Death And The Maiden lp-6

by Frank Tallis

1756–1791

  It was debatable whether the remains of the great composer really were beneath the monument. His body had been wrapped in a sack, sprinkled with lime to prevent contagion, and then tipped off a cart into a mass grave. The residual parts of those buried in this way — bones, teeth, hair — were usually dug up again after eight years. Mozart’s monument wasn’t erected until eighteen fifty-nine, by which time what was left of him would have been removed and scattered elsewhere. Still, thought Liebermann, there might be some physical remnant, some residuum, some trace yet preserved beneath the cold, wet earth.

  Liebermann was, as always, deeply affected by the Mozartgrab. His instinct was to pray, but he was incapable of performing such a disingenuous act. He had no belief in God, saints, seraphim and cherubim or childish fantasies of immortality in a heavenly kingdom. It was all such nonsense! Consequently, he was denied a ready outlet for his natural inclination. Nevertheless, the urge to give some form to his feelings was insistent.

  Listening to music was the closest Liebermann ever got to an experience of the numinous, so, very softly, he began to sing a song that for him served as a substitute for prayer, Schubert’s An die Musik:

  O blessed art, how often in dark hours

  When the savage ring of life tightens round me,

  Have you kindled warm love in my heart,

  Have transported me to a better world!

  The gentle melody, croaked hoarsely above the imagined piano accompaniment, was cathartic: something inside, something tight and compact, found release. Liebermann reached out and touched the broken pillar. In a sense, its symbolism was universal. All lives were too short. He remembered a ward round he had attended as a student. The professor had presented the youthful aspirants with a cadaverous ninety-nine-year-old patient who was hanging on to life by a thread. It was the man’s birthday the following week, and he wanted, desperately, to reach the age of one hundred. Who was ever ready to die? There would always be one more book to read, one more person to see, one more hour or fleeting yet indispensable minute to spend.

  The ninety-nine-year-old patient had died that evening.

  Liebermann pressed his hand against the stone. He found himself thinking of Amelia Lydgate. He had read the book she had given him, Elective Affinities, a book about love. No, more than that, a book about inevitable love. He was constantly reminding his dear friend Rheinhardt that all human action, however trivial, had a deeper meaning. Perhaps it was time to take heed of his own counsel. Days were not in infinite supply.

  Some spots of rain roused Liebermann from his deep musings. Withdrawing his hand from the truncated column, he chastised himself for becoming so self-absorbed. He had come to the St Marxer cemetery with a specific purpose in mind. Mozart was not the only composer buried within its walls. A few days earlier, Liebermann had visited the city registry in order to discover the final resting place of David Freimark. How fitting it was that the young composer, snatched from life before his time, should be buried so close to Mozart, the patron saint of premature ends and thwarted promise.

  Liebermann trudged down the waterlogged avenues, searching for the headstone. Eventually he came to a group of Jewish graves, and one of these belonged to David Freimark. It was a simple arched slab, showing only his name and dates: 1837–1863. The porous stone had crumbled, rendering a brief epitaph illegible. On the raised mound in front of the headstone was a bunch of flowers. The blooms had begun to shrivel and some petals had been scattered by the wind. Other, older bunches, desiccated stems tied together with string, were also distributed around the grave. Liebermann examined each of them in turn to see if any tags were attached. There was nothing.

  Rheinhardt, the pragmatic policeman, had challenged Liebermann. What was the point of speculating about Freimark? If the composer had been murdered, all those years ago, and Brosius was also dead, what was Liebermann’s purpose?

  I want to find out the truth, thought Liebermann. He was a psychiatrist and an acolyte of Freud. His whole professional life was devoted to uncovering truths and it was not in his nature to ignore a mystery.

  All these flowers …

  Was it possible that Freimark still had a coterie of admirers? An artist remembered for a single work, however impressive, did not usually command such respect. No one had left a single bouquet on Mozart’s grave!

  The rain had begun to fall harder. Liebermann raised his collar and hurried back to the cemetery entrance which was situated next to the gatekeeper’s lodge. It was a small, featureless building, the door propped open with an iron weight. Liebermann entered a bare reception room, which contained a table, a well-worn armchair and a small pot-bellied stove. A faded photograph of the emperor hung above a squat bookcase, each shelf stacked with ledgers.

  Liebermann called out, ‘Hello?’

  A grubby-looking man came through the rear door. He was holding a tin cup full of steaming liquid, gripped in both hands to warm his fingers.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir. How can I help?’

  ‘My name is Liebermann. I am currently undertaking some musical research. The composer David Freimark is buried here.’

  ‘Freimark,’ said the gatekeeper. He took a sip of his beverage, smacked his lips and added, ‘Composer, was he? I didn’t know that. Of course, if it’s composers you’re looking for-’

  ‘Mozart,’ interrupted Liebermann. ‘Yes, I know. My interest, however, is in Freimark.’

  The gatekeeper shrugged: suit yourself.

  ‘I noticed,’ Liebermann continued, ‘that fresh flowers have only recently been laid on his grave. Do you know who put them there?’

  ‘Yes, I do. It was me.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘Because I was told to.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ said the gatekeeper bluntly.

  Liebermann took some coins from his pocket and nonchalantly placed them on the table.

  The gatekeeper looked at the inducement, produced a melodic fragment using the syllables ‘pom-ti-pom’ and answered, ‘A lady. Frau Abend. We have an arrangement. I buy the flowers and put them on the grave four times a year. She gives me a little something for my trouble.’ He glanced again at the coins to indicate that the contract was remunerative.

  ‘Who is she, this Frau Abend?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Is she related to Freimark?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’

  ‘Has she ever visited the grave herself?’

  ‘She did, a few years back. She didn’t stay very long. I think she was just checking up on me.’

  ‘Is she a very elderly lady?’

  The gatekeeper laughed. ‘No. She’s quite young, as I recall.’

  ‘Do you know where she lives?’ The gatekeeper offered Liebermann another ‘pom-ti-pom’ and his expression suggested that something else was necessary before he could proceed. The young doctor found another krone in his pocket.

  ‘Much obliged, sir,’ said the gatekeeper. He put down his cup and pulled out a volume from the bookcase. Flicking it open he ran his finger down the page. ‘Here we are. Frau Astrid Abend.’

  26

  The Commissioner’s expression was incredulous.

  ‘Lueger knew that Rosenkrantz intended to terminate the life of their unborn child?’

  ‘That is what Professor Saminsky believes, sir,’ Rheinhardt answered.

  ‘Well, well, well.’

  ‘The Christian Social Party espouses traditional values: church, fatherland and family. If this unfortunate …’ Rheinhardt selected an inoffensive euphemism, ‘… sequel to the mayor’s association with Rosenkrantz had been reported in the newspapers, Lueger would have lost the support of many loyal followers. Rosenkrantz was not stable. Her mood was volatile and she suffered from a medical condition which modern doctors think of as a mental problem.’

  ‘Information that could equally have been used to the mayor’s advantage, had allegations been made.’

  ‘
Rosenkrantz was adored by the public, feted for her portrayal of tragic heroines and doomed lovers. Attempting to discredit her would have been hazardous.’

  ‘True, but not as hazardous as killing her!’

  Rheinhardt confronted the commissioner’s hard stare.

  ‘Sir: given Herr Geisler’s statement, and what Professor Saminsky disclosed this afternoon, it would be an unconscionable dereliction of duty if we failed to pursue the course of action that now plainly suggests itself.’

  The commissioner picked up a dagger-shaped letter opener. For one horrible moment Rheinhardt thought that his superior had summarily resolved to settle the debate with an act of mindless violence. Instead, Brugel ran his finger along the blunt edge and emitted a low grumbling noise. ‘Very well, Rheinhardt, you can go to the town hall.’

  Rheinhardt expelled a lungful of air which he had been unconsciously retaining.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I will undertake the interview accompanied by Herr Doctor Liebermann.’

  The commissioner’s face twisted into an ugly sneer.

  ‘What? I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’

  ‘His observational skills have served us well on many occasions.’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Brugel dismissively. ‘I know all that!’

  ‘Then why, may I ask, do you object?’

  ‘He’s a Jew, Rheinhardt! What kind of reception do you think he’s going to get in the mayor’s office?’

  ‘I am sure that Doctor Liebermann is fully aware of the mayor’s views on the Jewish question.’

  ‘That wasn’t my point. Think about what you’re hoping to achieve, Rheinhardt, and how best to go about it. You don’t want to get the mayor’s hackles up as soon as you arrive, do you?’

  ‘With respect, sir, under the circumstances I doubt that the mayor will be very pleased to see either of us.’

  The commissioner lifted some papers which earlier had been laid over a bowl filled with manner schnitten biscuits. He selected one and bit through the crisp wafers. A change of expression, more than could be reasonably attributed to the effect of hazelnut praline, suggested that some new idea had just occurred to him. Brugel’s rigid features softened and, smiling in a way that could only be described as untrustworthy, he declared: ‘All right, as you wish. Take Liebermann with you.’

  Rheinhardt wanted to ask the commissioner what it was that had made him change his mind, but he decided, on reflection, that it would probably be unwise to ask. He accepted the concession with a brusque nod and the silence that followed was prolonged and awkward. When the commissioner had finished eating his biscuit, he knocked some crumbs from the wiry outgrowths of his mutton-chop whiskers, and said, ‘What you’re doing, Rheinhardt …’

  The tentative sentence was never completed and its ambiguity permitted several interpretations.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ Rheinhardt prompted, eager for some kind of resolution.

  The commissioner placed the letter opener by the biscuit bowl, linked his hands together and shifted his bulk forward.

  ‘You understand, I hope, that this situation must be handled with extreme care. If you have been misled, which is always possible, then the mayor’s office will raise questions concerning your competence. I am approving your request, but I do so not without reservation. Please remember that I said that, Rheinhardt: not without reservation. At some point in the future it is possible that you will be asked about this conversation, and I need to know that your recollection of my exact words will be accurate. A man in my position depends on the judgement of his team. I am assuming that the evidence, as you have presented it to me, is of a certain standard. I cannot be held responsible if it transpires that you have been presumptuous or naive. In the event of a formal complaint being issued by the mayor’s office, you cannot expect me to interpose myself between you and the town hall. Is that clear?’

  Rheinhardt stood up, bowed and clicked his heels.

  ‘Thank you for your support, sir.’

  The remark was impertinent. But Rheinhardt guessed that, this once, he would probably get away with it.

  27

  Professor Freud reached out and touched an ancient figurine, one of many occupying the desk space between his books and his writing materials. The movement was quick and repeated, like the superstitious ritual of an obsessive.

  ‘Are you acquainted with Professor Saminsky?’ asked Liebermann.

  ‘Daniel Saminsky?’ Freud’s face was impassive. ‘Yes, he studied in Heidelberg and was greatly influenced by Erb.’

  ‘I was introduced to him recently.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘I was unimpressed.’

  Freud drew on his cigar and opened his mouth, releasing a ring of smoke. ‘He wrote a rather unsympathetic review of my dream book.’

  ‘Yes. I remember.’

  ‘And I must admit that since then, on those rare occasions when our paths have crossed, I have been disinclined to exchange civilities. His publications are few but he once wrote a book about diet, exercise, and their effect on the nervous system. If my memory serves me correctly, he championed a certain type of nut-oil and regular sea air. The late empress, a woman easily persuaded by any medical work containing a whole chapter devoted to enemas, consulted him on several occasions. I very much doubt whether his interventions were effective, but in due course he was honoured by the palace.’

  ‘He lives in a very fine house up in Hietzing.’

  ‘Well, there you are,’ said Freud, smiling. ‘That’s what an invitation to the palace can do for you. A physician who has attended the royal family can expect to see his practice thrive — a stampede of society ladies will beat a path to his door. This would be true even if he prescribed nothing but ground shoe leather.’ The professor’s expression became more thoughtful. ‘Still, I can’t really criticise Saminsky. We are all, to a greater or lesser extent, dependent on patronage, especially us Jews. I would never have been made professor extraordinarius without a little help from Bocklin.’

  Liebermann didn’t know anybody called Bocklin in the academic, medical or political hierarchies. The only Bocklin he knew of was Arnold Bocklin, the symbolist painter.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bocklin. You must know Bocklin. He’s best known for The Isle of the Dead.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Liebermann, bemused. ‘How could Arnold Bocklin have acted on your behalf? Besides, I thought he was dead.’

  ‘He is dead. He came to my aid — indirectly, as it were. Have I not told you the story?’ The professor offered his young disciple a third cigar. ‘Nothnagel and Krafft-Ebing recommended me for the position of associate professor years ago, but the council of the faculty rejected their proposal and I was passed over.’

  ‘Why did that happen?’

  ‘Oh, because of my views on sexuality — and my race.’ Freud sat back in his chair. ‘I was passed over again in ninety-eight and ninety-nine. The following year all the names put forward were ratified, with one exception. Mine! I had never considered patronage as a solution. But with a family to feed and bills to pay, the pleasures afforded by high-minded disdain were diminishing. I spoke to my old teacher, Exner, who informed me that the minister on the council was being prejudiced against me.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘To this day I have no idea. Exner advised that I should seek some … counter-influence.’

  ‘With respect, Herr Professor,’ said Liebermann, scratching his head. ‘What has all this got to do with Bocklin?’

  Freud requested patience by lifting his finger.

  ‘I have never been personally acquainted with people of power. The only contact I have ever had with that class has been professional. Subsequently, I let some of my patients, particularly those possessing wealth or title, know of my predicament. It wasn’t an easy thing for me to do, and I felt distinctly uneasy. One of these patients, a very formidable baroness, approached the minister and struck a bargain with him. You see, he was an
xious to attain a work by Bocklin — The Castle Ruin — for the new modern gallery. Now, as luck would have it, The Castle Ruin was owned by the baroness’s aunt. My patient mediated between minister and aunt, and after three months the old lady agreed to part with her picture. Shortly after, the baroness found herself next to the minister at a dinner party, and she was the first to hear that he had sent the necessary document pertaining to my associate professorship for the emperor to sign. The next day, she burst into my office and cried “I’ve done it! ”’

  Freud stubbed out his cigar and his mouth twisted before he continued. ‘Congratulations and bouquets rained down on me as if His Majesty had officially recognised the role of sexuality in mental illness, the council of ministers had confirmed the importance of dreams, and the necessity for a psychoanalytic treatment of hysteria had been passed in parliament with a two-thirds majority. Colleagues who had previously crossed the street to avoid me now bowed, even at a distance.’ Freud lit another cigar. ‘To make one’s way in the world, we all have to make compromises. Saminsky, me and, in time, even you.’

  Vienna! Liebermann thought. How was it that the most modern and forward-looking city in the world could be so corrupt!

  ‘We shall see,’ said Liebermann.

  Freud shook his head. The old man’s expression was not disapproving, but full of pity. ‘A doctor with too many scruples can’t make a decent living. And a Jewish doctor must be especially resourceful.’ His face brightened with mischief. ‘Have you heard the one about Kaplan? No? Good. So Kaplan goes to see his doctor, Birnbaum, for a check-up. After examining his patient, Birnbaum says, “I’m sorry, Herr Kaplan, but I have bad news. You only have six months to live.” Kaplan is horrified. He buries his head in his hands and replies, “That’s terrible. Moreover, I have a confession to make: I can’t afford to pay your bill.” Birnbaum responds immediately: “Very well, Herr Kaplan, I’ll give you a year to live.”’

  Freud fixed his inquisitorial gaze on Liebermann. An opinion was required.