by Frank Tallis
Miss Lydgate looked at him with her arresting, metallic eyes.
The hiss of the gas lamps seemed to become louder in the ensuing pause, filling the lacuna with a disconcertingly violent rush of sound. The custodian coughed impatiently.
“That is a delightful idea,” Amelia replied. “Tell me-where do you stand with respect to the writings of Jean-Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet?”
47
“INSPECTOR RHEINHARDT?”
“Herr Arnoldt.”
“Would you like to come in?”
Rheinhardt peered over the zookeeper's shoulder but could see very little of the dim interior beyond. There were clumps of dense foliage: large, spatulate, dripping leaves and hairy hanging creepers. The air that escaped through the half-open door was warm and fetid.
“Not really,” said Rheinhardt, each syllable extended by equivocation.
“Why not? It's perfectly safe. Giselle has the sweetest temperament, I can assure you.”
Rheinhardt was not convinced that the zookeeper's assurances could be trusted. Even so, he crossed the threshold and allowed his shoes to sink into a carpet of springy moss. Herr Arnoldt turned abruptly and tramped down a gentle slope. “Please, Inspector,” he called out. “I would be grateful if you would close the door behind you. Firmly.”
Rheinhardt did so, but could not stop himself from asking-albeit silently-Why?
He hurried after Herr Arnoldt, who had vanished behind a matted curtain of trailing vines. Rheinhardt followed him through and discovered the zookeeper standing with his legs apart and his hands on his hips, staring across a still expanse of dark green water. The virid glassy surface was surrounded by lush swamp vegetation. On the opposite bank was a massive reptile with a broad, flat snout. Its scaly skin was brown and black, although the area surrounding its jaw and the visible parts of its neck and belly were creamy white.
“Giselle,” said Herr Arnoldt.
“A crocodile?”
“No,” said Herr Arnoldt. “She's an American alligator. Mississippiensis.”
“Ah,” said Rheinhardt. “And you are sure she's not… dangerous?”
“Quite sure.”
Suddenly, two olive-green eyes appeared silently just above the surface of the water.
“My God, what's that?” cried Rheinhardt.
“Oh, that's only Richard,” said Herr Arnoldt.
“Richard…”
“Yes.”
“You never said anything about Richard.” Herr Arnoldt remained ominously silent. “Is he dangerous?”
“Not if we keep our distance.”
“Herr Arnoldt, I had no intention of getting any closer.”
The zookeeper turned toward Rheinhardt and let his hands fall loosely by his sides.
“I just thought… I just thought you might enjoy seeing them like this. Few people are afforded such a privilege. They are magnificent creatures.”
There was something in the keeper's tone of voice that made Rheinhardt feel he had been mean-spirited. Herr Arnoldt's invitation had been well intended-an eccentric but essentially friendly gesture.
“Yes,” said Rheinhardt. “You are quite right. They are magnificent creatures. Thank you… Most kind.”
The zookeeper nodded, realizing that some subtle misunderstanding had now been resolved. “So,” he said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together eagerly. “Have you caught him?”
“No,” Rheinhardt replied. “Unfortunately not.” The zookeeper pushed out his lower lip. “However, we are making good progress. Not as much as I would have liked at this stage, but progress nevertheless. I wondered if you would help us again? I have a question pertaining to the statement you gave at the Schottenring station.”
Herr Arnoldt nodded.
“After your memory returned,” continued Rheinhardt, “you were able to remember the approach of the assailant, who marched down the corridor, whistling a… jolly tune?”
“Yes, that's right,” said Herr Arnoldt. “I told your assistant everything. I'm afraid there isn't any more to tell.”
“Indeed. But I understand that you were able to reproduce the melody for my assistant-Haussmann. Could you possibly do so again, for me?”
There was a gentle rippling sound. The previously submerged alligator broke through the pool's surface, revealing its full size.
“God in heaven-it's huge!”
“Just over thirteen feet,” said Herr Arnoldt, calmly. “Among male Mississippiensis, Richard is not exceptionally large.”
The animal's jaws opened. It appeared to be yawning.
“So many teeth…,” said Rheinhardt, feigning a light conversational tone, while suppressing a very strong urge to run.
“Yes, about seventy or eighty. And each one is as sharp as a razor.”
“Have you ever been bitten?”
The zookeeper laughed. “No, Inspector. Few people get bitten by Mississippiensis and live to tell the tale.”
“Just as well, then,” said Rheinhardt. “Now, where was I?”
“The melody-you said you wanted me to sing the melody again.”
“If you can still remember it-yes.”
The zookeeper cleared his throat, and began to sing:
“Pa, pa, pom, pom, ta-ta-ta-ta, pom, pom, pom…” The first few phrases were distinctive and the pitches accurate. Thereafter the melody became loose and improvisatory, eventually degenerating into a piece of pure invention. “That's about it,” Herr Arnoldt added. “I'm not sure about the last bit-but the beginning is correct.”
Rheinhardt opened a large cloth-bound volume that he was holding under his arm. Herr Arnoldt noticed that the pages were covered in musical notation. When Rheinhardt had found the right page, he took a deep breath and began to sing from the score: “ Der Vogelfanger bin ich ja-” I'm the merry bird catcher, A familiar sight to young and old.
Rheinhardt's deliciously resonant baritone filled the enclosure. It rolled out across the water and bounced back from the high ceiling. He had never performed in such a strange arena and to such a strange audience. Indeed, so peculiar was his situation that for a fleeting moment he entertained the possibility that he was, in fact, still lying in his bed and the events of the morning were occurring in a dream.
Giselle and Richard did not respond, but the zookeeper's expression was utterly transformed.
“Yes, that's it,” he cried. “That's it!”
Rheinhardt continued singing: I know how to set a trap And whistle like a bird…
The melody was playful, charming, and composed in the style of a popular song.
“What is it?” asked Herr Arnoldt.
Rheinhardt gently closed the score. “It's from The Magic Flute.”
The sound of displaced water disturbed them. Richard had begun to move forward. He seemed to be traveling quite fast. His snout was producing a high bow wave.
“I think…,” said Herr Arnoldt, looking a little concerned. “I think it's time to go.”
48
OLBRICHT STARED ACROSS THE paint-spattered floorboards and caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror. He relaxed his legs and turned his wrists inward, assuming an attitude reminiscent of that of Michelangelo's David. Then he raised his right hand and imagined his fingers closing around a laurel wreath. He felt a curious thrill, as though his fanciful conceit had been translated into authentic communion with the weltseele-the world soul. He closed his eyes, hoping to prolong the moment, but the strange feeling dissipated, leaving him with only a dull headache.
The artist turned and surveyed the paintings he had prepared for his coming exhibition.
Alberich and the three Rhine maidens; a blind skald in a timbered hall; Siegfried, slaying the dragon…
He circled the studio, admiring his accomplishments, but stopped in front of the canvas of Pipara-the heroine of List's eponymous novel. Square shoulders; yellow braided hair; a strong, almost masculine face. She was standing on a raised stone balcony, looking out over a sea of heavily armo
red Roman legionaries.
Olbricht took a step closer.
He could remember feeling extremely pleased with his Pipara when the painting was completed; however, having put it aside for a while, he was now somewhat dissatisfied with her appearance. Olbricht picked up his palette and a fine-haired brush, and began reworking the empress's features.
There was something about the bridge of her nose that was not quite right. The height of her cheekbones, too low-the shape of her chin, too broad. Olbricht's movements became more fluid. Something of his communion with the world soul had stayed with him. He felt inspired, guided by a spirit hand toward the realization of an elusive ideal.
Finally, he took a step back.
The empress now bore an uncanny resemblance to Frau Anna, the wife of Guido List. She was so very beautiful, Frau Anna. Such a perfect example of Aryan womanhood.
If only he had seen her in the Wala…
If only he had been there-on that celebrated occasion, sponsored by the German League.
If only…
Something inside him crumpled, like an eggshell trodden underfoot.
Olbricht reached out and traced the curve of the empress's bosom with a trembling finger.
List was not an attractive man, and he was considerably older than the beautiful Anna. Yet she had married him. Her love had been won by the power of his intellect-the nobility of his spirit-the ferocity of his genius.
“I too am a great artist.” Olbricht had unconsciously said the words out loud.
His thoughts returned to the exhibition.
She would be impressed. Of that he was certain. She, and women like her. It was inconceivable that she was the only one-the only one who could recognize a hero. The only one who might want a pure, unsullied union-a union of souls.
Olbricht withdrew his shaking hand from the painting.
“I can make this better… better still,” he muttered. “Much, much better.”
He lifted his palette and inspected the brighter colors.
It must be a bolder work, a more challenging work, a work that reflected not only Pipara's inner strength-but his own.
49
THEY WERE SEATED BESIDE one of the Belvedere Sphinxes. A great wedge of snow had collected between the statue's stone wings, and her expression suggested wounded pride. Beyond the sunken hedge gardens and frozen fountains, the lower palace was shrouded in a nacreous winter mist.
Clara's mood was congruent with the landscape: frigid and unforgiving. They had barely spoken since leaving the Weisses’ house.
“Your father was very understanding,” said Liebermann, softly.
“He had to be civil,” said Clara. “He accepted your apology because he doesn't want to cause any arguments. Especially now.”
“Is he angry with me, then?
“Max, I am angry with you.”
Liebermann sighed, and looked down at his shoes. “It was important, Clara. Extremely important.”
“I'm sure it was… But so was going to the opera with my family. You ruined the evening. For all of us.”
Liebermann raised his hands in the air, as if beseeching the Sphinx to support him. “The Magic Flute is the key. I had to let Inspector Rheinhardt know immediately.”
“Did you? It couldn't have waited for an hour or two?”
“No. I have seen what this madman does. People's lives are at risk.”
“Has he struck again, then, this madman of yours?”
“No, he hasn't. But-”
Clara cut in, “Then it could have waited!” She managed to contain her anger for a few moments before it boiled over again.
“And why were you late for dinner yesterday?”
“I had a fencing lesson.”
The lie came all too easily.
“I thought your lessons were in the morning?”
“Signore Barbasetti was indisposed last week.” Liebermann spoke in an even voice, all the time staring into the Sphinx's face. Her expression seemed to change from wounded pride to disapproval. “We had rescheduled the lesson for yesterday evening. Unfortunately, I got rather overinvolved… and forgot the time.”
Clara shook her head. “And what does that tell us about your… your attitude?”
Liebermann was somewhat taken aback by this curious question. “I'm sorry?”
He turned to face Clara, whose dark eyes now seemed unusually penetrating.
“I remember,” she began slowly, as if the act of remembering were hard. “I remember you once said that everything means somethingeverything we do, however small: slips of the tongue, minor accidents, not being able to find things… So what does forgetting our dinner engagement mean?”
Liebermann felt as if the earth had shifted. He had underestimated her. She was more than just pretty, amusing Clara-a young woman from the right kind of family, with the right kind of background, his fiancee, a future wife. She had depths, some of which neither he- nor anybody, perhaps-would ever know, and a basic, inalienable right to be happy on her own terms. She had many faults, but at least she was honest, which was more than he could say of himself at that moment.
“Well?” Clara insisted.
Liebermann knew what he must do-and the mere thought of it brought him close to the edge of an inner precipice. Darkness and despair were aching to swallow him.
50
HERR BEIBER SHOWED NO signs of anxiety or discomfort. He seemed perfectly content to be lying on a hospital divan, following the young doctor's injunction to say-without censorship-anything that might come into his head. Indeed, it seemed to Liebermann that the accountant was enjoying himself.
“I can remember, one morning-about a month or so ago, just before the snow started falling-I was standing outside the Schonbrunn Palace.” Beiber raised his hand and let it fall onto his stomach, making a loud slapping sound. “It was very early. The mist had only just lifted, and I knew-I just knew-that she was still asleep. I imagined her, slumbering in a gilded four-poster bed, her sweet nose pressed into soft, downy pillows. Now, at that moment I saw this fellow making his way toward me-a musician, carrying a cello on his back. And it struck me, all at once, that it would be a truly wonderful gesture to arrange a little concert-so that she might wake to the strains of some beautiful love song. There's a famous, oft-quoted line, by an English author: If music be the food of love, play on…”
“Shakespeare,” said Liebermann.
“Is it?
“Yes. Twelfth Night.”
“Perhaps I saw it at the Court Theater. To be honest, I can't remember. Anyway, I thought it a most agreeable sentiment, so I raised my hand and the cellist halted. I asked him if he would be kind enough to play a love song, for the Archduchess Marie-Valerie. He was an odd fellow… something about him… Oh, it doesn't matter. He went to move off and I begged him to wait a moment. ‘I'll make it worth your while,’ I said. ‘Naturally.’ He didn't respond. ‘What shall it be?’ I asked. ‘Two krone?’ I thought it a generous offer-but the fellow didn't budge. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘let's call it three kronen.’ Still-no response. ‘Four, five, ten?’ Still nothing. So, more out of curiosity than anything else, I offered him twenty, then fifty, and finally, one hundred krone. And do you know what? He still didn't accept. Instead, he said: ‘The Archduchess won't be able to hear.’ I disagreed. ‘My good man’-I said-‘it's a very still, quiet morning. The cello has a full, deep voice-of course she will be able to hear.’ He shook his head. ‘I can assure you,’ he said, ‘she won't. This is the summer palace-there's no one home.’ And then he walked off. It wasn't empty, of course. The fool was totally wrong. She was in the palace- I knew it!”
A note of petulance had crept into his final exclamation. But he sighed, pulled at his vibrant orange-yellow beard, and continued, speaking more calmly now.
“Such a shame… If he had been more of a game fellow, it would have been a glorious way for her to wake. Those sweet eyelids, still heavy with sleep, fluttering open. Her head turning, to hear better the swe
et melody… she would have known that it was me, of course.”
He closed his eyes and blissfully contemplated the imaginary royal chamber.
“Herr Beiber,” said Liebermann. “If you were… united, with the Archduchess Marie-Valerie, how do you think you would spend your time together? What would you do?”
“That is an interesting question, Herr Doctor,” said the accountant, “and one to which I have devoted much consideration. You will forgive me, however, if I correct your language slightly. It is somewhat misleading. The question is not if-but when. When the Archduchess Marie-Valerie and I are united, how shall we choose to spend our time together?”
“Very well,” said Liebermann.
“We shall take walks. We shall go to concerts. We shall read poetry. We shall hold hands. I shall spend whole days gazing into her soft, compassionate eyes. I shall comb her hair. We shall talkendlessly-about our miraculous love, and we shall tell and retell the story of our coming together.”
Herr Beiber licked his lips and continued to enumerate.
“I shall fill her pen with ink when she wishes to write letters. I shall open doors for her when she wishes to pass from one room to the next. I shall give her roses…”
Herr Beiber went on in this vein for some time; the life that he envisaged for himself as the Archduchess's consort was curiously sterile. It was nothing more than a series of frozen tableaux: tiny gestures of affection and tired romantic motifs.
Liebermann coughed in order to interrupt the mundane litany.
“Herr Beiber.” He paused and looked down at the freckled bald patch. “I am sorry, but… What of erotic feelings?”
“What of them?”
“You have not mentioned them.”
“Why should I? I am in love with the Archduchess. Have I not made myself clear?”
