by Frank Tallis
“Herr Losch,” said Liebermann, “I very much hope that you do not intend to proceed with tomorrow's ceremony.”
The venerable sighed and turned a ring on his finger.
“Herr Doctor Liebermann, I am indebted to you. But, in truth, I do not accept that we are in as much danger as you imagine. How would this Olbricht enter the temple? It is situated four stories beneath the earth! And although there will be many in attendance, we are all known to one another. We are as brothers. An intruder would be highly conspicuous.”
“Olbricht has an extraordinary knowledge of the sewers. There may be some entry point with which he is familiar.”
The venerable shook his head.
“I was party to the design of Elysium. There is no such thing. And even if there were, we would simply guard it, or seal it up! Herr Doctor, this Olbricht is only mortal. Yet you speak of him as if he were some supernatural being. He may be capable of monstrous acts-but he cannot walk through walls or become invisible.” The venerable's features hardened, reflecting a sudden resolve. “The inaugural meeting will take place as planned. And Prince Nadasdy will become an entered apprentice of the craft.”
Liebermann examined the venerable's face. The armature of rigid muscle around his jaw relaxed, and his resolute expression was replaced by a somewhat self-satisfied smile.
For some reason that Liebermann could not identify, Herr Losch seemed curiously unwilling to heed his warning. Liebermann felt frustrated-close to anger. He suppressed the urge to reach across the table and shake the old fool. What was wrong with him? Wasn't he troubled by the possibility of his own imminent demise-or, for that matter, the death of his Hungarian guest?
Liebermann found himself staring in mute incomprehension at the old man's enigmatic smile, and his mind was suddenly occupied by the image of a Sphinx. Once again he was reminded of the vast number of these mythical beasts that inhabited Vienna: crouching among sarcophagi in the museum, adorning the feet of lampposts, lining the paths of the Belvedere Gardens, squatting on Professor Freud's desk… All at once, he realized the nature of his error. He had entirely misjudged his appeal. The Masons were a secret society. His emphasis should not have been on the physical threat of death, but on the psychological threat of exposure!
“Herr Losch,” said Liebermann calmly, “I am most impressed by your courage and resolve. However, I beg you to consider: what if I am correct? Suspend your disbelief for a moment and contemplate what might happen if some terrible harm does befall Prince Nadasdy? There will be a full murder inquiry. Eventually, the police will find Elysium and all your activities will be revealed. Within days this place will be swarming with reporters from the Kronen-Zeitung, the Tagblatt, and the Freie Presse.”
A flicker of anxiety unsettled the venerable's calm features. His shoulders tensed.
“Yes… yes.” He gave a soft, purring hum of rumination. “That would be most unfortunate.”
“Everything that you hold dear will be sensationalized- subjected to unsympathetic public scrutiny. Such a scandal would probably herald the end of Freemasonry in Vienna. Surely, Herr Losch, you do not wish such a thing to happen during the span of your protectorate?”
The venerable raised his hands. The pitch of his voice communicated something close to desperation.
“But what do you suggest? What can I do?”
“Abandon the ritual.”
The venerable's expression snapped back to a mask of stubborn intransigence. “Never.”
“Then let me attend.”
“I beg your pardon?” said the venerable, tilting his head and leaning forward a little as if he were hard of hearing.
“Let me attend your ceremony,” said Liebermann softly. “If Olbricht does appear, I may be of some assistance: at least I will be able to recognize him. And if you are right, and he does not appear, then I give you my word that your secrets will be safe with me.”
The venerable assumed an expression that Liebermann associated with the ingestion of a particularly bitter pill.
“But that is impossible, Herr Doctor. You are not a Mason!”
Kanner, who had been sitting quietly throughout the exchange, coughed to attract the venerable's attention. “Master Losch?”
The venerable turned his head.
“The fundamental tenet of the Royal Art,” said Kanner, “is that all men are brothers and must be judged according to their good works. I am proud to call Doctor Liebermann my friend and honored to count him among my most esteemed colleagues. I trust him implicitly. Tomorrow's ceremony will be exceptional in so many ways… I beg you to give Herr Doctor Liebermann's request the most serious consideration.”
The venerable sighed and allowed his fingers to come together again.
“To allow a man who has links with the security office into Elysium is one thing. But to permit him to attend a ritual is altogether different. Herr Doctor Liebermann is evidently of good character and we have much to lose if his speculations prove to be correct. Moreover, it is incumbent upon me to take whatever measures are necessary to ensure the survival of the lodge… Brother Kanner, I promise that I shall give Doctor Liebermann's request the careful thought that it deserves.”
83
It was a glorious morning. Clara was seated on the terrace, next to the stone balustrade, from where she could enjoy the most spectacular alpine views. The sunlight was dazzling. So much so that she had to lower the brim of her hat to examine the snow-covered slopes. She took a deep breath-and felt quite dizzy: the air possessed the invigorating vitality of champagne.
Clara had already taken a bath in the hot springs and was feeling quite virtuous. However, she had decided to abandon the lettuce and buttermilk diet prescribed by Doctor Blaukopf, which seemed to be doing her no good at all. Besides, she was singularly unimpressed by Doctor Blaukopf. How could she respect a man who failed to notice the stains on his necktie and hunched his shoulders? Like all medical men, she reflected, his priorities were entirely wrong.
When the waiter arrived, she realized that the fresh air had sharpened her appetite, and so she ordered cinnamon coffee, freshly baked Kaisersemmel rolls, plum preserve, honey, eggs-and a little fruit.
While she was waiting for her breakfast to arrive, Clara observed the marchioness stepping through the open veranda doors. She was wearing a long black dress buttoned up to the top of her neck and had a fur pelt wrapped around her shoulders. Clara recognized the pelt from the previous evening. One of its extremities was decorated with a diminutive feral face with needle-sharp yellow teeth and black glass eyes. Clara marveled at how young the marchioness looked-a quite extraordinary phenomenon, considering that Aunt Trudi had established that the woman must be at least thirty-two.
The marchioness glided past.
“Buon giorno,” she said softly, managing the strange accomplishment of being both polite and indifferent at the same time.
Clara bowed, then wondered whether she had committed a social indiscretion. Had she bowed properly? Had she bowed too low? Should she have bowed at all? Perhaps she should have merely returned the greeting. She would consult Aunt Trudi later.
The waiter arrived with a tray piled with breakfast things. Clara broke the Kaisersemmel in half. The warm bread steamed in the cold air and emitted a fragrance like ambrosia. She smeared one of the pieces with creamy yellow butter and heaped on a generous mound of preserves that seemed to glisten from within like amethyst. When she bit through the crust, an explosion of sweet pleasure rippled through her body. This was not a delight that she was prepared to forgo again, irrespective of medical opinion.
As she contemplated the nearest summit, memories of the previous evening surfaced in her mind. She had been playing cards in the games room with Aunt Trudi and they had been joined by a young cavalry officer called Lieutenant Schreker. She had found his conversation most entertaining. He was witty, amusing. He had attended countless balls and seemed to know hordes of important society people. And how romantic that he should be con
valescing after receiving an almost fatal sabre wound in Transylvania. His regiment had suppressed a revolt organized by some renegade Hungarian aristocrats. It all sounded so very exciting.
How different he was from other men she had met. How different he was from Max, who was always talking about the hospital- patients and illness. Psychoanalysis!
While they had been playing a round of taroc, her feet had accidentally come into contact with Lieutenant Schreker's boots. She had blushed and looked down at her hand, but before doing so she had caught a glimpse of Schreker's expression. He had been smiling. It was a wicked smile, but at the same time, she had to admit, he looked devilishly handsome. Clara conjured in her mind an image of the dashing Uhlan. How smart he looked in his uniform-the star on his collar, his polished spurs, and those blue breeches that clung tightly to his long rider's legs… Even though she was alone, Clara blushed again.
A few more early risers had wandered out onto the terrace. Frau Gast and her daughter Constance; the wretched little banker who had taken an unwelcome interest in Aunt Trudi; Herr Bos, who suffered from a rare respiratory disorder and constantly coughed into his handkerchief; and the eccentric English professor (who attempted German with great enthusiasm but was at all times utterly incomprehensible).
Clara found herself gazing at the open veranda door and wishing that Lieutenant Schreker would be the next person to step out. And that was exactly what happened. Her heart was suddenly beating faster-and unaccountably she found herself a little breathless.
The handsome officer stood tall and straight-backed, enjoying the spectacular view. Turning to find a seat, he spotted Clara instantly, smiled, and marched across the terrace.
“Good morning, gnadige fraulein.”
“Good morning, Lieutenant Schreker. I trust you slept well?”
“Very well, and what a beautiful morning it is.”
“Yes-very beautiful.”
The sun had burnished the officer's blond hair.
“May I join you for breakfast?” Clara glanced at the open doors. The officer read her thoughts and, wary of impropriety, added, “I presume your splendid aunt will be along shortly.”
Clara raised her eyebrows, parted her lips, and-assuming her most flirtatious expression-replied, “I hope not.”
84
Rheinhardt sat in his office at the Schottenring station. There was nothing more to be done. The palace had been informed and a number of plainclothes officers were keeping the Masonic charity Humanitas under surveillance. He would soon join them.
The inspector absentmindedly opened his desk and discovered a bottle of slivovitz and a bag of marzipan mice. He had purchased the mice some time ago as a treat for his daughters but had forgotten to take them home. Unable to resist, he took one of the mice from the bag and was about to put it into his mouth when he noticed the creature's expression. It was a little masterpiece of the confectioner's art, capturing exactly the murine equivalent of resignation. Rheinhardt assumed this was intentional. Thus, children could bite their heads off with equanimity, knowing that each mouse had already accepted its fate.
Rheinhardt wished he could do the same.
There is nothing more to be done.
Suddenly he was gripped by a superstitious sentiment that his fate and that of the mouse had become connected: if he ate the mouse, he would be colluding with the forces of destiny. He did not like the idea that things were preordained and the feeling of impotence that came with it. He dropped the mouse back into the bag and hoped that the animal's reprieve would be translated into corresponding good fortune for him.
Aware of the irrationality of his behavior, Rheinhardt imagined the censorious gaze of his friend Liebermann. The young doctor could not abide superstition, and the inspector felt quietly ashamed of his desperate act.
Earlier, he had tried calling Liebermann on the telephone. He had spoken to Ernst, the doctor's serving man, who had not been informed of his master's whereabouts. Rheinhardt had then tried the hospital, where he learned that Doctor Liebermann was not expected until the following day. Finally, he had asked Haussmann to take a look in one or two of Liebermann's favorite coffeehouses.
It was not necessary to speak to Liebermann. Yet Rheinhardt had been hoping that his friend might be able to provide him with one last crucial insight. Of course, this was, like pardoning the mouse, another sign of desperation. If Liebermann had anything more to say, he would surely have contacted him. Liebermann was hardly likely to forget the significance of the date. Even so, Rheinhardt was haunted by a curiously persistent need to speak to Liebermann-to go over Olbricht's diary entry just one more time.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
It was Haussmann. “Sorry, sir. No luck.”
“Very well,” said Rheinhardt. “We had better get going.”
85
Liebermann stood beside Stefan Kanner, attempting-somewhat unsuccessfully-to feign familiarity with the ceremony that was taking place. After much deliberation, the venerable had given him special dispensation to attend. But he had stipulated that the outsider should be present only for the initiation, and that he would not be permitted to mingle with any of the brethren prior to the opening of formal proceedings. Moreover, the old man had demanded that Liebermann should take a solemn oath of secrecy. He must never reveal to anyone-especially his associates in the security office- what he was about to see. Consequently, Liebermann had been confined to a small antechamber. While he had been waiting there, Kanner had given him notice of what to expect and had provided him with clothing suitable for the occasion. It was only after the temple was almost full that Kanner guided Liebermann to their designated places among the most junior members of the fraternity.
An introductory ritual was in progress, during which Herr Losch and his sergeants seemed to be reciting from memory a kind of Masonic catechism. In addition, there was a lot of general activity: the great bronze doors kept opening and closing as high-ranking officials departed and returned.
Herr Losch was much dignified by his office. He occupied a big wooden throne and wore around his neck a V-shaped collar of red silk. Attached to the bottom of the collar was a large letter G, superimposed upon a circle of radiant gold spokes. A small table covered in scarlet drapery had been erected to the right of the throne, which permitted the venerable to use his gavel. When the venerable spoke, the rich acoustics of the subterranean temple imbued his voice with otherwise absent gravitas.
Liebermann was not registering the words of the introduction. He was still somewhat overwhelmed by the scale and design of Elysium. It reminded him of the Stadttempel-the synagogue where Clara had wanted to be married. (A stab of guilt made his heart palpitate.) The Stadttempel was a secret meeting place, built in less liberal times when laws enacted under Josef II had determined that all synagogues would be hidden from public view. The most striking similarity, though, was the ceiling, which-like the Stadttempel-was blue and studded with gold stars. Masonic symbology seemed to borrow extensively from the rabbinical tradition: an epic mural showed the Ark of the Covenant and Jacob's ladder ascending toward a letter from the Hebrew alphabet. Perhaps this was why Pan-German nationalists were so fond of the slur “Jew Mason.”
Although the temple was equipped with gas lamps, none of them had been lit. Instead, light was provided by numerous randomly distributed three-branch candlesticks. Unfortunately, Elysium was too cavernous to be fully illuminated by such modest means and Liebermann was troubled by the abundance of shadowy recesses. Each one could provide Olbricht with ample opportunity for concealment.
The venerable's voice sounded firm and resolute.
“Beloved brethren! The chief purpose of our work today is the reception of the seeker, Prince Nadasdy. He is present in the preparation room. He answered the questions propounded, and I ask the brother secretary to read these answers…”
The floor was tiled with slabs of white and black marble, like a chessboard, and in the middle
of the nave was a peculiar arrangement of three columns-Ionic, Doric, and Corinthian. A large altar candle had been placed on each of the capitals. Between the columns was a pictorial carpet, embroidered, with an array of mysterious images: pomegranates, a rough stone, the moon and the sun, a square and compasses.
Beyond the pillars, on the other side of the nave, Liebermann examined the congregation of Masons. They were all dressed in tailcoats, top hats, white gloves, and richly embroidered aprons. Some wore sashes, others V-shaped collars like the venerable. Everyone present possessed a sabre. Liebermann had asked Kanner why the brethren took weapons into their temple, and he had discovered that it was a tradition that embodied their egalitarian principles.
Back in the eighteenth century, Max, swords were used to signal nobility. Freemasons wore them to show that they were equals and to proclaim that greatness was a question of deed and character-not of birth.
Liebermann had been given a simple lambskin apron, the bib of which had been raised: a small modification of wardrobe that identified him as a novice. Kanner had made the same adjustment to his own dress.
The venerable was addressing two of his sergeants who had come forward. One of them was carrying a lamp and a large leather-bound volume.
“Brother Master of Ceremonies, you will now repair with the brother orator to the seeker, in order that this brother may make him more fully acquainted with the principles of our craft, and invite him to once again examine himself. If he stands to his decision to enter our craft, then lead him, deprived of his jewelry and outer clothing, according to the ancient usages of Freemasonry, to the gate of the temple.”
The two sergeants bowed, turned, and walked toward the bronze doors that swung open to facilitate their passage. Above the entrance the All-Seeing Eye surveyed the throng with transcendent disinterest. As the two men dissolved into the gloom, the sound of a pipe organ filled the air. The combination of stops that the organist had employed created a sound similar to that of a small band of recorders. The chords progressed like a hymn, and the transparent, luminous harmonies, suffused with gentle, compassionate warmth, declared the unmistakable handiwork of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. The company began to sing: “Lasst uns mit geschlungnen Handen, Bruder, diese Arbeit enden…” With clasped hands, brethren, let us end this work…
