by Frank Tallis
“Are you blind, Perger?” asked Steininger.
“No,”
“Then why can't you see it?”
“See w-what? I can't see anything.”
“I'll hold it closer,” said Wolf, thrusting the blade forward. Perger flinched. “Does that help?” Wolf added.
“I… I can only see the b-blade… the b-blade of your sabre.”
“Now,” said Wolf, “for the last time: I want you to take a long, hard look—and tell me what you see.”
Wolf tilted his sabre so that it caught the yellow flame of the paraffin lamp. A scintilla of light traveled around its sharp, curved edge.
Perger squinted. “Yes, there's… s-s-something on the blade. A speck of something.”
“Good,” said Wolf. “And what do you think that might be?”
“R-rust?”
Wolf sheathed his sabre and began to clap. He brought his hands together with slow, exaggerated movements.
“Very good, Perger,” interjected Freitag, unable to conceal his mirth.
“Yes, very good indeed,” Steininger repeated.
“What a pity, then,” continued Wolf, “that this should have eluded your attention.”
Steininger and Freitag shook their heads and tutted.
“You should have put more into it,” said Steininger.
“More elbow grease,” said Freitag, frowning and miming the oscillating action of polishing a sword. Then, unable to resist a cheap joke, he allowed his arm to drop, re-creating the movement in front of his crotch.
Steininger began to guffaw, but Wolf silenced him with his glazed, humorless stare.
“I'm afraid, Perger,” said Wolf, “that you must be punished. However, I am not sure yet what form this punishment should take. Now, even as I speak, I notice that my boots could do with a good clean. Would you be willing to clean my boots, Perger?”
“Yes, Wolf.”
“Would you be happy to lick them clean?”
“Yes, Wolf.”
“Including the soles? Although I feel obliged to tell you that I went to the stables today and stupidly trod in some manure.”
“Y-yes, Wolf.”
“My boots could do with a clean, too,” said Freitag.
“And mine,” said Steininger.
“Well,” continued Wolf. “How about that, Perger? Would you be willing to lick Freitag's and Steininger s boots too?”
“Yes, Wolf.”
“And you see,” said Wolf, assuming a fatigued expression, “in agreeing so readily, you demonstrate the inadequacy of the punishment. It simply isn't enough. A fellow like you needs more! Something that will leave a lasting impression, something that will remind you to perform your duties more diligently in the future… something that has a reasonable chance of countering your extraordinary laziness!”
Wolf produced a revolver from his pocket. He released the cylindrical block and showed Perger that one of the six chambers contained a cartridge. Then, swinging the cylinder back into alignment, he spun it until it halted with a click. He cocked the hammer with his thumb.
“Here,” said Wolf, offering the gun to Perger. “Take it.”
The boy took the weapon in his shaking hands.
“Put the barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger. The odds are very much in your favor.”
“No, Wolf.… I c-c-can't.”
“Ah, but you c-can, and you w-will!” said Wolf.
Perger's eyes brimmed, and tears began to roll down his cheeks.
“Don't be pathetic, Perger!” Wolf shouted. “Put the barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger. Now!”
Perger raised the gun, but its ascent was slow—as if it had become too heavy to lift. Indeed, Perger's entire body seemed to have become weak and floppy. He began to sway, and his eyelids flickered. Freitag and Steininger gripped his tunic and held him upright.
“Don't swoon like a woman, you—you… you Galician whore's son!” He grabbed Perger's wrist and pulled it up, shoving the gun barrel between the boy's lips. Then, covering Perger's hand with his own, he applied a minute amount of pressure to the distraught boy's trigger finger.
“Here, let me help. Come on, Perger, be brave. I'm not going to do it for you.”
Perger emitted a strange keening.
Suddenly there was a creaking sound, followed by the thud of feet landing on the floorboards and the uihump of the trapdoor closing. A few moments later Drexler appeared.
“What's going on?” he asked.
“Perger s playing Russian roulette,” Wolf replied.
“Yes,” said Steininger. “He's unhappy at Saint Florian's—and has decided to end it all. He's not the first.”
“And he won't be the last,” said Freitag.
“A tragic waste,” said Steininger.
Drexler walked over to Perger and eased the revolver out of his mouth. Perger's hand slowly descended to his lap. He rested the gun on his thigh and bowed his head.
“What on earth do you think you're doing, Drexler!” Wolf shouted.
The other boy didn't reply. He simply shook his head and bit his lower lip.
“Look, Drexler,” Wolf continued, “I don't know what's got into you lately, but my patience is running out. You're always spoiling things. And if you carry on like this, well, I am obliged to say—you won't be welcome here for very much longer.”
Wolf threw a glance—a silent appeal—in the direction of Steininger and Freitag.
“Yes, Drexler,” said Steininger. “This is our place… and if you're not going to join in…”
“You should stay away,” said Freitag.
Drexler ignored the two lieutenants and took a step closer to Wolf.
“Let him go, Wolf. Look at him.” He gestured toward the hunched, crumpled figure on the stool. “This is pathetic.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, this is pathetic!” It was now Drexler's turn to include Steininger and Freitag. “Can't you see, you two? It's all getting out of hand. These stupid games—”
“You've lost your nerve, Drexler,” Wolf cut in. “Go on— admit it.”
“It doesn't take very much nerve to pick on Perger!”
“More nerve than you have—evidently.”
“It's cowardly, Wolf!”
“What?”
“You heard.”
“How dare you call me a coward! How dare you!”
Wolf snatched the revolver from Perger's loose grip and pointed it toward Drexler.
“Go on, then—shoot,” said Drexler.
“You think it's a blank cartridge. Don't you?”
Once again, the intensity of Wolf's gaze surprised Drexler, and he was unsettled by a tremor of doubt.
“I'm a coward, am I?” Wolf continued.
Unexpectedly, he released the cylinder, spun it, and cocked the hammer. Then he pressed the barrel against his own temple and grinned: a maniacal rictus.
Behold, I teach you the Übermensch.
The Übermensch balks at nothing.… The Übermensch has no fear.…
“Wolf?” said Freitag. He could not conceal his anxiety.
Wolf pulled the trigger. A dead click.
“Who's the coward now? Eh, Drexler?” He said, handing over the revolver.
Drexler examined the weapon. His mouth went dry and he became aware of an ethereal whistling in his head. Steininger and Freitag were looking at him—their expressions showed intense concentration rather than their usual brutish insouciance. Drexler gripped the end of the barrel between his teeth and squeezed the trigger.
Another dead click. The whistling stopped.
Without hesitation, Wolf took the weapon back, prepared it for firing, and pointed the muzzle between his own eyes. He was still grinning his deranged grin, but this time his hand was shaking. A film of sweat had appeared on his brow. When his finger finally closed on the trigger and the silence was broken only by the hammer's fall on another empty chamber, he burst out laughing and threw the gun at Drexler. The ot
her boy snatched it out of the air.
“Only three left, Drexler,” Wolf said. “Your turn.”
Drexler looked at the gun, and then at Wolf. He cocked the hammer. The distance that he usually interposed between himself and the world had suddenly vanished. Reality stormed the ramparts of his senses, and he became acutely aware of the minutiae of existence: the systolic and diastolic components of his pulse, the expansion and contraction of his lungs, the passage of air in his nostrils, the taste of metal in his mouth, and the lost room, with its familiar contents— the suitcase, the wicker chair (and the permanent fragrance of tobacco, fear, and erotic discharge)—this haven of shabby delights— every part of it acquired a vivid immediacy. He was alive and he did not want to die.
“This is absurd,” said Drexler. He lifted the revolver and looked into the end of its barrel. Its circularity suggested eternity, and its blackness oblivion. There were other things he could be doing at this moment in time: making love to Snjezana, reading Hoffmann, or simply smoking on the grounds and watching the moon rise. He shook his head.
“Oh, you're all insane,” he said contemptuously, tossing the revolver aside. It landed a few feet away. There was a loud report, a bright flash, and a hazy cloud of gunpowder smoke rose up like a spectral apparition.
“My God,” said Steininger.
“It… it was live!” gasped Freitag.
In their state of shock, the two lieutenants had loosened their grip on Perger's tunic. The prisoner fell forward and sprawled facedown on the floor.
“Get up, Perger,” said Wolf.
The boy did not reply.
Wolf nudged him with his foot. The body was inert.
“Get up, Perger,” Wolf repeated.
Drexler fell to his knees and rolled the body over.
“Oh no… God, no.” A dark stain had appeared on Perger's tunic.
Silence.
“What shall we do, Wolf?” said Freitag softly.
Steininger took a step back. The color had drained from his face. He was fearful, dismayed.
“Perger?” said Drexler, pushing at the body. “Perger? Can you hear me?”
There was no response. The dark stain was expanding—an almost perfect circle, close to Perger's heart.
“Christ,” said Steininger. “He's dead.”
“No,” said Freitag. “He can't be…”
Drexler grasped the fallen boy's hand. “Come on, Perger, wake up!”
“It's no good, Drexler,” whispered Wolf. “You've killed him.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you! It was you who had the gun last.”
“But it wasn't my…,” cried Drexler, incoherent with desperation. “I didn't… I…”
“Wolf's right, Drexler,” said Steininger. “It was you who had the gun last.”
“Yes,” Freitag agreed. “If you hadn't thrown the gun, Perger would still be alive.”
42
INSPECTOR RHEINHARDT HAD COPIED the number pairs from Zelenka's exercise books onto a single sheet of paper, which he now handed to Amelia Lyd gate. The Englishwoman fell silent, and simply stared at the figures. Time passed. She was obviously attempting to decipher them, and Rheinhardt was reluctant to disturb her. He glanced across the room at Haussmann and raised a finger to his lips.
Eventually Amelia looked up.
“Are you absolutely sure that these numbers represent coded messages, Inspector?”
“Well, not absolutely.… However, it was Dr. Liebermann's opinion that Herr Sommer did not tell us the truth when he said that these numbers were a memory test, and I am inclined to agree. The commitment of random number pairs to memory is surely an activity from which both pupil and master would derive very limited plea sure. And such an activity would be unlikely to keep them amused over a period of several months. Therefore, if the numbers are not a memory test, then they must be some kind of code.”
A vertical crease appeared on Amelia's brow.
“My father—also a schoolmaster—insisted that I learn the value of the mathematical constant pi to fifty decimal places. Successful recitations were the source of considerable pleasure and amusement to both of us. Indeed, my father could barely stop himself from joining in when I reached the final ten digits: six, nine, three, nine, nine, three, seven, five, one, zero. There! I can still recall the sequence quite clearly. For those who enjoy mathematics, numbers can be a very satisfying entertainment; however, it is undoubtedly the case that for the nonnumerical such pleasures are as recondite as music is to the tone-deaf.”
Rheinhardt did not know how to respond. He glanced at Haussmann, tacitly requesting assistance, only to discover that the young scoundrel was biting his lower lip and that his shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.
“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt. “Indeed…” He twisted the waxed horns of his mustache and said: “Am I to take it, then, that you do not share our view?”
“I am not taking issue with your conclusion, Inspector—merely the reasoning that you employed to reach that conclusion.”
“Ah,” said Rheinhardt, more encouraged. “Then you accept that the numbers might be a code?”
“Yes,” she said, a little hesitantly. “But if they are, the code is not conventional. That much I can determine already.”
“I see.”
“May I take this with me?” She raised the paper in her gloved hand.
“Yes, of course.”
“I will give it careful consideration.”
“Once again,” said the inspector, “I am much indebted.”
Amelia rose, and Rheinhardt kissed her hand.
“How is Dr. Liebermann?” she asked.
“Well.”
Unusually for her, the Englishwoman looked a little flustered.
“I have not had the pleasure of his company of late, although the fault is entirely mine. I have been somewhat preoccupied with… matters… various matters.” Amelia fumbled with her reticule and then added: “Would you be so kind as to convey my best wishes to the good doctor?”
“Consider it done, Miss Lyd gate.”
“Thank you, Inspector—you are most kind.”
“Haussmann,” Rheinhardt addressed his assistant. “Please escort Miss Lyd gate out of the building and hail her a cab.”
“That really won't be necessary,” said Amelia. “I am perfectly capable of finding my way out of the security office. Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
She looked blankly at the two men, and left the room.
Rheinhardt raised his finger and silently shook it at Haussmann.
The young man blushed, and in an effort to excuse himself whispered: “I'm sorry, sir, but her manner is so peculiar.”
The inspector was unable to disagree.
43
TREZSKA STOOD BESIDE LIEBERMANN’S PIANO. Their gazes met—and, simultaneously, they began to play. The opening violin melody was fluid and generous—an outpouring of enchanting sweetness. Although the subtitle “Spring” was added to Beethoven's F-major sonata after his death, it was extraordinarily appropriate, capturing completely the mood of the work. The music was bright and blooming—fresh, bursting with vital energy—but there were depths implied by the poignant changes of harmony that elevated this sonata above the usual conventions of pastoral writing. Beethoven, the most human of composers, never merely observed nature—he engaged with it. Thus, the gamboling of lambs and the blossoming trees—which the music so readily suggested—served to introduce a more profound philosophical program. This was not a sterile description of a season—tuneful meteorology—but an inquiry into that most awe-inspiring of all vernal phenomena: romantic love.
When they reached the adagio molto espressivo, Liebermann took advantage of the slower tempo to steal glances at Trezska. Her eyes were closed and her body arched backward as she drew her bow across the strings of her instrument. She had unpinned her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders. Liebermann marveled at how strands of such midnight-blue blackness could also sh
ine so brightly. His stare dropped—briefly—to her compressed cleavage, and then down to the slim girdle of her waist. In the pianissimo passages he could detect the creaking of her corset. He inhaled her fragrance, not just the clementine and mimosa of her perfume, but her entire olfactory signature. Liebermann knew that the French had a word for this sensuous bouquet—the totality of a woman's smell—but it had slipped from his memory.
After they had finished playing the spring sonata, Trezska wanted to repeat certain passages again. She was unhappy with the scherzo, and wondered whether the rondo had not been played a little too fast. She flicked the pages of the open score back with the tip of her bow.
“Allegro ma non troppo,” she said curtly.
They discussed some technical details and she asked Liebermann about the quality of her performance.
“Well,” he said, evidently apprehensive, “it was very beautiful… a very lyrical reading…”
“However?”
“You inserted a few glissandi in the adagio, which is not really how the Viennese like their Beethoven.” Not wishing to be harsh, he added, “I am simply pointing this out because Rosé will almost certainly object.”
“And… ?” Trezska prompted, demonstrating her percipient sensitivity: she had detected another unexpressed caveat in the cast of Liebermann s features.
“The vibrato,” said Liebermann. “Again, perhaps a little too much for Viennese tastes.”
“I see,” she said. Then, tapping the open page with her bow, she indicated that she was ready to repeat the rondo.
As they played, Liebermann thought back to what had happened two days earlier on the Prater: the tree, Trezska's prescient anxiety, and the lightning strike. In the carriage, driving back to Landstrasse, Trezska had at first been preoccupied, but by the time they had crossed the Danube canal, her spirits had rallied. She had grasped Liebermann's hand, squeezed it affectionately, and thanked him for a wonderful day. It was as though the lightning strike had never happened—and, strangely, they had not spoken about it since. Before they parted, he had invited her to his apartment to practice the spring sonata, so that she might be better prepared for her lessons with Rosé. “Yes,” she had said. “If you don't mind—that would be very helpful.”