Fatal Lies lp-3

by Frank Tallis

  “I'm so sorry. My first lesson with Rose-it lasted much longer than I'd expected.”

  Liebermann stood and kissed her on the cheek. Now that she had arrived, the wait that he had endured seemed inconsequential.

  “How was it? The lesson?” Liebermann asked.

  Trezska pulled a dissatisfied face. “I could have played better.” She beckoned a waiter: “Absinthe… and some sugared almonds.”

  Liebermann shifted along the bench and invited Trezska to sit next to him. She slid her violin case under the table and sidled up close.

  “Forgive me,” said Trezska. “I am exhausted. Rose is a demanding teacher-and very pedantic. At one point, he even questioned the way I was holding my bow! The Mozart was acceptable but the Beethoven…” She shook her head. “Very poor.”

  “What was wrong with it?”

  “I don't know. Perhaps I allowed myself to become overawed… The performance was too timid.”

  “What did Rose say?”

  “He was polite enough-but clearly unimpressed. He wasn't happy with my phrasing and thought that I was treating certain rhythmic figures too freely; however, if I had been more at ease, I am sure I could have produced a more confident performance. Then he might have been better able to understand what I was trying to achieve and less inclined to seize on what he saw as technical deficiencies.”

  “Perhaps you will be able to communicate your intentions better next time? You will be more accustomed to Rose-and less anxious, no doubt.”

  Trezska took his hand and squeezed it affectionately-an expression of gratitude for his solicitous remarks.

  The waiter returned and deposited Trezska's order, along with a carafe of water, on their table. She reached out and turned the bottle so she could examine the label. It showed an eighteenth-century dandy in a striped jacket and Napoleonic hat being approached by a flower girl. The legend read JULES PERNOD, AVIGNON.

  Liebermann asked Trezska about Rose's teaching practices, and then indulged in a little musical gossip.

  “Did you see his wife?”

  “No.”

  “She is Director Mahler's sister. They married only last year. In fact, the day after the director himself got married. They say that when Rose was at Bayreuth, the orchestra lost their way in the middle of Die Walkure. He stood up and with great skill managed to get them all playing together again. Mahler was in the audience and is supposed to have exclaimed- ‘Now, that's what I call a concertmaster!’ “

  “How is it that you know so much about Rose?” asked Trezska, a line of perplexity appearing across her forehead.

  “This is Vienna,” said Liebermann-as if no further explanation were necessary.

  Trezska lifted the bottle and poured a small quantity of absinthe into two tall glasses. The liquor shimmered. It was translucent, like melted emeralds.

  “Watering absinthe is something of an art,” said Trezska. “One must conduct the ritual with the same reverence that the Oriental peoples reserve for their tea ceremonies.”

  She picked up a miniature perforated trowel and balanced it across the rim of her glass. Taking a lump of sugar from the bowl, she placed it on the pinholes. Then, tilting the carafe, she allowed a weak, twisting trickle of water to douse the sugar. The white crystals dissolved, and opaque droplets fell into the glass, turning the elixir a milky green. After a few moments, the absinthe became magically opalescent. It seemed to emit a pale glow, like the mysterious light of fireflies. The air filled with a redolence that was difficult to describe- a sickly bouquet with coppery traces.

  “How long have you been drinking absinthe?” Liebermann asked.

  “Oh, for some time now: I first became partial to the green fairy ‘s charms while I was studying in Paris.”

  “Yes, it is something of an institution there, I understand.”

  “More than that-a religion.”

  Trezska maintained the steady flow of water.

  “You know,” said Liebermann, “I once read a monograph by the distinguished Parisian physician Dr. Valentin Magnan, of the asylum of Sainte-Anne. In it, he identified a specific neurological condition that he styled ‘absinthe epilepsy’ Magnan contends that absinthe can affect the motor centers of the cerebellum and the paracerebellar nuclei, producing convulsions and hallucinations of sight and hearing.”

  “It is also the inspiration of poets,” said Trezska, “the favored spirit of visionaries, and an extremely potent aphrodisiac.”

  Their eyes met. Liebermann smiled and pushed his glass toward her.

  “You doctors,” she said, watering the second absinthe. “You seem to find fault with everything. You'll be saying that smoking is bad for you next.”

  Liebermann drew on his cigar. “Well, I must admit, it has been suggested… but that can't be true.”

  “How is it cured, this absinthe epilepsy?”

  “Magnan recommends long cold baths-up to five hours-and purges of Sedlitz water.”

  “In which case, I would rather suffer from the illness than endure its treatment! Prost! “

  They lifted their glasses and touched them together. The controlled, gentle collision produced a low-pitched clunk. Liebermann took a tentative sip and savored the unusual flavor.

  First, a strong impression of anise, but then the arrival of other registers, seeping out slowly, teasing the palate-a suggestion of mint, a tarry undercurrent of licorice… After he had swallowed the absinthe and it had numbed the back of his throat, he became aware of an unpleasant medicinal aftertaste-as if an iron button had been dissolving in the saliva beneath his tongue.

  “Well?” asked Trezska. “What do you think?”

  “Interesting-”

  “Any hallucinations?”

  “No, but I can well believe a sufficient quantity might induce them!”

  “It happened to me once,” said Trezska nonchalantly. “I was sitting in a cafe on the Place Pigalle. I had been drinking with friends and fell into a kind of stupor… I felt a summer breeze on my face and heard the sound of a brook. The sun shone down on my closed eyes… It was all very vivid-and seemed to last forever… When I was finally roused, I collected my things together and walked toward the door. Yet I could still feel the heavy heads of flowers brushing against my skirt.”

  She turned to face Liebermann. Her expression was shadowed with dark sensuality. The absinthe glistened on her lips-an enticement that he was simply unable to resist. Liebermann leaned forward and kissed her. When they drew apart, she smiled and, taking his hand, locked her fingers between his.

  Liebermann could now see why Trezska had been so insistent that they meet in Zielinski's. It was the kind of establishment where a couple could become quite intimate without attracting much attention.

  Trezska asked Liebermann about his work at the hospital, and he told her about the deluded jurist who claimed to be in conversation with an angelic being from Phobos. She listened intently and, after he had finished, said: “But how can you be sure that this old man is deluded?” Then they embarked on a philosophical discussion about the nature of reality, a conversation that became less and less coherent as they imbibed larger quantities of absinthe.

  Liebermann gazed out into the coffeehouse through a dense pall of cigarette and cigar smoke. The clientele of Zielinski's was comprised of workmen, artists, and a few women whose abundant cleavages and raucous laughter declared their profession. Music was provided by a zither player: an unkempt gentleman with an eye-patch and wild white hair. He plucked an itinerant melody that at times became nothing more than a random selection of pitches. Occasionally something recognizable would emerge-a fragment of Strauss or Lanner, but no more than a musical paring, flotsam on a wash of watery strumming. No one seemed to mind, and indeed, after a while, Liebermann began to find the abstract ambient qualities of the zither player's improvisations quite pleasing.

  Liebermann stared into the pallid opalescent mixture in his glass. He took a deep breath and asked:

  “What happened�
� that day, on the Prater?”

  “Ah,” Trezska replied. “I was wondering when you were going to ask.”

  “You had what? A premonition?”

  She sighed. “You are a doctor… a man of science. You do not believe in such things, I am sure.”

  “I…” Liebermann was conscious of his own deceit but could not stop himself. “I have an open mind.”

  Trezska did not look convinced.

  “There are many respectable scientific societies,” Liebermann continued, “that take a serious interest in paranormal phenomena. Even Professor Freud, the most ardent of skeptics, has demonstrated a certain willingness to entertain the idea of mind-to-mind communication-telepathy.”

  Trezska's features softened, indicating that she had decided to give her companion the benefit of the doubt.

  “Yes, I do get strong feelings sometimes. It is supposed to be in my blood… my mother's side.”

  “Second sight?”

  “Whatever you want to call it.”

  Liebermann's expression became troubled. “But could it not be that… we were walking in an open space and, rather foolishly, chose to stand under the tallest tree. This, of course, would be the tree most likely to attract lightning. If we had discussed our situation, we might have concluded that we were in danger.” Liebermann sipped his absinthe. “Now, could a similar process have taken place in your unconscious mind? You were not aware of the process but experienced only its product or consequence-namely, fear. Comparable dissociative processes operate in dreams and serve to disguise their meaning.”

  Trezska playfully tapped Liebermann's cheek. “Why must you try to explain everything?”

  “It is generally better to understand things… than not.”

  Trezska selected a pink sugared almond from the bowl and pressed it between her lips. As she sucked the icing from the nut, she pouted. This repetitive and subtle movement aroused in Liebermann a desperate desire to kiss her again.

  “According to my mother,” said Trezska, “her side of the family are related to the house of Bathory.”

  Liebermann's expression became blank.

  “You've never heard of Erzsebet Bathory?” Trezska continued. “The vampire countess?”

  “What?” Liebermann laughed.

  “She was a Transylvanian noblewoman. Legend has it that she first killed and then bathed in the blood of nearly a thousand young maidens-simply to preserve her beauty.”

  Trezska produced a faint, ambiguous smile. Liebermann could not determine whether she was being serious or joking. He began to feel distinctly odd: woozy, detached. His vision blurred and he moved his head backward and forward to regain his focus.

  “Are you all right?” Trezska asked.

  The strange jangling of the zither sounded peculiarly loud-a concatenation of gongs and bells.

  “I fear,” said Liebermann, “that Dr. Magnan's speculations concerning the effects of absinthe on the brain may be correct.” His speech was slurring. “Indeed, I would hazard a guess that the active chemical ingredients have just reached my cerebellum and my paracerebellar nuclei, with predictable consequences.”

  “Perhaps I should take you home?” said Trezska.

  He felt her hand unlock from his, and the heat of her palm on his thigh.

  “Yes,” Liebermann replied. “Perhaps you should.”

  46

  It was the dead of night. A thick mist had descended into the valley, and the four boys had to consult a compass to find their way. They assiduously avoided footpaths, and as a result their progress was slow. The ground was muddy and treacherous-an adhesive mulch that made each step effortful. Boggy hollows were brimming with ice-cold filthy water that filled their boots and soaked their trousers. Sometimes the trees would grow closer together, and the spaces between would become congested with prickly leafless bushes. Then the boys were unable to move forward, and had to retrace their steps and find some other way.

  Wolf led the group. He carried a paraffin lamp, the light of which barely mitigated the darkness. Freitag followed, carrying a shovel, and straggling behind, striving to keep up, were Drexler and Steininger, each grasping the corners of a large, sagging jute sack.

  Suddenly, Wolf raised his arm. The others stopped.

  “What is it?” whispered Freitag.

  Wolf beat the air with his hand, a burst of quick downward movements indicating that the others should be quiet.

  The boys froze, and listened intently. Wolf lowered the wick of his lamp, and attempted to peer through the opaque veils of turbid brume. Something scampered away, and Wolf sighed with relief. He consulted the compass again and pointed slightly to the left.

  “Wolf,” said Steininger. “Wolf, I can't go on.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “It's too heavy. Let's do it here… There's no need to go any farther, surely.”

  “Freitag, you take over.”

  “No, Wolf, I'm exhausted. Drexler can carry it on his own-it's all his fault.”

  “It is not my fault!” said Drexler angrily. “If you hadn't insisted on playing your stupid games!”

  “I said keep your voices down!” said Wolf.

  “Really, Wolf,” said Steininger, dropping his end of the sack. It landed with a dull thud. “We've been walking for hours. We don't need to go any farther.”

  “And we have to get back, remember,” said Freitag.

  “And what about our uniforms?” said Steininger. “We can't arrive for drill practice looking like this! We'll need time to get them cleaned up.”

  “I'll wake Stojakovic,” said Wolf.

  “No,” said Drexler. “We can't involve anybody else! Not tonight.”

  Wolf paced around the circle of trees in which they were standing. He then tested the ground with his foot, kicking up some turf.

  “It's not too hard,” he said.

  “Then let's get started,” said Steininger, snatching Freitag's shovel and driving its pointed blade into the earth.

  Drexler leaned against the nearest trunk and rested his forehead on his coat sleeve. His moment of repose was at once disturbed when he opened his eyes and observed in the contours of the bark a peculiar arrangement of knots, whorls, and ridges that suggested the lineaments of a human face-an old, deeply lined face, with bushy eyebrows and a long wavy beard. The sad eyes were full of anguish. It was as if some unfortunate soul had been magically incarcerated in the timber. The image reminded Drexler of the fantastic stories of E.T.A. Hoffmann. The boy drew back-and felt a freakish chill that made him shiver.

  “How deep should the trench be?” asked Steininger.

  “How should I know?” Wolf answered irritably.

  “But what if animals…”

  “Dig him up?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “What animals?”

  “I don't know, but it's possible, isn't it?”

  “All right,” said Wolf, glaring. “Make it deeper!”

  Drexler looked over at the abandoned sack and considered its contents. He felt a wave of pity and regret. The swell of emotion that made his eyes burn was only just containable, but his self-control gave him no satisfaction. He knew that this was just the beginning. There would be worse to come: guilt, nightmares, and various forms of mental torture. The terrible millstone of his secret would weigh heavily on his conscience for the rest of his life, and would eventually drag him down to the depths of hell. He had never believed in such a place before, but now it all seemed quite plausible.

  He turned away and stared into the darkness.

  Steininger's digging was creating a hypnotic rhythm: the crunch of the blade penetrating the soil-a heave of effort-and then the dull rain of soil on leaves. Its regularity was comforting and lulled Drexler into a kind of trance. Once or twice, he noticed discontinuities of consciousness: he was so tired that he must have nodded off…

  Freitag gasped: a sudden intake of breath, cut short and invested with the rising pitch of surprise.

&
nbsp; Steininger stopped digging.

  An owl hooted.

  “What is it?”

  “I thought… I thought I saw something move. Over there.”

  “What?”

  Freitag's voice shook. “It was big, like a bear.”

  “Don't be so ridiculous,” said Wolf. “If it was a bear, we'd soon know about it!”

  “I didn't say it was a bear-I said it was like a bear. Really, I did see something. Something big.”

  “Pull yourself together, Freitag,” Wolf commanded.

  Freitag shook his head. “I'm going. I don't like it here.”

  Wolf grabbed his arm. “Look, it's just your imagination! There's nothing out there!”

  He gestured between the trees and raised his lamp. Nothing was visible, except the restless mist.

  Freitag swallowed-subdued by the steel in Wolf's eyes.

  “Yes…” Freitag smiled-somewhat desperately. “Yes… of course. My imagination.”

  “Don't be a fool, Freitag,” said Wolf, releasing his grip.

  Drexler said nothing, but his heartbeat was thundering in his ears. He had seen something too-exactly as Freitag had said: something large and lumbering-big-like a bear. He marched over to Steininger.

  “Give me the shovel. You're too slow, Steininger. Let's finish this business and get away from this awful place.”

  47

  The waiter swooped by, skilfully replacing Rheinhardt's empty soup bowl with a dish containing dumplings, fried pork chops, a slice of boiled ham, frankfurter sausages, and a steaming mound of cooked sauerkraut. Rheinhardt inhaled the meaty fragrances and dressed his meal with large dollops of bright yellow mustard. Looking over at his companion, he noticed that Liebermann was toying with his food, rather than eating it, fishing noodles out of his broth and watching them slither off his spoon like tiny serpents.

  “What's the matter-lost your appetite?”