by Frank Tallis
Becker paused and looked at Leopoldine s dressing table. The surface was littered with circular baskets overflowing with ribbons and hairpins, an assortment of brushes, and numerous unguents and perfumes. A gauzy nightgown was draped over the oval mirror-and an item of underwear had been discarded on the floor.
The word “slattern,” declaimed with biblical authority, sounded in Becker's head. He picked up the drawers-and tested the sensuous viscosity of the material with the tips of his fingers. His body trembled with desire and resentment. Throwing the garment aside, he edged toward the bed. He glanced once at the door-anxious not to be discovered. It reminded him of his adolescence, the perpetual stealing away, the fearful intensity of his need-and his immoderate indulgence in the solitary vice…
Was it true? he wondered. What the doctors said about self-pollution? Did it really unhinge the mind?
Breathing heavily he reached for the eiderdown and ripped it back. Then, grabbing a paraffin lamp, he held it over the bedsheet and examined the stretched, taut linen with forensic scrupulosity. He pressed his nose into the fabric and sniffed, with fevered canine excitement.
Nothing different. Nothing strange. Only a familiar muskiness, the barely perceptible olfactory signature of their connubial mattress.
Becker walked around the bed, still swinging the lamp close to the white sheet, his eyes performing watchful oscillations. No traces. Thank God. No traces.
He felt relieved, and his shoulders relaxed. But his reprieve was short-lived. At once, he realized his error. Reaching down, he ran his hand across the crisp sheet. It had only recently been changed. Of course there would be no traces on this sheet!
He pulled at the tapering points of his beard: he noticed that his hand was trembling. In his head, he could hear the marrowless voice of his insubstantial conscience: this is madness. This is madness. Becker silenced it with a clenched fist, brought violently against his heart.
29
“Outrageous,” said Eichmann. “Absolutely outrageous! It's shocking that Austerlitz should have consented to printing it. But I suppose it's what we have come to expect from the Arbeiter-Zeitung… always trying to stir up dissent. They call themselves socialists but really they're just troublemakers!”
The headmaster shook his head with such violence that the artfully placed strands of hair raked across his crown were unsettled, revealing the baldness beneath.
“Do you remember Domokos Pikler?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Of course I do… a strange, solitary boy. Hungarian. And wouldn't you know it! They say that Hungarians are a melancholic race-have you heard that?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Pikler was a typical Magyar. I don't think I ever saw him smile. He killed himself, Inspector. He killed himself because he was afflicted with a profound constitutional melancholy.”
“What about this punishment? ‘Doing the night watch?’ “
“I've never heard of it. The product of a fevered imagination, as were the author's other wild-and frankly ludicrous-allegations.”
“Do you have any idea who this Herr G. might be?”
“No. Pikler's death was almost ten years ago. Long enough for me to forget which pupils were here at that time. I could go through the old registers, if you wish? Seeing the names of former pupils sometimes jogs my memory.”
“I saw Frau Becker recently” said Rheinhardt. “On Saturday, in fact.” The headmaster raised his eyebrows, inquisitively. “She is of the opinion,” Rheinhardt continued, “that Thomas Zelenka was bullied-and that such behavior is commonplace at Saint Florian's.”
“Yes… Frau Becker,” said Eichmann, leaning back in his chair and smiling. “Well, if I may be blunt, Inspector, you shouldn't treat anything she says too seriously.” He then adopted a more complicit tone of voice. “I trust you are a discreet man, Inspector? This is a delicate matter, and I would be mortified if my deputy were to discover that I had been less than complimentary about his wife.”
Rheinhardt nodded.
“In spite of her…” Eichmann searched for a word that might serve as a diplomatic substitute for the several pejoratives that had obviously just occurred to him. But, failing, he was forced to declare, “In spite of everything about her”-when he said the word ‘everything,’ he traced an annulus in the air, implying some vague and disagreeable totality-”my dear wife, Ursula, did all that she could to welcome Frau Becker into our small but vitally important community of masters’ wives. However, it was soon evident that Frau Becker did not enjoy the company of her peers. She found Ursula and the other wives… old-fashioned. The girl means well-I have no doubt-but her attitude to the boys was hopelessly naive. She would have believed anything Zelenka told her-and would have lavished sympathy when a reprimand for disloyalty or unmanly conduct would have been much more appropriate.”
This last sentence was said with an air of finality. Eichmann picked up a little bell on his desk and rang it loudly. The door opened and Albert entered.
“Permission to report-ready to escort the inspector, sir.”
“Thank you, Albert,” said the headmaster. Eichmann then turned to Rheinhardt and said: “I am sorry to say that-once again-you will be unable to interview Herr Sommer. He has still not recovered from his accident.”
“I see,” said Rheinhardt.
“Even so, Herr Sommer has written to me, and I understand that he intends to return by the end of the week.” The headmaster reached for a sheet of paper on which were listed several names. “Now… the boys you wished to interview. They are all waiting upstairs. I must confess to being more than a little intrigued by this request-and I wonder why, exactly, you believe that these particular pupils will be able to assist you with your investigation?”
Rheinhardt did not respond.
The headmaster continued, “But of course, I understand that it is not for me to question your methods.”
Rheinhardt rose from his seat, bowed, and joined Albert by the door.
“Inspector?” Eichmann called out. Rheinhardt stopped and turned to face the headmaster. “How long do you intend to continue this investigation? Another week? Another month?”
Rheinhardt shrugged. “Until I am satisfied.”
Eichmann was clearly irritated by Rheinhardt's abstruse answer. Dispensing with any further courtesies, he dropped his gaze, signaling that the audience was now over.
Rheinhardt set off with his guide. The old soldier chose an extremely convoluted route-descending a floor before rising two floors in a different part of the building. Eventually, they began to ascend a familiar-looking staircase that disgorged them in front of the disused classrooms. Rheinhardt could hear youthful voices emanating from one of the half-open doors. He looked in and saw a dozen boys lounging around in an atmosphere of relaxed, carefree disregard. Some were leaning back on chairs with their feet up, others were playing cards; two were arm wrestling, and a few others were standing suspiciously by an open window. Although none of the boys were smoking, the air was hazy and smelled of tobacco. As soon as they noticed the inspector, they all fell silent, put on their shakos, and stood to attention.
“At ease,” said Rheinhardt, amused by their reaction.
He introduced himself and explained that he wished to speak to them individually and that in due course he would summon them one at a time. Then, instructing Albert to sit in the corridor (where the old veteran would no doubt fall asleep), he entered the same classroom that he had made use of on his previous visits. Settling himself at the teacher's table, he took out his notebook and examined his list of names, all of which were associated-to a greater or lesser extent-with the idea of hunting or predation.
Jager, Fuchs, Falke, Wolf…
Prior to that moment, Rheinhardt had been excited by the prospect of conducting these interviews. Yet, now that he was sitting there, about to proceed, he felt a certain uneasiness that shaded into despondency. The boys next door had all been selected because of Isidor Perger's responses to Liebermann's in
kblots. The young doctor's rationale had sounded very persuasive at the time-his vocabulary carrying with it the imprimatur of scientific authority: projection, involuntary imagination, the unconscious. All very impressive; however, in the absence of Liebermann's advocacy, the whole enterprise seemed less certain, its suppositions wanting, the outcome more uncertain. Thus, when Rheinhardt went to call the first boy, he was feeling far from optimistic and, perhaps, faintly ridiculous.
Rheinhardt s despondency deepened over the course of the first four interviews. The two Fuchses on his list-Ferdinand and Lear- were big, gangly, amiable fellows. They were respectful, quick to smile, and completely devoid of vulpine cunning. Penrod Falke turned out to be a rather small, and frankly effeminate, first-year student, and Moritz Jager was an unlikely persecutor of scholarship boys-being one himself. None of them had known Zelenka very well, all denied the existence of bullying at Saint Florian's, and all shook their heads-apparently mystified-when Rheinhardt asked them about “doing the night watch.”
The fifth boy, Kiefer Wolf, was quite different.
At first he behaved impeccably, but very soon he began to show signs of boredom and impatience-he sighed, toyed with his sabre, and looked around the room in a distracted fashion.
“Did you know Thomas Zelenka?”
“No.”
“You must have spoken to him.”
“No-I don't think so.”
“But he was in your year.”
“There are many people in my year whom I don't speak to.”
“Why's that?”
“I don't know. I just don't.”
“Perhaps there is something about them?”
“Possibly.”
“Perhaps you feel that you have nothing in common?”
“Perhaps.”
“That they do not come from very good families?”
“Their origins are of no consequence to me.”
“Then why don't you speak to them?”
“One cannot be familiar with everyone.”
“You don't dislike them, then?”
“Dislike them? I am indifferent to them…”
There was nothing particularly incriminating about the boy's answers, except a general evasiveness; however, his facial expressions were becoming increasingly provocative. An ugly smirk occasionally disturbed the neutrality of his thin mouth, and his declarations of ignorance were delivered in a tone rich with sarcasm. It was an accomplished performance, in which tacit mockery never quite amounted to insult-but came very close.
The boys who were still waiting in the next room had been getting progressively louder. Rheinhardt could hear squeals of delight, the sound of scraping chairs, and running. They seemed to be playing a game of some kind. Strange, thought Rheinhardt, that those same young men (who only an hour before had been smoking and playing cards like hardened campaigners) were now enjoying the infantile pleasures of tag. Such was the peculiarity of their age.
Wolf raised his hand to his mouth as if politely covering a yawnbut his steady gaze and relaxed neck muscles showed that the gesture was pure artifice.
“Are you tired?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Yes,” Wolf replied, without inflection. “We were practicing drill-at sunrise.”
The boy smiled.
Rheinhardt watched the bloodless lips curl, and, as they twisted, he observed in their convolution, in their counterfeit charm, something unsettling.
Policeman's intuition…
He had trusted his instincts before, and he must trust them again.
This was not an ordinary smile. This was a cruel smile, a malignant smile. This was the smile of a sadist.
“You tortured Zelenka, didn't you?” said Rheinhardt softly. “You and your friends. You held that poor boy down, and you cut him.”
A peal of good-humored laughter sounded through the walls.
Wolf's smile did not vanish-if anything, it intensified.
“That is a very serious allegation,” he said calmly.
“I know,” said Rheinhardt.
“The kind of allegation,” Wolf continued, “that one should make only when one has sufficient evidence. And I know for a fact, Inspector, that you have nothing of the kind.”
Rheinhardt was unnerved by the boy's confidence. By his steady, silky delivery.
“My uncle,” added Wolf, “will be most aggrieved when he hears about your conduct.”
“Your uncle?”
“Yes. My uncle Manfred.”
“What has your uncle got to do with this?”
“A great deal.” Wolf's lips parted, showing his even teeth. “He is not only my uncle but your superior. He runs the security office: He is Commissioner Manfred Brugel.”
30
Liebermann sat, his clenched fist against his cheek, his forefinger extended, tapping his temple, while the old jurist again discoursed at length on the principle of plurality as revealed to him by the angelic being from Phobos. But the young doctor was not really listening. His mind was wholly occupied by the events of the preceding evening. A monochrome re-creation of Miss Lyd gate repeatedly surrendering herself to the mysterious stranger's embrace flickered in his head like the moving images of a kinetoscope. This harrowing, cruel coup de theatre was accompanied by an interminable torrent of inner speech: Why didn't she tell me about him? Why should she? She was not obliged to tell you anything! Her private life is no concern of yours… But she must have known that I… that I… You were indecisive-you dithered and procrastinated. Unforgivable. And so it continued throughout the morning-an endless stream of questions, remorse, and self-recrimination.
After the old jurist, Liebermann saw a young woman with a pathological fear of spiders, a civil servant who derived pleasure from dressing in his wife's clothing, and an utterly miserable “comic” actor. The peculiar and ironic condition of the latter would ordinarily have piqued his interest, but Liebermann was completely unable to focus on what the man was saying. Eventually, the young doctor was forced to concede defeat. There was no point in proceeding-he was in no fit state to practice. He fabricated an excuse that would account for his absence, and retired to a nondescript coffeehouse located behind the hospital.
On entering the establishment, he felt somewhat ashamed of his white lie-particularly so on observing that all the other patrons were absconding medical students trying to recover after a night of excessive drinking.
Liebermann stirred his schwarzer and sank into a state of ruminative abstraction. In the play of light on the surface of his coffee he saw-once again-a trembling suggestion of Miss Lyd gate falling into the arms of her lover.
Although the notion was unjustified, Liebermann could not rid himself of the feeling that he had been deceived, and the longer he sat, ordering schwarzers, smoking Trabuco cheroots, and thinking, thinking, thinking, the less unreasonable his position seemed. Miss Lyd gate had given him the impression that she was a bookish intellectual: refined, elevated, untroubled by baser instincts, with little or no interest in gentlemen. The young doctor tapped his cigar, and a long cylinder of fragile ash dropped onto the tabletop, creating a star-burst of white ash. How could he, the most astute judge of character, have been so wrong! (Like all psychiatrists, he had immense difficulty grasping the fundamental truth that self-understanding is considerably more problematic than understanding others.)
A dark thought, like a black storm cloud, rolled over the flat horizon of his consciousness. Miss Lyd gate had once suffered from hysteria… and he had treated her. He remembered something that Professor Gruner, the former head of department, had said to him- a warning that he had instantly dismissed: As we all know, the female hysteric is cunning, malicious, and histrionic. She is a consummate seductress. The credulous physician is easy prey.
At the time, Liebermann had considered Gruner an old fool: unsympathetic, misogynistic, and an advocate of barbaric electrical treatments. Yet now, as Liebermann sank deeper and deeper into a quagmire of unhappy, bitter confusion, he found himself
reviewing his opinion.
“No,” he said, quite suddenly-surprised and embarrassed to discover that he had spoken the word aloud. An unshaven medical student sitting at the next table raised his head and looked around the room with bleary bloodshot eyes.
I cannot blame her! I cannot think this way!
Annoyed at his own weakness, annoyed at his willingness to entertain a pernicious, morally bankrupt account of hysterical illness, annoyed at the ease with which he had condemned Miss Lyd gate (just like the patriarchal women-hating psychiatrists he most despised), Liebermann sprang up from his chair. He tossed some coins onto the table and departed the coffeehouse, eager to put his unsavory descent into self-pity and despair behind him.
Liebermann walked back to the hospital at a brisk pace. He went directly to his office, where he applied himself to revising the wholly inadequate patient notes he had made earlier.
There was a knock on the door.
“Enter,” Liebermann called out.
A man appeared, wearing a smart uniform with orange and gold piping, two rows of buttons bearing relief eagles, and a green hooded cloak. The splendor of his appearance (which revealed the typically Viennese fondness for civic grandeur) vastly inflated the importance of his station and function.
“Herr Dr. Liebermann?” he asked, breathlessly.
“Yes.”
The telegraph messenger handed Liebermann an envelope and retreated a few steps. He lingered in the doorway. Liebermann dug deep into his pockets but could find the makings of only a sorry tip, having disposed of most of his change in the coffeehouse.