by Frank Tallis
As they spoke, Liebermann was distracted by Trezska's beauty: the darkness and depth of her eyes, the color of her skin, and the shape of her face. Something of their lovemaking seemed to persist in the lower chambers of his mind: impressions of movement and memories of touch. He desired her-and that desire was predominantly physical; however, his attachment was becoming more complex. He had developed a fondness for her idiosyncrasies: the subtle cadences of her accent, the timbre of her voice, the way she moved her fingers when speaking, and the swift efficiency with which she could make small adjustments to her hair. It was in these little things-and the in ordinate pleasure he derived from noticing them-that Lieber-mann recognized love's progress. Cupid was a cunning archer, and penetrated defenses by choosing to land his arrows in the least obvious places.
The clock struck two, reminding Liebermann of his other engagements.
He paid their bill at the counter and purchased a circular box of sugared almonds, which he presented to Trezska as they emerged from the cafe.
She grinned: “What are these for?”
“For… introducing me to the transcendental properties of absinthe.”
“I thought the green fairy made you feel ill.”
“She did. However, that did not stop me from appreciating her magic.”
Trezska detected some deeper meaning in this remark-but she did not demand an explanation.
“Thank you,” she said.
The atmosphere on the Kohlmarkt had become smoky, and a few gaslights had already been lit. In the distance, the Michaelertor had become shrouded in a violet haze.
Liebermann took Trezska's hand, pressed it to his lips, and inhaled the fresh, crisp bouquet of clementine and mimosa. The familiar fragrance aroused in him a curious sentiment-a kind of proprietorial satisfaction.
She turned to move away, but at that very moment a gentleman stepped ahead of the advancing crowd and cried out, “Amelie.”
He was smiling at Trezska-and his expression was somewhat excited.
Trezska glanced back at Liebermann, and then at the gentleman.
“I'm sorry… but you have mistaken me for someone else.”
The man had a handsome, harmonious face, which momentarily appeared shocked before resuming an expression of composed amiability.
“No-surely not. It is you!” He laughed-as if he had just penetrated the meaning of an exclusive joke. “Franz… Remember?”
He appeared eager, expectant.
Trezska's brow furrowed. “With the greatest respect, I have no idea who you are.”
“But…”
The gentleman now looked confused.
Trezska turned to look back at Liebermann-a silent request for assistance. He stepped forward and said simply: “Sir…?”
The gentleman had not noticed the young doctor and now started for the second time. He withdrew slightly.
“Of course,” he said, smiling contritely at Trezska. “I must… I must be mistaken. Please, dear lady, accept my sincere apologies… and to you, sir,” he added, making brief eye contact with Liebermann. “Good afternoon.” Straightening his hat, he strode off toward the Graben.
“How very peculiar,” said Trezska.
“Yes,” Liebermann replied.
“He gave me a fright.”
They hesitated for a moment, both of them somewhat discomfited by the encounter.
Trezska shook her head. “Never mind. Now you must get going or you will be late.”
After leaving Demel's, Liebermann walked to the Volksgarten, where he caught a tram to Ottakring and his next appointment.
Dr. Kessler was a middle-aged man, balding, with rounded cheeks and oval spectacles that perched on his snub nose. “Ah,” he said, studying Liebermann s security office documents. “I suppose you want to know more about Thomas Zelenka?”
“No,” Liebermann replied. “The boy I need to know more about is Domokos Pikler.”
“Ah yes,” said Kessler. A line appeared across his otherwise smooth brow. “Pikler.”
“Do you remember him?”
“Indeed. I had only just been appointed at the school when…” Kessler allowed the sentence to trail off. “I presume,” he started again, the tone of his voice more guarded, “your question bears some relation to that reprehensible article in the Arheiter-Zeitung.”
“The article by Herr G., yes.”
“I don't know about all the other allegations, but I do know one thing: the correspondent-whoever he is-was completely wrong about Pikler. The boy did not die because of persecution and bad luck. He was not forced to stand on a window ledge, and he did not jump off.”
“It was suicide…”
“Yes.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Kessler looked uneasy. His pate had begun to glisten with a film of perspiration.
“I would like to be frank with you, Herr Doctor. Could we speak, not as investigator and school physician, but rather as two medical men?”
Liebermann understood the nature of this appeal. It was a request for professional confidence-an assurance that discretion would be exercised.
“Of course,” said Liebermann.
Kessler pushed the young doctor's security office papers back across the table.
“He was a glum fellow, Pikler. Very glum. He never smiled, never laughed-never responded to banter. He'd just look at you, with a sullen expression on his face. He came to see me on several occasions, complaining of aches and pains, but I couldn't find anything wrong with him-well, not physically. He was a strange boy… In the middle of our consultations he would often ask me questions of a philosophical nature. What is the meaning of life? What is the point of existence? Why doesn't God intercede to stop the suffering of innocents? And on one occasion he said something about mortal sin-something like: if atheists are correct, and there is no God, then there is no mortal sin… therefore, those who take their own lives might not go to hell, but instead find everlasting peace. Now, you must understand, I had only just taken up my position-and I was not used to dealing with cadets. The headmaster had gone out of his way to stress that the boys could be manipulative-that they might try to get medical exemptions in order to avoid certain onerous duties. I assumed that Pikler was a typical case. A malingerer. Given what happened, I now know that I was horribly mistaken. Some…” Kessler winced. “Some might accuse me of negligence. The boy was suffering from melancholia. I suspect that he initially presented with physical symptoms because he found these easier to talk about than his psychological symptoms, and his philosophical questions represented a desperate attempt to make sense of a world that he found perplexing and from which he could derive no pleasure. I should have…” Kessler emitted a long sigh that surrendered successive pitches like a descending scale. “Done something… If I had referred Pikler on to a specialist, a psychiatrist-someone like you-then perhaps he would still be with us.”
Kessler looked at Liebermann directly. The moistness in his eyes evinced the authenticity of his regret.
“None of us,” said Liebermann, “are perfect-and medicine is an inexact science.”
An hour later, Liebermann was sitting with Thomas Zelenka's parents in the third district. It was a difficult situation: Liebermann was only there because he wanted to ask one question-a question that he knew would sound utterly absurd without first establishing some sort of context. Thus he set about the formidable task of influencing the flow of conversation such that its end point would be the gustatory preferences of the Zelenkas’ dead son.
Although getting the conversation from introductory remarks to the desired topic proved every bit as challenging as he had expected, once the subject had been broached, Meta Zelenka engaged in an extended reminiscence about her son's healthy appetite.
“Did Thomas,” said Liebermann-as casually as he could-”have a particular fondness for almond tarts?”
“No… not that I can remember.”
The young doctor-recognizing that he was perhaps already
pushing his luck-changed the subject.
When he was about to leave, Fanousek, who had been eyeing him with some suspicion, said: “I thought you'd come about the dictionary. I thought it might have been found by now.”
Liebermann remembered Rheinhardt saying something about such a volume.
“I understand that it was very expensive,” said Liebermann.
“Very expensive,” said Meta. “More than we could afford.”
“Do you remember who published it?” said Liebermann, for want of a better question to ask.
“Yes: Hartel and Jacobsen-of Leipzig. We had to order it directly.”
Something stirred in Liebermann's mind-a recollection. Where had he last seen a Hartel and Jacobsen dictionary?
“But why that particular dictionary?” said Liebermann, his curiosity aroused.
“It was recommended.”
“By whom?”
“By one of the masters.”
“Which one? Can you remember?”
Meta shook her head, and looked at her husband.
“I think it was…” Fanousek pulled at his chin. “Herr Sommer. Yes, it was Herr Sommer.”
52
Drexler had been expecting nightmares-but when they came, he was surprised by their power and intensity. They were not like ordinary dreams at all. They were vivid and possessed an extra ordinary physicality
One of them-a macabre re-creation of the night they had journeyed into the woods to bury Perger-was particularly disturbing. Drexler had finished filling the grave and was ready to leave. However, he tarried a moment in order to flatten some loose clods with the blade of his shovel. A pale hand broke through the earth, and the fingers closed tightly around his ankle. He struggled to get free but it was impossible: the hideous grip was like the teeth of a bear trap. He called out: Help, help… Wolf, Freitag, Steininger, help me — but he had lost his voice. Horrified, he watched them walking away, Wolf's lamp fading until its flickering sentinel light was extinguished by a cloak of darkness. What had really frightened Drexler, however, was what had happened next. On waking, he had discovered that he could not move his leg. He could still feel Pergers bone-crushing hold around his ankle. Panic had threaded through Drexler's body-and his breath had come in short, sharp gulps.
“Not again, Drexler!” Wolf had reprimanded him. Yet the sound of Wolf s heartless voice had been strangely comforting-a reminder that a real world existed in which corpses could be relied upon to stay dead. Sensation had flowed back into Drexler s paralyzed leg, and the ring of pain around his ankle had become first a dull ache, and then nothing-a memory.
Drexler had once overheard one of the masters talking about a doctor in Vienna who could interpret dreams. If so, he did not need his services-he already knew what these dreams meant.
That afternoon, while sitting in the library, he had decided that he must do something.
Drexler crossed the courtyard with his head bowed. The rain was making circles on islands of reflected sky. He entered the chapel and inhaled the familiar fragrance of incense and candle wax. Dipping his hand in the font, he anointed himself with holy water, genuflected, and found a place on a pew with the other boys who were waiting to make their confessions.
In due course he entered the confessional box, knelt down, and observed the shadowy figure of the priest crossing the air through the window grille.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…”
He had disobeyed his mother and father, he had deceived others, he had shown disrespect to his elders, he had failed to attend Mass. His confession flowed fluently and easily, but his resolve faltered when he attempted to unburden his conscience of the single sin that-in his estimation, at least-would consign him to hell.
“Father…” He hesitated.
“Yes, my son?”
“I… I have… I have…” He could not do it. “I have been to see the whore in Aufkirchen.”
The priest, who had been perfectly still, shifted-as if suddenly interested.
“Ahh… the whore in Aufkirchen, you say?”
“Yes.”
“And what-exactly-was the nature of your sinful act?”
“Father… we had relations.”
“Relations… I see, I see. Did she perform impure acts about your person?”
“She…”
“Come now, my son…”
“We had relations.”
“You penetrated her?”
“I did.”
The priest took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.
“And did she… perform any unseemly acts with her mouth?”
“We kissed.”
“Yes… but did she degrade herself using your person?”
The inquisition went on for some time. When the priest was finally satisfied that he had a complete and thorough understanding of Drexler's transgressions, he offered him counsel with respect to the temptations of the flesh, and warned him that he should not replace one vice with another-especially the vice of self-pollution — which would have grave physical and spiritual consequences. The priest then gave Drexler absolution and a penance of prayer.
Drexler did not do his penance. Instead, he marched straight out of the chapel, across the courtyard, and sat in the cloisters, fuming. It was all such nonsense! The priest had clearly been titillated by Drexler's erotic adventures in Aufkirchen: how could such a pathetic individual mediate between him and God? This was not what he wanted. He wanted to be truly absolved. He wanted to be absolved to the extent that he could sleep peacefully again and be free of his terrible, terrible guilt, the sheer magnitude of which made the rest of life seem an empty, hollow, meaningless charade by comparison.
To atone fully, Drexler realized that he would have to pay a forfeit more costly than a few prayers. Such mumblings were not a penance, and would do nothing to ease his pain.
53
The lecture theater was almost empty-in fact, there were only five attendees including Liebermann. Professor Freud pointed to a small semicircle of chairs in front of the tiered auditorium and said: “Please, won't you come nearer, gentlemen.” He smiled, and beckoned-wiggling his clenched fingers as one might to encourage a shy child. The tone of his voice was exceptionally polite, but his penetrating gaze was determined. The audience, which comprised professional men in their middle years, accepted his invitation and made their way down the central aisle.
Liebermann was already sitting in one of the chairs at the front. He had attended many of Freud's Saturday evening lectures and knew that a request for greater proximity would be issued sooner or later. The professor did not like straining his voice and tried to create an intimate and informal atmosphere when addressing small groups.
Whereas other faculty members might have appeared clutching a thick wad of foolscap, dense with inky hieroglyphs, Freud arrived empty-handed. He always preferred to extemporize.
Once, just before Freud had been about to speak, Liebermann had asked him: “What are you going to talk about?” “We shall see,” Freud had replied. “I am sure my unconscious has something planned.”
The professor consulted the auditorium clock, which showed seven o'clock exactly. He coughed into his hand and stood erect, as if startled by the occurrence of an unusually arresting idea.
“Gentlemen,” he began. “One would certainly have supposed that there could be no doubt about what is to be understood as sexual.’ First and foremost, what is sexual is something improper, something one ought not to talk about. I have been told that the pupils of a celebrated psychiatrist once made an attempt to convince their teacher how frequently the symptoms of hysterical patients represent sexual things. For this purpose they took him to the bedside of a female hysteric, whose attacks were an unmistakable imitation of the process of childbirth. But with a shake of his head he remarked, ‘Well, there's nothing sexual about childbirth.’ Quite right. Childbirth need not in every case be something improper.”
Liebermann was the only member of the audience wh
o smiled.
“I see that you take offense at my joking about serious things,” Freud continued. “But it is not altogether a joke-for it is not easy to decide what is covered by the concept sexual.’ “
And so he went on, improvising with extraordinary fluency, exploring a range of subjects relating to human sexuality (many of which he chose to illustrate with clinical examples drawn from his own practice). Liebermann was particularly interested in a case of sexual jealousy…
When the lecture ended, at a quarter to nine, Freud took some questions from the audience. They were not very searching, but the professor managed to answer them in such a way as to make the questioners appear more perceptive than they actually were. It was a display of good grace rarely encountered in academic circles.
Liebermann lingered as the auditorium emptied. He approached the lecturer's table. The professor shook Liebermann's hand, thanked him for coming, and remarked that he would not be going on to Konigstein's house to play taroc, as his good friend had caught a bad head cold. Moreover, as it was his custom to socialize on Saturday nights-and he was nothing if not a creature of habit-he wondered whether Liebermann would be interested in joining him for coffee and a slice of guglhupf at Cafe Landtmann. The young doctor- always eager to spend time with his mentor-accepted the honor readily.
They made their way to the Ringstrasse while talking somewhat superficially about the attendees. Two of the gentlemen, Freud believed, were general practitioners-but he had no idea as to the identity of the other two. It was truly astonishing, Liebermann reflected, how Freud's public lectures rarely attracted more than half a dozen people. The professor commented, as if responding telepathically to Liebermann's private thoughts, that resistance to psychoanalytic ideas merely confirmed their veracity.
A red and white tram rolled by, its interior lit by a row of electric lights. The passengers, staring out of the windows, seemed peculiarly careworn and cheerless.
Liebermann asked the professor some technical questions about the case material he had discussed in his talk-and, more specifically, about the patient he was treating who suffered from sexual jealousy.
