by Frank Tallis
“What?”
“I have never felt that… that I could not live without her, that we are soul mates, that we were destined to meet and that we have been drawn together by a higher power.”
“Maxim, what are you talking about? You don't believe in any of those things: the soul, destiny, a higher power.”
Liebermann shook his head. “It's difficult to explain… but talking to Herr Beiber has underscored the deficiencies of our relationship. I have never loved Clara improvidently, wildly-and that is how it should be.” He paused for a moment, and repeated his last words, more to himself than to his companion. “That is how it should be.”
The door opened and the waiter entered. He placed the bottle on the table, and made a preternaturally discreet exit.
Kanner filled their glasses again.
“Max, forgive me for being so blunt, but as your friend…” Liebermann gestured that he should continue. “Is there someone else?”
“No!” Liebermann's denial was far too strong and even in Kanner's inebriated state his suspicion was aroused. Something of his clinical sensitivity had survived the evening's excesses and he scrutinized his companion more closely.
“These things happen, Max.” Kanner's tone was forgiving. “If there is someone else…”
Miss Lydgate, sitting in the window seat of the Natural History Museum. Her flaming hair in the darkness. Rocks and gems surrounding her-sparkling, like stars in the firmament.
“No,” Liebermann said again. “There is no one else.”
He snatched up his glass and gulped down his plum brandy. It was rough and astringent-almost caustic.
“What are you going to do?” Kanner asked.
“What can I do? I have no choice. I will have to end our engagement.”
“Max, you need to think about this.”
“I have thought about it, Stefan. I've thought about it day and night. In fact, I've thought of little else since the spring.”
“Then why didn't you say anything before?”
“The opportunity never seemed to present itself. I almost said something to you when we dined last at the Bristol.”
“But that was months ago.”
“Yes, I know.”
Kanner bit his lower lip. “And I thought I had problems.”
They talked into the early hours until the conversation became desultory and incoherent. At some point Liebermann must have fallen into a fitful sleep, for he woke with a start-and discovered that the chair opposite was empty. He turned his head and saw Kanner lying on the sofa. He was evidently not asleep, for he was singing quietly to himself. “O heiliges Band der Freundschaft treuer Bruder…” Oh holy Bond of Friendship of true Brothers…
Kanner possessed an untrained tenor voice, yet the melody possessed an unmistakable sweetness and clarity.
“Stefan?”
Kanner opened one eye. “Ah, Max!” It was as though he had not been expecting to see his friend seated at the table.
“Is that Mozart?”
Kanner smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “What?”
“That song. Is it Mozart?”
“I… er… I have no idea.”
“It sounded like Mozart.”
“Well, perhaps it is.”
“Where did you hear it?”
Kanner seemed inexplicably embarrassed. “I don't know… must have picked it up from somewhere. I really don't know.” He raised himself up from the sofa and winced. “Oh, my head. What time is it?”
“Three o'clock.”
“I have a clinic in five hours.”
“No, you don't-it's Sunday morning.”
“You know, Max, I had a most curious dream. I dreamt that you said
… you said that you were going to break off your engagement with Clara.”
Liebermann threw some coins onto the table. “Come on, Stefan. Get up. We have outstayed our welcome.”
56
RHEINHARDT STARED INTO THE mirror. In the reflected distance stood a short man wearing a soft cap and a paint-spattered smock.
“And how, Herr Olbricht, does one become a member of the Eddic Literary Association?”
“You are invited.”
“By whom?”
“The president, Baron von Triebenbach. Any member can nominate interested parties; however, it is the president who has the final say. It is he who extends the invitation.”
Rheinhardt turned. “And who nominated you, Herr Olbricht?”
“I am proud to say that it was none other than the president himself.”
The artist was unable to suppress a self-satisfied smile. Two rows of stunted uneven teeth made a brief appearance. Rheinhardt approached a large unfinished canvas that was leaning up against the wall. It showed a man with long yellow hair, plunging a sword into the neck of a dragon. Red-black blood spurted out between broken metallic scales.
“Siegfried?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Of course.”
The inspector twisted the points of his mustache and tested their sharpness with the soft pad of his forefinger.
“How did you and the baron become acquainted?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Through the kind intercession of my patron, Baroness Sophie von Rautenberg. She was of the opinion that I would be inspired by the poetry and stories of the Edda.”
“And were you?”
“Most certainly. Immersion in the Eddic tradition has completely revitalized my art.”
“Did you study at the academy, Herr Olbricht?”
Olbricht's face tightened. Rheinhardt noticed that the lines around his mouth were particularly marked.
“No, I didn't. They…” He seemed flustered for a moment and his eyes searched the room nervously. “I am self-taught.” Then, somewhat defensively, he added, “There has always been a demand for my work.”
“Do you have a dealer?”
“Yes. Ulrich Lob; however, his gallery is quite small and he's only interested in architectural drawings-St. Stephen's, the Hofburg, the town hall, that sort of thing. Almost all my substantial works have been commissioned by my patron's circle of friends.”
“You are most fortunate, Herr Olbricht. There must be very few artists in Vienna who have the support of such a devoted champion.”
“That is very probably true. Nonetheless…” Olbricht paused. “There are also few artists in Vienna to whom their patrons owe such a debt of gratitude.” Rheinhardt inspected the artist's face more closely. It was distinctly batrachian. His nose seemed unfinished, and his eyes were set too far apart.
“Oh?”
With what appeared to be genuine reluctance, Olbricht muttered, “When I was a young man, I… saved Von Rautenberg's life.”
“Did you really?” said Rheinhardt, nodding to encourage further disclosure. But the artist did not respond. Instead, he wiped some brushes on his smock and dropped them into a bottle of turpentine. “You are too modest, Herr Olbricht. Other men would seize such an opportunity for self-aggrandizement.”
“It was many years ago.”
“How many?”
“Twenty or so.”
“And what were the circumstances?”
The artist chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. “Bosnia-Herzegovina-the campaign of 1878. In those days I was a foot-rag Indian.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“An infantryman. Von Rautenberg was our commanding officer.”
“And how did you come to save his life?”
“There had been some skirmishes with small groups of insurgents. Not very well organized. Even so, it was necessary to undertake daily patrols. It was early evening and we were in woodland going down to a river.” Olbricht indicated the gentle gradient in the air with a movement of his hand. “The baron insisted that he should lead the party. A more junior officer could have done the job-but that was what Von Rautenberg was like: never one to shirk responsibility-a military man of the old school. If only we had more men like Von Rautenberg today, this empire of ours would
be a power to be reckoned with.” Olbricht crossed his arms with unusual vehemence. “I noticed some movement among the trees and acted-more from nerves, or instinct perhaps, than intention. I can't honestly say I was being courageous. Still, I was very young-eighteen or thereabouts. I can remember pushing the baron down, the sound of gunfire and losing consciousness. When I awoke, I was being attended by the doctor. A bullet had grazed my head.” Olbricht raised his hand and stroked his right temple to show the bullet's trajectory. “It went straight into a silver birch-just where the baron had been standing. I thought I'd be in a military hospital for a few days and then back with my regiment. But it wasn't to be… I suffered from dizziness, nausea, and headaches-terrible, blinding headaches.” He winced at the recollection. “Sometimes my vision blurred. It was impossible to continue. In due course I was discharged on medical grounds.”
“You returned to Vienna?”
“Yes. While convalescing, I had formed the habit of sketching-pen-and-ink drawings of men in the infirmary. The doctors said I had a talent.”
Rheinhardt returned his attention to the unfinished canvas of Siegfried slaying the dragon. A subtle change in his expression indicated that he found the image quite pleasing.
“It needs much more work, of course,” said the artist.
“Yes,” said Rheinhardt, nodding his head and pulling at his chin. “Even so, an arresting image.”
“There is something about Siegfried's posture that is not quite right,” said Olbricht. “It does not suggest sufficient strength and power… the way his left knee is buckling. I thought that this detail would make the figure seem more animated, but I fear that it has only succeeded in making him appear weak.”
“No, not at all,” said Rheinhardt. “Fafner is a terrible adversary. One would expect even the greatest hero to falter during such an encounter.”
Olbricht was flattered by the inspector's evident pleasure. “I will be including this work in my next exhibition, Inspector. If you wish to come, you would be most welcome. It opens next week.” Olbricht walked over to a battered chest, his feet sounding a hollow knock on the bare floorboards. He lifted the lid and removed a small poster, which he handed to Rheinhardt.
The image was simple: an ancient Germanic god, most probably Wotan, holding his spear aloft. Heavy Gothic script set large announced the title of the exhibition: Olbricht-Our Heroes and Legends. “It will be at the Hildebrandt Gallery on Karntner Strasse,” the artist added.
“Thank you,” said Rheinhardt. “May I bring a friend?”
“Of course.”
Rheinhardt folded the poster and slid it gently into his breast pocket.
“I cannot help but notice, Herr Olbricht, that you are very fond of operatic subjects.”
“The baroness has many friends in the Richard Wagner Association.”
“Are you ever asked to paint scenes from operas other than those by Wagner?”
“Some: Der Freischutz and Euryanthe. And earlier this year a concert violinist wanted a scene from Fidelio as a present for his wife.”
“Have you ever been asked to depict any scenes from Mozart?” asked Rheinhardt.
“No,” Olbricht replied. The syllable dropped into a pool of silence. Their stares locked together but Olbricht's blank expression showed no sign that he understood why Rheinhardt had asked him that particular question. Gradually his features softened. “No,” he said again, with a minute shake of the head. “No one has ever asked. Although I doubt that I would enjoy such a commission. I am convinced that German opera is most successful when it addresses romantic or epic themes.”
Rheinhardt had been ready to observe some small sign: a flinch, a blink, a pause-restless, fidgeting fingers. The kind of sign that his friend, young Doctor Liebermann, was in the habit of identifying as significant. But there was nothing unusual about Olbricht apart from his amphibian-like features.
Reverting to more traditional methods of investigation, with which he felt more comfortable, Rheinhardt patted his coat pocket and withdrew a small notebook and a stub of pencil.
“I wonder, Herr Olbricht,” he began. “Can you remember what you were doing on the morning of Monday the sixth of October?”
57
PROFESSOR FOCH EXCHANGED HIS frock coat for a quilted black smoking jacket.
His supper had been frugal-nothing more than a small portion of goulash. He had decided to forgo the pleasure of Frau Haushofer's impressive but very sweet salzburger nockerln with cassis sauce because he had been suffering from borborygmus of late and had come to the conclusion that he must be eating too much.
Frau Haushofer was a conscientious woman, and when the nockerln was returned to the kitchen, she immediately left her station by the stove and went up to the dining room to ask if everything had been to the professor's satisfaction. Foch was not disposed to provide her with an explanation. After all, she was only a member of his household staff. Rising from the table, he stated frostily that she had given him no cause for complaint. Foch instructed his butler that he was not to be disturbed for the rest of the evening-except in the event of a medical emergency-and then, quitting the dining room, he beat a hasty retreat to his study.
Foch closed the study door, clasped his hands behind his back, and began to pace. As he did so, he occasionally muttered to himself. In spite of his earlier abstinence, these vocalizations were accompanied by a grumbling commentary emanating from his intestines.
After much toing and froing the agitated professor came to a halt in front of a small line drawing. It depicted “The Wounded Man”-a form of instructive surgical illustration that had become popular from medieval times onward.
Foch rocked backward and forward on the balls of his feet. As he did so, the floorboards emitted a querulous squeak.
The figure in the drawing looked like a fugitive from hell: a soul condemned to the most appalling mortifications of the flesh. Naked except for a genital pouch, he stood with one knee bent and one hand turned toward the onlooker. His body was little more than a pincushion: every part of his anatomy had been ripped, torn, punctured, or lacerated by a weapon drawn from a vast and unusually comprehensive armory. A short sword jutted out from his forehead, a knife from his cheek, and a massive hammer hung from a deep gash in his upper arm. The trapezius muscle had been sliced through by a sabre.
Foch scrutinized the wounds, and considered the excruciating pain that such injuries might cause.
In imitation of Christ, the Wounded Man's side had been pierced by a spear, and numerous arrowheads were embedded in his knotted thighs. Foch took a step closer. The hand that had been turned toward the onlooker was, in fact, hanging loosely from the arm, connected only by a thin threadlike tendon. The wrist had been slit, exposing a circle that represented the truncated main artery. Curiously, the Wounded Man's expression was ambiguous. There was something about his raised eyebrow and crooked mouth that suggested amusement-even pleasure.
The walls of Professor Foch's study were lined with books; not just ordinary books of the sort one might discover in the personal library of any university professor. Among the usual technical works, histories, biographies-and classics such as The Iliad, The Edda, The Nibelungenlied, Goethe, and Shakespeare-were several tomes of considerable age and value. Foch had been an enthusiastic collector since his student days, and through a combination of shrewdness, perspicacity, and luck he had acquired many antiquarian volumes, mostly of scientific and medical writings.
In a glass case below the line drawing of the Wounded Man was Foch's most valued possession: a thick book, opened to display an engraved frontispiece. It was an original edition of De curtorum chirurgia per insitionem (“On the Surgery of the Mutilated” by Grafting) by the sixteenth-century Italian, Gaspare Tagliacozzi. Within its dry, disintegrating pages, Tagliacozzi had described an inventive procedure for the reconstruction of human noses: this particular operation had acquired considerable contemporary relevance in Vienna, where syphilis had become rife and every sixth house
was occupied by a doctor whose brass plate proclaimed him a “Specialist for Skin and Venereal Diseases.” Syphilis often damaged the nose, and because one of Foch's specialties was nasal surgery, acquisition of a biblical scroll could not have afforded him more satisfaction than did his ownership of De curtorum chirurgia.
Contemplation of this treasure had the immediate effect of calming Foch's agitation. The professor lifted the lid of the display case, inhaled the book's musty perfume, and smiled. It was as sweet as a flower. Then, closing the lid, he turned and walked over to his desk. An electric lamp made an oblong inset of red leather glow with incarnadine fury.
It must be done… Carpe diem, carpe diem.
Taking his seat, he pressed his fingers together and allowed them to bounce on his puckered lips.
Enough is enough.
Foch had been wondering what to do for some time. Since receiving the letter of reprimand from the dean, a reservoir of bile had been collecting in his stomach. It was this, most probably, that accounted for the professor's digestive problems. But he was not a very insightful man. He did not look inward often, fearful, perhaps, of what he might discover.
Earlier that year he had attended one of Professor Freud's Saturday lectures on the subject of psychoanalysis. But he had found the content insufferable: all that talk of repressed sexual urges and phallic symbols-it was obscene. He had registered his objection by storming out, making as much noise as possible. The idea of lying on a couch and telling one's innermost secrets to a smug, self-satisfied Jew who was preoccupied with filth filled him with horror. Even so, Freud's insistence that early experiences have a profound impact on later development had lodged uncomfortably in his memory. Foch was dimly aware of the distant events that had shaped him: his impassive mother, the precocious girl who lived next door, the icy fingers of the Czech nursemaid sliding beneath the eiderdown.
It must be done… Carpe diem, carpe diem.
