by Frank Tallis
“You should stay away,” said Freitag.
Drexler ignored the two lieutenants and took a step closer to Wolf.
“Let him go, Wolf. Look at him.” He gestured toward the hunched, crumpled figure on the stool. “This is pathetic.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, this is pathetic!” It was now Drexler's turn to include Steininger and Freitag. “Can't you see, you two? It's all getting out of hand. These stupid games-”
“You've lost your nerve, Drexler,” Wolf cut in. “Go on- admit it.”
“It doesn't take very much nerve to pick on Perger!”
“More nerve than you have-evidently.”
“It's cowardly, Wolf!”
“What?”
“You heard.”
“How dare you call me a coward! How dare you!”
Wolf snatched the revolver from Perger's loose grip and pointed it toward Drexler.
“Go on, then-shoot,” said Drexler.
“You think it's a blank cartridge. Don't you?”
Once again, the intensity of Wolf's gaze surprised Drexler, and he was unsettled by a tremor of doubt.
“I'm a coward, am I?” Wolf continued.
Unexpectedly, he released the cylinder, spun it, and cocked the hammer. Then he pressed the barrel against his own temple and grinned: a maniacal rictus.
Behold, I teach you the Ubermensch.
The Ubermensch balks at nothing… The Ubermensch has no fear…
“Wolf?” said Freitag. He could not conceal his anxiety.
Wolf pulled the trigger. A dead click.
“Who's the coward now? Eh, Drexler?” He said, handing over the revolver.
Drexler examined the weapon. His mouth went dry and he became aware of an ethereal whistling in his head. Steininger and Freitag were looking at him-their expressions showed intense concentration rather than their usual brutish insouciance. Drexler gripped the end of the barrel between his teeth and squeezed the trigger.
Another dead click. The whistling stopped.
Without hesitation, Wolf took the weapon back, prepared it for firing, and pointed the muzzle between his own eyes. He was still grinning his deranged grin, but this time his hand was shaking. A film of sweat had appeared on his brow. When his finger finally closed on the trigger and the silence was broken only by the hammer's fall on another empty chamber, he burst out laughing and threw the gun at Drexler. The other boy snatched it out of the air.
“Only three left, Drexler,” Wolf said. “Your turn.”
Drexler looked at the gun, and then at Wolf. He cocked the hammer. The distance that he usually interposed between himself and the world had suddenly vanished. Reality stormed the ramparts of his senses, and he became acutely aware of the minutiae of existence: the systolic and diastolic components of his pulse, the expansion and contraction of his lungs, the passage of air in his nostrils, the taste of metal in his mouth, and the lost room, with its familiar contents- the suitcase, the wicker chair (and the permanent fragrance of tobacco, fear, and erotic discharge)-this haven of shabby delights- every part of it acquired a vivid immediacy. He was alive and he did not want to die.
“This is absurd,” said Drexler. He lifted the revolver and looked into the end of its barrel. Its circularity suggested eternity, and its blackness oblivion. There were other things he could be doing at this moment in time: making love to Snjezana, reading Hoffmann, or simply smoking on the grounds and watching the moon rise. He shook his head.
“Oh, you're all insane,” he said contemptuously, tossing the revolver aside. It landed a few feet away. There was a loud report, a bright flash, and a hazy cloud of gunpowder smoke rose up like a spectral apparition.
“My God,” said Steininger.
“It… it was live!” gasped Freitag.
In their state of shock, the two lieutenants had loosened their grip on Perger's tunic. The prisoner fell forward and sprawled facedown on the floor.
“Get up, Perger,” said Wolf.
The boy did not reply.
Wolf nudged him with his foot. The body was inert.
“Get up, Perger,” Wolf repeated.
Drexler fell to his knees and rolled the body over.
“Oh no… God, no.” A dark stain had appeared on Perger's tunic.
Silence.
“What shall we do, Wolf?” said Freitag softly.
Steininger took a step back. The color had drained from his face. He was fearful, dismayed.
“Perger?” said Drexler, pushing at the body. “Perger? Can you hear me?”
There was no response. The dark stain was expanding-an almost perfect circle, close to Perger's heart.
“Christ,” said Steininger. “He's dead.”
“No,” said Freitag. “He can't be…”
Drexler grasped the fallen boy's hand. “Come on, Perger, wake up!”
“It's no good, Drexler,” whispered Wolf. “You've killed him.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you! It was you who had the gun last.”
“But it wasn't my…,” cried Drexler, incoherent with desperation. “I didn't… I…”
“Wolf's right, Drexler,” said Steininger. “It was you who had the gun last.”
“Yes,” Freitag agreed. “If you hadn't thrown the gun, Perger would still be alive.”
42
Inspector Rheinhardt had copied the number pairs from Zelenka's exercise books onto a single sheet of paper, which he now handed to Amelia Lyd gate. The Englishwoman fell silent, and simply stared at the figures. Time passed. She was obviously attempting to decipher them, and Rheinhardt was reluctant to disturb her. He glanced across the room at Haussmann and raised a finger to his lips.
Eventually Amelia looked up.
“Are you absolutely sure that these numbers represent coded messages, Inspector?”
“Well, not absolutely… However, it was Dr. Liebermann's opinion that Herr Sommer did not tell us the truth when he said that these numbers were a memory test, and I am inclined to agree. The commitment of random number pairs to memory is surely an activity from which both pupil and master would derive very limited plea sure. And such an activity would be unlikely to keep them amused over a period of several months. Therefore, if the numbers are not a memory test, then they must be some kind of code.”
A vertical crease appeared on Amelia's brow.
“My father-also a schoolmaster-insisted that I learn the value of the mathematical constant pi to fifty decimal places. Successful recitations were the source of considerable pleasure and amusement to both of us. Indeed, my father could barely stop himself from joining in when I reached the final ten digits: six, nine, three, nine, nine, three, seven, five, one, zero. There! I can still recall the sequence quite clearly. For those who enjoy mathematics, numbers can be a very satisfying entertainment; however, it is undoubtedly the case that for the nonnumerical such pleasures are as recondite as music is to the tone-deaf.”
Rheinhardt did not know how to respond. He glanced at Haussmann, tacitly requesting assistance, only to discover that the young scoundrel was biting his lower lip and that his shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.
“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt. “Indeed…” He twisted the waxed horns of his mustache and said: “Am I to take it, then, that you do not share our view?”
“I am not taking issue with your conclusion, Inspector-merely the reasoning that you employed to reach that conclusion.”
“Ah,” said Rheinhardt, more encouraged. “Then you accept that the numbers might be a code?”
“Yes,” she said, a little hesitantly. “But if they are, the code is not conventional. That much I can determine already.”
“I see.”
“May I take this with me?” She raised the paper in her gloved hand.
“Yes, of course.”
“I will give it careful consideration.”
“Once again,” said the inspector, “I am much indebted.”
Amel
ia rose, and Rheinhardt kissed her hand.
“How is Dr. Liebermann?” she asked.
“Well.”
Unusually for her, the Englishwoman looked a little flustered.
“I have not had the pleasure of his company of late, although the fault is entirely mine. I have been somewhat preoccupied with… matters… various matters.” Amelia fumbled with her reticule and then added: “Would you be so kind as to convey my best wishes to the good doctor?”
“Consider it done, Miss Lyd gate.”
“Thank you, Inspector-you are most kind.”
“Haussmann,” Rheinhardt addressed his assistant. “Please escort Miss Lyd gate out of the building and hail her a cab.”
“That really won't be necessary,” said Amelia. “I am perfectly capable of finding my way out of the security office. Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
She looked blankly at the two men, and left the room.
Rheinhardt raised his finger and silently shook it at Haussmann.
The young man blushed, and in an effort to excuse himself whispered: “I'm sorry, sir, but her manner is so peculiar.”
The inspector was unable to disagree.
43
Trezska stood beside Liebermann’s piano. Their gazes met-and, simultaneously, they began to play. The opening violin melody was fluid and generous-an outpouring of enchanting sweetness. Although the subtitle “Spring” was added to Beethoven's F-major sonata after his death, it was extraordinarily appropriate, capturing completely the mood of the work. The music was bright and blooming-fresh, bursting with vital energy-but there were depths implied by the poignant changes of harmony that elevated this sonata above the usual conventions of pastoral writing. Beethoven, the most human of composers, never merely observed nature-he engaged with it. Thus, the gamboling of lambs and the blossoming trees-which the music so readily suggested-served to introduce a more profound philosophical program. This was not a sterile description of a season-tuneful meteorology-but an inquiry into that most awe-inspiring of all vernal phenomena: romantic love.
When they reached the adagio molto espressivo, Liebermann took advantage of the slower tempo to steal glances at Trezska. Her eyes were closed and her body arched backward as she drew her bow across the strings of her instrument. She had unpinned her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders. Liebermann marveled at how strands of such midnight-blue blackness could also shine so brightly. His stare dropped-briefly-to her compressed cleavage, and then down to the slim girdle of her waist. In the pianissimo passages he could detect the creaking of her corset. He inhaled her fragrance, not just the clementine and mimosa of her perfume, but her entire olfactory signature. Liebermann knew that the French had a word for this sensuous bouquet-the totality of a woman's smell-but it had slipped from his memory.
After they had finished playing the spring sonata, Trezska wanted to repeat certain passages again. She was unhappy with the scherzo, and wondered whether the rondo had not been played a little too fast. She flicked the pages of the open score back with the tip of her bow.
“Allegro ma non troppo,” she said curtly.
They discussed some technical details and she asked Liebermann about the quality of her performance.
“Well,” he said, evidently apprehensive, “it was very beautiful… a very lyrical reading…”
“However?”
“You inserted a few glissandi in the adagio, which is not really how the Viennese like their Beethoven.” Not wishing to be harsh, he added, “I am simply pointing this out because Rose will almost certainly object.”
“And…?” Trezska prompted, demonstrating her percipient sensitivity: she had detected another unexpressed caveat in the cast of Liebermann s features.
“The vibrato,” said Liebermann. “Again, perhaps a little too much for Viennese tastes.”
“I see,” she said. Then, tapping the open page with her bow, she indicated that she was ready to repeat the rondo.
As they played, Liebermann thought back to what had happened two days earlier on the Prater: the tree, Trezska's prescient anxiety, and the lightning strike. In the carriage, driving back to Landstrasse, Trezska had at first been preoccupied, but by the time they had crossed the Danube canal, her spirits had rallied. She had grasped Liebermann's hand, squeezed it affectionately, and thanked him for a wonderful day. It was as though the lightning strike had never happened-and, strangely, they had not spoken about it since. Before they parted, he had invited her to his apartment to practice the spring sonata, so that she might be better prepared for her lessons with Rose. “Yes,” she had said. “If you don't mind-that would be very helpful.”
When they had finished the rondo, Trezska tuned her violin, and put more rosin on her bow. She played a few scales and, between these, the fragment of a melody. It was so exotic, so distinct, that it immediately aroused Liebermann's interest.
“What was that?”
“A folk song: did you like it?”
“Yes. It sounded rather… unusual.”
Trezska played another angular phrase. “I learned it from a peasant woman. It had been taught to her by her mother, who had learned it in turn from her mother-the woman's grandmother. The song is called The Reaper — and it has been passed down, so she said, from mother to daughter, for countless generations. I asked her how old it was and she replied, ‘As old as the world.’
Trezska drew her bow across the lower strings and produced a primitive, haunting melody. It was based on a simple modal figure- but was executed with excessive and wild ornamentation. The meter was irregular, changing every few bars. It was a sound that conjured an image of people working the land, engaged in perpetual back-breaking toil: it suggested great plains and an overarching sky-the scorching summers and bitter winters of an infinite steppe.
“Quite extraordinary,” said Liebermann.
“The real music of my country,” Trezska said proudly.
“Would you play some more?”
“No, not now. Another time. We have work to do.”
“Of course.”
They played some more Beethoven, and a few Mozart sonatasincluding the little E minor. In due course, Liebermann raised his wrist and pointed to his watch. The law decreed that music-making in Vienna had to cease at eleven-and it had just gone half past ten.
“It is getting late-and, sadly, we must bring our music-making to an end. Besides, you must be tired. Shall we find you a cab?”
Trezska smiled, and shook her head. “That won't be necessary. I have no intention of returning to Landstrasse.”
She glanced through the open double doors and across the landing, to what she clearly hoped was Liebermann's bedroom.
44
Gerold Sommer peered out of his window. He was grateful that the sky had cleared and the moon was shining brightly. A lamp at this hour would be conspicuous on the grounds of the school. He put on his coat, picked up a paraffin lamp and a box of matches, and hopped down the corridor on his crutches. Thankfully, Lang was a heavy sleeper. Sommer turned the key carefully and pushed the front door open. The air was freezing. He thought of returning to his room to get some gloves and a hat but decided against it. Too much noise.
The path sparkled with frost and was easy to follow. It took him to the front of the school. He passed the statue of Saint Florian and entered the courtyard. It was much darker beneath the cloisters, and it was at this point that he lit his lamp. He adjusted the wick so that it provided just enough illumination for him to find his way-but no more.
Once inside the school, he progressed to the back of the building and with great difficulty descended a flight of stairs that led to a large damp basement room, one wall of which was covered in lockers. They were arranged in alphabetical order. Sommer lowered the lamp, and read the names: Zehrer, Zeigler, Zelenka. He pulled the wooden door open and waved the lamp around, attempting to illuminate the shadowy recess.
Nothing.
He placed the lamp on the floor and thrust his hand inside t
he locker, frantically exploring the space with his fingertips.
Still nothing.
He cursed under his breath.
“Looking for something?”
It was a young voice-one of the boys.
Sommer started and swung around.
On the other side of the room the speaker struck a match. The flame slowly rose to meet the end of a cigarette and cast a yellow light over the distinctive features of Kiefer Wolf. “It's no good, sir,” said the boy, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “All Zelenka's possessions were removed. Well… with the exception of one item.”
Sommer swallowed.
“What… what was it?”
“The only thing that I thought was worth taking: a rather fine dictionary.”
“Give it to me.”
“Why should I?”
“It's of no use to you.”
“True. But it's clearly of considerable use to you!”
As Wolf drew on his cigarette, his face reappeared-infernal, in the red incandescence.
“What do you want, Wolf?”
“Only that you continue to honor our arrangement.”
“I've already said that I would. I'll keep my word… You don't need that dictionary as well!”
“Have you read much Nietzsche, sir?”
“What?”
“Nietzsche-the philosopher.”
“I know who he is, boy!” said Sommer, suddenly angered. “According to Nietzsche,” said Wolf, “you can never have enough power.”
45
Liebermann was unfamiliar with Zielinski’s-but it was where Trezska had insisted that they meet: a small, dilapidated coffeehouse, close to her apartment in Landstrasse. He had chosen to sit at the rear of the coffeehouse on one of several quilted benches, arranged in pairs, with an oblong table between: a small velvet drape increased privacy by partitioning the heads of adjacent patrons.
Liebermann looked at his wristwatch. Trezska was late. As time passed, he began to look at his wristwatch with increasing frequency, succumbing by degree to worries about her safety. He was considerably relieved, therefore, when the door opened and she finally appeared. The young doctor waved, capturing her attention. Trezska smiled and rushed over, flushed and a little agitated.
