noticed a man seated on his own. He was middle-aged, wore a long coat, and sported a shaggy moustache. He was looking at Mitzi and her play-friend, who were now enjoying the reciprocal motion of the see-saw.
Else had started to ponder the logistics of going to the opera, a string of considerations, not obviously connected. Rheinhardt was listening, but his attention kept on returning to the man opposite. Why, he wondered, was the man looking so intently in the direction of his daughter?
‘Who is that girl? Mitzi’s play-friend?’
Mention of her sister made Therese look up from her book.
‘Her name is Eva,’ Else replied, puzzled.
‘And who is she with?’
‘Her mother, Frau Kubauer. She’s over there, wearing the yellow dress.’ Else pointed out one of the women standing under the tree. At that moment, Frau Kubauer happened to look in their direction and Else was obliged to turn her indicating gesture into a polite wave. The woman in the yellow dress waved back. Rheinhardt raised his hat respectfully.
Else angled her head and awaited an explanation for her husband’s inquiry; however, he remained silent. With an indifferent shrug of her shoulders she returned to her original theme.
Rheinhardt had stopped listening. He was working out which children were accompanied by which adults. It became evident that the man sitting opposite was alone. Rheinhardt studied the cast of his face.
Rainmayr’s studio.
Images.
Two young girls, with skirts hoisted, proudly displayed their pudenda; a pair of disembodied skinny legs in loose stockings and garters …
Mitzi and her friend had abandoned the see-saw and were running towards the climbing frame. They began their ascent and as they did so the man’s eyes narrowed: he was looking at their ankles — their shoes — and as they ascended, he seemed to slide lower down in his seat. His tongue moistened his lips. His right hand — thrust into the deep pocket of his coat — was conspicuously active.
‘Excuse me a moment,’ said Rheinhardt to his wife.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I want to be closer to Mitzi.’
‘She’s perfectly safe. She won’t fall.’
‘Even so …’
Rheinhardt crossed the play area.
‘Be careful, Mitzi,’ he said as he passed the climbing frame. His daughter smiled.
‘I won’t slip.’
‘Yes. Well. Make sure you don’t.’
He continued walking towards the man, whose face showed a flicker of apprehension as the inspector approached.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Rheinhardt.
The man mumbled a return courtesy.
Rheinhardt sat down next to him and scanned the enclosure. Else was talking to Therese, but unfortunately Rheinhardt had not fooled her. She had detected something odd in his manner and was stealing glances at him through the wooden cage of the climbing frame.
‘Sir?’ said Rheinhardt.
The man turned.
Rheinhardt grabbed the man’s necktie and twisted it tightly. The man’s eyes bulged and he began to make choking noises.
‘I know what you are,’ said Rheinhardt steadily. ‘And I know what you are doing.’ The man’s tongue protruded between his teeth and his face became contorted. ‘You will leave at once and never come back. Do you understand? Never. If I catch you here again, I give you my word, you will regret it.’
Rheinhardt released the man’s tie. He coughed and loosened the knot, then got up and ran towards the gate, looking back anxiously over his shoulder. Rheinhardt sauntered back to Else and Therese.
‘What happened?’ asked Else, her eyebrows raised.
‘I noticed that gentleman’s tie was crooked,’ Rheinhardt pointed towards the flapping coat-tails receding beyond the fence, ‘and performed the small service of straightening it for him.’
‘What gentleman?’ asked Therese.
‘That one over there.’ Therese peered through the trees. ‘He had to leave in a hurry — he had a train to catch.’
Else’s expression was troubled.
As she started to speak, Rheinhardt touched her lips with an outstretched finger, tacitly banning further inquiry.
‘Now, is anyone hungry?’ he asked. ‘I think we should find a bakery.’ He brought his hands together to make a funnel and used it to amplify his voice: ‘Mitzi! Would you like a strudel?’
26
AMELIA LYDGATE SAT IN one of Landsteiners laboratories in the Institute of Pathology and Anatomy. Having rehydrated the crystals that she had scraped from Bathild Babel’s fingernails, she had mixed the resulting solution with samples of known blood types. The subsequent patterns of agglutination that she observed down the barrel of her microscope informed her that the man whom Bathild Babel had scratched before she died was a member of the group that Landsteiner had designated type-C.
As she leaned forward, Amelia felt her corset pinch. It reminded her of an article she had read in her Ladies’ Journal about the ‘new’ fashion. The author had advocated abandoning the standard two-piece and corset in favour of a loose gown affording complete freedom of movement. Now that more women were entering occupations that had previously been the exclusive province of men, the limitations of traditional clothing were becoming increasingly apparent. Straining over her microscope, Amelia couldn’t have agreed more. The wisdom of such reasoning was dramatised every time the stiff canvas that encased her body resisted her inclination and issued its creaky protests. The article had concluded with news of a fashion house on Bauernmarkt. Loose-fitting ‘reform dresses’ — as they were described — were made on the premises using fabric designs created by artists of the Vienna Secession. The prices, however, were quite prohibitive.
Amelia ignored her complaining corsetry, examined the slides one last time, and composed a note which she intended to send before attending her pathology class at the university.
Dear Inspector Rheinhardt,
I have completed the re
quisite procedures for the determination of blood type and can report that the sample I removed from beneath Fräulein Babel’s fingernails is classified as C. No assumptions can be made concerning the origin of the sample, but I consider it reasonable to suggest that the dried blood was connected with the performance of an action made in self-defence. I sincerely hope that this new piece of information will serve some useful purpose as your investigation proceeds. The occurrence of two identical murders must surely suggest that this fiend — for I cannot think of a more apposite term — will act on his unnatural impulses again. The nature of his degeneracy, which demonstrates such low regard for my sex, arouses a very particular disgust. If I possess such skills as might in any way help to ensure this foul creature’s apprehension, then please do not hesitate to request my further involvement. Indeed, I would be honoured to continue my association with the security office. I trust you will inform Professor Mathias of my findings in due course.
Yours sincerely,
Miss Amelia Lydgate
27
FROM EARLIEST TIMES MEN have known her. In the Sumerian and Babylonian myths she is called Ereshkigal. In Ancient Rome she was known as Naenia or Libitina, and was said to fall upon the living like a great bird of prey. The Etruscans called her Tulchulcha. To the Hindus she is Kali, the Black Mother. In Japan, she comes as the Snow Queen, who chills the dying with her cold breath and removes all suffering. In Norse mythology she is Hela and in Finnish folktales she is Kalma. The Poles call her the Bone Lady and the Celts call her the Morrigan.
