by Frank Tallis
“A remarkable story,” said Liebermann. “Truly remarkable.”
The subsequent discussion was somewhat circular, returning again and again to reiterations of the fact that Randall Lyd gate's history was-without doubt- remarkable! Indeed, it seemed to Liebermann that repetitions of this nature were something of a necessity and an unspecified number were required before the conversation was free to proceed beyond general expressions of amazement. Eventually, however, a turning point was reached and the issue of how best to inform Samuel Lyd gate of Randall's appearance was given careful and sensitive consideration.
Liebermann's curiosity had been aroused by something that Randall had said earlier, and at an appropriate juncture he said:
“I trust that you will not consider my question impertinent. But you mentioned in passing that your work involves… uncovering facts? What is it that you do?”
“I am an archaeologist,” said Randall.
“And a respected authority,” said Amelia, “on the ancient civilizations of Mexico and Peru.”
“Please… Amelia,” said Randall, embarrassed by his sister's advocacy. “Most of my work takes place in old libraries-poring over ancient maps and mythologies. But on occasion it is my privilege to visit the holy places of the Toltecs, where it is still possible to find- and save-examples of their sublime artistry.”
“The Toltecs?”
“A race alluded to in a migration myth as the first Nahua immigrants to the region of Mexico. The name ‘Toltec’ came to be regarded by the surrounding peoples as synonymous with ‘artist,’ and as a kind of hallmark that guaranteed the superiority of any Toltec workmanship.” As Randall spoke, his voice acquired a mellifluous, dreamy quality, and his eyes seemed to search out a far horizon. “Everything in and about their city was redolent of the taste and artistry of its founders. The very walls were encrusted with rare stones, and their masonry was so beautifully chiseled and laid as to resemble the choicest mosaic.”
It transpired that Randall had clearly inherited some of his mother's appetite for adventure. For he often accepted commissions from North American universities and museums to journey south- into sometimes remote and dangerous territories-in order to recover lost treasures, the existence of which he ascertained from close readings of native legends (recorded by historians with exotic names such as Zumarraga and Ixtlilxochitl).
As the evening progressed, the conversation ranged over an extra ordinarily broad range of topics: Amelia's research under the supervision of Landsteiner, King Acxitl, dream interpretation, the hallucinatory properties of certain desert mushrooms (an example of which, curiously, Randall happened to have in his pocket), Nietz sche's concept of eternal recurrence, and the syncopated music of the black people of New Orleans (which Randall obligingly whistled while tapping his foot).
Discussion of rags and ragtime led, by some oblique conversational maneuvering, to the waltz, which prompted Amelia to enthuse- at some length-about the ball she had attended with Liebermann. Randall-to Liebermann's surprise-expressed much interest (perhaps anthropological) in Fasching, and the young doctor found himself offering to take both brother and sister to the clock makers’ ball, which was scheduled to take place the following week.
When Liebermann finally took his leave, he felt quite dazed. It had turned out to be an evening very different from the one he had expected. He walked the streets for some time-smoking and thinking-before returning home. When Miss Lyd gate had said goodbye, she had reached out and gently touched his hand. After taking a few steps he had looked back, and the image of her standing in the doorway had impressed itself on his memory. Her white dress had billowed in the breeze, and strands of her spun copper hair had streamed across her face. She had pushed them aside, revealing those arresting eyes. The smile that had been fleetingly present throughout the entire evening was gone, and her expression was intense, penetrating-as if she were looking directly into his soul. Lieber-mann identified the thought as fanciful, but nevertheless felt a shiver of unease.
He had been so very wrong about Miss Lyd gate. Indeed, on reflection, Liebermann concluded that in matters of the heart he had something of a gift for being wrong…
69
The silence that prevailed in the commissioner's office was absolute. It was the kind of stillness that Rheinhardt associated with mortuaries and provincial churches in winter: an icy, unyielding soundlessness-as obstinate as frozen loam. He wanted to speak, but whenever he tried, his courage failed. This silence demanded the utmost care-and if he broke it carelessly, the consequences would be catastrophic.
The commissioner had not moved for some time. His eyes were fixed on a folder occupying the pool of light beneath his desk lamp. It contained Rheinhardt's supplementary report on the murder of Thomas Zelenka. Brugels hand crept into the illuminated circle like a grotesque insect emerging from beneath a stone, the first and second fingers raised and testing the air like feelers. Sustaining a convincing illusion of self-determination, Brugels hand halted before touching the folder-as if it had detected something repellent or dangerous therein. The commissioner's profound, contemplative silence seemed to presage alarming possibilities: not only the prospect of punishment, but actual expulsion from the security office.
Rheinhardt had always been a policeman and could imagine no other life. What else could he do? He tried to console himself with the thought that he had acted conscientiously. But, in truth, he knew that he had been impulsive, naive, and somewhat vainglorious. Now he would suffer the consequences.
Brugel's hand moved forward and his raised fingers dropped down on the folder. The inconsequential beat this movement produced sounded-to Rheinhardt-like the boom of a ceremonial drum: an invitation in some ancient rite to ritual slaughter.
“You disobeyed my orders,” said the commissioner, in a low, gravelly voice. “I distinctly recall telling you that as far as I was concerned the Saint Florian's case was closed.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rheinhardt. “You did. However, with the greatest respect…” I have nothing to lose, now, he thought. I might as well defend myself. Rheinhardt took a deep breath. “Sir, I hold the rank of detective inspector. Although it is my duty to obey you — my commanding officer-it is also my duty to serve the Justizpalast, the people of Vienna, and, ultimately, His Majesty the emperor.”
Rheinhardt glanced up at the portrait of Franz Josef-only just visible in the reflected lamplight-and fancied that he saw a glimmer of approval in the old man's expression. “I believe,” he continued, “that I acted correctly and in accordance with the obligations and necessities of my office.”
The commissioner's eyes narrowed and his hand clenched into a tight fist-the knuckles rising up beneath his leathery skin to form a bloodless ridge. On his temple a knotty blood vessel pulsed with febrile malevolence. The commissioner seemed to be on the brink of exploding with rage when-quite suddenly-his expression changed. He sighed, his shoulders fell, and his clenched fist slowly opened.
“My nephew,” said Brugel hoarsely, “has been disgraced.” Rheinhardt did not know how to respond. Their gazes met, and the commissioner continued. “His mother was so proud of him. This will break her heart.” As on the previous occasion when Brugel had mentioned his sister, tender sentiments seemed to diminish him.
“I am very sorry, sir,” said Rheinhardt sincerely.
The commisioner opened his drawer and removed a letter, which he placed carefully on the folder containing Rheinhardt s report.
“From Kiefer,” he said softly. “It does not exonerate him… but it may go some way toward helping us to understand his conduct. You see, the boy claims to have been influenced by certain teachings promulgated by the masters-Eichmann, Gartner, Osterhagen-a philosophy of power. Young minds, Rheinhardt. They are so malleable- so easily corrupted… I have already spoken to the minister of education-who has promised to attend the next meeting of the board of governors.”
The commissioner fell silent again.
“Sir,” sai
d Rheinhardt, “am I to be disciplined?”
The commissioner grunted and shook his head.
“Thank you, sir,” said Rheinhardt. Not wishing to tempt fate, he stood up and clicked his heels. “Should I report to Inspector von Bulow tomorrow morning?”
“No,” said the commissioner. “He doesn't need your assistance anymore.” Brugel succeeded in investing the possessive pronoun with utter contempt.
“Very good, sir,” said Rheinhardt. He bowed-and walked briskly to the door.
70
Liebermann had first met Oppenheim in one of the coffee-houses close to the hospital. Although the young man was studying classics at the university he was a keen amateur psychologist and was always willing to discuss-in his words- the life of the soul. He was an enthusiastic, open-minded fellow, and much more at ease with topics such as sexuality and the conflicts arising between nature and culture than most of Liebermann's colleagues. Their friendship was sustained-as it had begun-by occasional, unplanned encounters in the coffeehouses of the ninth district.
Liebermann had risen early and, on his way to the hospital, was pleasantly surprised to discover Oppenheim sitting outside the Cafe Segel, warming his hands around a steaming, frothy melange and reading a volume of Greek.
They greeted each other cordially, and Oppenheim invited Liebermann to join him for breakfast. Glancing at his wristwatch, Liebermann saw that he had plenty of time to spare and seated himself beside the student.
“What are you reading?” asked Liebermann.
“ A True Story — by Lucian of Samosata,” Oppenheim replied. “An extraordinary piece of writing about a group of adventuring heroes who travel to the moon. It is-at one and the same time-a very early example of fantastic literature and a criticism of ancient authorities that describes mythical events as though they are real.”
This weighty gambit was typical of Oppenheim, whose appetite for intellectual stimulation was not very much affected by the hour of the day. Liebermann-prematurely aged by the youth's indecent vitality-ordered a very strong schwarzer, two kaisersemmel rolls, and some plum conserve.
Their conversation ranged up and down the narrow isthmus that connected classical literature and psychiatry and touched upon Aristotle's De Anima, Hippocrates’ essay on epilepsy and sundry poetical works that took melancholia as their principal theme. After they had been talking for a while, Liebermann began to wonder whether the young scholar might know the answer to a certain question that had been annoying him like the minor but persistent presence of a small stone in a shoe.
“Tell me,” Liebermann asked, “do you have any idea what a Liderc is?”
“A what?”
“A Liderc.”
“Is it a Hungarian word?”
“I believe it is.”
Oppenheim stroked his short beard.
“It sounds vaguely familiar… and I think I may have come across it in a book of folklore. But I can't quite remember. Will you be at the hospital today?”
“Yes.”
“Then I'll look it up and let you know if I find anything.”
The sound of church bells reminded Liebermann that he should be on his way. He rose and deposited a pile of coins on the table: more than enough to cover his own and Oppenheim's breakfast. Before Oppenheim could object-as he usually did-Liebermann declared: “You can pay next time.”
It was of course what Liebermann always said on such occasions. Later in the day Liebermann received a short note from Oppenheim. Dear Friend,
Have just been to the library and managed to run your Liderc to ground in Kobor's Myths and Legends of the Transylvanian Peoples. The Liderc is a kind of satanic lover-ordogszereto in Hungarian-and is similar to an incubus or a succubus. Victims often die of exhaustion on account of the Liderc's stamina and enthusiasm. Well, I should be so lucky! What on earth do you want to know this for? Did one of your patients mention it-and if so, in what context? Until the next timewhen you will allow me to buy you breakfast. Oppenheim
Liebermann placed the note on his desk and stared at it. For once in his life, he desperately wanted to be wrong.
71
An observer unaccustomed to life at Saint Florian's might have described the prevailing mood of the school as subdued. Drexler, however, knew otherwise. He could read the signs like a haruspex: signs that were no less vivid or portentous, as far as he was concerned, than the hot entrails of a freshly slaughtered goat-the whispering, the sidelong glances, the sudden silences, the pursed lips of the masters, the canceled classes. The school was not subdued at all, but seething with nervous excitement.
Drexler was sitting on his own in the dining room, toying with his bruckfleisch — a stew consisting largely of innards, blood, and sweetbreads. A pallid piece of offal surfaced among the slices of heart, liver, and spleen, making him feel slightly nauseous. He was thinking about what had happened that morning. He had been standing in the washroom, waiting his turn to use one of the tin sinks.
A line of hunched white backs-goose-pimpled and shivering-the relentless hammering of the old pipes…
Drexler had rushed over to claim a vacant basin. While he was splashing tepid water onto his face, he overheard the two boys next to him speaking in hushed tones.
“Murdered… in the lodges… there for a whole day before they found him.”
“What did you say?” Drexler had asked.
The boy next to him had been about to reply, but was silenced by a prefect who struck his calves with a riding crop (carried especially for this purpose).
“Shut up,” the prefect had shouted. “You're worse than a bunch of fishwives!”
By midmorning Drexler had been able to establish that there hadn't been a murder at all but a suicide-and that the dead master was Herr Sommer.
This news saddened Drexler, as he had been rather fond of Herr Sommer. When, in the previous year, Drexler had been experiencing difficulties understanding algebra, Herr Sommer had invited him to his rooms and given him extra tuition. Away from the classroom the mathematics master was much more relaxed-much more amusing. He had once told Drexler an extremely risque joke about a priest and a choirboy. “Our secret,” he had said confidentially. Toward the end of that year, Sommer's invitations became less frequent. He seemed to have found a new favorite-Thomas Zelenka. Drexler hadn't minded very much. In truth, he had begun to find Herr Sommer's company less diverting-especially after he'd made the acquaintance of Snjezana.
Drexler tried to swallow a kidney but didn't have the stomach for it. He pushed it back onto the spoon with his tongue and decided he wasn't hungry.
Everything was beginning to unravel.
Zelenka, Becker, Sommer…
Even Wolf hadn't been himself lately. He had been summoned to the headmaster's office on Thursday and had refused to say why.
“Did he ask about Perger?”
“Just forget Perger, will you!” Wolf had replied angrily, “He ran away, for God's sake! And no one gives a shit where he's gone!”
Drexler was no longer sure whether he could trust Wolf. Greater leniency was shown in courts of law to criminals who confessed their misdeeds and showed remorse. Was that what Wolf was up to?
Before Drexler left the dining hall he went over to another boy and said: “I'm not feeling well. If Osterhagen asks where I am, tell him I've gone to the infirmary.”
It was not difficult to leave the school unnoticed at that time of day and soon he was walking eastward, cross-country toward Vienna. He gave Aufkirchen a wide berth, but could still see the onion dome and spire of the Romanesque church. For a moment he was tempted to change direction. Snjezana would probably be lying on her bed, smoking, and reading one of her novels. He could see her one last time. What harm would it do?
“No,” Drexler said out loud, lengthening his stride. “I must get this over with.”
He continued walking for more than an hour and eventually came to a tiny hamlet-no more than a cluster of ramshackle dwellings huddled together on a rough
track. Drexler followed the path around the base of a hillock, and in due course it took him to a much wider road. He paused in order to get his bearings.
A low, weak sun hovered above the horizon. It was suspended in the sky like a communion wafer: a perfect, lustreless white circle. All around, crows were either taking off or landing, and the air reverberated with their raucous laughter.
Drexler stepped onto the road and continued his descent. Soon he came to another village. He had been to this place several times before but had never stayed very long. Although larger than Aufkir chen, it offered little in the way of entertainment. The inn was fairly respectable and a frequent destination for well-heeled patrons. His parents had taken rooms there once when they'd visited the school.
Opposite the inn was an impressive baroque church, painted bright yellow, and next to this was the police station. It was not a very auspicious building. Indeed, it might have been described more accurately as an outpost-or guardhouse.
When Drexler opened the door, he was struck by the modesty of the interior: roughcast walls, a single paraffin lamp, and a battered table-behind which sat a big-boned constable with orange hair. He was staring glumly at a silent telephone.
Drexler s appearance seemed to raise his spirits.
“Hello,” he said cheerfully. “Are you from the school?”
“Yes,” Drexler replied.
“You've come a fair way-lost, are you?”
“No. I've come to report something.”
“What's that, then?”
“A murder.”
The constable's expression changed. “A murder?”
“Yes,” said Drexler. “I shot a boy called Perger. I want to confess… I want to make a statement.”
72
Liebermann watched the late-afternoon traffic rolling by: fiacres, omnibuses, trams, and an impressive four-horse carriage with a gold crest emblazoned on its black lacquered door. The occupant-a visiting royal of some description-could just be discerned inside, a shadowy figure craning to get a better view of the opera house.
