by Frank Tallis
When they had finished the rondo, Trezska tuned her violin, and put more rosin on her bow. She played a few scales and, between these, the fragment of a melody. It was so exotic, so distinct, that it immediately aroused Liebermann's interest.
“What was that?”
“A folk song: did you like it?”
“Yes. It sounded rather… unusual.”
Trezska played another angular phrase. “I learned it from a peasant woman. It had been taught to her by her mother, who had learned it in turn from her mother—the woman's grandmother. The song is called The Reaper—and it has been passed down, so she said, from mother to daughter, for countless generations. I asked her how old it was and she replied, ‘As old as the world.’
Trezska drew her bow across the lower strings and produced a primitive, haunting melody. It was based on a simple modal figure— but was executed with excessive and wild ornamentation. The meter was irregular, changing every few bars. It was a sound that conjured an image of people working the land, engaged in perpetual back-breaking toil: it suggested great plains and an overarching sky—the scorching summers and bitter winters of an infinite steppe.
“Quite extraordinary,” said Liebermann.
“The real music of my country,” Trezska said proudly.
“Would you play some more?”
“No, not now. Another time. We have work to do.”
“Of course.”
They played some more Beethoven, and a few Mozart sonatas— including the little E minor. In due course, Liebermann raised his wrist and pointed to his watch. The law decreed that music-making in Vienna had to cease at eleven—and it had just gone half past ten.
“It is getting late—and, sadly, we must bring our music-making to an end. Besides, you must be tired. Shall we find you a cab?”
Trezska smiled, and shook her head. “That won't be necessary. I have no intention of returning to Landstrasse.”
She glanced through the open double doors and across the landing, to what she clearly hoped was Liebermann's bedroom.
44
GEROLD SOMMER PEERED OUT of his window. He was grateful that the sky had cleared and the moon was shining brightly. A lamp at this hour would be conspicuous on the grounds of the school. He put on his coat, picked up a paraffin lamp and a box of matches, and hopped down the corridor on his crutches. Thankfully, Lang was a heavy sleeper. Sommer turned the key carefully and pushed the front door open. The air was freezing. He thought of returning to his room to get some gloves and a hat but decided against it. Too much noise.
The path sparkled with frost and was easy to follow. It took him to the front of the school. He passed the statue of Saint Florian and entered the courtyard. It was much darker beneath the cloisters, and it was at this point that he lit his lamp. He adjusted the wick so that it provided just enough illumination for him to find his way—but no more.
Once inside the school, he progressed to the back of the building and with great difficulty descended a flight of stairs that led to a large damp basement room, one wall of which was covered in lockers. They were arranged in alphabetical order. Sommer lowered the lamp, and read the names: Zehrer, Zeigler, Zelenka. He pulled the wooden door open and waved the lamp around, attempting to illuminate the shadowy recess.
Nothing.
He placed the lamp on the floor and thrust his hand inside the locker, frantically exploring the space with his fingertips.
Still nothing.
He cursed under his breath.
“Looking for something?”
It was a young voice—one of the boys.
Sommer started and swung around.
On the other side of the room the speaker struck a match. The flame slowly rose to meet the end of a cigarette and cast a yellow light over the distinctive features of Kiefer Wolf. “It's no good, sir,” said the boy, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “All Zelenka's possessions were removed. Well… with the exception of one item.”
Sommer swallowed.
“What… what was it?”
“The only thing that I thought was worth taking: a rather fine dictionary.”
“Give it to me.”
“Why should I?”
“It's of no use to you.”
“True. But it's clearly of considerable use to you!”
As Wolf drew on his cigarette, his face reappeared—infernal, in the red incandescence.
“What do you want, Wolf?”
“Only that you continue to honor our arrangement.”
“I've already said that I would. I'll keep my word.… You don't need that dictionary as well!”
“Have you read much Nietzsche, sir?”
“What?”
“Nietzsche—the philosopher.”
“I know who he is, boy!” said Sommer, suddenly angered. “According to Nietzsche,” said Wolf, “you can never have enough power.”
45
LIEBERMANN WAS UNFAMILIAR WITH ZIELINSKI’S—but it was where Trezska had insisted that they meet: a small, dilapidated coffeehouse, close to her apartment in Landstrasse. He had chosen to sit at the rear of the coffeehouse on one of several quilted benches, arranged in pairs, with an oblong table between: a small velvet drape increased privacy by partitioning the heads of adjacent patrons.
Liebermann looked at his wristwatch. Trezska was late. As time passed, he began to look at his wristwatch with increasing frequency, succumbing by degree to worries about her safety. He was considerably relieved, therefore, when the door opened and she finally appeared. The young doctor waved, capturing her attention. Trezska smiled and rushed over, flushed and a little agitated.
“I'm so sorry. My first lesson with Rosé—it lasted much longer than I'd expected.”
Liebermann stood and kissed her on the cheek. Now that she had arrived, the wait that he had endured seemed inconsequential.
“How was it? The lesson?” Liebermann asked.
Trezska pulled a dissatisfied face. “I could have played better.” She beckoned a waiter: “Absinthe… and some sugared almonds.”
Liebermann shifted along the bench and invited Trezska to sit next to him. She slid her violin case under the table and sidled up close.
“Forgive me,” said Trezska. “I am exhausted. Rosé is a demanding teacher—and very pedantic. At one point, he even questioned the way I was holding my bow! The Mozart was acceptable but the Beethoven…” She shook her head. “Very poor.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“I don't know. Perhaps I allowed myself to become overawed.… The performance was too timid.”
“What did Rosé say?”
“He was polite enough—but clearly unimpressed. He wasn't happy with my phrasing and thought that I was treating certain rhythmic figures too freely; however, if I had been more at ease, I am sure I could have produced a more confident performance. Then he might have been better able to understand what I was trying to achieve and less inclined to seize on what he saw as technical deficiencies.”
“Perhaps you will be able to communicate your intentions better next time? You will be more accustomed to Rosé—and less anxious, no doubt.”
Trezska took his hand and squeezed it affectionately—an expression of gratitude for his solicitous remarks.
The waiter returned and deposited Trezska's order, along with a carafe of water, on their table. She reached out and turned the bottle so she could examine the label. It showed an eighteenth-century dandy in a striped jacket and Napoleonic hat being approached by a flower girl. The legend read JULES PERNOD, AVIGNON.
Liebermann asked Trezska about Rosé's teaching practices, and then indulged in a little musical gossip.
“Did you see his wife?”
“No.”
“She is Director Mahler's sister. They married only last year. In fact, the day after the director himself got married. They say that when Rosé was at Bayreuth, the orchestra lost their way in the middle of Die Walküre. He stood up and with great skill managed to get them all play
ing together again. Mahler was in the audience and is supposed to have exclaimed—‘Now, that's what I call a concertmaster!’ “
“How is it that you know so much about Rosé?” asked Trezska, a line of perplexity appearing across her forehead.
“This is Vienna,” said Liebermann—as if no further explanation were necessary.
Trezska lifted the bottle and poured a small quantity of absinthe into two tall glasses. The liquor shimmered. It was translucent, like melted emeralds.
“Watering absinthe is something of an art,” said Trezska. “One must conduct the ritual with the same reverence that the Oriental peoples reserve for their tea ceremonies.”
She picked up a miniature perforated trowel and balanced it across the rim of her glass. Taking a lump of sugar from the bowl, she placed it on the pinholes. Then, tilting the carafe, she allowed a weak, twisting trickle of water to douse the sugar. The white crystals dissolved, and opaque droplets fell into the glass, turning the elixir a milky green. After a few moments, the absinthe became magically opalescent. It seemed to emit a pale glow, like the mysterious light of fireflies. The air filled with a redolence that was difficult to describe— a sickly bouquet with coppery traces.
“How long have you been drinking absinthe?” Liebermann asked.
“Oh, for some time now: I first became partial to the green fairy‘s charms while I was studying in Paris.”
“Yes, it is something of an institution there, I understand.”
“More than that—a religion.”
Trezska maintained the steady flow of water.
“You know,” said Liebermann, “I once read a monograph by the distinguished Parisian physician Dr. Valentin Magnan, of the asylum of Sainte-Anne. In it, he identified a specific neurological condition that he styled ‘absinthe epilepsy’ Magnan contends that absinthe can affect the motor centers of the cerebellum and the paracerebellar nuclei, producing convulsions and hallucinations of sight and hearing.”
“It is also the inspiration of poets,” said Trezska, “the favored spirit of visionaries, and an extremely potent aphrodisiac.”
Their eyes met. Liebermann smiled and pushed his glass toward her.
“You doctors,” she said, watering the second absinthe. “You seem to find fault with everything. You'll be saying that smoking is bad for you next.”
Liebermann drew on his cigar. “Well, I must admit, it has been suggested… but that can't be true.”
“How is it cured, this absinthe epilepsy?”
“Magnan recommends long cold baths—up to five hours—and purges of Sedlitz water.”
“In which case, I would rather suffer from the illness than endure its treatment! Prost!“
They lifted their glasses and touched them together. The controlled, gentle collision produced a low-pitched clunk. Liebermann took a tentative sip and savored the unusual flavor.
First, a strong impression of anise, but then the arrival of other registers, seeping out slowly, teasing the palate—a suggestion of mint, a tarry undercurrent of licorice…. After he had swallowed the absinthe and it had numbed the back of his throat, he became aware of an unpleasant medicinal aftertaste—as if an iron button had been dissolving in the saliva beneath his tongue.
“Well?” asked Trezska. “What do you think?”
“Interesting—”
“Any hallucinations?”
“No, but I can well believe a sufficient quantity might induce them!”
“It happened to me once,” said Trezska nonchalantly. “I was sitting in a café on the Place Pigalle. I had been drinking with friends and fell into a kind of stupor.… I felt a summer breeze on my face and heard the sound of a brook. The sun shone down on my closed eyes.… It was all very vivid—and seemed to last forever.… When I was finally roused, I collected my things together and walked toward the door. Yet I could still feel the heavy heads of flowers brushing against my skirt.”
She turned to face Liebermann. Her expression was shadowed with dark sensuality. The absinthe glistened on her lips—an enticement that he was simply unable to resist. Liebermann leaned forward and kissed her. When they drew apart, she smiled and, taking his hand, locked her fingers between his.
Liebermann could now see why Trezska had been so insistent that they meet in Zielinski's. It was the kind of establishment where a couple could become quite intimate without attracting much attention.
Trezska asked Liebermann about his work at the hospital, and he told her about the deluded jurist who claimed to be in conversation with an angelic being from Phobos. She listened intently and, after he had finished, said: “But how can you be sure that this old man is deluded?” Then they embarked on a philosophical discussion about the nature of reality, a conversation that became less and less coherent as they imbibed larger quantities of absinthe.
Liebermann gazed out into the coffeehouse through a dense pall of cigarette and cigar smoke. The clientele of Zielinski's was comprised of workmen, artists, and a few women whose abundant cleavages and raucous laughter declared their profession. Music was provided by a zither player: an unkempt gentleman with an eye-patch and wild white hair. He plucked an itinerant melody that at times became nothing more than a random selection of pitches. Occasionally something recognizable would emerge—a fragment of Strauss or Lanner, but no more than a musical paring, flotsam on a wash of watery strumming. No one seemed to mind, and indeed, after a while, Liebermann began to find the abstract ambient qualities of the zither player's improvisations quite pleasing.
Liebermann stared into the pallid opalescent mixture in his glass. He took a deep breath and asked:
“What happened… that day, on the Prater?”
“Ah,” Trezska replied. “I was wondering when you were going to ask.”
“You had what? A premonition?”
She sighed. “You are a doctor… a man of science. You do not believe in such things, I am sure.”
“I…” Liebermann was conscious of his own deceit but could not stop himself. “I have an open mind.”
Trezska did not look convinced.
“There are many respectable scientific societies,” Liebermann continued, “that take a serious interest in paranormal phenomena. Even Professor Freud, the most ardent of skeptics, has demonstrated a certain willingness to entertain the idea of mind-to-mind communication—telepathy.”
Trezska's features softened, indicating that she had decided to give her companion the benefit of the doubt.
“Yes, I do get strong feelings sometimes. It is supposed to be in my blood… my mother's side.”
“Second sight?”
“Whatever you want to call it.”
Liebermann's expression became troubled. “But could it not be that… we were walking in an open space and, rather foolishly, chose to stand under the tallest tree. This, of course, would be the tree most likely to attract lightning. If we had discussed our situation, we might have concluded that we were in danger.” Liebermann sipped his absinthe. “Now, could a similar process have taken place in your unconscious mind? You were not aware of the process but experienced only its product or consequence—namely, fear. Comparable dissociative processes operate in dreams and serve to disguise their meaning.”
Trezska playfully tapped Liebermann's cheek. “Why must you try to explain everything?”
“It is generally better to understand things… than not.”
Trezska selected a pink sugared almond from the bowl and pressed it between her lips. As she sucked the icing from the nut, she pouted. This repetitive and subtle movement aroused in Liebermann a desperate desire to kiss her again.
“According to my mother,” said Trezska, “her side of the family are related to the house of Báthory.”
Liebermann's expression became blank.
“You've never heard of Erzsébet Báthory?” Trezska continued. “The vampire countess?”
“What?” Liebermann laughed.
“She was a Transylvanian noblewoman. Lege
nd has it that she first killed and then bathed in the blood of nearly a thousand young maidens—simply to preserve her beauty.”
Trezska produced a faint, ambiguous smile. Liebermann could not determine whether she was being serious or joking. He began to feel distinctly odd: woozy, detached. His vision blurred and he moved his head backward and forward to regain his focus.
“Are you all right?” Trezska asked.
The strange jangling of the zither sounded peculiarly loud—a concatenation of gongs and bells.
“I fear,” said Liebermann, “that Dr. Magnan's speculations concerning the effects of absinthe on the brain may be correct.” His speech was slurring. “Indeed, I would hazard a guess that the active chemical ingredients have just reached my cerebellum and my paracerebellar nuclei, with predictable consequences.”
“Perhaps I should take you home?” said Trezska.
He felt her hand unlock from his, and the heat of her palm on his thigh.
“Yes,” Liebermann replied. “Perhaps you should.”
46
IT WAS THE DEAD of night. A thick mist had descended into the valley, and the four boys had to consult a compass to find their way. They assiduously avoided footpaths, and as a result their progress was slow. The ground was muddy and treacherous—an adhesive mulch that made each step effortful. Boggy hollows were brimming with ice-cold filthy water that filled their boots and soaked their trousers. Sometimes the trees would grow closer together, and the spaces between would become congested with prickly leafless bushes. Then the boys were unable to move forward, and had to retrace their steps and find some other way.
Wolf led the group. He carried a paraffin lamp, the light of which barely mitigated the darkness. Freitag followed, carrying a shovel, and straggling behind, striving to keep up, were Drexler and Steininger, each grasping the corners of a large, sagging jute sack.
Suddenly, Wolf raised his arm. The others stopped.
“What is it?” whispered Freitag.