by Frank Tallis
“Want to speak to him?”
“Yes.”
“Because it isn't necessary: he's not as significant as I once thought.”
“Well, you might have said! What on earth made you change your mind?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Of course I want to know.”
“Sugared almonds!”
Haussmann turned again to look out of the window, his half smile now widening to become an embarrassingly conspicuous grin.
On arriving at Saint Florian's, Rheinardt instructed his assistant to wait outside with the driver. He then ushered Liebermann through the stone arch and into the courtyard of the school. The old soldier, Albert, was seated on a bench, his chin buried in his chest. His stertorous breathing—amplified by the cloisters—sounded curiously mechanical: a repetitive grating and grinding. Rheinhardt approached and touched his shoulder, but did not shake him. The veteran's expression spoke too eloquently of blissful release from the heavy yoke of corporeality. Moved to pity Rheinhardt slowly withdrew his hand.
“I know how to get to Professor Eichmann s office,” he whispered. “We'll let this old fellow enjoy his beauty sleep, eh? You can question him later.”
Liebermann smiled, recognizing in Rheinhardt s small act of charity a justification for hope. Being a psychoanalyst, he saw the salvation of humanity not in great ideologies, religion, or political reforms but in everyday, barely perceptible deeds of kindness. He found this thought consoling, a counterbalance to his certain knowledge that they were about to find out how easily man becomes a thing of darkness—how easily civilized values blacken and curl in the heat of primitive passions.
Professor Eichmann greeted them with frigid condescension.
“You will forgive me, gentlemen, but I am extremely busy and cannot spare you much time.”
Liebermann promised the headmaster that he would be brief.
“Tell me, headmaster,” he said softly, “when you entered the laboratory on the evening that Thomas Zelenka's body was discovered, did you smell anything?”
The headmaster wrinkled his nose—as if the mere mention of smell had triggered some form of malodorous olfactory hallucination.
“The laboratory always smells a little unpleasant.”
“Nothing struck you as unusual?”
“No.”
“Could you describe how it smelled?”
“Herr Doctor, I cannot see how this line of questioning can possibly prove helpful. As I have already explained—”
Liebermann raised his hands, arresting the headmaster's flow with an expression that begged indulgence.
“Headmaster, I have said that I will be brief, and I promise you I will keep my word. With respect, could you please answer the question: what did the laboratory smell of?”
Eichmann shook his head, tutted, and said: “A little like bad eggs.”
Liebermann stared at the headmaster—an inquisitorial, ingressive stare that owed much to his acquaintance with Professor Freud. Then, quite suddenly, he said, “Thank you,” and stood to leave.
The headmaster looked first at Rheinhardt and then back at Liebermann.
“Is that all you wanted to know?” Eichmann asked.
“Yes,” said Liebermann. “I have no further questions. I trust you will concede that we have respected your convenience.”
The headmaster did not appear satisfied—only suspicious.
“Where is Professor Gärtner?” asked Rheinhardt.
“In the staff common room,” said the headmaster.
He observed their departure with eyes that radiated contempt.
Liebermann and Rheinhardt found Professor Gärtner sitting alone, ensconced in a fustian armchair and sipping brandy from a metal hip flask. The book on his lap was Thucydides's great History of the Peloponnesian War. After some introductory civilities—to which the professor responded with considerably more courtesy than the headmaster—Liebermann repeated his question: “Tell me, Professor Gärtner, when you discovered Thomas Zelenka's body, did you smell anything unusual?”
“Unusual?” repeated Gärtner.
“Yes.”
“I don't think so. To be honest, I don't have a very acute sense of smell. It's never been the same since the storming of Brescia back in ‘49. I was serving under Haynau—with the first battalion, no less— and fell very badly ill. The regimental doctor didn't know what it was. He was mystified. I was sick and very weak for more than a month. When I recovered, I felt well enough. All my body parts were working—just as they did before—with the exception of my nose! The sensation of smell was dulled, blunted. In order to detect the fragrance of a flower, I would have to hold it directly under my nostrils, inhaling deeply, and only then would I catch a hint of its bouquet. My sense of taste was affected, too. Subsequently, I've only ever enjoyed foods with very strong flavors. A good spicy goulash, for example.”
Liebermann attempted to interrupt the garrulous professor, but he failed.
“I once met a neurologist from Paris,” Gärtner continued, “who said that he'd heard of such things happening, and he spoke at some length about the bulbs that project from beneath the brain. A clever fellow if ever there was one. He had studied with Charcot and knew his Virgil as well as his anatomies. Apparently, there are some infectious organisms that attack nerve tissue, causing permanent damage; however, I should say—if my memory serves me correctly—he associated such cases with tropical rather than Mediterranean diseases.” Professor Gärtner took a swig from his hip flask, hummed pensively, and added: “I'm sorry, Herr Doctor. I seem to have forgotten your question. What was it you wanted to know?”
Liebermann and Rheinhardt made their excuses and left.
“Well,” said Rheinhardt, as they made their way down the stairs. “This isn't going very well, is it?”
Liebermann shook his head. “No, it isn't; however, at the same time, the science of hereditary constitution gives me good reason to remain optimistic.”
“Max, what are you talking about?”
“I will explain in due course. Now, let us return to the courtyard.”
Albert was still sitting in the same place, although the movement of his head suggested that he was now not sleeping but observing the spiraling of dead leaves in a vortex.
When Rheinhardt and Liebermann arrived, he rose to greet them—saluting and clicking his heels together to produce a hollow knock.
“Ah, my dear fellow,” said Rheinhardt. “There you are. Allow me to introduce a colleague of mine, Herr Dr. Liebermann. He would like to ask you some questions.”
Albert smacked his lips.
“A doctor…”
“Yes.”
“Permission to report—I'm as fit as a fiddle, sir. Haven't had a day's illness in years.”
“Well,” said Rheinhardt, “I'm very glad to hear it; however, the good doctor has not come to inquire about your health. He wants to ask you about the recent tragedy.”
Rheinhardt glanced at his friend.
“Do you remember the boy Thomas Zelenka?” asked Liebermann.
“Permission to report: yes, sir. The boy who died.”
“Do you remember the evening when his body was discovered?”
“I do, sir. He was found in the laboratory, sir.”
“Now, I want you to think back to that evening. I want you to try to remember something for me.” Liebermann extended his hand, and touched the old soldier's arm gently. “When you entered the laboratory… what did it smell like?”
Albert's rheumy-eyed gaze met Liebermann's clearer one. His tongue slipped out of his mouth and proceeded to swing from side to side, coating his lower lip and bristly chin with saliva.
Rheinhardt was about to repeat the question, but Liebermann silenced him with a hand gesture.
They waited. The sound of gunfire could be heard in the distance.
“Permission to report,” said Albert. “A peculiar smell, sir… like almonds.”
55
Inside, the deputy headmaster was seated at a table covered with exercise books. His expression was bored and slightly irritated. Becker stood to greet them, but his face was impassive and the absence of chairs (other than his own) seemed sufficient reason to justify the discourtesy of not inviting the policeman and the young doctor to sit.
Liebermann surveyed the room and, in spite of its ugliness, its exposed pipes, and stained walls, he smiled.
“This takes me back,” said Liebermann, nostalgically. “It reminds me of the lab in my old school. I was very fond of chemistry.”
Becker showed no sign of sympathetic interest. Instead, he waved his hand over the table and said: “Gentlemen, I have much to do today.”
This plea for brevity resonated with the headmaster's: Liebermann supposed that the two men had convened earlier, resolving to obstruct the investigators with a show of churlishness and bad manners.
Liebermann sidled up to the deputy headmaster and examined the book he was in the middle of marking. The boy's work was barely visible beneath a descending curtain of red ink.
“Ahh,” said Liebermann recognizing a distinctive illustration from his youth. “The Liebig condenser. You know, I was once told that it wasn't Baron von Liebig who invented the condenser at all but someone else entirely. Is that true, Dr. Becker?”
The deputy headmaster straightened his back and adjusted his gown. Having been presented with an opportunity to demonstrate the depth of his knowledge, he was unable to feign indifference.
“The earliest condenser—to my knowledge—was described by Christian Ehrenfried Weigel in 1771.”
“Is that so?” Liebermann responded. “Extraordinary.”
Rheinhardt had walked over to the geological exhibits, where he renewed his acquaintance with the shiny black trilobite.
“Inspector,” Becker called out, “I would be most grateful if we could proceed expeditiously I am certain that you and your colleague”—he threw a contemptuous look at Liebermann—”must have many matters awaiting your urgent attention in Vienna.”
Rheinhardt rolled back on his heels. “Indeed.”
“Then shall we begin?” said Becker, talking across Liebermann.
Rheinhardt inclined his head in Liebermann's direction. “Please continue, Herr Doctor.”
“Thank you, Inspector,” said Liebermann.
Becker tossed the pen he was holding onto the table. It rolled away, declaring his hostility with each clattering revolution. In the ensuing stillness, the hissing of leaking pipes filled the air with an unnerving, serpentine sibilance.
“I trust your wife is well?” said Liebermann.
“Well enough,” Becker replied.
“She is fully recovered?”
“Recovered, Herr Doctor? She was never ill.”
“You said that she had been tearful… after our visit?”
“She was tearful… but that is no longer the case.”
“Good, I'm glad to hear it. Inspector Rheinhardt and I clearly misjudged the degree to which she had been affected by Zelenka's death.” Then, stepping back and looking out over the benches, Liebermann added: “So, this is where the unfortunate boy was discovered. Could you tell me where exactly?”
“There,” Becker pointed to the front bench.
Liebermann gazed at the empty floor space between two high stools.
“It is interesting, is it not,” said Liebermann, imitating the manner in which he had seen Professor Freud begin his lecture the previous evening, “that we often appropriate the word ‘chemistry’ when language fails to furnish us with terms adequate to the task of describing the mysteries of love. We are often unable to say why it is that one relationship works and another doesn't. We say that the chemistry is right, or the chemistry is wrong, or perhaps that the chemistry is absent! This instinctive appropriation acknowledges that love is a very physical experience: it quickens the pulse and the breath… tears fall. Ironic ally, love—the most transcendent of all emotions—reminds us that we are mortal. I am of the opinion that our deepest passions are animated by a fierce chemistry, the reactions of which—by virtue of their association with corporeal processes—bring us inexorably closer to death.”
Becker tilted his head, and his spectacles became circles of opaque brilliance. “I am sorry, Dr. Liebermann,” said Becker. “But I really haven't a clue what you're talking about.”
“Do you believe that there is a chemistry of love, Herr Doctor Becker? There is certainly a chemistry of death.” Liebermann positioned himself between the first two benches and leaned forward, supporting his weight on outstretched arms. “We are—as yet— ignorant of the substances that create bonds of affection, but we are not so ignorant of those that extinguish life.”
Becker glared at Liebermann, but said nothing.
“How, I wonder,” Liebermann continued, “would you describe the bond of affection that existed between Frau Becker and Thomas Zelenka? Is it enough to say that they were fond of each other? That they were friends? Or do you think we would do better to borrow once again the most potent of scientific metaphors. I am disposed to believe that they shared a chemical affinity.”
The deputy headmaster suddenly turned around and faced the wall.
“Frau Becker and Thomas Zelenka,” Liebermann continued. “They were lovers, weren't they?”
“Yes, they were lovers!” Becker exploded. “Are you satisfied now, Dr. Liebermann? Are you satisfied, now that I have admitted it? Now that I am shamed?”
Liebermann's reply was delivered with clinical neutrality. “It was never my purpose to derive any pleasure from your misfortune. I merely desired to establish some important facts.”
“Well, there you are! You've succeeded! And what of it?”
Liebermann did not respond. He simply waited. With every passing second a subtle pressure mounted—a tacit demand for explanation. It seemed to weigh down on Becker until resistance was no longer possible. The deputy headmaster raised his hands, and then let them fall—a gesture that suggested both defeat and anger.
“Poldi was never happy here,” he blurted out. “Right from the beginning. I could do nothing to raise her spirits. She spent half my monthly salary in the shops on Kärntner Strasse—and she was still inconsolable. She expected too much—from me, and from Saint Florian's. We became more and more estranged, and as we did so, she became more and more obsessed with the boys—the bullying, the persecution. She made a complete fool of herself in front of the other masters’ wives—attempting to foment some kind of women's revolt! It was utterly absurd. She came perilously close to losing me my position! Had I not remonstrated with her in the strongest possible terms…” Becker hesitated, and the shadow that passed across his face intimated violence. “My prospects at Saint Florian's would have been irrevocably damaged! Zelenka exploited her sympathy—and he did so at a time when our marital relations were at their worst. His presence at the house became an embarrassment. Even the staff made jokes about it. Can you imagine what that is like, Herr Doctor? To have the gardener, the cook, the maid sniggering behind your back—enjoying the spectacle of your humiliation.”
“Then why didn't you put a stop to it?” asked Liebermann gently. “Why didn't you prohibit Zelenka's visits?”
“To what end? By the time I had discovered their secret, it was too late. What good would it have done, Herr Doctor, had I acted in such a way as to draw even more attention to my predicament? What good? I am a rational man—a civilized man. I decided to conduct myself in a dignified fashion. Zelenka intended to join the civil service in the summer. I knew that Poldi would follow him.…It was simply a question of biding my time until then.” Becker glanced back at Liebermann. “Well, there it is, Herr Doctor. You've had it out of me.” His gaze took in Rheinhardt, and he added, “I trust you will both say nothing of this to anyone.”
“And what of your marr
iage now?” asked Liebermann.
“I don't know. Poldi and I do not talk… not as a husband and wife should; however…”
“You still nurse a hope that—notwithstanding what has transpired—your marriage might yet survive?”
“I am not so naïve, Dr. Liebermann, as to think that just because Zelenka is dead all will be well again. Zelenka was a consequence, not a cause. Our estrangement had begun long before Poldi and Zelenka discovered their… chemical affinity; however, since Zelenka's death, I believe Poldi has changed—a little. We have—of late—been more civil with each other. Perhaps Zelenka's death has made her realize that life is precious and that we are sometimes obliged to make the most of what little we are given. And if I can find it within myself to forgive her… then, yes, it might not be so foolish to hope for some form of reconciliation.”
Liebermann sighed, joined his hands together, and allowed his fingers to bounce on his lips.
“And there we might leave it,” he said, his sentence—like an imperfect cadence—failing to find a satisfactory resolution. “Were it not,” he then continued, “for the almond tart.”
Becker started. “I beg your pardon?”
“The almond tart that you instructed your wife to purchase on one of her many trips into town. You may not know this, but she bought it at the Royal and Imperial Bakers. If you had eaten it, I dare say you would have recognized its very superior qualities— the lightness of the pastry, the moistness of the sponge, the subtle lemon and anise flavorings, and the burnished, sweet caramelized almonds. But, of course, you didn't eat it. Instead, you placed it next to Zelenka's dead body—right here”—Liebermann rapped the bench top—”before rushing upstairs to meet with the headmaster. Is that not so?”
Becker stumbled forward, as if his legs had suddenly lost all their strength. He clutched the handles of a glass-fronted cupboard for support and raised his head as if appealing to heaven for mercy. The effect was vaguely religious, iconic. With his forked beard, long hair, and black gown, Becker seemed to be re-creating the passion of an obscure old saint, as might be depicted among the illuminations on a thirteenth-century altar panel. Inside the cupboard the contents rattled, producing a delicate tintinnabulation.