by Frank Tallis
“Go on,” said Rheinhardt.
“Such ferocity,” Liebermann continued, “seems to betray a far deeper motivation-the influence of primal memories. Something happened to him in his childhood, something traumatic, that touches upon the erotic instinct but that also shaped his character. Whatever that event was-he blames women.”
Rheinhardt took out his notebook and jotted down a few of Liebermann's comments. Before he had finished writing, he said, “What do you make of that crooked cross? Why on earth did he bother to paint such a thing on the wall?”
“At first, it occurred to me that the perpetrator might be on some kind of religious crusade, working under the delusion that he is God's instrument, empowered to cleanse Vienna of moral impurities. However, if this were the case, then I would have expected him to have executed a more conventional crucifix-a long vertical line transected by a shorter horizontal one. I think, therefore, that this symbol has more personal than religious significance. It is, as it were, his calling card. It is also why I think that he is socially inept or ineffectual. In the absence of real status or achievement, the inconsequential person is often minded to leave his mark-his initials, or some other identifier-carved in a public place. It is his only method of leaving an impression on the world, his only claim on posterity. You will find several examples of such graffiti in the tower of the cathedral… In his sick mind, this atrocity”-Liebermann tapped the photographs-”has acquired the properties of an accomplishment, a proud creation for which he craves and desires recognition. He could not leave without first signing his ‘art.’ The strange cross is his signature.”
Rheinhardt placed the stub of his cigar in the ashtray and took the photographs back.
“Oskar,” said Liebermann, “with so much blood, were there no footprints on the floor? No impressions?”
Rheinhardt shook his head.
“So he is someone who is perhaps aware of police procedures?”
“It would seem so.”
Rheinhardt felt a nagging something at the back of his mind-a vague memory that he could not quite place. His brow furrowed and he twirled his mustache again.
“What is it?” said Liebermann, noticing his friend's mental effort.
“Nothing,” said Rheinhardt. Then, fixing Liebermann with his melancholy sagging eyes, he said, “He will do something like this again, won't he?”
“Yes,” said Liebermann, with economic bluntness. “And very soon, I expect.”
9
THE CHAMBER WAS FULL and the air hummed with the low drone of conversation. Those present were well dressed (tending toward sobriety) and were seated in the horseshoe arrangement of pews. The atmosphere was similar to that in a theater just before the curtain rises, but it was also ecclesiastical: an odd combination of excitement and reverence. In the front pew, close to the wooden throne, stood Professor Foch, Andreas Olbricht, and Hermann Aschenbrandt. The professor removed a watch from his fob pocket, flicked open the case, and observed the time.
“He's late,” said Olbricht.
“Yes,” replied the professor, dryly.
The door at the back of the chamber creaked open, and a short plump man entered. His cheeks were glowing and he was evidently in good spirits. The smile on his face was broad and radiant. He stopped to shake hands with one or two members of the assembly and was seen to nod vigorously in response to their inquiries.
“Hannisch looks happy,” said Olbricht.
“Then he must have arrived,” said Aschenbrandt.
Soon the monotonous drone that had filled the chamber was replaced by the rustling sibilance of subdued voices. Certain words and phrases became distinct:
“He's here…”
“… genius…”
“… greatness…”
“… reputation…”
The plump man took a seat that had been reserved for him on the other arm of the horseshoe and gestured a greeting toward the professor, who replied with a brief downward jerk of the head, like a bird pecking.
Suddenly the door opened again, and a voice called out, “All rise for the first steward of the Order Primal Fire.”
The assembly stood up. Gustav von Triebenbach, wearing a ceremonial red cloak with ermine trim, entered the chamber. He was carrying an ornate staff, which he used to propel himself like a gondolier punting his boat. Von Triebenbach was followed by a liveried servant, whose right arm was linked through the left arm of an extraordinary companion-a man in his fifties, with a long unruly gray beard and an enormous, incongruously dark bushy mustache. He was wearing a rather shapeless velveteen flat cap, which would not have appeared out of place on the head of a Renaissance courtier. However, the most striking feature of his appearance were the lint bandages that had been wound around the top half of his head. Nothing of his face could be seen above the tip of his nose.
As the three men walked to the front of the chamber, the congregation began to clap, and soon the enclosed vaulted space was reverberating with the noise of an enthusiastic reception.
The liveried servant helped the bandaged man onto the wooden throne, but his progress was faltering: the sudden movement of his hands-plunged desperately into empty space-suggested a moment of anxious uncertainty. Eventually, however, he was able to lower himself between the volute chair arms, and the liveried servant bowed and withdrew.
Von Triebenbach stood at the head of the chamber and lifted his right arm.
“Heil und Sieg!”
The company returned the gesture and repeated the battle cry.
As the applause petered out, the men sat down, and silence soon prevailed. Von Triebenbach bowed and proclaimed, “O primal light, grant us thy consolation, consecrate our hearth, and purify our blood. Deliver us from the hindrances and snares of our enemies and clothe us with the armor of salvation.”
The assembly responded with a softly spoken “Heil und Sieg.”
Von Triebenbach raised his head.
“Brethren… tonight, we are most fortunate.” The blazing torches made the repeated motif of griffins on Von Triebenbach's red cloak glimmer. “Among the societies who have sworn to preserve and protect our glorious heritage-our language, our art, our values-the name of Guido Karl Anton List has become familiar and much respected. He is to be counted among the great thinkers of our age. However, for the benefit of our most recent members, it is incumbent upon me to say a few words of introduction… Most of you, I am sure, will have read our distinguished guest's masterpiece, Carnuntum-a novel of great power and elegance. It has been some fourteen years since the publication of this great work, which has played no small part in inspiring its many readers to rediscover, and take pride in, the legacy of our ancestors. It was Carnuntum that also brought its author to the attention of many politicians, who have since shown an enlightened interest in promoting traditional values… Our distinguished guest has been responsible for the formation of two literary societies, the Free German Society for Literature and the Danubian Literary Society, both of which have provided a safe haven for many writers who would otherwise have found no platform for their work in a city obsessed with degenerate fashionable trivia… Some of you here will remember with great affection, as I do, a wonderful performance-sponsored by the German League-of our distinguished guest's dramatic poem The Wala's Awakening, which was attended by an audience of over three thousand.” There was a low murmur of agreement. “Although our distinguished guest is recovering from a surgical operation-the outcome of which is still, sadly, very uncertain-he has generously agreed to address us this evening, for which we are truly grateful.” Turning to the man on the throne, Von Triebenbach proclaimed, “I, Gustav von Triebenbach, first steward of the Order Primal Fire, welcome you, our most honored guest, scholar, and skald.”
The man nodded, and Von Triebenbach took a seat (next to Professor Foch) at the very end of the pew nearest the throne.
“First steward of the Order Primal Fire, friends, and brothers, I thank you,” said the bandaged man, his voice
sounding a little dry and hoarse. He raised his palm.
“Heil und Sieg.”
“Heil und Sieg,” came the response.
“My dear friends,” said List, opening his arms as if in supplication. “You look upon a man diminished. I am blind-and may never see again. But do not be deceived. To be sightless is not to be without vision. And although my body may be weak, in truth I have never felt so strong, so powerful, and so much in command of my faculties. I have never been more certain of the fundamental truths that must guide our thinking…”
List's head moved from left to right, as if he were surveying the scene and taking in-one by one-the attentive expressions of his audience.
“There is a theme which many of our great stories share.” His voice became a little louder. “The promise of redemption, through suffering. I have been cast into darkness. But I have also been redeemed. I have been granted such revelations…”
Olbricht and Aschenbrandt leaned forward; the pew creaked.
“When I was still a boy,” List continued, “in my fourteenth year of life, I experienced a presentiment of my destiny. My father permitted me to join him and a party of friends on a visit to the catacombs under St. Stephen's. We climbed down, and everything I saw excited me with a strange galvanic energy… When we descended to the fourth level, we discovered a ruined altar. I was overwhelmed by an emotion that, even now, I can barely find the words to describe. I proclaimed, ‘When I am a man, I will build a temple of Wotan.’ Of course, I was laughed at… and in truth, I knew nothing more of Wotan than I had read in Vollmer's Worterbuch der Mythologie. But the atmosphere of the catacombs had aroused in me a religious sentiment, and my instinct was to turn not to Christ but to the gods of our fathers. The old gods…”
The speaker paused. Once more, his head movements gave the eerie impression that he could see through the bandages and was inspecting his audience. Olbricht and Aschenbrandt both leaned back, as though repelled by some strange power, when they came into the purview of his hidden, sightless eyes.
“I am indebted to the first steward,” List began again, “for his kind and generous words concerning my novel Carnuntum. I am often asked, ‘From where did such a work come?’ In some respects, I feel it fraudulent to claim authorship, because I was nothing but a vessel through which Carnuntum came into the world. The work grew, however, from a seed, and I can attest to when that seed was planted…” A faint smile hovered around his lips. “When I was a young man, about twenty-seven or so, I traveled-some twenty-five miles east of Vienna-with a small group of companions, to celebrate the summer solstice at the ruined Roman city of Carnuntum. It is a place of great significance for the German people. For it was at Carnuntum that the Quadi, a Germanic tribe, brave and morally pure, conquered the decadent Roman garrison and, in the fullness of time, pressed on to establish a new Teutonic empire. The Quadi were not barbarians but a noble race, reclaiming lost territories.
“Our so-called scholars have paid scant attention to the script of our German ancestors-the runes. They have based all their works on a false and baseless assumption that the Germanic peoples had no script of any kind, and that their writing signs had been imperfectly copied from the Latin script. But they are woefully wrong!”
During this pedagogic digression, List's voice had become whiny and querulous. Perhaps realizing that he had departed from his intended narrative, he sighed, and resumed his story.
“It was an arduous journey, but we persevered. We climbed steadily until I could see the Heathen's Gate in the distance, black against the horizon-a great arch, towering above us. When we had accomplished our goal, I lit the solstice fire. We stood, united, and drank toasts to the long-forgotten heroes of the Quadi… and in the glowing embers of that holy fire, I arranged our bottles in the shape of the eighteenth rune. The stars glittered in a clear sky, as lamps in heaven.”
As he said these words, List raised his hands as though beseeching a deity. He remained in this position for a moment before allowing his hands to slowly descend. When he spoke again, his voice was less reverential.
“In the weeks after the removal of my cataracts, I was confined to bed, the only comfort being the press of my dear wife's hand, and I experienced…” His sentence trailed off. “I experienced a kind of… waking dream. Again, I found myself approaching the Heathen's Gate… where I lit not a solstice fire but an invocatory fire. I stared into the dancing flames, which began to suggest certain forms- fleeting patterns that sprang into being before vanishing. Among the twisting ropes of fire, I could detect a certain regularity of shape-the curvature and intersection of lines, the emergence of a luminous female figure that, by degrees, achieved permanence. What followed was an experience that is almost impossible to communicate… Words, ordinarily so potent, seem utterly inadequate; however, after many hours of intense reflection, I could only conclude that my experience was one of mystical revelation.”
The assembly stirred, and a few puzzled glances were exchanged.
“Long hours of interminable lonely darkness have liberated my spirit. It has soared through the abyss, and communed with the weltseele, the world soul… I have become a channel, through which sacred knowledge flows… I speak to you this evening not as a blind scholar but as a prophet. The thousand-year twilight of the German people is coming to a close. We will see, in our epoch, the dawn of a new golden age of heroism. Let our enemies mock and scoff-let them deride the old ways… for their days will soon be at an end.”
Unexpectedly, two men in the middle of the assembly stood up and raised their hands.
“Heil und Sieg!” they cried. Soon the battle cry had been taken up by everyone present.
10
AFTER THE MEETING HAD been brought to a successful close and the vote of thanks given, Von Triebenbach issued discreet invitations to his most trusted deputies. He was delighted to report that their distinguished guest had consented to attend an informal party, upstairs in Von Triebenbach's apartment. They climbed up the stone steps that ascended from the basement-with its honeycomb of chambers-to the ground floor, where they negotiated a further flight of stairs leading to the first floor. At Von Triebenbach's door they were welcomed by servants wearing cockade hats and were escorted through two anterooms into an impressive parlor.
A mountain of glowing coals burned brightly under the arch of a large black-marble fireplace. On the mantelpiece was a substantial clock, the intricate workings of which were visible through a glass cover. The furniture-consisting of display cabinets, a bureau, three couches, and several chairs-was early-eighteenth-century. Striped burgundy wallpaper adorned the walls, and classical figures-almost life-size-made silent music on pipes and lyres. The center of the room was dominated by a rosewood-veneer grand piano, the castors of which were buried in a thick Persian carpet.
Aschenbrandt was eager to show List his work, and as soon as the great man was settled on one of the couches, he begged the baron to introduce him. List accepted the young man's proffered hand, and Von Triebenbach-always kindly disposed to Aschenbrandt-explained that the young musician was eager to perform the overture of a work in progress: an opera based on the author's novel Carnuntum.
List graciously consented and Aschenbrandt, excited beyond measure, sat down at the Weber grand and opened his piano score.
The room fell silent.
Aschenbrandt brushed thin wisps of platinum hair behind his ears and his pale face grew solemn. He raised his hands and allowed them to fall onto the keyboard, striking three dramatic opening chords-his celluloid cuffs rattled. An ostinato bass conjured images of marching soldiers, over which an oscillating figure of open fourths and fifths suggested a brassy clarion call. The music was literal, but it was also evidently to the taste of the audience, who nodded appreciatively at the transparent programmatic references. The music ended with a triumphal theme in the relative major key, played fortissimo. Even before the showy coda had come to its predictable conclusion, Von Triebenbach was on his feet. The ovation
lasted for several minutes, with List participating as enthusiastically as anyone else present. It was an endorsement that Aschenbrandt had hardly dared dream of, and when List congratulated the young composer personally, he felt as though he had been crowned with a laurel wreath.
After the concert, servants supplied guests with champagne and frosted cubes of crystallized fruit. For a short while there was a general mingling, during which Von Triebenbach circulated among his friends. Eventually the company separated into small groups-some sitting, others standing, but all engaged in animated conversation.
Von Triebenbach and Professor Foch were seated at either side of List, who was expounding his views on the writings of Houston Stewart Chamberlain-an Englishman who had made Vienna his adoptive home. Chamberlain's idea of a great northern alliance, in which all the old Germanic peoples-the Germans, Austrians, English, Nether-landers, and Scandinavians-might join forces, was indeed very appealing. Such an alliance would, as Chamberlain suggested, be invincible; however, List queried Chamberlain's inclusion of the French as Teutons-a position that he considered untenable. Even so, the Englishman's work was certainly worthy of the utmost respect.
Hannisch, Aschenbrandt, and Olbricht were standing in a close group by the piano.
“Well,” said Hannisch to Aschenbrandt, “you must be feeling very proud. What did he say to you?” The counselor's gaze darted toward List.
Aschenbrandt leaned forward to ensure privacy.
“He said that he was deeply moved… that my music had captured perfectly the heroic spirit of the Quadi.”
