by Frank Tallis
“The artist,” whispered Rheinhardt.
Olbricht was delayed for a few moments before continuing his tour of the room. Seeing Rheinhardt, he smiled, revealing his stunted teeth.
“Ah, Inspector, I am so glad you came.”
Rheinhardt gestured toward his companion. “My friend, Dr. Max Liebermann.”
Olbricht acknowledged the younger man's presence but did not bow.
At that moment a very attractive young woman, her hair fashioned in dangling coils of gold, broke through a drab wall of suited figures.
“You will excuse me,” said Olbricht.
“Of course,” said Rheinhardt.
“Herr Olbricht,” cried the young woman. “There you are! I promised my father I would find you-he wishes to introduce you to Hofrat Eggebrecht.”
“Of course, Fraulein Bolle-I am yours to command.”
They linked arms and vanished behind two chattering dowagers whose bony fingers sparkled with diamonds.
The young doctor looked a little perplexed.
“What is it, Max?”
Liebermann lowered his voice. “His face…”
“What?”
“There is something about it…”
“Ha! Didn't I say so! And wasn't it you who scolded me! What was it you said? You went on about Lombroso again!”
Liebermann grimaced. “Please accept my apology.”
“I do so with… with munificence.”
They moved along the wall, stopping to look at each painting.
The dwarf Alberich and the three Rhine maidens; a mage standing in a pentacle decorated with runic symbols; a blind skald weaving his spell by the hearth in a timbered hall.
“Do you like them?” asked Rheinhardt, surprised that his friend was examining the images so closely. He knew that Liebermann's artistic preferences were modern and could not understand why he was spending so much time in front of each canvas.
“Definitely not.”
“Then please can we move along. We will never finish the exhibition at this rate!”
Liebermann sighed and followed his friend.
The next canvas was a large battle scene crammed with tiny figures. It reminded Liebermann of the work of Hieronymus Boschparticularly The Last Judgment, which was permanently exhibited in the art school. But when he drew closer to the canvas, it was apparent that Olbricht did not possess Bosch's technique, nor any of his humor. Liebermann fished his spectacles out from the top pocket of his jacket and pressed his nose up close to the painting.
“What on earth are you doing, Max?”
“Looking at the detail.”
A rather large burgher said “Excuse me, sir” in a gruff voice, indicating that Liebermann was in his way. He was wearing an artificial white carnation in his buttonhole, signaling his membership of the Christian Social party. The young doctor apologized and took a step back. The burgher narrowed his eyes at Liebermann and said something to his wife. Neither the young doctor nor his companion needed to hear the words to comprehend the nature of the slur. Rheinhardt was about to challenge the burgher but Liebermann raised his hand. They moved away quietly.
“Disgraceful,” said Rheinhardt. “You really should have let me-”
“Oskar,” Liebermann cut in. “It happens all the time. Come now, let us continue with the exhibition.”
The next canvas showed a woman with flaxen hair looking out at an infinitely receding Roman army. It was titled Pipara: The Germanic Woman in the Purple of the Caesars. Liebermann read an accompanying note: Adapted freely from the two-volume novel by Guido von List, recounting the legendary rise of a German slave to the position of empress in the late third century.
“What a fine woman,” said Rheinhardt, innocently.
The young doctor did not reply. He studied the painting for some time, and motioned that he was ready to move on. Then-strangely- at the last moment he found himself unable to proceed. His feet seemed fixed to the floor. It was as though the painting were exerting a strange influence, producing immobility.
Liebermann's mind was suddenly invaded by a haunting image: the shopgirl he had met on the streetcar-her carmine glove, receding into the gloom.
Rheinhardt, who had already taken a few steps away, paused and looked back at his friend. “Max?”
“This painting…” Liebermann whispered.
The string quartet struck up the introductory bars of a Strauss waltz. Liebermann recognized it immediately: Vienna Blood. Suddenly the spell was broken and he was walking toward his friend, an enigmatic smile raising the corners of his mouth.
68
THE ROOM CONTAINED NO furniture except for a small card table that had been placed in the center. From downstairs the muffled sound of carousing rose through the bare floorboards. An inebriated chorus of male voices seemed to be exploring the limits of musical coherence over an out-of-tune piano. The instrument rang out its discords, and occasionally a shriek of delight betrayed the presence of several indecorous females.
A single gas flame sputtered, tainting the air with pungent fumes. Above the lamp's stanchion and cracked glass bowl a black smear of sooty ejecta broke the continuity of a floral motif on the yellowing wallpaper.
Gathered around the table were seven men: Lieutenant Ruprecht Hefner, his seconds, Renz and Trapp, Count Zoltan Zaborszky, his seconds, Braun and Dekany, and the unparteiische-a pale-faced emaciated man with blue lips and transparent fingers.
Thirteen slivers of wood had been laid out on the table's green baize, arranged in a semicircle like the struts of an open fan. Twelve were identical. The thirteenth, however, was distinguished by a daub of red paint. The unparteiische pushed it into position, attempting to create a perfectly symmetrical arrangement.
“You may inspect the lots,” said the unparteiische in a voice that was surprisingly stentorian for such a cadaverous man.
Renz picked up one of the wooden slivers and rotated it in his hand. Being more accustomed-in his capacity as a second-to testing the weight and quality of pistols, he was not sure what more he could do. He shrugged, somewhat puzzled, and tossed the sliver back onto the baize.
“I am satisfied,” he said.
“Herr Braun?” said the unparteiische.
The younger of the count's seconds stepped forward. He was a gaunt fellow, whose prominent jawline and dark eyes suggested a certain rugged charm. However, the inherent nobility of his lineaments had evidently been ruined by a dissolute life. His thick hair was greasy and his chin scabrous, while the stubble on his cheek was speckled with silver bristles.
Braun touched each of the slivers, working his way systematically through the half-dial arrangement. Hefner noticed that the cuffs of his jacket were frayed, and that the man's hand was disfigured by a thin white weal-it looked like a dueling scar. The wretch toyed with the red slip for a few moments and then said, “I am satisfied.” This utterance was accompanied by an exhalation of breath that smelled strongly of alcohol.
The unparteiische handed Braun a velvet drawstring bag. The young man stretched it open and offered the exposed interior to Renz.
“Lieutenant?” The unparteiische prompted.
“Yes, of course,” said Renz, suddenly comprehending his role. The officer scooped the slivers together and dropped them into the open mouth of the bag. Braun pulled the string tight and began shaking the bag. The wooden slivers clattered inside. From the room below came a sudden burst of raucous laughter.
Braun continued shaking the bag.
Clatter, clatter, clatter…
He seemed to be taking his relatively minor task far too seriously. The unparteiische, unable to contain himself any longer, glared at the over-earnest second. The baleful look from his luminous eyes had the desired effect, and the young man handed the bag back with a muttered apology.
The unparteiische addressed Hefner and the count. “Gentlemen, are you ready?” Both nodded. “Good. Let us begin.”
The duelists positioned themselves at either side of the
unparteiische, who loosened the string of the bag. Then, holding it out in front of him, he tilted it toward Zaborszky.
The count tucked his cane under his left arm and stroked his drooping oriental mustache. The expression on his broad, almost Mongolian features was difficult to interpret. It had a curious, almost alien intensity. He crossed himself slowly, allowing a limp forefinger to touch his forehead, chest, and shoulders-his hand moving over his body in extravagant arcs. An emerald ring glittered, then disappeared into the black velvet bag. Before withdrawing his hand, the count locked stares with each of the three Uhlans. He withdrew the lot. Holding it up, he turned the sliver around, demonstrating that it was unmarked.
Disgusted with the count's excesses, Hefner plunged his hand into the bag and removed another unmarked lot. He held it up for a few moments, then threw it angrily onto the table.
The count was not persuaded by Hefner's example to change his ways. Again, he executed a lymphatic sign of the cross before tugging at the black ribbon attached to his vest. He retrieved the dangling monocle and pressed it into the orbit of his left eye.
“Insufferable,” whispered Trapp.
When the count was ready to proceed-determinedly in his own time-he explored the contents of the black bag for what seemed like an eternity before withdrawing another blank sliver.
The unparteiische-whose neutrality was being sorely testedoffered the bag to Hefner. But before the soldier could respond, Braun called out, “Stop!”
He stepped forward and peered at the bag. The three Uhlans shifted impatiently, their collective movement producing a jangling of spurs.
“Would the gentleman explain,” said the cadaverous umpire, “why he has seen fit to interrupt us?”
Braun pointed at the bag. “I thought I could see a hole.”
“Where?”
Braun took the bag from the unparteiische, lifted it above his head, and turned it around.
“No-I'm sorry. I was mistaken.”
He handed the bag back to the unparteiische.
Renz and Trapp groaned.
Braun faced them indignantly. “Sirs-I will not be party to an improper contest. When our business here is concluded, my conscience dictates that I must leave this building secure in the knowledge that it was fate alone that harmonized the discord. As you well know, it is our solemn duty-mine and yours-to intervene if there is even the slightest possibility that the code of honor is being violated!”
Before the Uhlans could respond, the unparteiische raised his hand.
“Thank you, Herr Braun. You have been most vigilant. I take it you are now satisfied that the duel can continue?”
“I am,” said Braun, still glaring at the restive Uhlans.
The unparteiische offered Hefner the bag for the second time.
Without hesitation, Hefner plunged his hand into the bag and pulled out his lot. He glanced at it in the sheltered bowl of his cupped fingers. The Uhlan's face showed no sign of emotion. Turning the sliver of wood around, he exposed the fatal red daub.
Renz and Trapp gasped.
The unparteiische looked directly at Hefner. “The duel is concluded. Count Zaborszky has won. You know what this means… I trust that you will respect the code and fulfill your obligation within the next week.”
69
THE LONG, DESCENDING STREET was almost empty, and as Liebermann drew closer to the Danube Canal, a dense frozen fog seemed to be building up. It curled around his legs with feline curiosity. The ninth district, a bastion of respectable middle-class values, was strangely transformed, as if an old dowager had exchanged her wardrobe for that of a Circassian dancer. In her new garb of twisting diaphanous veils, she seemed suddenly equipped to deliver illicit pleasures. And perhaps-on this particular evening-she would…
Professor Freud had invited Liebermann to become a member of his Wednesday-evening psychological society long before its inaugural meeting. But so far a combination of factors-Clara, hospital work, Salieri-had stopped Liebermann from attending. Subsequently the society had been convening in his absence for more than a month. When the first opportunity to attend finally presented itself, Lieber-mann dispatched a note to the professor expressing his earnest hope that the invitation was still standing. Freud's response was friendly and included a request that-if at all possible-Liebermann should bring with him some case material for discussion. So it was that Liebermann came to be clutching in his hand a manuscript provisionally titled Herr B: Notes on a case of paranoia erotica.
It occurred to Liebermann that Sigmund Freud's Psychological Society was, in many ways, similar to the numerous secret societies that congregated in Vienna. Once again, a charismatic leader had gathered a small group of followers around him-a cabal who would spread the tenets of his doctrine and challenge the settled order of things. There was something about this city-his city-that attracted intrigue, conspiracy, and sedition. Visionaries and prophets found it irresistible.
Liebermann suddenly remembered the lampposts outside the Opera House, the feet of which were cast in the form of four winged Sphinxes. Then he recalled the Sphinxes in the Kunsthistorisches Museum, the Sphinxes in the Belvedere gardens, and the Sphinxes on Professor Freud's desk. The city was full of Sphinxes…
Secrets, secrets, secrets.
Conscious of a mounting and almost childish excitement, Liebermann quickened his step.
The large doors of Bergasse 19 were open. He crossed the threshold and walked down the long cobbled entryway, his footsteps echoing in the enclosed space. At the other end of the passage were panels of black glass, which ordinarily would have afforded the prospect of a pretty little courtyard and a chestnut tree. But this evening they reflected back the semi-transparent image of a young doctor wearing a long astrakhan coat.
Liebermann turned right, ascended a small curved staircase, and walked past a single spherical gas lamp that was mounted on a floridly ornate iron banister. It was surrounded by a foggy halo, and the muted light barely illuminated a black lacquered door at the center of which was a simple nameplate: prof. dr. freud.
Liebermann rang the bell and was admitted by a maid who took his coat. He was ushered into Freud's waiting room, the decor of which conveyed an impression of shadowy opulence: red drapes and dark wood; a cabinet displaying a small collection of statuettes; and, on a pedestal, a large plaster copy of Michelangelo's Dying Slave. The walls were covered with pictures that reflected Freud's preoccupation with antiquities: Roman ruins, some eighteenth-century prints of classical scenes, and, inevitably, a Sphinx, brooding in front of a pyramid. Around an oblong table sat Freud and three others.
“Ah, there you are,” cried the professor, rising energetically. “I am delighted you could make it! And, if I am not mistaken, I observe that you have brought us some case material. Paranoia erotica, you say? Well, that will be a rare delight.”
Freud introduced his three companions, using only their surnames: Stekel, Reitler, and Kahane. Liebermann recognized the first two from Freud's Saturday lectures at the university. The third man was not familiar, but it transpired that he was the director of the Institute for Physical Therapeutic Methods. As they made polite conversation, Liebermann was surprised to discover that in spite of Kahane's professed interest in psychoanalysis, he was still treating (or, more accurately, tormenting) his patients with electrotherapy.
A few minutes later Freud's final guest arrived. He was a man in his early thirties: a stocky individual whose facial features contracted disdainfully around a large nose. He wore round glasses, sported a small mustache, and his prominent chin was divided by a deep vertical cleft. Liebermann knew him to be Alfred Adler, a doctor to whom he had been introduced by a mutual friend the previous year. Liebermann had once been asked to accompany Adler at a party, and had been truly amazed by the power and sweetness of the singing voice that had issued from his crooked mouth. It was as if-by divine intercession- the man's deficiencies of appearance had been compensated for by an extraordinary musical gift.
&n
bsp; Eventually, all the company were seated and Freud passed around a large box of cigars. As an incentive to partake, each place at the table was furnished with an attractive jade ashtray. No one refused, and as matches flared and dimmed, the room became filled with clouds of billowing smoke.
The professor indicated that he was ready to begin. He announced that there would be two presentations: the first delivered by Dr. Stekel and the second by Dr. Liebermann (whom he also welcomed to the society). Proceedings would then be suspended for fifteen minutes before they resumed with a group discussion.
Stekel, a good-natured general practitioner, gave a lively description of a twenty-two-year-old female patient suffering from hysterical hyperalgesia-a disorder characterized by excessive physical sensitivity. It was not, however, a remarkable case study, and Liebermann found his attention wandering. He was feeling somewhat apprehensive and had begun-almost unconsciously-to rehearse his talk.
Herr B.
Thirty-eight-year-old accountancy clerk.
Employed by a reputable firm with offices in the city center.
No previous history of psychiatric illness…
When Stekel brought his presentation to a close, there was some restrained applause and a grumbled vote of thanks. Freud then turned his gaze on Liebermann. The old man's eyes were dark brown and peculiarly lustrous.
“Herr Doctor?”
“Thank you, Herr Professor.”
Liebermann put on his spectacles and straightened his papers. “Gentlemen,” he began, “this evening I shall be describing the case of Herr B.-a thirty-eight-year-old accountancy clerk who was admitted onto a psychiatric ward at the General Hospital in early November. The circumstances surrounding his admission were somewhat dramatic. It seems that Herr B. had attempted to force his way into the Schonbrunn Palace in order to rescue Archduchess Marie-Valerie-who, he claimed, was being held there against her will. The police were called after an unfortunate incident involving the palace guard…”