by Frank Tallis
Enough is enough.
He would write an open letter to the Zeitung, explaining his predicament. In due course, common sense would prevail, public opinion would rally in his support, and the dean-obsequious lickspittle hypocrite that he was-would be obliged to resign. This plan of action had been slowly solidifying as it curdled in the gentle but persistent heat of his own ruminative malice.
In preparation for his assault, Foch had laid out some paper, a gold fountain pen, and several volumes and periodicals. He would begin his argument by making an appeal to the sensible gentlemen of Vienna, calling upon the highest scientific authority for support. He reached for his first edition of Darwin's The Descent of Man, and Selection in Relation to Sex. Removing a silk bookmark, he opened the volume and began to translate the stately English prose: The chief distinction in the intellectual powers of the two sexes is shewn by man's attaining to a higher eminence in whatever he takes up, than can women-whether requiring deep thought, reason or imagination, or merely the use of the senses and hands… Man has ultimately become superior to woman.
Foch grunted, and opened an old copy of an English medical journal called The Lancet. It was more than a decade old but he had saved it, knowing that a particular passage would one day prove very useful. The female is undoubtedly from a developmental point of view an animal in which the evolutionary process has been arrested or, more accurately speaking, diverted from the general to the particular, for special reproductive purposes, before the culminating point could be reached…
The professor picked up his pen and began writing. We live in troubled times. The commonsense values that have prevailed for centuries are now under attack, and nowhere is this folly more evident than in matters concerning the Women's Question. It is my belief that the admission of female medical students into the medical faculty of the University of Vienna is a mistake, and a matter in need of urgent review…
After justifying his position with reference to Darwin and various evolutionary theorists, Foch proceeded to give an account of several experimental studies conducted by Doctor Heydemann that showed that women were inferior in the senses of smell, taste, sight, and hearing. He then cited the work of many celebrated neurologists who had found a relationship between brain size and intelligence. It was quite absurd to expect the much smaller female brain to function as well as its larger male counterpart. Women were simply physically incapable of becoming good doctors. There are those who maintain that such intellectual differences as exist between men and women can be accounted for because of social inequalities. That is to say, women generally-in this and past ages-have received little in the way of education. But there is considerably less truth to this argument than is generally supposed. In the Periclean era in ancient Greece, women such as Aspasia were highly cultured, and counted themselves as disciples of the great philosophers. Sappho, Hypatia, and many others prove the existence of a class of women to whom the religions of antiquity had given a position of unqualified honor. Yet in those times, and in all subsequent times, the education of women has failed to have an impact on their eminence in the grand scheme of human endeavor. Their gender has not produced one great artist, author, musician, inventor, or scientist. As the traditional German proverb has long informed us: Long skirts, short senses.
Foch sat back in his chair, pleased with his invective.
58
THE LANDLORD'S DAUGHTER HAD come out from behind the counter and was standing proudly, almost defiantly, in the middle of the floor. For the regular patrons of Cafe Haynau this was a time-honored ritual. The audience, mostly military men from the barracks, began to clap and stamp their feet. The dense fog of cigar and cigarette smoke responded to the sudden movement, revolving into marbled, ghostly pillars. Mathilde pushed forward her plentiful cleavage, acquiring in the act an unexpected statuesque grandeur. Unfortunately, her posturing provoked a coarse remark from a young ensign, and her fragile dignity disintegrated when she lashed out and cuffed his ear. The ensign's companions roared with laughter and encouraged Mathilde to strike him again. She declined the invitation and instead recovered her poise, appealing for silence by repeatedly pressing her palms down toward the floor. The high-spirited banter died down.
“This song,” she announced, “is called The White City of Rijeka. I learned it off a Croatian soldier-”
“And what did he learn off you?” shouted the ensign.
There was more laughter, and Mathilde raised a minatory finger. She signaled to the old accordion player, who squeezed the bellows of his instrument. A few wheezy chords of unsteady pitch escaped. Mathilde chose an arbitrary note and launched into the song. “Rika je bili grad mej dvima gorama” Rijeka is a white city between two mountains “Onaj ograjena hladnima vodama…” Surrounded by cold fountains… “Tan ta-na-na-na, ni-na ne-na”
She did not have a good voice, yet what she lacked in technique she compensated for with an abundance of dramatic gestures and expressions. Swishing her skirt, she rapped her clogs against the floorboards and mimed looking into the distance to see the mist-shrouded white city nestling in the gap between two imaginary peaks. In fact, she was also looking to see if she had attracted the attention of Lieutenant Hefner. She hadn't. The handsome Uhlan was glumly and determinedly contemplating a half-empty bottle of vodka. Disappointed, Mathilde made coquettish eyes at the regimental doctor, who-having drunk more than his usual two glasses of slivovitz- tapped his lap. This surprising invitation caused something of a stir among the members of the eighteenth, who had become accustomed to viewing the good doctor as a model of propriety and restraint.
Hefner was oblivious to this coup de foudre. He was totally self-absorbed, preoccupied. It had been an extraordinary day.
Early that morning, he had had to endure another interview with the ludicrous Inspector Rheinhardt. This interview had been even more irritating than the first. The old fool had droned on and on about the recent spate of murders, beginning with the slaughter of Madam Borek and the three girls. Then there had been other victims: a Czech stallholder, a black man.
All of them were killed with a sabre.
At regular intervals the policeman had paused and allowed the silence to condense. He had played with his mustache and eyed Hefner closely. It soon became plain that the inspector was no longer merely asking Hefner to assist him with his inquiries. He was communicating something much more serious. Hefner was a suspect.
What did the buffoon expect him to do? Break down and confess?
None of the inspector's tactics had been particularly successful. His habit of letting implications hang in the air was largely ineffective. The lieutenant was quite comfortable with unresolved silences. What really disquieted Hefner was the inspector's knowledge of his private affairs: his links with Von Triebenbach, the Richard Wagner Association, and the Eddic Literary Association (although, thankfully, the inspector seemed to have no idea that the latter was merely an expedient for the better concealment of Primal Fire). The inspector even seemed to know what operas he had seen. He had been impertinent enough to ask if Hefner had enjoyed Director Mahler's production of The Magic Flute. “Tan ta-na-na-na, ni-na ne-na
Tan ta-na-na-na, ni-na ne-na”
Ludka: he remembered her compliant flesh, the way she obediently knelt to receive him in her mouth, the way she would guide his hand to her cheek and look up at him with knowing eyes, understanding his pleasure. He remembered the satisfying report of his palm as it made violent contact with her young face, accompanied by the explosion of heat in his loins.
Stupid little slut… It was bound to happen some day.
Hefner forced himself to look at the chanteuse, who was now swinging her hips in front of the inebriated doctor and reaching out to toy with his curly black hair. She winked, gay syllables tripping off her tongue in a cascade of suggestive nonsense. “Tan ta-na-na-na, ni-na ne-na”
The interview with Rheinhardt had not been unduly long, and Hefner had treated the policeman with all the contempt he deserve
d. But the lieutenant had still been unable to get away in time for the morning drill, and Kabok had reprimanded him severely. Hefner had tried to explain the situation but the old martinet had given him what-for, his verbal lashing finally degenerating into a series of half-muttered execrations that made immoderate and audible use of words such as “whoring,” “syphilis,” and “shit for brains.” Hefner knew better than to respond. The humiliation was intolerable.
That evening he had gone to the opera, but had been unable to enjoy the performance. He had become obsessed with the notion that he was being followed, and that a particular sharp-featured young man was one of Rheinhardt's spies. He was on the brink of challenging the fellow when he thought better of it. What was the point? Besides, he knew that he would be able to lose the scoundrel in the crowd as it spilled out onto the Ringstrasse.
As Hefner left the Opera House, he was confident that he had achieved his objective. The youth was nowhere to be seen in the cloakroom and did not appear to be waiting in the foyer. But the uhlan had only got as far as Schillerplatz when, to his astonishment, he became painfully conscious of footsteps following close behind him. He turned around abruptly, expecting to see the sharp-featured young man, but was taken aback by the sight of a curious-looking gentleman in a fur coat and pongee suit. He was carrying a cane, the top of which was shaped in the likeness of a jaguar, and a monocle hung from his vest on a length of black ribbon. The gentleman's face was broad, and he sported an oriental drooping mustache and a small goatee beard. His eyes could barely be seen below the wide brim of his hat.
“Do I know you, sir?” asked Hefner.
The stranger took a few leisurely steps forward and smiled. A frigid smile that seemed more like a grimace.
“No.” His breath condensed in the frozen air. “But I believe that you are familiar-very familiar-with my sister.”
His accent was Hungarian.
“Your sister?”
“The countess? You remember the countess?”
Hefner shook his head.
The stranger then produced a string of colorful and quite shocking insults, each one delivered with an almost gleeful relish. Occasionally he would slip back into his native tongue-presumably because he could not find a German word sufficiently plosive to express the desired degree of opprobrium that his insult required. He spat out harsh consonants and flattened vowels. From this cataract of curses and maledictions the nature of the gentleman's accusation gradually became clear. Hefner had misled his kind, good-hearted sister, taken advantage of her, and in doing so had ruined her good reputation.
The eighteenth had been stationed in Hungary that summer at a godforsaken outpost on the banks of the Tisza. There had been absolutely nothing to do there, and Hefner had been forced to relieve his boredom with a few inconsequential assignations: a milkmaid, a doctor's wife… and yes, there had been a countess, a countess whose family had fallen upon hard times. What was her name?
That was it-Zaborszky.
Countess Borbala Zaborszky.
Hefner was in no mood for a confrontation of this kind. It had all been such a long time ago-he could hardly remember the woman.
“Look, my friend,” Hefner said, somewhat dismissively. “I think you have the wrong man.”
The stranger shook his head. “No. There has been no mistake.”
Languidly-almost lazily-he pulled at the fingers of his glove, stretching the material covering each digit in turn. Eventually the thin, adhesive material snapped off, contracting in the process. The stranger then raised the glove up, with its pathetic cluster of drooping, shriveled udders, and said, “Consider yourself slapped.”
A small group of well-dressed men had gathered close by. They too had probably been to the opera. The stranger's raised glove was enough to signal what was happening.
In matters of honor there were three categories of slur. The simple slight, the direct insult, and the blow or slap. The first two might be resolved without bloodshed-but not the third.
Hefner executed a brief bow, then he and Zaborszky exchanged the names of their seconds. The uhlan made his way back to the Cafe Haynau, where he found Renz and Trapp at their usual table. They were immediately dispatched to the Cafe Museum, instructed to liaise with the stranger's seconds: Doctor Joska Dekany and Herr Otto Braun. “Tan ta-na-na-na, ni-na ne-na”
Mathilde rotated her hips provocatively in front of the doctor's face. The men sitting at adjacent tables began to clap and yell. “Lipje su Bahtrh p drva kxleci Nego Ri fe injice v htmarah svkci” The girls from Bakar collecting wood for the fire Are more beautiful than the girls from Rijeka Sitting in solemn attire…
The door of the cafe swung open, and Renz and Trapp appeared. The smoke eddied around their feet and a few stray snowflakes followed them in.
“Well?” asked Hefner.
The two men slumped down and removed their caps. Snow had collected on their shoulders.
“Yes, all done,” Trapp replied.
“Where is it to be?”
“In a private room above Kryschinski's whorehouse.”
“What?” Hefner looked from Trapp to Renz, as if Trapp had declared himself a lunatic and could no longer be trusted.
“They insisted on an American duel,” said Renz.
“An American duel!” cried Hefner. “And you agreed?”
“When we left, you said anything-it was all the same to you.”
“God in heaven, I can't believe it!” said Hefner shaking his head. “An American duel…”
Trapp and Renz exchanged worried glances.
“Renz is right,” said Trapp. “You did say anything. It's what you always say.”
“But an American duel…”
A loud cheer went up, and the three men turned to see the busty chanteuse straddling the lap of the regimental doctor. “Tan ta-na-na-na, ni-na ne-na”
“Well,” said Hefner, “at least this time we won't be needing his services.”
59
“FASTER!”
The driver cracked his whip and yelled another imprecation at the horses. Inside, the portly inspector felt like a mariner caught in some dreadful storm, his little vessel being tossed from one wave to the next. Rheinhardt tried to peer out of the window but could see very little. Covered shop fronts and yellow gaslights flashed past. He gave up and closed his eyes. The vestigial tatters of an interrupted dream were still flapping around, incomprehensibly, in his mind.
A great ballroom, viewed from above.
Couples rotating in triple time beneath a glorious chandelier, each pair like cogwheels in a great machine, endlessly turning. And then a sentence, spoken by a pleasant, pensive, world-weary voice: “No one escapes The Eternity Waltz, my friend. As you will see, it goes on forever.”
The Eternity Waltz? What would Max make of that?
A pothole in the road made Rheinhardt's buttocks part company with the seat. He landed with a dull thump, which returned him, somewhat rudely, to the present. The carriage shook and Rheinhardt's forehead bumped against the glass. He cursed loudly.
Only twenty minutes earlier he had been fast asleep in a warm, comfortable bed. A tactile memory teased his peripheral nerves: his wife's soft, accommodating body, the reassuring feel of her breasts beneath the cotton of her nightdress. Something of her scent still lingered in his nostrils, as homely as freshly baked bread and as sweet as honeysuckle.
The telephone had rung out with unusual harshness. The rotating couples in his dream had spun into oblivion and he had sat bolt upright, staring into the shadows, his heart pounding as loudly and insistently as the kettledrum in a Brahms symphony. A sense of horror had overwhelmed him long before his critical faculties had engaged sufficiently to invest the impatient bell with meaning. Eventually, though, the horror connected with a name: Salieri.
The carriage slowed and came to a halt. Immediately, Rheinhardt opened the door and stepped down. The horses snorted violently and rapped the cobbles with their restive hooves. Flecks of foam had ap
peared on their steaming haunches. The driver leaped off his box and pressed some crystallized sugar between the lips of the nearest animal.
“Fast enough for you?”
“Yes,” said the inspector, bluntly.
“Another murder, is it?”
“I'm afraid so.”
“And here of all places.”
Rheinhardt looked across the deserted Neuer Markt, which was dominated by the Donner fountain. Nude figures, each of which represented a tributary of the Danube, lounged and stretched on its rim. The edifice was covered in a salty rime that sparkled like mica. The sky above was cloudless, and the stars looked as if they had been strewn across the firmament by a careless angel. The effect was one of negligent perfection.
One of the horses rocked its head from side to side, its bridle producing a silvery carillon.
“Nothing's sacred, eh?” added the driver.
Rheinhardt turned and looked upward. The Kapuzinerkirche was not an attractive building-it resembled a child's drawing of a house, with its steep triangular roof and few distinguishing features. An arched niche in the gable contained a figure carrying a crucifix, and below this was a simple arrangement of three windows and a porch. The lack of ornament suggested grim austerity-mortification and self-denial. Adjoining the church was a square-shaped annex, the entrance to which was a large half-open door. It led to the Habsburg crypt. A solitary constable stood outside, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands together.
Rheinhardt approached the young man and introduced himself.
The constable could barely respond. His teeth were chattering and a water droplet hung precariously from the end of his pointed, murine nose.
“You should stand inside,” said Rheinhardt with concern.
“But I've been given orders, sir.”
“No one will be wandering in off the street at this time. Come, now. If there are any questions, tell your seniors I insisted.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the constable. “You are most kind.”
