by Jody Sheilds
The card has a grotesque devil with bat wings, antlers, and sharp claws standing on an altar. At his right and left sides a smaller demon is tethered to him with ropes around their necks.
“This isn’t a positive sign. The card means the devil never lets go of those who belong to him. It reminds me of a Polish proverb: When the devil grabs you by a hair, he grabs you completely.”
Erszébet knows Dora is joined to her murderer as if bound by an invisible rope. She visualizes the scene that brought them together as clearly as if she had been a witness. There are two struggling figures, but only the girl’s face is revealed. There is the smell of earth and grass, then dark trees against the sky, their branches suddenly red, bursting as a brilliant web across Dora’s eyes, locked there as her breath stops.
The red image vanishes.
Wally stares at her. A wave of unease circles the two women, isolating them from the noise and confusion in the restaurant.
Erszébet is conscious of a wave of longing for her husband and a sudden loneliness. How does he stay in this wavering place between suspicion and confirmation? What are we doing? she wonders, looking at Wally and hardly recognizing her.
This is how it is when you discover something, she thinks. She had believed an answer would be a fulfillment, a thing that was smooth and useful, not this blurring, not this fall into strangeness. A suspension. There’s a word, Erlebnis, that means knowledge that comes in a flash, and she shrinks from it, although she knows she’s already caught. It’s too late to stop this process. She’s been grabbed by the devil.
Jószef is still being held under suspicion of murder, although not formally charged with the crime. There is pressure to charge him with grave robbery, even though officials admit the evidence against him isn’t conclusive. No witnesses saw him in the Zentralfriedhof or the Volksgarten. No one needs to point out that Gypsies are blamed for crimes on flimsier — and sometimes even nonexistent — evidence.
Perhaps Dora made an impulsive late-night visit to Frau Zellenka, she encountered Jószef by chance, and he abducted her. This is Franz’s hypothesis.
But consider the other suspects, the Inspector muses out loud to Franz, who doesn’t look up from his paperwork. Herr Zellenka and his wife had access to Jószef’s room in the stable. Remember her crouched next to me when the thumb was found under the stone? She didn’t behave like a woman, didn’t cry out or scream. Think of the victim’s father. Philipp could easily have planted the thumb there, since he was familiar with the Zellenkas’ property. Perhaps Philipp killed his daughter, deranged from the effects of syphilis. He has an image of the csordásfarkas. Men bewitched into a ravening state.
As he paces, he reminds Franz to approach a conclusion cautiously, always think of it sideways, if you understand my meaning. But Franz has his own theories that he doesn’t wish to share right now. He’s growing more independent, becoming less of a sounding board. The Inspector recollects that Seneca believed a disciple served only until he reached a point of autonomy through the teachings of his master. Then the disciple must leave. Uncomfortable with this possibility, the Inspector doesn’t finish his train of thought.
He turns to the pages of Kriminalistik.
A scheme of inquiry is drawn up in view of circumstances which alter of themselves, which are often unknown, and which do not depend on the person applying the scheme. It resembles, not the design of a house to be built, but a plan of campaign.
Franz renewed his efforts to find Rosza. His pursuit of her has extended over the city to the pages of the official servants registry, a famously incomplete index that does not include her name. Franz has little aptitude for paperwork, but he has honed his interview skills, copying the Inspector’s mannerisms. His words are more carefully considered, and his speech is slower.
However, even after two patient and lengthy interviews, neither Dora’s mother nor her father can recollect exactly where Rosza lived before she came to Vienna. Franzensfeste, or a village near the Caverns of St. Canzian? Do you know where Rosza passed her free time in Vienna? he asked, and they looked at him blankly. A servant’s leisure activities were never considered.
On a whim, he stopped by Kment, a glove store on Goldschmiedgasse, and described Rosza to the proprietor. He went into a few toy shops, figuring Otto might have cajoled Rosza into a visit. He also tried an umbrella store on Brandstätte. No luck.
Without a photograph of Rosza, there is no way to identify her, even with the assistance of the governesses he recruited. Two of the younger women promised to contact him immediately if they spotted her. Rosza hasn’t been forgotten, even though she was disliked. An uppity woman.
Even if he had the woman’s picture, she could easily pass by unrecognized at a glance. Young women wear their hats poised fashionably low over their foreheads, and sometimes a veil is pulled entirely across their faces, further obscuring their features. Only chance will bring Rosza to him.
His failure to find Rosza is a difficult point with the Inspector. Although Franz optimistically keeps him posted on new developments, he’s stopped suggesting plans for his assistant to follow. The Inspector notes his dull lack of progress in a report.
The Inspector has been distracted and irritable lately, and frequently pulls out his copy of Kriminalistik when frustrated with Franz or other bureaucratic matters. Once he wheeled around, furious at being interrupted, even though Franz had seen he was just sitting at his desk, staring into space.
The nurse says Dr. Steinach is busy with another patient, so his partner, Dr. Last, will see Wally now. Alarmed, Wally turns to exchange whispers with Erszébet. Fine, says Wally after a moment. I’ll follow you. She glances back over her shoulder to see Erszébet already confidently eyeing the wall of dark wood cabinets where the files on Dora and her father might be found.
The nurse ushers her into a plush room entirely furnished in red. There’s a painted screen, a sofa, and elaborate curtains, sashed back for the benefit of the potted ferns. The effect is intense and claustrophobic, as if a much larger room had been condensed into this space. She notices the collection of objects arranged on the desk. A metal pole with a sponge on one end, rollers, blunt rubber tubes, leather straps, a magnetic coil, a metal box, various wires and cords. A machine with knobs and a coil is set up at one end of a bare metal table.
Wally sits down and the nurse squeezes her wrist, counting out her pulse. She can’t read the woman’s expression; her face is as flat and blank as a doll’s. Perhaps she’s from some exotic, unfamiliar place — Herzegovina, Istria.
Dr. Last slips into the room and takes his place behind the desk. He’s younger than she imagined, although his pale hair is fading over his scalp. He takes out a gold pen and begins to write without looking at Wally or the nurse.
“You’ve been married how long?”
“Just six months.”
Wally wears a wedding ring borrowed from Erszébet. She explains her husband is a kind man, much older than she is. They met when he was traveling in England. She is surprised to find herself describing Erszébet’s husband, or her husband as she imagines he is. A tall, handsome man. The lies are easy; she could be telling a story to the children.
He writes down her words without comment, hardly glancing up, even when she occasionally stumbles and breaks into English.
“Very well. And what exactly are your medical troubles?”
“Headaches. Nerves.”
He suggests his special operation for female glands. A small cut in a delicate place.
“Nothing painful, just a little discomfort. It will increase your pleasure later, when you’re older.” He’s reassuring and looks straight at her for the first time.
She’s too embarrassed and confused to ask him to explain clearly what he meant.
Did she ever touch herself down there? he asked, and she shook her head. She could tell by the tone of his voice what her answer should be.
The nurse begins to place objects on top of the table. At the sound of a dropped instrument, a
sharp metallic clang, Wally jumps, her nervousness exposed. Jolted out of her story, she wonders if Erszébet has finished searching the files outside.
He frowns. “And how much pain does your sexual connection with your husband cause?”
The nurse suddenly opens the door, and when Wally cries Don’t leave, the woman turns around. Through the door, Wally sees a dark shape move as Erszébet steps away from the cabinets in the reception room.
“I want the nurse to stay here.”
“Certainly. She’ll help with your examination.”
Wally panics. Her body can’t lie the way her mouth can. She senses her legs weaken into a tremble before she even stands up.
She undresses behind the screen, removing her clothing with heavy fingers, counting to ten before freeing each button. She keeps her chemise and stockings on and puts on the robe hanging behind her, tightly knotting the belt. In the thin garment she feels lost, shadowy.
While she was undressing, a chair and a large basin of water were moved to the middle of the room. Now the doctor tells her to put her feet in the basin. He watches as she clumsily removes her stockings, too intimidated to protest. She sits and slides her feet into the water.
He moves toward her holding the end of a long metal coil that trails back to the machine. Now he’s so close she can see a glaze of perspiration over his face and smell the bitter wool odor of his suit.
“This is a Vibragenitant. It will affect the rhythm of your nerve vibrations. It won’t hurt. You’ll just feel a slight tingling.”
He shows her the dull black object in the palm of his hand. He turns it over, and the other side is covered with raised knobs. She’s afraid, hypnotized, her feet are frozen in place. She’s pinned in a box of color, the deep fringed curtains at the windows, the carpet, the brocade on the walls, everything thickly red. Even the light in the room seems soaked with scarlet.
“The nurse. I want the nurse.” She whispers the words in English.
He switches on the machine. It crackles, and electricity alters the air.
“Now I’ll guide this over your body. The electric current will flow deep into your muscles. Stay very still.” The doctor holds up the black object. Electricity will be applied to certain parts of the body, he says, indicating where the device is connected to the machine.
A loud buzzing. She feels a strange, damp tickle, the pressure of a shadow between her closed eyes, as if she’s being blessed by something otherworldly. Then his moist fingers move across her forehead. A warm hum of noise and a slight pain, a sting too fine to identify, is traced over her face and neck.
She can’t anticipate the slow movements of his hand. Later, when she is more knowledgeable, she’ll recognize this pattern of suspense and wait as the blueprint of desire.
Hearing Wally’s scream, Erszébet and the nurse jerk their heads toward the doctor’s door just as it crashes open.
Fräulein Yella had avoided the Inspector when he interviewed her employers after the severed thumb was discovered. Two nights later, he stops by the Zellenkas’ house without notice, intending to talk with her. He doesn’t object to Herr Zellenka’s presence during their interview, since he’s interested in observing their relationship.
Fräulein Yella is twenty-five, was born in Cetinje, and has worked for the Zellenkas for several years without any problems. She’s a good girl, Herr Zellenka says, and extravagantly compliments her. Flustered by his comments, Yella begins to giggle and toy with her braids.
The Inspector quizzes her about Jószef, and she promptly moves behind Herr Zellenka’s chair, clutching the back of the cushion. No, she’s never seen any strangers near the house or stables. No, she’s never been in Jószef’s rooms or even ridden in the fiaker, she adds, giving Herr Zellenka a sly look. The idea that someone put a cut-up finger in the stable room gives her a terrible feeling. She melodramatically rolls her eyes, and Herr Zellenka pats her hand. He seems somehow pleased by the maid’s nervous testimony, only betraying himself by the sudden relaxed slump of his shoulders.
The Inspector imagines Herr Zellenka’s hands elsewhere on Fräulein Yella. He dismisses her as another hysterical woman.
“Syphilis, wasn’t it?” murmurs Steinach, in answer to the Inspector’s question. “I can’t really remember how far Philipp’s disease has progressed.”
The doctor’s vagueness does little to lighten the Inspector’s mood. He arrived here in a state of irritation, since someone had misplaced Philipp’s file at the police station.
“Would syphilis make Philipp mad? Would he harm someone?” The image of the man’s genitals, mottled with specks, flashes into the Inspector’s mind.
“Harm someone?” Steinach looks skeptical. “I have no interest in how disease alters a subject’s behavior. I’m more concerned with physical changes. I’d have to look at the man’s case file again, but illogical behavior is the only indication of an abnormal state. Believe me, the best way to analyze a brain is to take it out of the skull.”
“I imagine our Vienna Psychoanalytic Society would argue your point.”
The Inspector has seen brains removed from their bony oval cases in postmortems. After the top of the skull is sawed off, the coiled-looking mass will pop out if the pathologist is skillful.
“I’d hate to have to define sanity,” says Steinach. “It’s not my specialty.”
The Inspector returns his grin. “I’ve encountered men who have given perfectly rational reasons for murdering someone. Krafft-Ebing said that even in madness there is method and logic.”
“Yes, I guess even Bluebeard had his valid points.”
Steinach edges past the Inspector to peer at a guinea pig in a cage. A row of red nipples ornaments the animal’s shaved belly, the stitches deep in its skin like a brand.
“Inspector, have you encountered many crimes committed by someone who had been hypnotized?”
“No, but I’m familiar with such things. I’ve heard of victims who were hypnotized. Baroness Rothschild was hypnotized and robbed in her railway carriage.”
“Ah, yes? Let me tell you a strange story. When I was younger, I was a doctor’s assistant. I went with him one night to help a man with a toothache. We found the man lying on the floor in terrible agony, and we decided to pull his tooth. He absolutely refused to take morphine, even though we urged it on him. I had the man’s arms pinned down, and the doctor was straddling him, breaking the tooth in his jaw. Blood was everywhere. And then a woman — his wife — came into the room, wearing a fur coat. She didn’t say a word, just stood there. She opened her coat a little. She was naked underneath. The man was writhing and moaning, but he never took his eyes off her while the doctor hammered his jaw. Strange thing was, the man seemed to enjoy the experience, even the pain. He watched her until the tooth was out.”
Steinach faces the Inspector.
“Did the woman hypnotize him? Was the man sane? Later, I discovered he was a famous author. Herr Sacher-Masoch. He wrote Venus im Pelz. His wife’s name was Wanda.”
Afterward, the Inspector lunches alone at Bellaria, near the Naturhistorisches Museum. It’s a gray November day, and he orders fácán vincellérne módra, pheasant cooked with brandy, grapes, liver purée, red wine, and bacon. He reviews his conversation. Steinach doesn’t believe Philipp has symptoms of insanity. But there is madness that only shows itself once, or intermittently. A perfectly normal woman can act abnormally during her menstrual period. In Kriminalistik, Professor Gross clearly stated his position on the subject. “Premeditation, cunning, and prudent calculation are not incompatible with insanity.”
He finds fault with his impatience during the interview, his failure to follow the doctor’s statements with neutral questions. He was too personal, he put too much of himself into the dialogue.
He’s afraid he isn’t subtle enough.
The Inspector tells Erszébet about Jószef’s ether addiction and hands her the knotted ribbon found in his pocket to identify. She studies it.
“It
’s a charm to protect the person who carries it against the police. There are words that work with it. Sweet dead one, let the noose about to be tied around my neck be undone.”
He asks where the ribbon comes from.
“After someone dies, Gypsies measure the length of the coffin with a piece of cloth. Then they tear it into these ribbons.”
“But whose coffin? Someone in the family? Another Gypsy, a stranger?”
She doesn’t know the answer.
During one long night, he wills his wife awake in bed. “I don’t know what is happening,” he whispers. Then instantly hopes she hadn’t heard him.
Erszébet is awake, but silent, unreadable. He knows she won’t fall asleep again.
“Your investigation is like the telling of a dream,” she says, her voice thick with sleep. “Each time you discuss it, you add other facts, even change their order. You remember the way you told it, not the way the events happened. You can’t help it.”
What she also wants to tell him is You’re afraid. You observe a crime, its sequence of facts. In order to understand the terrible images you’ve witnessed, you make them into a story so you can carry it. Or it will carry you.
If he’d asked her, Erszébet would have told him that his wish for a conclusion is délibáb. Magical thinking. A mirage.
Later, the Inspector is more strongly conscious of his uneasy feeling, even though he’s walking in the Haupt Allee in the Prater on a surprisingly mild day, at a fashionable hour, surrounded by people, horses and carriages. At his left is the Casino, a rounded, cream-colored building partially obscured by bare horse chestnut trees. In the spring, these trees drop thousands and thousands of thick petals, and the sound is a soft, constant thrumming, like insects flying against a screen. After crossing the grounds, he would find the brim of his hat filled with fallen petals, quickly browning souvenirs of the trees’ radiance.
Erszébet consults a tarot card reader and asks about her husband. The card the woman draws for him is le Bateleur, the Mountebank, a figure standing behind a table set with conjuring items and dice, a game of chance. Among other things, he represents the mind, which is both instinctive and profound.