Deadly Communion (14 page)

Freud seemed pleased with this initial exposition, and smiled before continuing: ‘Now, let us turn our attention to religious teachings.
In all cultures, the idea of the double appears in the guise of a soul — a spiritual doppelgänger. And wherever we find religion, we also find the terror of oblivion. So …’ He paused to produce another volcanic cloud. ‘It is possible that the double represents a defence against the destruction of the ego, as the soul — the first double of the body — is an insurance against annihilation. The operation of this defence is evident in the burial rites of ancient Egypt, where it was commonplace to make images of the dead in lasting materials.’ Freud pointed to a tiny bronze box with the figurine of a bird on its lid. ‘See here: this coffin for a sacred animal. Late period. Between about seven hundred and three hundred BC.’ He was unable to resist stroking the falcon’s beak. ‘The desire for eternal life springs from the soil of unbounded self-love, from the primary narcissism which dominates the mind of the child and of primitive man. But when this stage has been surmounted, the double reverses its aspect. From having been an assurance of immortality it becomes an uncanny harbinger of death. It is in this form that the double is better known to the German-speaking peoples.’

The professor took another cigar from his cigar box.

‘And there may be another process at work: it may be that material offensive to the ego — unacceptable fantasies, all the strivings of the ego which adverse external circumstances have crushed, and all our suppressed acts of volition — are projected outwards to something foreign. But such material cannot be disowned completely, and the object into which this undesirable material is incorporated takes the form of another self.’

Liebermann wanted to discuss this point further, but the professor had returned to an earlier theme: ‘Doubling as a preservation against extinction also has its counterpart in the language of dreams. If one of the ordinary symbols for a penis — a tower, let us say — occurs in a dream doubled — thus, two towers — the doubling must be regarded as the warding-off of castration.’

Freud picked up another cigar and lit it. He was about to put the used match in his ashtray when he noticed that he had not finished the cigar he had been smoking. He had simply put it down for a few moments and forgotten that it was there.

‘Mmm … two cigars,’ he muttered.

His expression darkened, and with evident unease he stubbed out his old cigar and put the new one into his mouth.

R
HEINHARDT WAS SEATED NEXT
to his wife Else, and further down the park bench his eldest daughter, Therese, was reading a book. His younger daughter, Mitzi, was deliberating with another girl whether or not to get on the merry-go-round (which had been commandeered by two boys wearing short trousers and flat caps). A group of mothers, dressed rather too finely for the occasion, were conversing in the shade of a tree, while two nursemaids rocked perambulators in order to keep the tiny occupants asleep.

‘I was speaking to Frau Gaul this morning,’ said Else. ‘She went to the opera on Saturday to see Pagliacci. She said it was wonderful.’

Since the discovery of Adele Zeiler’s body in the Volksgarten, Rheinhardt had had few opportunities to spend time with his family. The normality of sitting in the park with his wife and daughters was like a spiritual emollient.

‘Would you like to go?’

‘Yes,’ Else replied, somewhat surprised by her husband’s response. He was always so busy that it had not occurred to her that he might act on Frau Gaul’s recommendation.

‘Then we
shall
go.’ Rheinhardt paused for a moment before adding, ‘In fact, we’ll all go — and to blazes with the expense. Would you like to see Pagliacci, Therese?’

His daughter looked up from her book, making heroic efforts to hide her excitement. In actuality she had not been reading at
all, only pretending to do so while listening to her parents’ conversation.

‘Yes, father, very much.’

Therese’s composure reminded Rheinhardt that his daughter was on the cusp of adulthood. Once the transition was complete, the child whose hair he had kissed and whose little hand had gripped his forefinger so tightly in front of the lion’s cage at the zoo would be gone. It was a loss that he accepted philosophically, but to which a part of him would never be fully reconciled.

‘Good,’ he said decisively. ‘I’ll get some tickets this evening.’

Rheinhardt felt his wife’s hand covering his own. She squeezed his fingers together and by means of this subtle gesture communicated more gratitude and affection than could ever be expressed using words. The fact that something so consequential could pass between them in a public place, without notice, was further evidence — as far as Rheinhardt was concerned — of the miraculous nature of his marriage.

‘Is it a very long opera?’ asked Therese, craning forward in readiness for her father’s answer.

‘No, my dear,’ Rheinhardt replied. ‘It is very short.’

Therese gave a curt nod signalling her approval and applied herself once again to the task of simulated reading.

On the other side of the children’s enclosure, through the wooden struts and bars of a climbing frame, Rheinhardt noticed a man seated on his own. He was middle-aged, wore a long coat, and sported a shaggy moustache. He was looking at Mitzi and her play-friend, who were now enjoying the reciprocal motion of the see-saw.

Else had started to ponder the logistics of going to the opera, a string of considerations, not obviously connected. Rheinhardt was listening, but his attention kept on returning to the man opposite. Why, he wondered, was the man looking so intently in the direction of his daughter?

‘Who is that girl? Mitzi’s play-friend?’

Mention of her sister made Therese look up from her book.

‘Her name is Eva,’ Else replied, puzzled.

‘And who is she with?’

‘Her mother, Frau Kubauer. She’s over there, wearing the yellow dress.’ Else pointed out one of the women standing under the tree. At that moment, Frau Kubauer happened to look in their direction and Else was obliged to turn her indicating gesture into a polite wave. The woman in the yellow dress waved back. Rheinhardt raised his hat respectfully.

Else angled her head and awaited an explanation for her husband’s inquiry; however, he remained silent. With an indifferent shrug of her shoulders she returned to her original theme.

Rheinhardt had stopped listening. He was working out which children were accompanied by which adults. It became evident that the man sitting opposite was alone. Rheinhardt studied the cast of his face.

Rainmayr’s studio.

Images.

Two young girls, with skirts hoisted, proudly displayed their pudenda; a pair of disembodied skinny legs in loose
stockings
and garters …

Mitzi and her friend had abandoned the see-saw and were running towards the climbing frame. They began their ascent and as they did so the man’s eyes narrowed: he was looking at their ankles — their shoes — and as they ascended, he seemed to slide lower down in his seat. His tongue moistened his lips. His right hand — thrust into the deep pocket of his coat — was conspicuously active.

‘Excuse me a moment,’ said Rheinhardt to his wife.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I want to be closer to Mitzi.’

‘She’s perfectly safe. She won’t fall.’

‘Even so …’

Rheinhardt crossed the play area.

‘Be careful, Mitzi,’ he said as he passed the climbing frame. His daughter smiled.

‘I won’t slip.’

‘Yes. Well. Make sure you don’t.’

He continued walking towards the man, whose face showed a flicker of apprehension as the inspector approached.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Rheinhardt.

The man mumbled a return courtesy.

Rheinhardt sat down next to him and scanned the enclosure. Else was talking to Therese, but unfortunately Rheinhardt had not fooled her. She had detected something odd in his manner and was stealing glances at him through the wooden cage of the climbing frame.

‘Sir?’ said Rheinhardt.

The man turned.

Rheinhardt grabbed the man’s necktie and twisted it tightly. The man’s eyes bulged and he began to make choking noises.

‘I know
what
you are,’ said Rheinhardt steadily. ‘And I know what you are doing.’ The man’s tongue protruded between his teeth and his face became contorted. ‘You will leave at once and never come back. Do you understand? Never. If I catch you here again, I give you my word, you will regret it.’

Rheinhardt released the man’s tie. He coughed and loosened the knot, then got up and ran towards the gate, looking back anxiously over his shoulder. Rheinhardt sauntered back to Else and Therese.

‘What happened?’ asked Else, her eyebrows raised.

‘I noticed that gentleman’s tie was crooked,’ Rheinhardt pointed towards the flapping coat-tails receding beyond the fence, ‘and performed the small service of straightening it for him.’

‘What gentleman?’ asked Therese.

‘That one over there.’ Therese peered through the trees. ‘He had to leave in a hurry — he had a train to catch.’

Else’s expression was troubled.

As she started to speak, Rheinhardt touched her lips with an outstretched finger, tacitly banning further inquiry.

‘Now, is anyone hungry?’ he asked. ‘I think we should find a bakery.’ He brought his hands together to make a funnel and used it to amplify his voice: ‘Mitzi! Would you like a strudel?’

A
MELIA
L
YDGATE SAT IN
one of Landsteiners laboratories in the Institute of Pathology and Anatomy. Having rehydrated the crystals that she had scraped from Bathild Babel’s fingernails, she had mixed the resulting solution with samples of known blood types. The subsequent patterns of agglutination that she observed down the barrel of her microscope informed her that the man whom Bathild Babel had scratched before she died was a member of the group that Landsteiner had designated type-C.

As she leaned forward, Amelia felt her corset pinch. It reminded her of an article she had read in her
Ladies’ Journal
about the ‘new’ fashion. The author had advocated abandoning the standard two-piece and corset in favour of a loose gown affording complete freedom of movement. Now that more women were entering occupations that had previously been the exclusive province of men, the limitations of traditional clothing were becoming increasingly apparent. Straining over her microscope, Amelia couldn’t have agreed more. The wisdom of such reasoning was dramatised every time the stiff canvas that encased her body resisted her inclination and issued its creaky protests. The article had concluded with news of a fashion house on Bauernmarkt. Loose-fitting ‘reform dresses’ — as they were described — were made on the premises using fabric designs created by artists of the Vienna Secession. The prices, however, were quite prohibitive.

Amelia ignored her complaining corsetry, examined the slides one
last time, and composed a note which she intended to send before attending her pathology class at the university.

F
ROM EARLIEST TIMES MEN
have known her. In the Sumerian and Babylonian myths she is called Ereshkigal. In Ancient Rome she was known as Naenia or Libitina, and was said to fall upon the living like a great bird of prey. The Etruscans called her Tulchulcha. To the Hindus she is Kali, the Black Mother. In Japan, she comes as the Snow Queen, who chills the dying with her cold breath and removes all suffering. In Norse mythology she is Hela and in Finnish folktales she is Kalma. The Poles call her the Bone Lady and the Celts call her the Morrigan.

I will not try to describe her. No purpose is served by attempting the impossible; however, I will make an observation that has not, to my knowledge, been recorded by others. When she appears she is enfolded by a dancing, purplish light. Her dark wings, which rise from her shoulders and curve forward, are bathed in an aurora of amethyst.

What is it like to be in the presence of such perfection?

I will tell you.

It is unbearable torment.

Her terrible beauty creates such yearning, such longing, that the soul immediately struggles to escape from its prison. In the throes of a strange ecstasy, it twists and turns within the heavy flesh — striving, desperately, to be free.

I reached out to her, lifted my wasted arms, and begged her to
take me. But it was not my time. She began to fade, leaving only an afterglow. It was as if some alien sun had set, leaving in its wake a flush of colour on the low-lying clouds of the night sky, a vestigial trace of heliotrope — gentian violet.

Perhaps I cried out, because my father came into the room. I can remember his hand on my forehead, his hatchet face. He asked me what was the matter, but I could not reply. I closed my eyes against the candlelight, which seemed intolerably harsh and bright. I wanted to see her again: I wanted to follow her ghostly train into perpetual darkness.