by Frank Tallis
Am I embarrassed, I wonder? Ashamed? Professor Freud did not balk at intimate self-disclosure when he was writing his dream book. He was perfectly content to describe a boil the size of an apple rising at the base of his scrotum, merely to illustrate the point that the physical state of the body can influence what appears in dreams. Why should I be so coy? What am I afraid of? Writing this journal is not unlike the process of free association in psychoanalysis. I must suspend the urge to censor.
So: we were in a garden, Miss Lydgate and I. A place of extraordinary lushness and beauty. Tropical. Humid. We were surrounded by brightly colored exotic flowers—orange amaryllises, yellow orchids, and purple lilies. They were all oversize. Long filaments drooped under the weight of anthers, heavy with pollen, and a conspicuously phallic spadix rose up from the center of a bright red anthurium. Pink lotus blossoms floated on a lake, the surface of which shimmered with colonies of emerald algae. The colors were so vivid, the light so strong, everything seemed newly made—primordial. Dew-drops had collected on the petals. They resembled pieces from a chandelier, and each glassy fragment contained a captive miniature sun. The air was warm and perfumed with fragrances of exquisite, intoxicating sweetness. I could hear bird-song, and something that sounded like glissandi played on many harps.
Miss Lydgate was standing next to me—naked. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and breasts, but it did not descend far enough to conceal her sex. Her mons veneris was covered with fiery curls, and her skin was an unblemished white. She looked at me and said, with some anger, “I will not lie below. I am also made from the earth and therefore must be considered your equal.” I responded with some indignation, and we began to argue. Although I cannot remember exactly what was said, the meaning of our heated exchange was quite clear and concerned coital “superiority.”
Then, unexpectedly, she pronounced my father’s name. I turned and saw that he was sitting close by on a throne. As is so often the way in dreams, his presence in our paradisal garden did not strike me as in any way remarkable. My father said, “It is not good for a man to be alone.” I protested, “I am not alone.” However, when I gestured toward Miss Lydgate, she had vanished.
In this instance I can hardly disagree with Professor Freud with respect to his views on the predominance of sexual content in dreams. That Miss Lydgate should appear naked obviously suggests the fulfillment of a “forbidden” wish. But what of our argument concerning coital superiority? An idea suggests itself: Amelia Lydgate is an extraordinary woman, endowed with remarkable intellectual gifts. Yet, would marriage to such a strong-minded woman eventually lead to feelings of emasculation? Does the dream betray a deep-seated anxiety that I am unwilling to own? I have always been a vigorous advocate of equality between the sexes; however, in reality, perhaps I am still—at least in part—a traditionalist. It is not that men are strong and women weak (or any other such crude and dubious distinction), but rather that the sexes are complementary. They do have different attributes. Moreover, the success of a relationship might well depend on these differences coming together, to make a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts. Is that what my father represented? Traditional values? “It is not good for a man to be alone.” Indeed, and although I do not feel alone—preoccupied as I am with Miss Lydgate—the fact of the matter is that I am alone.
My relations with Miss Lydgate have certainly reached a difficult juncture. In the normal course of events, a couple grows more intimate until the erotic nature of their mutual attraction becomes explicit; however, if this period exceeds a certain amount of time, then the relationship is conducted largely as a friendship rather than a burgeoning romance. It becomes increasingly difficult for both parties to see each other as anything more than friends. This is how I have chosen to account for my inaction. My dream, however, suggests an alternative. Perhaps my paralysis with respect to Miss Lydgate has more complex origins. Desire is one of those things that seems ostensibly simple but is always—in truth—very obscure. Answering the question “What do I want?” is far more challenging than most people ever realize.
21
THE COFFEEHOUSE HAD LITTLE to distinguish it from the other shops. It did not have lettering above the windows or a bright awning, only a board standing on the pavement on which the proprietor’s name had been painted in flowing red letters: Zucker.
Rheinhardt opened the door and entered. His first impression was of humidity and noise. Condensation had made the windows opaque, and the steamy atmosphere was ripe with the savory smells of frankfurters, mustard, and sauerkraut. Although the coffeehouse had only four circular tables, these were fully occupied and were covered with newspapers, which were being continually consulted in order to support one side or the other of a communal debate involving everyone present. In addition to seated patrons, there were many others who were either standing in a central space or leaning against the walls. The general mayhem was compounded by the presence of a shabby violinist who had situated himself in a corner and was singing along to a merry dance tune. There was much shouting, gesticulating, jeering, and occasional outbursts of raucous laughter.
Squeezing through the crowd, Rheinhardt advanced to the counter, where an attractive young woman was ladling a thick orange soup into rustic bowls.
“I’m looking for Herr Zucker.”
“What?”
“I’m looking for Herr Zucker,” Rheinhardt repeated, raising his voice.
The young woman wiped some perspiration off her brow with the back of her hand and, leaning back, directed her voice through an open door. “Father! Someone to see you.” The sound of clattering saucepans and a Yiddisher curse heralded the emergence of a big man wearing a striped apron. His face possessed a rough, unfinished quality—raw and pitted skin and nubbly features. Rheinhardt noticed that his exposed arms were insulated by a natural sleeve of wiry black hair. It was difficult to believe that he was the pretty girl’s father.
“Inspector Rheinhardt. Security office. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Zucker nodded. “This way, please.”
Rheinhardt followed him through the kitchen (in which a cook appeared to be tossing pancakes solely for the amusement of a prepubescent boy) and out into a little cobbled garden.
“Take a seat, Inspector,” said Zucker, gesturing toward a bench. “It’s quiet out here. At least we’ll be able to hear ourselves speak. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? We have some delicious reis trauttmansdorff.”
“That’s very kind of you to offer, Herr Zucker. But no, thank you.”
The two men sat down on the bench.
“What can I do for you, then?” said Zucker, taking a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches from his apron pocket.
“I would like to ask you a few questions about some of your customers.” Zucker offered Rheinhardt a cigarette, which the inspector declined, before lighting one for himself. “I take it,” Rheinhardt continued, “that you are aware of what happened in Josefstadt last week.”
“The murder?”
“Indeed.”
“Well, of course. It’s been all over the papers. The customers don’t stop talking about it.”
“One of your customers—a young Hasid, I believe—was overheard saying that his master, a preacher called Barash, had prophesied the monk’s death.”
“Yes, that’s true. I was there at the time. But—with respect—you shouldn’t be taking very much notice of such things.”
“Oh, why not?”
“The Hasidim aren’t like the rest of us. They believe all sorts of nonsense. They interpret dreams, commune with the dead, and think that God reveals himself in magic numbers! And as for prophecies… Well, they’re always saying this thing or that thing is going to happen. They make so many predictions! I mean, it stands to reason they’ve got to be right about something—eventually! Coincidence, Inspector. That’s all it is. Coincidence.”
“Did the young Hasid say specifically that the monk would be murdered?”
<
br /> “No, I don’t think so.”
“Please, try to remember exactly what he said.”
“Well, that’s not so easy. As usual, there was a lot of noise, and I was very busy.”
“Was your daughter present?”
“No. That’s why I was busy.”
“Even so, perhaps you could try to remember what was said?”
Zucker paused and thought for a moment.
“They were arguing about religion. A young Hasid, and some workmen. They usually keep themselves to themselves, the Hasidim. But when they do get into arguments with my regulars”—Zucker pretended to cover his ears—“it’s worse than a yeshiva.”
“A what?”
“A school where they study holy books. There’s an old saying: two rabbis, three arguments. And you know, it’s not far wrong.”
“You were saying…,” Rheinhardt prompted the proprietor. “About the young Hasid?”
“Oh yes… Actually, I think the workmen were just teasing. But the Hasid was getting more and more agitated, and to prove some point he mentioned his leader’s prophecy. To be honest, I can’t remember very much more than that.” Zucker waved his cigarette in the air, creating a vortex of ash. “Now, are you sure I can’t interest you in my reis trauttmansdorff? I promise you, once you’ve tasted it, you’ll be back for more.”
“You said that these Hasidim are always making prophecies. What other things have you heard?”
Zucker grinned. “Everything from horse race winners to the coming of the Messiah! Now, for the last time, Inspector: my reis trauttmansdorff? Are you going to try it or not?”
22
NAGEL’S GENERAL STORE WAS situated in a narrow alleyway that connected two roads on opposite sides of the old ghetto buildings. It was paved with yellowish flagstones—many of them cracked and loose—and the air was suffused with a pungent, penetrating dampness. The alley was so narrow, and so inauspiciously positioned, that it received direct sunlight only for a few hours a day in the summer months. For the rest of the year it existed in a perpetual twilight that intensified to become a precocious night by mid-afternoon. This gloom was relieved by a single naked gas jet, mounted on one of the walls.
The general store was sandwiched between two other shops. A secondhand book dealer’s, occupied by an old man whose moldering stock added another harmonic of decay to the musty mélange that tainted the air, and a cardboard vendor’s, run by a cadaverous Pole who spoke only Yiddish.
In the window of the general store were various items intended to attract the attention of passersby. However, such light as there was passed through the grimy little panes of glass enfolded the goods in a greenish murk and made the boxes, candles, tins, string, and bottles look like the kind of detritus that collects on the bed of a slow-flowing river.
Nahum sat behind the counter, toying with the weights and his scale. He was arranging the small weights on one side, to counterbalance a large weight on the other. The scale seesawed indecisively on its fulcrum—falling neither one way nor the other. Through the ceiling came the sound of Nahum’s father coughing, a horrible bark that crackled with phlegm the color of pus. Nahum knew this because he had inspected the contents of his father’s spittoon and noticed the change. The old man’s chest problem had obviously gotten much worse. They had scraped together a little money to pay for a doctor, but all he had said was that it would be better for Hayyim if they moved out of their rooms above the shop and away from the damp alleyway. But how were they going to do that?
The stockroom—really a cupboard—was empty, and there were still some of the suppliers who hadn’t been paid. Nahum tapped the smaller weights, and watched them descend, slow to a halt, and rise up again. The shop had never made much of a profit, but now it was running at a loss.
Rebbe Barash had promised change. He had held Hayyim’s hand and promised the old man that life would be better, very soon. But if things went on like this, it would be too late.
From outside, Nahum recognized the heavy tread of hobnailed boots on the flagstones. The door flew open, and the little bell chimed. Two thickset men stepped into the shop. Their broad shoulders and lumpy features became all that Nahum could see. One had a distinctive scar that cut through his left eyebrow and continued as a white weal down his cheek. The other had the broken nose and grazed knuckles of a pugilist.
“You came only last week,” said Nahum.
“Open the cash box,” said the man with the scar.
“But we’ve hardly sold anything…”
The man swung his fist over the counter and knocked Nahum’s hat off.
“Next time it’ll be your head.”
Nahum, with trembling fingers, took the cash box from under the counter and, taking the key from his pocket, opened it up. Inside was change amounting to no more than three kronen.
“Where’s the rest? I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.”
“There isn’t any more!”
The man grabbed Nahum by the collar and pulled him over the counter. He pressed his face up close.
“Go and get it.”
“There isn’t any more!”
The man lifted Nahum off his feet and threw him against the shelves. A bottle fell off and smashed on the floor.
“Nahum… Nahum?” It was the old man.
Nahum looked up and shouted, “It’s all right, Father…. It was nothing… an accident.”
“Be careful, why don’t you?” the old man croaked.
“I will, Father.”
The two men looked at each other and smirked.
“Please,” said Nahum, lowering his voice. “I beg you. He’s very ill.”
The man with the scar scooped the coins out of the cash box and put them into his pocket.
“Listen. You get us the rest of the money by next time, or we’ll give you a beating to remember. Do you understand?”
They stormed out of the shop, accompanied by the innocent tinkling of the bell. Nahum collapsed onto his stool and wiped the perspiration from his brow.
23
RHEINHARDT HAD BEEN SMOKING cigars all the way from Josefstadt to Hietzing. As a result, when he opened the carriage door, he emerged from the confined space like Mephistopheles, surrounded by a roiling yellow cloud. He placed a foot on the step and jumped to the ground, his coat catching the air and rising up like a black wing. The young constable who greeted Rheinhardt was somewhat overawed by the inspector’s theatrical débouché. The constable was already in an excited state, and his nervous energy found easy expression in garrulous speech.
“The man who found the body, sir—Herr Quint—he’s in the church with my colleague. He was walking home after spending an evening with friends—Well, that’s what he said, but I think it more likely that he’d been enjoying the company of a lady. He discovered the body and then ran over to the hotel.” The constable pointed across the road. “The night porter called the station. We’re in Dommayergasse—not far, just around the corner—and we got here within minutes. Would you like to see the body, sir? Horrible it is, horrible, the sort of thing that’ll give you nightmares—and so soon after the other one. A priest, wasn’t it? I never thought we’d see the likes of this up here, not in Hietzing. This way, sir, this way.”
Rheinhardt grabbed the constable’s arm.
“Just one moment.”
The constable, sensing the detective inspector’s disapproval, froze. “Very good, sir.”
Dawn was breaking, and a thin mist hung in the air. They were standing on a large cobbled concourse where several roads met. The buildings in the vicinity were rather grand. One had a double-domed turret, the smaller dome sitting on top of the larger, while another possessed a fine stone balcony. But the most commanding architectural landmark was a parish church—white, baroque, with a tall spire adorned with finials and crosses.
“Maria Geburt?” Rheinhardt asked.
“Yes,” said the constable. “The empress Maria Theresa used to attend services there.” He then
pressed his lips together tightly to ensure that no further irrelevancies could escape.
Above the large wooden door was a triple lancet window decorated with quatrefoil tracery. On either side, saintly figures stood on square columns beneath ornate canopies. Extending out from the side of the church was an aerial corridor linking the place of worship to a row of eighteenth-century buildings. It formed an arch over a passage through which similar houses could be seen. The terrace continued to where Rheinhardt was standing, but was interrupted by an entrance, above which was written Volksschule der Stadt Wien.
Another school, thought Rheinhardt.
“It’s by the side of the church, sir.”
“What?”
“The body.”
“Yes, of course. You’d better show me.”
They walked across the concourse, and the mutilated remains came into view.
The victim was dressed in a smoking jacket, casual linen trousers, and a pair of slippers. He was wearing an expensive wristwatch, and on his right hand was a gold ring set with diamonds. A pool of blood had collected around his shoulders. Rheinhardt reconstructed events in his mind: the vessels severing, the hot fluid spurting out, the hiss and splash of grisly rain…
“Where’s his head?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Over there,” said the constable, holding a finger out but shying away in the opposite direction.
Rheinhardt felt a tingling sensation rise up his spine, accompanied by a strong impression of déjà vu. He was looking at a pillar of stone, on top of which was a figure of the Virgin, her head circled by a halo of stars. It was a plague column, though smaller than the one in front of the Maria Treue Kirche.
