by Frank Tallis
“He wasn't a talented artist,” Lang continued, “but he was an intelligent, attentive boy. I remember showing him some illustrations in Ver Sacrum, the periodical of the Secession. He asked me some very astute questions about the artist's purpose-questions concerning symbolism and meaning. I was impressed. One wouldn't have got that kind of response-a mature response-from his comrades. They would simply have smirked and made lewd remarks.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Nudity. Even a line drawing of the female form…” Lang's sentence trailed off in exasperation.
“I see,” said Rheinhardt, inwardly reflecting that the minds of schoolboys had not changed very much since his own youth.
“Zelenka was different,” said Lang. “Very self-possessed for his age. A little shy, perhaps, but he was growing out of it. I was very fond of him.”
The young master blinked rapidly, and Rheinhardt wondered if he was about to cry.
“Was he happy here, do you think?”
Lang changed position and made a plosive sound that managed to combine incredulity with indignation. His features hardened.
“He was a scholarship boy.”
“What of it?”
“I don't think anybody from his background could possibly be happy in a place like Saint Florian's!”
Rheinhardt allowed the subsequent silence to build until Lang felt compelled to justify his expostulation. “Historically, Saint Florian's has always welcomed boys from a particular kind of family. The headmaster doesn't agree with the new egalitarianism that the emperor is trying to promote in our schools and universities.”
“Are you suggesting that boys like Zelenka, boys from poor backgrounds, are treated badly?”
Lang got up from his chair and walked to the door. He opened it a fraction and looked through the crack. The sound of Albert's stertorous breathing could be heard outside. Satisfied that there were no eavesdroppers, he closed the door quietly and returned to the table. He did not sit down.
“Look, Inspector.” He appeared slightly agitated. “I know that for boys like Zelenka this school is purgatory. I talk to them while they're drawing. I can see it in their eyes-the sadness, the fear. And sometimes they say things.”
“What do you mean, ‘say things?’ “
“I've been to see the headmaster, but, between you and me, Professor Eichmann is only interested in the welfare of boys from good families. As for the rest…”
“Have you considered discussing your concerns with the board of governors?”
“I have… but I won't now. It's too late.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm leaving. I intend to hand in my resignation at the end of term.”
“Do you have another position to go to?”
“No. I intend to join the Secessionists. You will, I trust, treat what I have said- all that I have said-as strictly confidential?”
“Yes, of course.”
It was evident from their further discussion that Lang was, and had always been, unhappy at Saint Florian's. He did not enjoy the company of his colleagues, and he found the general atmosphere intolerably oppressive.
“Do you know Isidor Perger?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Yes, he's another scholarship boy.”
“I was hoping to interview him this afternoon.”
Lang's mouth twisted into a sardonic smile.
“You won't get much out of him.” Lang glanced at his watch and edged toward the door. “If you'll excuse me, Inspector, I have a class.”
Rheinhardt thanked Lang for his assistance, made a few notes, and walked over to the windows. Peering out of the central lancet, he saw some terraced brick houses (perhaps the “lodges” that Eichmann and Lang had referred to), a stable, and an equestrian enclosure-the outer edge of which was being circumambulated by a troop of boys on horseback. His gaze was drawn upward, toward the fir-covered hills that rolled out into the milky distance.
Rheinhardt felt a curious sense of satisfaction. He was glad that he had come back to the school.
There's something wrong here.
His intuition had been correct.
12
Liebermann had left the hospital early in order to visit his older sister, Leah. He also expected to see Hannah-their younger sister. Only rarely did the three siblings meet in this way and such meetings were always planned well in advance, and under a shroud of secrecy. This was necessary in order to stop their parents, Mendel and Rebecca, from taking control of arrangements and turning what would otherwise be a relaxed, informal gathering into a major family event.
Hannah was seated on a sofa, reading a book to Daniel, Leah's son. The little boy was dressed in red lederhosen, a white shirt, long socks, and soft leather shoes. He was also wearing an Alpine hat-which served no real purpose other than to amuse the adults. Occasionally Daniel would laugh, which, in Hannah's company, was a perilous activity. The sound of happy gurgling invariably prompted the youthful aunt to tickle his stomach until his face went red and he was begging for mercy.
Ordinarily, Leah would intervene. But on this occasion, she allowed the melee to continue in order to have an intimate word with her brother. She poured him some tea, leaned closer, and said:
“Have you seen Father?”
“Yes, last week. We went for coffee at the Imperial.”
“And how was he?”
“Still very angry. Even so, we managed a civil-if rather uncomfortable-conversation.”
Relations between Liebermann and his father had become particularly strained since Liebermann had broken his engagement with Clara Weiss-the daughter of one of Mendel's oldest and closest friends.
“Did he mention…?”
“Clara? No.”
Leah offered Max a slice of guglhwpf, which he declined.
“I hear that she's met someone. A cavalry lieutenant.”
“Good. I hope they are happy together.”
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“Have you met anyone special yet?”
Liebermann paused long enough for his sister to raise her eyebrows.
“Who?”
Liebermann smiled and shook his head. “No one… not really.”
Leah drew her head back and looked at him askance. It made her appear just like their mother.
Daniel's shrieking became louder. His head was thrown back, only the whites of his eyes were showing, and his cheeks were turning puce.
“That's enough,” Leah called. “Really!”
Hannah withdrew her hand and looked up guiltily. “We're only playing.”
“You're supposed to be reading!”
Liebermann stood up and walked across the room. He sat down next to Hannah and took Daniel, bouncing him a few times on his knee.
“He's getting so heavy!”
“I know,” said Leah, sighing wearily.
“What have you got there?” Liebermann asked Hannah.
“Daniel's klecksography book,” Hannah replied.
“Klecksography?”
Hannah opened the book and held it in front of Daniel. The child leaned forward, stretching his hand out toward a striking image-a large symmetrical pattern: as if ink had been spilled on a page, and then the page had been folded along a central vertical crease. It was accompanied by a fanciful verse about a troll, which Hannah read out in a theatrical contralto. The later pages were filled with similar images-symmetrical inkblots, all vaguely resembling the spread wings of a butterfly.
“Are the patterns supposed to represent the characters in the verses?” Liebermann asked.
“Yes,” said Hannah. “You look at the shapes… and try to see things. Trolls, fairies… it's like… like a game.”
“How very interesting,” said Liebermann. “What's it called?”
“Klecksography.”
“Leah?” Liebermann's expression became oddly serious. “Where did you get this book from?”
“Oh, I don't know, Max,” Leah re
plied. “But you can get klecksography books anywhere-they're very popular. Why?”
“It's an interesting concept, that's all.”
Leah looked at Daniel and shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder whether your uncle has spent too much time with mad people.”
13
After leaving Leah's apartment Liebermann traveled into town to collect a long-standing order from Schott's-Schumann's Twelve Poems by Justinus Kerner, opus 35, a little-known song cycle that Rheinhardt was keen to try.
On the streetcar home, Liebermann became engrossed in the prefatory notes. He discovered that Justinus Kerner, a physician and poet from Ludwigsburg, was also the author of a posthumous work, Klecksographien, which was (by the strangest of coincidences) the progenitor of his nephew's klecksography book and its many variants. Liebermann read that while suffering from depression, Kerner had seen ghosts and monsters in his symmetrical inky creations-and had ascribed for them a place in Hades.
Rheinhardt arrived shortly before eight o'clock, and the two friends began their music-making immediately. They performed Franz Lachner's Sangerfahrt, some atmospheric songs by Men dels sohn, and Zelter's Der Konig von Thule. When Liebermann produced the Schumann songs from behind the music stand, Rheinhardt was delighted.
“Excellent, excellent,” he cried. “What a pleasant surprise!”
The Twelve Poems were a strange cycle-having no unifying theme or coherent key sequence-yet it was their eccentricity that Liebermann found attractive. One of the settings, Auf das Trinkglas dues verstorhenen Freunies, was at the same time a lament for a departed friend and a panegyric to German wine. However, it also managed to subsume a meditation on the ineffable bond between the living and the dead.
Rheinhardt clasped his hands in front of his chest and sang the poetry with tender grace: “Dock wird mir k lar zu dieser Stund,
“Wie nichts den Freund vom Freuni kann trennen.”
Yet at this hour I realize
How nothing can part friend from friend.
“Leer Steht das Glasl Der heil'ge Klang
“T on t nach in iem kristall'nen Grunde.”
The glass stands empty! The sacred sound
Still echoes in its crystal depths.
As Liebermann played the final cadence, he could see that the deeper meanings of the text had affected Rheinhardt. A detective inspector would appreciate, even more than a physician-poet, perhaps, how the dead-in some sense-are never truly departed. They always leave something of themselves behind.
When Liebermann and Rheinhardt retired to the smoking room, they took their customary places, lit cigars, and contemplated the fire.
“So,” said Liebermann, reaching for the brandy. “You are still preoccupied by the death of Thomas Zelenka.”
Rheinhardt continued to look at the flames.
“Yesterday I went to Saint Florian's and interviewed-with one exception-all of his masters.”
“Why one exception?”
“His mathematics master has had an accident. He fell down the stairs and injured his leg.”
“How unfortunate.”
Liebermann handed Rheinhardt a glass of brandy.
“When I went to see Zelenka's parents, they said he was a strong, healthy boy. Yet his gymnastics master and Nurse Funke said he was sickly-that he always had colds.”
“Perhaps Zelenka feigned illness in order to avoid gymnastics.”
“And why would he do that?”
“The boys probably do their physical training bare-chested.”
“Which would have necessitated exposure of the cuts?”
“Indeed. He might have wished to keep them concealed.”
“But why?”
“Embarrassment, shame… However, there is a much simpler explanation. He avoided gymnastics because any form of vigorous exercise was painful.”
Rheinhardt took Perger's letter from his pocket and pushed it across the table.
“I found this in Zelenka's bedroom-there were two letters, actually, but this is the most interesting.”
Liebermann put on his spectacles and unfolded the paper. He read in silence, until he reached the salient passages: “Needless to say, I do not want to go back… Sometimes I wonder whether I should tell my father what is happening. But what good would that do?… He doesn't care-no one does.”
Rheinhardt sipped his brandy, and summarized his encounter with Lang.
“Why didn't you interview Perger?” asked Liebermann.
“I did,” Rheinhardt replied. “And Lang was right-he wouldn't cooperate. I told Perger what I thought: that he and other boysparticularly from poor backgrounds-were being persecuted, and that if he told me who was responsible I would see to it that they were punished. He pretended not to know what I was talking about… So then I showed him his own letter to Zelenka. I could see he was shocked, but to his credit the boy managed to sustain his subterfuge. He insisted that I had misunderstood the contents-it meant nothing. It was a joke, of course-particularly the part about running away. He said that he and Zelenka were always joking about doing such things.”
Liebermann lifted the letter and tilted it in the light.
“At that point-where he mentions running away-it is possible to detect a faint tremor in the script. He was terrified. Whatever he was hoping to escape from, it made his hand shake.”
Rheinhardt leaned across the table and looked at the letter more closely.
“It all looks the same to me.”
“There is a definite tremor.”
Rheinhardt sat back in his chair, a mote of skepticism still glimmering in his eye.
“I thought about interviewing some of the other boys-but there are more than three hundred of them. It would be pointless to select names randomly from the register. Do you think you could persuade Perger to disclose the identity of his persecutors?”
“Perhaps.”
“Would you hypnotize him?”
Liebermann shrugged. “Perhaps.”
The young doctor's economic response-combined with his arch expression-suggested to Rheinhardt that he had already thought of a possible solution.
Liebermann lit a cigar and exhaled a large nimbus of smoke.
“Of course,” he said, “none of this new information shines further light on the death of Thomas Zelenka. Which, I believe, was your original purpose.”
“That is true. But in spite of your analysis of my unconscious motives, the defensive denial of premature death, and so forth, I cannot rid myself of a persistent conviction that if I continue with this investigation, something relevant, something explanatory with regard to Zelenka's death, will eventually arise.”
Liebermann took another puff of his cigar.
“Well… you might just be right.”
“What?” said Rheinhardt, turning his head in disbelief. “Have you changed your mind, then, about policeman's intuition?”
“Not at all.” Liebermann tapped his cigar on the ashtray. “However, if there is something new to be learned about Zelenka's death- and it is a very substantial if- then I am afraid to say, Oskar, that you have failed to interview someone who-in my humble opinion- merits the closest questioning.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The mathematics master.”
“What makes you think he's important? I haven't even told you his name. You know nothing about him!”
“I know enough,” said Liebermann, smiling into his brandy.
14
Drexler stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. They were a cheap Turkish brand that produced pungent wreaths of fulvous smoke. He had sunk deep into a wicker chair and was hunched over a well-thumbed volume of E.T.A. Hoffmann's short stories, the print of which was illuminated by a candle. His only other source of light was a paraffin lamp, some distance away, suspended from a beam.
“Do you know why you're here, Stojakovic?” It was Kiefer Wolf's voice, emanating from a dark recess on the other side of the room.
Drexler lift
ed his head. A scrawny Serbian boy was standing between Barend Steininger and Odo Freitag. Steininger was tall, big-boned, and mature enough to sport a downy mustache and fuzzy sideburns. Freitag was much shorter but stocky, possessing a thick, muscular neck and facial features that thrust forward like those of a pit bull terrier.
The Serbian boy peered into the shadows and blinked.
“Come on, Stojakovic,” said Steininger, digging his elbow into the boy's side.
“Yes, come on, Stojakovic,” Freitag repeated, clapping his hands on his shoulders.
The Serbian boy opened his mouth, but no sound escaped.
“I asked you a question, Stojakovic!” Wolf's disembodied voice grew louder.
“He did,” said Steininger, grinning. “Wolf asked you a question.”
“Yes, don't be impolite, Stojakovic,” said Freitag, tightening his grip. “Be a good fellow and answer Wolf.”
The boy glanced at Drexler-but it was a wasted appeal. Drexler shook his head.
“I don't know what passes for good manners in your country, Stojakovic,” Wolf barked. “But it is our custom to give an answer when asked a question.”
“Very true,” said Steininger. “Very true.”
The boy's mouth opened again. He produced an unintelligible wavering noise.
“What did you say?” asked Steininger.
“I'm…,” the boy croaked. “I'm sorry… What was the question?”
“I don't believe it,” said Steininger.
“He wants you to repeat the question, Wolf,” said Freitag.
“Are you hard of hearing, Stojakovic?” said Steininger. “A little deaf, perhaps?”
The boy shook his head.
Steininger bent down and looked into the boy's ear. “Then perhaps your ears are dirty?”
Freitag looked into the boy's other ear. “Yes, I believe they are.”
“Were you, by any chance, raised on a farm, Stojakovic?” asked Steininger.
“I think he must have been,” said Freitag.
“That would explain a great deal,” said Steininger.
