Fatal Lies lp-3

by Frank Tallis

  “Yes,” said Freud. “Sane in every respect, other than an absolute conviction that when he leaves Vienna, his saintly wife enjoys assignations with his brother-a celebrated religious in their community. The man reminds me of Pozdnyshev in Tolstoy's The Kreutzer Sonata. Have you read it?”

  “I have.”

  “You will recall then how Pozdnyshev suspects that the musical evenings his wife enjoys with the violinist Trukhachevsky are merely an artful deceit. So it is with my patient, who has come to believe that when his brother and wife are supposedly praying together, they are in fact enjoying the forbidden pleasures of an illicit union.”

  “In the end, Pozdnyshev kills his wife-does he not?”

  “Indeed… Tolstoy understood that jealousy is the most dangerous of passions. The doctor who takes such a patient into his care can assuredly expect his nights to be much disturbed by fearful imaginings.”

  The professor proceeded to make some distinctions between different forms of jealousy namely neurotic and pathological-the latter being more severe than the former. Then he suddenly seemed to lose confidence in his delineations.

  “The problem is,” he continued, stroking his neatly trimmed beard, “that one cannot love without experiencing jealousy. It is one of the many common forms of unhappiness that we might ascribe to the human condition. In matters of the heart, the boundary that separates that which is normal from that which is abnormal all but dissolves. Possessed of this knowledge, the physician must be extremely wary with respect to what he identifies as an illness.”

  “Surely,” Liebermann ventured, “in cases of sexual jealousy where there is insufficient evidence to substantiate an allegation of infidelity, we can reasonably describe the symptoms as delusional.”

  Freud shrugged and stopped to light a cigar. He offered one to Liebermann, but the young doctor declined.

  “I remember,” Freud said, “many years ago, when I was only recently engaged to be married…” He paused, sighed, and whispered almost incredulously, “A situation arose that caused me much mental turmoil.” The professor began walking again. He was looking straight ahead, but his gaze had lost some of its characteristic probing intensity.

  “I once had a dear friend,” he continued. “Wahle was his name. He was an artist of considerable talent… He had also been, for a long time, a brotherly friend of my beloved Martha-and, naturally, they corresponded. I should mention that Wahle was already engaged himself-in fact, to Martha's cousin. So… there was never any reason for…” He hesitated, drew on his cigar, and exhaled, uttering as he did so the word “suspicion.” He nodded grimly. “However, one day, I came across some of their letters, and detected in their content certain meanings… I discussed my discovery with Schonberg, a mutual acquaintance, who confirmed my fears. He said that Wahle was behaving strangely, that he had burst into tears when he had heard of my engagement to Martha. Clearly, I could not allow this situation to continue-a sentiment that Schonberg appreciated. He subsequently organized a meeting in a cafe, where he hoped we would be able to resolve matters civilly.

  “Unfortunately, the meeting did not go well. Wahle behaved like a madman. He threatened to shoot me and then himself if I did not make Martha happy. I thought it was some kind of joke. I actually laughed… and then he said that it was in his power to destroy my happiness. He could-and would-instruct Martha to end our engagement, and she would obey. It was an insane claim and I couldn't take it seriously. So he called for a pen and paper and began to write the letter there and then. Schonberg and I were both shocked-it contained the same inappropriately familiar terms of endearment that I had seen in his other letters. He referred to his ‘beloved Martha’ and his ‘undying love.’ I was outraged, and tore the letter to pieces. Wahle stormed out, and we followed him, trying to bring him to his senses, but he only broke down in tears. I seized his arm and- close to tears myself-escorted him home.”

  Freud paused for a moment. A beggar, huddled in a doorway, extended his hand. The professor dug deep into his pocket and tossed a coin in the man's direction.

  “But the next morning,” he continued, “my heart hardened. I felt that I had been weak. Wahle was now my enemy, and I should have been ruthless. He was clearly in love with Martha. I wrote to her, explaining this-but she would have none of it! She sprang to his defense. They were friends, nothing more, like brother and sister! Her refusal to condemn his behavior played on my mind. I began to think about Wahle's threat: perhaps he did have some hold over her. Perhaps he could make her give me up. I experienced an attack of appalling dread. It drove me quite frantic. I wandered the streets for hours, every night: thinking, thinking, thinking… What had really passed between them? Why had she not taken my side-as she so obviously should have done? In the end, I could stand it no longer. I had to see her. I borrowed enough money to travel to Wandsbeck, and we met-for the sake of propriety-in secret. We talked and reached… an understanding.

  “I returned to Vienna much calmer. But only a week later, that appalling dread returned. I was tormented by the slightest notion that Wahle might be-in any way-dear to her. Something took possession of my senses… something demonic. I gave Martha an ultimatum. I demanded that she renounce their friendship completely, and stated that if she failed to do this, I would… I would settle the affair with him-finally.”

  “Finally? You intended to…” Liebermann dared not finish the sentence.

  Freud shook his head.

  “Thinking about it now, I'm not sure what I meant. These events were such a long time ago.” As though surfacing from a dream, Freud blinked and turned to look at Liebermann. His eyes seemed to contract-recovering their piercing vitality. “Fortunately, for all of us, Martha agreed. Wahle vanished from our lives, but the wound that he inflicted took many years to heal. So you see-even the most rational of men…”

  It was an extraordinary confession, but not unprecedented. Liebermann had known the professor to disclose personal details of his life before: his openness was not so remarkable, given that his masterpiece The Interpretation of Dreams contained much that would ordinarily be described as autobiographical-and not all of it flattering, by any means. Freud had included in the section on somatic sources an account of one of his own dreams, which he attributed ultimately to an apple-size boil that had risen at the base of his scrotum.

  “Indeed,” Liebermann responded. “You are the most rational of men. So much so that I wonder whether the disturbed mental state that you describe might require a more compelling explanation than simply the human condition.”

  “A more compelling explanation?” Freud repeated, a trail of pungent cigar smoke escaping from his mouth.

  “Did these events take place when you were conducting your research into cocaine?”

  “Why, yes…I used to take it as an antidepressant. To relieve my despair.”

  “Isn't cocaine-taken in large doses-associated with insomnia, restlessness, nervous agitation?” Freud's pace slowed as he considered Liebermann's conjecture. He appeared quite self-absorbed, and again pulled at his beard. In a different register, Liebermann added casually: “Cocaine has never been used for headaches-has it?”

  Freud started. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Cocaine… has it ever been used for headaches?”

  “No… no, not to my knowledge.” The professor seemed to gather himself together-although the lines that appeared on his forehead demonstrated that this was only accomplished with much effort. “I had always thought,” he continued, “that it might be useful primarily as a treatment for depression and anxiety. For a time, it was administered as a tonic for the German army: and a small amount of cocaine added to salicylate of soda is good for indigestion. But it has had strictly limited application in the sphere of pain relief. You know, perhaps, that Koller's discovery of cocaine as an anesthetic for use during eye surgery owed something to my original research?”

  “No, I'm afraid I didn't.”

  Freud pulled a face that suggested moder
ate pique-and then, recovering his natural mien, added: “Headaches? No. Never for headaches.”

  54

  The carriage had not yet reached the outskirts of Vienna.

  “So,” said Liebermann. “It was Gartner who actually discovered Zelenka's body?”

  “Yes,” Rheinhardt replied, consulting his notebook. “After which, he rushed upstairs to inform the headmaster-who had just begun a meeting with Becker.”

  “And did anyone else enter the laboratory?”

  Rheinhardt turned a page. “The old soldier, Albert, and two prefects: they were the ones who carried Zelenka's body to the infirmary.”

  “I see,” said Liebermann, adjusting his necktie and quietly whistling a fragment of Bach.

  Haussmann turned toward the window, concealing a half smile.

  “You know, Max,” said Rheinhardt, “I really do wish you were more forthcoming! On our return I will be expected to justify this excursion, and if I am unable to, Commissioner Brugel will be particularly aggrieved. Two days ago he circulated a memorandum to all senior officers, requesting that we make every effort to remain close to the Schottenring station. He intimated that an unusual circumstance had arisen that might require our participation in a special operation at very short notice.”

  “This ‘unusual circumstance,’ “ said Liebermann, “is it something to do with von Bulow's special assignment?”

  Rheinhardt caught his assistant's eye.

  “Oh, confound it, Haussmann, I'm going to tell him!” Rheinhardt leaned forward. “Young Haussmann here-”

  “What are you whispering for?” Liebermann asked. The inspector pointed toward the carriage box. “Oh, don't be ridiculous, Oskar. The driver can't hear! He's outside!”

  “I'm not taking any chances,” Rheinhardt replied, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning even closer. “Young Haussmann here was delivering some papers to the commissioner's office. He was about to knock, but held back when he heard raised voices. The commissioner was giving von Bulow-and yes, I did say von Bulow-a serious verbal drubbing. General von Stoger's name was mentioned… and there was talk of something having been stolen from his safe. A document that they called…” Rheinhardt's cheeks reddened.

  “Studie U,” said Haussmann, gallantly coming to his superior's aid.

  “Did you hear anything else?” asked Liebermann.

  “Nothing of consequence,” Haussmann replied-but then added: “Well, there was one other thing. They kept on referring to the Liderc.”

  “The Liderc. What does that mean?” Liebermann flashed a look at Rheinhardt.

  “I really have no idea.”

  “Liderc. Are you sure you heard that correctly?” Liebermann asked the assistant detective.

  “Yes, Herr Doctor. It was definitely the Liderc,” said Haussmann.

  “So,” Rheinhardt continued, “I strongly suspect that the commissioner is contemplating a large operation, the purpose of which will be to retrieve Studie U. As to the factors that will influence his de cision to proceed with the operation-or not-we can only specu late.”

  “Interesting,” said Liebermann.

  “Needless to say,” Rheinhardt added, “I am praying that the commissioner decides against briefing his senior detectives this afternoon.” Reminded once again of the matter in hand, the inspector leaned back and spoke now in his usual resonant baritone. “I've sent a telegram to the headmaster and I've made sure that Herr Sommer knows exactly what time we intend to arrive.”

  “Herr Sommer?”

  “Yes, Herr Sommer.”

  “Why ever did you do that?”

  “You said he was trying to avoid us… that he was a liar. I assumed-”

  “He did try to avoid us, and he is a liar!”

  “Then why don't you-”

  “Want to speak to him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because it isn't necessary: he's not as significant as I once thought.”

  “Well, you might have said! What on earth made you change your mind?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Of course I want to know.”

  “Sugared almonds!”

  Haussmann turned again to look out of the window, his half smile now widening to become an embarrassingly conspicuous grin.

  On arriving at Saint Florian's, Rheinardt instructed his assistant to wait outside with the driver. He then ushered Liebermann through the stone arch and into the courtyard of the school. The old soldier, Albert, was seated on a bench, his chin buried in his chest. His stertorous breathing-amplified by the cloisters-sounded curiously mechanical: a repetitive grating and grinding. Rheinhardt approached and touched his shoulder, but did not shake him. The veteran's expression spoke too eloquently of blissful release from the heavy yoke of corporeality. Moved to pity Rheinhardt slowly withdrew his hand.

  “I know how to get to Professor Eichmann s office,” he whispered. “We'll let this old fellow enjoy his beauty sleep, eh? You can question him later.”

  Liebermann smiled, recognizing in Rheinhardt s small act of charity a justification for hope. Being a psychoanalyst, he saw the salvation of humanity not in great ideologies, religion, or political reforms but in everyday, barely perceptible deeds of kindness. He found this thought consoling, a counterbalance to his certain knowledge that they were about to find out how easily man becomes a thing of darkness-how easily civilized values blacken and curl in the heat of primitive passions.

  Professor Eichmann greeted them with frigid condescension.

  “You will forgive me, gentlemen, but I am extremely busy and cannot spare you much time.”

  Liebermann promised the headmaster that he would be brief.

  “Tell me, headmaster,” he said softly, “when you entered the laboratory on the evening that Thomas Zelenka's body was discovered, did you smell anything?”

  The headmaster wrinkled his nose-as if the mere mention of smell had triggered some form of malodorous olfactory hallucination.

  “The laboratory always smells a little unpleasant.”

  “Nothing struck you as unusual?”

  “No.”

  “Could you describe how it smelled?”

  “Herr Doctor, I cannot see how this line of questioning can possibly prove helpful. As I have already explained-”

  Liebermann raised his hands, arresting the headmaster's flow with an expression that begged indulgence.

  “Headmaster, I have said that I will be brief, and I promise you I will keep my word. With respect, could you please answer the question: what did the laboratory smell of?”

  Eichmann shook his head, tutted, and said: “A little like bad eggs.”

  Liebermann stared at the headmaster-an inquisitorial, ingressive stare that owed much to his acquaintance with Professor Freud. Then, quite suddenly, he said, “Thank you,” and stood to leave.

  The headmaster looked first at Rheinhardt and then back at Liebermann.

  “Is that all you wanted to know?” Eichmann asked.

  “Yes,” said Liebermann. “I have no further questions. I trust you will concede that we have respected your convenience.”

  The headmaster did not appear satisfied-only suspicious.

  “Where is Professor Gartner?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “In the staff common room,” said the headmaster.

  He observed their departure with eyes that radiated contempt.

  Liebermann and Rheinhardt found Professor Gartner sitting alone, ensconced in a fustian armchair and sipping brandy from a metal hip flask. The book on his lap was Thucydides's great History of the Peloponnesian War. After some introductory civilities-to which the professor responded with considerably more courtesy than the headmaster-Liebermann repeated his question: “Tell me, Professor Gartner, when you discovered Thomas Zelenka's body, did you smell anything unusual?”

  “Unusual?” repeated Gartner.

  “Yes.”

  “I don't think so. To be honest, I don't have a very acute sense of smell.
It's never been the same since the storming of Brescia back in ‘49. I was serving under Haynau-with the first battalion, no lessand fell very badly ill. The regimental doctor didn't know what it was. He was mystified. I was sick and very weak for more than a month. When I recovered, I felt well enough. All my body parts were working-just as they did before-with the exception of my nose! The sensation of smell was dulled, blunted. In order to detect the fragrance of a flower, I would have to hold it directly under my nostrils, inhaling deeply, and only then would I catch a hint of its bouquet. My sense of taste was affected, too. Subsequently, I've only ever enjoyed foods with very strong flavors. A good spicy goulash, for example.”

  Liebermann attempted to interrupt the garrulous professor, but he failed.

  “I once met a neurologist from Paris,” Gartner continued, “who said that he'd heard of such things happening, and he spoke at some length about the bulbs that project from beneath the brain. A clever fellow if ever there was one. He had studied with Charcot and knew his Virgil as well as his anatomies. Apparently, there are some infectious organisms that attack nerve tissue, causing permanent damage; however, I should say-if my memory serves me correctly-he associated such cases with tropical rather than Mediterranean diseases.” Professor Gartner took a swig from his hip flask, hummed pensively, and added: “I'm sorry, Herr Doctor. I seem to have forgotten your question. What was it you wanted to know?”

  Liebermann and Rheinhardt made their excuses and left.

  “Well,” said Rheinhardt, as they made their way down the stairs. “This isn't going very well, is it?”

  Liebermann shook his head. “No, it isn't; however, at the same time, the science of hereditary constitution gives me good reason to remain optimistic.”

  “Max, what are you talking about?”

  “I will explain in due course. Now, let us return to the courtyard.”

  Albert was still sitting in the same place, although the movement of his head suggested that he was now not sleeping but observing the spiraling of dead leaves in a vortex.