by Frank Tallis
“Take a look in those barrels.”
It was Rheinhardt. He was pointing to the other end of the room.
The barrels were very big, the size used by breweries to transport large quantities of beer. As Liebermann removed one of the lids, a mature loamy fragrance, almost fecal, rose up from inside. The barrel was full of mud: moist, dark earth.
“Mud?” said Liebermann.
“Yes, mud.”
“You think there is some connection?”
“There must be, surely.”
Liebermann replaced the lid.
“Do you know anything about this synagogue?” asked Rheinhardt.
“No,” Liebermann replied. The tone of his voice was slightly offended.
“The rabbi-Rabbi Seligman-has explained to me that this room has been locked for more than ten years. The key was lost. A few weeks ago the caretaker said that he could hear noises coming from inside. Unusual noises. In fact”-Rheinhardt paused and looked round the room-“he thought they were produced supernaturally. In due course the rabbi too heard the noises and called the police.”
“How did you get the door open?” Liebermann asked.
Rheinhardt pulled a bunch of skeleton keys from his pocket and rattled them in the air.
“Rabbi Seligman believes that this room has been used by a kabbalist, which I gather is some kind of Jewish sorcerer. Have you any idea what he’s talking about?”
“Yes,” replied Liebermann, “but only vaguely. Kabbalah is a form of Jewish mysticism, a hybrid of alchemy, astrology, and other vatic arts.”
“How on earth did this fellow manage to get all these things in here without being noticed?”
“Not by magic, I can assure you! The staff of the security office can’t be the only people in the world who know about skeleton keys.”
“The lock was stiff. It didn’t feel like it had been recently opened.”
“Then he must have lowered things through the skylight.” Liebermann looked up. “It would be a tight squeeze, but I think it’s possible.”
“Those barrels look too large to me.”
“All right, maybe the barrels have always been here.”
“And what if they haven’t?”
“Then the barrels would have been made up in this room, from parts that were small enough to be lowered through the skylight.”
“Wouldn’t that be very noisy?”
“You said the caretaker did hear noises.”
Rheinhardt made a sweeping gesture. “There’s so much, though. How could one man…?”
“He probably had an apprentice, like the one in Goethe’s poem!”
“Max, be serious.”
“I am being serious,” said Liebermann. “However, I see very little purpose in trying to establish their exact methods right now! Suffice it to say that we are supposed to consider the existence of this ‘laboratory’ magical. The pressing questions are, first, why would anyone trouble to construct a kabbalist’s lair? And second, do these barrels of mud link the former occupant-or occupants-of this room with the murders of Faust and Brother Stanislav? I have as yet no answer to the first, but I am already inclined to agree with you as regards the second.”
Haussmann had finished collecting samples and was packing envelopes and boxes into a leather case. When he had finished, he stood up and took another look at the disintegrating mermaid.
“Herr Doctor… what is this? I mean, it looks real.”
“Well, it is real in a sense,” said Liebermann. “It is probably made from the skeleton of a small monkey, human hair, and an exotic fish. In the eighteenth century there was much interest in fantastic creatures, and many strange and wonderful things began to appear in private collections. These exhibits were usually put together by impecunious medical students who were able to make a modest income by selling their handiwork to gullible members of the aristocracy.”
“It’s definitely a fake, then?”
Liebermann rolled his eyes. “Yes, Haussmann, it’s a fake!”
Rheinhardt joined his assistant and ran his finger around the rim of the jar. “Dust,” he said. “Thick dust! The caretaker started hearing noises in here about two weeks ago. These jars have been untouched for much longer than two weeks.”
Liebermann sidled up to Rheinhardt and said quietly, “Has it occurred to you that Rabbi Seligman and the caretaker might be unreliable witnesses? They could have done all this themselves-very easily-and then called the police.”
“Rabbi Seligman and the caretaker seemed genuinely shocked when I arrived. Moreover, there are many valuable objects in this room. If I am not mistaken, some of these books”-Rheinhardt tapped the nearest spines-“were printed in the sixteenth century, and Rabbi Seligman is not a wealthy man.”
“Sixteenth century, you say?”
“Indeed.”
“Why would anyone want the people of Vienna to believe that a magician-a Jewish magus-was casting spells in Leopoldstadt?”
“To produce wonderment?”
“Or fear?” Liebermann asked.
“Or contempt. Christians have always been suspicious of Jewish rituals.”
“You are thinking of the blood libel.”
“And Hilsner, who supposedly killed a Christian virgin for her blood,” Rheinhardt replied.
Liebermann took a scuffed leather volume from the shelf and allowed the pages to fall open. The paper was thick and maculated, and exuded a ripe mildewy fragrance. The text was in Latin. He flicked to the title page and read: De Arte Kabbalistica by Johannes Reuchlin.
40
“Furthermore,” said professor Freud, reading from his manuscript, “it is clear that the behavior of a child who indulges in thumb-sucking is determined by a search for some pleasure that has already been experienced and is now remembered. In the simplest case he proceeds to find this satisfaction by sucking rhythmically at some part of the skin or mucous membrane. It is also easy to guess the occasion on which the child had his first experiences of the pleasure that he is now striving to renew.” Freud paused to draw on his cigar. “It was the child’s first and most vital activity, his sucking at his mother’s breast, or at substitutes for it, that must have familiarized him with this pleasure. The child’s lips, in our view, behave like an erotogenic zone, and no doubt stimulation by the warm flow of milk is the cause of the pleasurable sensation.” Again Freud paused to draw on his cigar. He turned back a few pages to check something and then continued. “If the erotogenic significance of the labial region persists, then these same children when they grow up will have a powerful motive for drinking.” Freud pushed the cigar back between his lips, and his pout shrunk to form a tense annulus.
“And smoking,” Liebermann ventured.
“Of course-didn’t I just say that?”
“You said, ‘a powerful motive for drinking.’”
“And smoking.” The professor was insistent. “A telling failure to apprehend, don’t you think? You, a smoker, are resisting the deeper significance of your habit.”
Freud drew lustily on his cigar, producing a volcanic eruption of billowing cloud. Liebermann was fairly sure that it was Freud who had not finished his intended sentence (demonstrating resistances of his own) rather than he, Liebermann, who had unwittingly blocked the words from his own mind. However, Liebermann did not challenge Freud’s interpretation but simply bowed his head in deference to the great man’s perspicacity. Freud, pleased with both his observation and the compliance of his pupil, continued to read from his new work. On finishing the chapter, the two men discussed autoeroticism before turning to the lighter subject of the summer program at the opera, which had just been announced.
Most of the medical men in Freud’s circle were aware that their mentor was not particularly musical, a conspicuous deficiency in a city where even the cab drivers could whistle whole arias from memory. Therefore, Liebermann was not surprised to hear Freud express an opinion concerning Mozart’s The Magic Flute that Liebermann found so lacking in j
udgment as to be almost offensive.
“I went to see it last year. Director Mahler was conducting…,” said Freud, lighting yet another cigar. “It left me feeling rather disappointed. Some of the tunes are nice enough, but the whole thing rather drags, without any real individual melodies. I found the action ridiculous, the libretto insane, and it is simply not to be compared with Don Giovanni.”
“Indeed, they are quite different works-and must be considered accordingly; however, I believe The Magic Flute to be the more intriguing work, being closer in construction to a dream, and therefore more deserving of study and interpretation.”
“A dream? How so?”
“With respect, Professor, the insane libretto-as you so call it-is like the disconnected elements that compose the manifest content of a dream. It consists of symbols and distortions that disguise an underlying and perfectly coherent latent content, and it is the study of this latent content that permits us to understand the true subject matter of the opera-namely, the resolution of conflict arising between masculine and feminine principles. It is also supposed to contain-in coded form-much of the secret lore of the Freemasons.”
Freud suddenly became extremely interested. He was always fascinated by riddles and conundrums. Liebermann explained the symbolic elements of The Magic Flute, and the old man was obviously very impressed. He was particularly attentive when Liebermann gave an account of how Masonic purification rituals had been incorporated into the libretto to serve various dramatic purposes. It was clear from Freud’s responses that he knew a great deal more about secret societies than Liebermann had expected. Indeed, the professor was knowledgeable not only about the Masons but about many similar groups. They were all, according to Freud, part of an occult tradition greatly influenced by the writings of Hermes Trismegistus, an Egyptian priest and a contemporary of Moses.
The young doctor looked at Freud’s desktop, which was crowded with his collection of ancient statuettes and figurines. Among them Liebermann recognized Isis and Osiris, several Sphinxes, and a terracotta woman with a fan, which he had become curiously fond of. They were all steeped in a layer of cigar smoke that rolled over the edge of the desk and cascaded gently down to the floor like a slow-motion waterfall.
“Of course,” said Freud, “there is some debate over the existence of Hermes Trismegistus. Some scholars believe that the famous Corpus Hermeticum was in fact the work of later authors; however, one cannot be certain. Other facts would contradict this assertion. I believe, for example, that Trismegistus is mentioned in the holy book of the Muslims, where he appears in the person of Idris.”
The professor kissed his cigar and expelled the smoke through his nostrils.
“I wonder,” said Liebermann, “does your interest in antiquities, mythology, and old systems of thought extend to the kabbalah?”
Freud turned his gaze directly on his disciple. His expression was difficult to read, but contained within it the slightest suggestion of suspicion and unease.
“Did you ever see Jellinek talk?” asked Freud.
Liebermann looked puzzled.
“No,” Freud continued. “Of course not. You’re too young. Adolf Jellinek. He was a preacher, here in Vienna, and very popular too. He gave some talks that I was lucky enough to attend ten or perhaps even fifteen years ago. He had translated some of the medieval kabbalists into German. It was all very interesting.”
“Then you know something about it? The kabbalah?”
“Yes.” The syllable dipped in the middle and was produced with evident reluctance.
“May I?” Liebermann gestured toward some notepaper. Freud handed him a sheet. The young doctor took a pencil from his pocket and proceeded to sketch an arrangement of interconnected circles. It was the design that he had seen on the attic floor of the Alois Gasse Temple.
“Do you know what this is?” Liebermann handed the illustration to Freud.
The professor stubbed his cigar out and contemplated the image.
“Yes. It is called the Tree of Life. It is a diagram of how the universe was created and describes the dispersal of primal energies. It encapsulates the kabbalistic worldview.”
Freud rose from his desk and approached a small chest next to the stove. He took a key from his pocket and turned it in the lock. When he returned, he was carrying several books. He piled them on the desk and invited Liebermann to examine them. One of the volumes was extremely old and was bound in crumbling leather. Freud opened it and carefully turned the fragile pages until he came to an illustration of a bearded man in medieval dress, sitting on a chair in a cell. The man’s right hand grasped the lowest strut of the Tree of Life.
“What is this book?” asked Liebermann.
“A Latin translation of The Gates of Light-a very influential work. It was originally written by Joseph Gikatilla in the thirteenth century. The other books are German translations by Adolf Jellinek and his associates. Except this one here, which is a French translation of The Book of Splendour.”
Liebermann was surprised that Freud had so many volumes of Jewish mysticism in his possession. The old man had always been scathing about religion and was famously ambivalent about his own racial identity. Indeed, he had once said to Liebermann that he was concerned that so many of his followers were Jewish. I don’t want psychoanalysis to turn into a national affair, he had said.
Only moments earlier the idea that Freud might be a clandestine kabbalist, poring over arcane holy books in the dead of night, would have seemed absurd. Yet the evidence suggested otherwise.
“Are you, then…,” said Liebermann hesitantly, “a believer in…”
“No, no,” said Freud, shaking his head and waving his hand. “I abandoned the illusory consolation of faith many years ago. I no longer need to defend myself against unpalatable truths-the insignificance of humankind and the inevitability of my own demise. However, I have found a close reading of these books to be very instructive. In The Book of Splendour, for example, I first encountered the notion that the mind can be understood using the same exegetical techniques employed to study scripture. Kabbalistic writings also contain some extremely interesting accounts of human sexuality and the interpretation of dreams…”
Freud smiled, but he was clearly a little embarrassed. He seemed to be confessing that the inspiration for psychoanalysis had come from reading works of Jewish mysticism. Immediately, Liebermann understood why Freud was so ambivalent about Jews and Judaism, and why he kept his kabbalistic books locked in a chest out of view.
Liebermann rested a finger on the drawing of the Tree of Life. Once again, the zaddik’s words returned to haunt him: Perhaps if you had troubled to take a greater interest in your own origins, in the traditions and history of your people, then you would not be wasting your efforts talking to me now. You would have at least some inkling of what these murders might mean.
The zaddik’s scolding no longer sounded ridiculous, and Liebermann found himself wondering how Freud would react if he asked to borrow his Latin translation of The Gates of Light.
41
Liebermann and his father, Mendel, were sitting in the Imperial. The pianist was playing Chopin’s Mazurka Number One in F sharp minor; however, his abrupt changes of tempo and volume made the piece sound like cheap cafe music. This was entirely intentional, as the pianist had learned that the patrons of the Imperial preferred their Chopin this way.
“Do you remember Blomberg?” said Mendel.
“The gentleman I met at the lodge?”
“Yes. He spoke to Rothenstein about the new department store. I would never have done such a thing myself. It was disrespectful, really. I mean… a man like Rothenstein!” Mendel shook his head and took a mouthful of apfelstrudel. “Rothenstein wasn’t interested, of course, but he said that he knew a man who would be, and he put Blomberg in touch with Marek Bohm, another gentleman of considerable means and an associate of the banker. Well, to cut a long story short, it looks like the capital can be raised. Blomberg is going to go ahe
ad with his plan for a second department store.” Mendel slurped his coffee and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “I’m definitely going to go in with him,” he continued. “Blomberg’s a decent enough fellow, and his other store is doing very well indeed. It’s too good an opportunity to miss. What did you think of him? Blomberg?”
“I didn’t really speak to him for very long.”
Mendel frowned. “Even so, you must have formed an impression?”
“He seemed very energetic.”
“Oh, he’s hardworking, that’s for sure.”
“And agreeable.”
“If you have to work with someone over a long period of time, character becomes important, let me tell you. I remember, many years ago-before you were born, in fact-I tried to set up some dyeing works with a man named Plischke, and every meeting we had was like a funeral. In the end I couldn’t take it anymore. What’s the matter with your mohnstrudel? You’ve hardly touched it!”
“Nothing-it’s very good.” To prove the point, Liebermann sliced a large chunk off of the pastry and put it into his mouth. “Delicious.”
Mendel shrugged.
“Anyway, I’ve decided to go to Prague. I’m going to visit some of the factories and have some meetings: Doubek, Krakowski-some of the shop owners. I also intend to see your uncle Alexander.” At the mention of his younger brother’s name, Mendel grimaced and emitted a low grumbling sound. “He’s always been good at finding us new associates out there, but when it comes to overseeing the day-to-day running of the business, he can be quite careless. He never double-checks his figures and doesn’t see Slavik as often as he should. I’ve got to make sure he understands the situation. The books must add up. We can’t have someone like Herr Bohm raising doubts about our competence.”