by Frank Tallis
‘Yes, sir. I have a volume of the Greek legends at home. I won it in a poetry competition at school.’
Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows.
‘I didn’t know you wrote poetry.’
‘I don’t, sir. Not now. But at school I did.’
Their conversation was brought to a premature close when a constable, stout and with glowing cheeks, separated from his companions and came to greet them. He introduced himself as Constable Badem.
‘Ah yes, Badem,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘It was you who discovered the body.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The constable’s chest expanded and he stood erect, as if about to receive a medal. Rheinhardt, touched and amused by the young man’s pride, reached out and gripped his shoulder.
‘Well done! The security office is indebted.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Badem, his eyes glinting with emotion. Then, assuming a more detached attitude, the young man added: ‘She’s over there, inspector.’ He raised his hand and pointed towards a row of bushes where his colleagues had assembled.
Rheinhardt left the footpath to investigate.
The woman was lying flat on the grass. Her hair pins had fallen out and dark, abundant tresses framed her face. The disposition of her limbs — legs apart, arms thrown wide — suggested abandonment. Her dress had ridden up over her knees, revealing a pair of striped stockings. Rheinhardt noticed that the soles of her ankle boots were almost transparent and closer examination revealed the presence of a small hole. Her coat was correspondingly threadbare, with frayed cuffs and the tattered remnants of a lining that had long since been removed. She was young, perhaps no more than eighteen, and the whiteness of her pale skin emphasised, by contrast, the artificiality of the carmine powder on her cheeks.
It was an interesting face, sensuous and attractive, but not conventionally beautiful. Her expression in deathly repose suggested disdainful indifference — perhaps even cruelty. Her lips were slightly uneven, twisted, and her nose was too generously proportioned. Yet there was something about these flaws that combined to create an arresting totality.
Rheinhardt kneeled down beside her and searched her pockets for identification, but all he could find was some small change, a handkerchief and two keys. The woman’s hat was lying on the ground a short distance away, next to what looked to the inspector like an item of underwear.
‘She hasn’t been stabbed or shot,’ said Rheinhardt, opening her coat. He could not see any bloodstains on her plain white dress.
‘Strangled, sir?’ Haussmann inquired.
Rheinhardt repositioned himself and looked at her neck.
‘No, I don’t think so. Smothered, perhaps …’
The inspector stood, brushed his trousers, and went over to retrieve the discarded item of clothing. As it unfurled, his suspicions were confirmed. He was holding a pair of red cotton drawers.
Haussmann frowned. ‘Was she … used?’
‘I imagine so.’
The drawers fluttered in the slight breeze. Rheinhardt, feeling suddenly disrespectful, folded the garment gently and placed it back on the grass.
‘Inspector Rheinhardt?’
A man wearing a homburg hat and spectacles was looking over the bushes. It was the photographer. The man’s companion — a teenage boy — appeared behind him, carrying a tripod.
‘Ah, Herr Seipel,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Good morning.’
‘May we begin, inspector?’
‘Yes, indeed. You may begin.’
Rheinhardt stood back from the corpse. Then he took out his notebook and recorded a few observations before addressing his assistant: ‘Come, Haussmann.’
The two men set off in the directon of the Theseus Temple.
On arriving at their destination, Rheinhardt and Haussmann ascended the wide steps.
The inspector rubbed his hands together and surveyed his surroundings. Directly in front of him he saw the white stucco walls of the Court Theatre and the steeples of the Votivkirche. Turning his head to the left he registered the Gothic spires of the Town Hall and the classical splendour of the Parliament building, on top of which two winged charioteers, struggling to control their rearing horses, faced each other across a tympanum densely populated with marble figures.
‘Have you had breakfast?’ asked Rheinhardt.
His assistant was surprised by the unexpected question, and replied cautiously: ‘No, sir. I haven’t.’
‘Neither have I. Given that we find ourselves so close to Café Landtmann, it occurs to me that we might get something to eat there before we proceed to the Pathological Institute.’
‘Yes, sir — as you wish.’
‘Just a few kaisersemmel rolls.’ The inspector paused, twisted his moustache and, finding the prospect of his imaginary repast inadequate, added: ‘And a pastry, perhaps. I had a rather good plum flan in Café Landtmann only last week.’
They walked around the covered arcade that followed the featureless exterior of the Temple. Neither of them looked up to admire the new and delightful prospects revealed by their circumnavigation: the black and green domes, the baroque lanterns, the blooming flowers and ornamental hedge gardens. Instead, they kept their gazes fixed on the stone pavement, which had been worn by countless predecessors to a silvery sheen.
Haussmann suddenly stepped ahead and squatted down.
‘What is it?’ asked Rheinhardt.
‘A button.’
He handed it up to his superior.
It was large, round, and made from wood.
‘Any footprints?’
Supporting his body with his hands, Haussmann leaned forward and inspected the paving more closely. The position he had assumed — conveying a general impression of sharp corners and angularity — gave him a distinctly feral appearance. He looked like a rangy dog, sniffing the ground. His reply, when it finally came, was disappointing.
‘Nothing.’
Rheinhardt held the button up and said: ‘It’s from her coat.’
3
WHERE TO BEGIN, THEN? With a birth or with a death? And there it is, you see — the two, always together. When does a life begin? At conception? That is a beginning, but it is not necessarily the only one. Nor is there any reason why we should privilege conception. The colour of my eyes, for example, which I inherited from my mother, preceded my nativity. In a sense, the traits that eventually combine to become an individual are already in the world before he or she arrives. Conception is merely the point at which they converge. Therefore, when we are conceived we are as obligated to the dead as we are to the living. I existed — albeit in a rather dispersed form — long before a provincial priest splashed my forehead with holy water and gave me a name. There is no fons et origo. I have no beginning.
You want a history. You want chronology. But nothing is ever that straightforward. You see, even starting my story is fraught with philosophical problems. One thing, however, stands out. One thing I can assert with confidence. I killed my mother. Others see it differently, of course, but I can only see it that way. She died minutes after I was ‘born’. Imagine — if you will — the scene: the doctor descending the stairs, my father, rising from his chair, eager, but suddenly confused by the medical man’s expression. Is the child all right? The doctor nods: Yes, a boy. A fine, healthy boy. My father tilts his head. He knows that something is wrong. Your poor wife — the doctor mumbles — I’m afraid there was nothing I could do to save her. Swiftly, the doctor recovers his authority. Some technical talk follows. An explanation — but not one meant to elucidate. That is how doctors are — you should know that. He shakes my father’s hand and leaves. My father, shocked, numb, hollow, ascends the stairs and enters the bedroom where the women are still removing the bloody sheets. His wife is dead. One of the women covers the corpse’s face and makes the sign of the cross. She looks at my father and smiles, a merciful, sad, sweet smile, the smile that graces representations of the Madonna, and gestures towards the cradle. Your son, she says. My father steps forward and pe
ers at the tiny creature wrapped in swaddling.
You will allow me to make an observation: I have since come to understand that my father’s response to his misfortune was by no means typical. When women die during childbirth, it is frequently the case that loving husbands find consolation in their offspring because something of the beloved is preserved in their person; however, my father seems to have been deficient in this respect. He did not see my mother in me. My presence in the world did not make him feel any closer to her. Quite the contrary. I would say that I merely reminded him of her absence, which made his loss even more painful.
A cheerless house, then. Blighted. Cold. Gloomy. Long silences — the clock ticking. That is the atmosphere in which I grew up.
There was a photograph of my mother on the mantelpiece. I still see it if I close my eyes — vivid — shining in the darkness: the repeated curlicue motif that flowed around the edges of the silver frame, the posy of little alpine flowers, the candle that was sometimes lit (but was mostly unlit). My father was in the habit of referring to my mother as an angel, and so it was that I came to think of her as possessing wings.
When I was alone in the house I would creep into the sitting room, take the photograph from the mantelpiece and study her face. My mother was a very beautiful woman: golden hair, big eyes, and delicate features. There was something in the background of the photograph which I mistook to be white feathers, folded neatly behind her back. Communing with my mother’s image was a private activity. It had to be, because my father disapproved. He discovered me once and snatched the frame out of my hands. He was furious and said that I should be careful with such a precious object. If I dropped it the glass would break. It was irreplaceable and I should show more respect. I remember that he had a strange look in his eyes. I was frightened and thought that he was going to punish me. Recalling the incident now, I would say that my father’s strange look was a jealous one — possessive.
The women of the village took pity on me. They brought me soup and shared their special dishes on feast days. I was always being invited to play with their children. And while I played with Hans or Gudrun or Dierk or Gerda, the women would watch and laugh. But I would sometimes catch sight of them as they exchanged glances and I would see tears of sympathy. Just before my departure, they would stuff my pockets with gingerbread, kiss me, and hold me close. All of these women had the same distinctive smell — a salty but sweet fragrance — a smell that combined perspiration with confectionery. I loved being enfolded in their plump red arms. But it was never enough. They could never replace my mother — they did not possess wings.
I enjoyed school. The other children hated it, but for me it was a welcome release from home and my father’s black moods. I was fond of our little classroom: the whitewashed walls, the blackboard, the potbellied stove. My favourite subject was history, largely due to the lively instruction provided by our teacher, Herr Griesser: avuncular, bald but for two comic tufts that sprouted out from above his ears, spectacles, and prone to illustrate points with wild gesticulations. With the tip of his finger, he could trace an exotic horizon — pyramids, ziggurats — and transport us to Giza or Elam. Greek legends were brought to life with vivid descriptions of their heroism. Theseus was as real to me as the baker.
In addition to being an excellent teacher, Herr Griesser was also a keen amateur archaeologist. He once found a prehistoric axe-head in the Wachau and gave it to the Natural History Museum. They put it on display in a cabinet and it can still be seen today in the room dedicated to Bronze Age artefacts.
It was Herr Griesser who first told me about mummies. I was absolutely fascinated. And when he told me that there were mummies in Vienna — real mummies — I was eager to see them. I pleaded with my father, begged him to take me but, predictably, he refused.
My interest in mummies was curiously practical for a boy. I became preoccupied with the mechanics of preservation, how it was accomplished. The Egyptian method of embalming is actually described by Herodotus. It is a crude but effective process. After the entrails and brain are removed, the body is scoured with palm wine and purified with spices. It is then soaked in a saline solution for seventy days, bathed, and wrapped in strips of linen. Finally, the body is placed in a wooden case.
The Egyptians also took great care with respect to the appearance of corpses, particularly those of women. The bust was preserved with stuffing and nipples were refashioned using copper buttons; wigs were worn; the body was painted in yellow ochre and the nails were tinted with henna.
Ingenious.
But I digress.
Such facts are of little interest to you. You want to know more about me.
4
PROFESSOR MATHIAS STOOD AT the foot of the autopsy table looking down at the body. He was an elderly gentleman with a tired, kindly face. His grey hair was uncombed and his general appearance was rather dishevelled. He was tying his apron strings behind his back while humming notes that never quite amounted to a melody. His dirge became even more tuneless as it sank to the bottom of his vocal range, where the professor was only capable of producing a sustained, rhythmic growling. In due course, he relinquished music in favour of speech: ‘So, you think she was ravished?’
‘Yes,’ Rheinhardt replied. ‘Her underwear had been removed. We found the garment discarded, not far from her body. Haussmann?’
His assistant produced the dead woman’s red cotton drawers from a bag. Mathias took them and held them up to the electric light.
‘No rips or tears. If they had been forcefully removed I would have expected to see some indications of violence. Perhaps she consented?’
‘Or perhaps she was forced to undress at knifepoint.’
Mathias buried his face in the red cotton, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.
‘Professor,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘What are you doing, exactly?’
The old man sighed and answered wearily: ‘I am employing my nose — a somewhat underestimated organ — to detect …’ He paused before adding, ‘Masculine traces.’ The professor raised the drawers again and waved them under his flaring nostrils like a wine expert sampling the bouquet of a fragrant Bordeaux.
‘Well?’ Rheinhardt asked.
‘Nothing,’ replied the professor. ‘A hint of ammonia, perhaps, but nothing else.’
He dropped the undergarment on a trolley and turned his attention to the corpse.
‘I was told she was found in the Volksgarten?’
‘By the Theseus Temple — behind a row of bushes.’
‘No papers?’
‘None.’
Mathias brushed his knuckles against the woman’s cheek.
‘Death, you horror of nature, Ever-moving runs your clock: The scythe, when swung, glistens, And grass and blade and flower fall. Well, Rheinhardt? Do you recognise it?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘To Death,’ said Haussmann, doubtfully. ‘By Christian Schubart.’
Rheinhardt looked at Haussmann and then to Professor Mathias for confirmation.
‘Yes,’ said Professor Mathias. ‘Your assistant is correct.’
‘Well done, Haussmann,’ said Rheinhardt.
The young man smiled.
Professor Mathias continued in a declamatory fashion: ‘Mow not on without distinction, here this little flower just abloom, There that rose, just half red. Oh, be merciful, oh, death!’ He shook his head. ‘So young … and there is something rather aristocratic about her expression, don’t you think?’
Rheinhardt remained silent. He did not really share Mathias’s opinion.
The professor rearranged a lock of the dead woman’s hair and addressed her directly: ‘You will excuse me, madam.’ Shuffling back to the foot of the autopsy table, Mathias removed her boots and stockings. The woman had painted her toenails purple and Mathias drew this to Rheinhardt’s attention. Then he raised her dress, folding the cloth back onto her abdomen and thus revealing a delta of chestnut curls. He extended his right hand, parted the lab
ia majora — employing his fingers like the blades of a speculum — and peered into her vagina. He then began to feel the dress material that lay directly beneath the woman’s perineum. He dragged more material out from beneath her buttocks, and hunched over the table to examine it more closely. Subsequently, he picked up a pair of scissors from his trolley and cut out a small square of material which he rubbed between his thumb and forefinger before waving it under his nose.
Rheinhardt found the spectacle of the gnomish old pathologist engaged in such intimate study quite obscene.
‘Well,’ said Mathias. ‘She certainly received a man. But I don’t see any signs of ravishment. The dress isn’t torn — no contusions, no signs of chafing or bleeding. Would you and your assistant be so kind as to remove her coat, inspector?’
Rheinhardt and Haussmann pulled the coat off the woman’s shoulders and tugged it downwards. Once her arms were free it was relatively easy to complete the task. Mathias returned with an extra-large pair of scissors and cut a straight line up the front of her dress, from hem to collar. Using a sharp hunting knife, he then slashed through the laces of the woman’s corset. The heavy canvas fell away, releasing her breasts.
‘Gentlemen — your assistance again, please. Would you raise her slightly?’ Mathias removed the clothing and put it on the trolley along with the red cotton drawers.
The three men stared at the naked body in silence. They did not look at each other, fearing that they might betray their thoughts. The woman was perfectly proportioned: delicate ankles, shapely calves, and hips that converged on a slim waist. Beneath the harsh electric light, the vivid contours of her body were strangely alluring. Rheinhardt closed his eyes and felt his cheeks become radiant with shame. The twist of her lip, he fancied, was no longer cruel but judgemental.