Deadly Communion (23 page)

Freud allowed himself a sly chuckle, and looked to his guest for approval. Liebermann had anticipated the punchline and was only mildly amused. Undeterred, Freud continued: ‘Jokes frequently contain a fundamental truth concerning human behaviour. Why is libido distributed unequally between the sexes? I have no ready answer. In the subject matter of jokes, we find a very worthy agenda for psychoanalytic inquiry.’

Ever since Erstweiler had told Liebermann about his beanstalk dream the young doctor had been reflecting on a particular passage in
The Interpretation of Dreams.
The passage, perhaps only four or five pages long, was concerned with the origin of the psychoneuroses and made many references to Sophocles’ great tragedy
Oedipus Rex.
Liebermann succeeded in steering the conversation away from jokes and towards theories of aetiology. Freud did not resist the transition. He seemed to welcome the opportunity to talk about this aspect of his work.

‘I had been thinking about this possibility many years before the publication of my dream book.’ He counted off the fingers of his left hand with the thumb of his right. ‘Since ’eighty-seven, to be precise. I can remember sharing my thoughts with Fliess and recounting an incident from my early years. I was two — or perhaps two and half — and travelling on a train with my mother from Leipzig to Vienna. An opportunity arose to see her,’ he paused, embarrassed, and ended his sentence in Latin,
‘nudam.’
Freud’s eyes glazed over with memories. He puffed on his cigar and the action seemed to pull him back into the present. ‘In the intervening years, since writing to Fliess, I have become increasingly confident that love of the mother and jealousy of the father are a general phenomenon of early childhood.’

‘General?’

‘Yes. That is why I introduced the notion in my chapter on “Typical Dreams”. It is remarkable how frequently the same themes emerge: for example, death of the parent who is of the same sex as the dreamer. Such dreams are very common among children aged approximately three years and over. They reveal — I believe — a wish to eliminate a rival. In Sophocles’ drama, King Oedipus kills his father and marries his mother. The Greek myth seizes on a compulsion which everyone recognises because he has felt traces of it in himself. Every member of the audience was once a budding Oedipus in phantasy, and this dream-fulfilment played out in reality causes everyone to recoil in horror, with the full measure of repression which separates his infantile from his current state. Oedipus’ destiny moves us only because it might very easily have been ours — the oracle has laid the same curse upon us before our birth as it has upon him.’

‘Are you suggesting that, ultimately, there is no escape from neurotic illness?’

‘Allow me to clarify.’ Freud drew on his cigar again and stared through the dissipating cloud with penetrating eyes. ‘I am not suggesting that this general phenomenon of childhood is the cause of the neuroses. But rather it is the failure to resolve these issues of love and hate which can be pathogenic: if prohibited desire and rage linger in the adult unconscious, then mental equilibrium
will
be disturbed.’

Freud caressed one of the statuettes on his desk: a little bronze Venus admiring herself in a mirror. A diadem circled her head and her legs were covered by a hanging garment. Her shoulders were narrow, her torso long, and her breasts pert.

‘Most mothers would be horrified,’ Freud continued, ‘if they were made aware that their affectionate gestures were rousing a child’s sexual instinct and preparing it for its later intensity. A mother will regard what she does as innocent — carefully avoiding excitation of the child’s genitals; however, we now know that sexual instinct is not
only aroused by direct excitation. What we call affection will unfailingly show its effects one day on the genital zones as well. Be that as it may, an enlightened mother — conversant with psychoanalysis — should never reproach herself. She is only fulfilling her task in teaching the child to love. After all, he is meant to grow up into a strong and capable person with vigorous sexual needs and to accomplish during his life all the things that human beings are urged to do by their instincts.’

Liebermann changed position and as he did so Freud pushed the cigar box towards him. The young doctor declined.

‘This
Sophocles syndrome ..
.’ said Liebermann tentatively. ‘When unresolved, does it always produce neurotic disturbances? Or do you think it might also be associated with more severe forms of mental illness, for example
dementia praecox?’

‘It is impossible — as yet — to say.’

‘And how is the syndrome resolved?’

‘The process of resolution must require the detachment of sexual impulses from the mother and the forgetting of jealousy for the father. But how this is achieved and by what mechanism I cannot say. The dissolution of this syndrome presents us with complex problems, and our burgeoning science has yet to furnish us with a comprehensive answer.’

Liebermann smiled inwardly. The professor had exhibited a peculiarity of speech with which he, Liebermann, was now very familiar. Whenever Freud could not explain something he tended to blame psychoanalysis for the deficiency — never himself.

On his way home Liebermann thought deeply about his conversation with Professor Freud. Had he ever hated his father as a rival? Hate was too strong a word. No, he had never
hated
his father; however, he had to admit that their relationship had never been
entirely satisfactory. He had always been a little uneasy in his father’s presence and this subtle underlying tension — which had no obvious cause — had persisted, taking different forms, throughout his entire life. Did this underlying tension have an Oedipal origin? Although Liebermann was prepared to accept Freud’s theory — at least provisionally — with respect to his father, he just couldn’t do the same with respect to his mother. He had never loved his mother in that way!

Suddenly, he was disturbed by a realisation that the converse might be true. His mother adored him, of that there could be little doubt …

The dramatis personae abruptly changed position, discovering — in the process of reconfiguration — a new way in which their emotions could be triangulated.

An uneasy question rose up into Liebermann’s mind.

What if his father, Mendel, secretly hated him for stealing his wife’s love? What if his father had an unresolved Cronos syndrome and, like the mighty Titan, wanted to kill his usurping child? If such a desire was lurking in his unconscious, was it any wonder that they had never been entirely comfortable in each others’ company?

A carriage passed and the curtain was drawn aside by a gloved hand. Liebermann glimpsed the face of a stunning young woman who was wearing a tiara. The vision of her beauty rescued him from the quagmire of his own self-inquiry.

He had never intended to consider the
personal
relevance of Freud’s theory. He had only wished to discuss the Sophocles syndrome with Freud for one reason. Liebermann had sensed that within the tortured family dynamics of the Greek drama was the key to understanding Norbert Erstweiler.

T
HE CARRIAGE FOLLOWED THE
Ringstrasse around the western edge of the Innere Stadt before turning into Rennweg and heading south towards Simmering. Rheinhardt opened his bag and handed Liebermann an envelope. The young doctor tipped the contents out onto his lap.

‘She was discovered in the gardens of the Belvedere Palace,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘in the early hours of Monday morning.’

Liebermann studied the first photograph: a long shot of a woman lying in the middle of a sunken lawn.

‘Who found her?’

‘The head gardener. He was out early collecting slugs and snails.’ Liebermann sifted through the photographs until he came across a close-up of the woman’s face. ‘She was stabbed with a hatpin,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘just like Fräuleins Zeiler and Babel. In the relative isolation of the Belvedere gardens the fiend was once again emboldened to use his preferred technique. Remarkably, when Haussmann arrived he was able to identify the body.’

‘They were acquainted?’ said Liebermann, surprised.

‘No,’ said Rheinhardt, shaking his head. ‘He had seen her performing at Ronacher’s. She’s a variety singer. Cäcilie Roster.’

Liebermann noticed the beauty spot under her eye and the dimple on her chin. He imagined the sound of her laughter — loud and life-affirming.

‘Haussmann and I went to interview the theatre manager, who suggested that Fräulein Roster was an inveterate flirt. He also directed us to one of her haunts, Löiberger’ s, a coffee house patronised mostly by actors and poets and which is situated a short distance from the theatre. Herr Löiberger remembered serving Fräulein Roster on Sunday night. She was in the company of a gentleman with black hair and blue eyes. It must have been Griesser.’

‘Did Herr Löiberger smell anything on the gentleman’s clothes?’

‘No.’ Liebermann slipped the photographs back into the envelope and handed it back to Rheinhardt. ‘Professor Mathias,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘with Miss Lydgate’s assistance made an interesting discovery. He found a black hair on Roster’s body. Under the microscope, it proved to be a blond hair that had been dyed. Of course, we don’t know that it belongs to Griesser …’

‘But it seems likely.’

‘Indeed. The combination of blue eyes and black hair is rather unusual.’ Rheinhardt dropped the envelope into his bag. ‘If the hair does belong to Griesser, I wonder why he does it — dyeing? He isn’t assuming a disguise to avoid recognition. Vanity, perhaps?’

‘Nothing so mundane,’ said Liebermann. ‘By dyeing his hair black he is associating himself with darkness, oblivion. It is a psychological phenomenon that Professor Freud calls
identification.’

Rheinhardt considered his friend’s comment and frowned. He did not ask Liebermann to elaborate. He had already heard enough of Liebermann’s psychoanalytic theories at the start of their journey.

‘Haussmann is going back to Ronacher’s today,’ said Rheinhardt, returning the conversation to routine police work. ‘I’ve asked him to interview some of the performers, people who were acquainted with Roster.’

Liebermann nodded and turned to look out of the carriage window.

‘You should probably be there too.’

‘Well, not necessarily. If you are correct …’

‘Yes, if I am correct, then you will be able to justify deserting Haussmann. But I can see that you are far from convinced that my speculations have a legitimate basis. Moreover, I appreciate that, given how matters stand with you and Commissioner Brügel, I cannot make excessive demands on your patience.’

‘Forgive me, Max, but all your talk of doppelgängers, dreams, and Sophocles
was
a little confusing. How was Herr Erstweiler this morning?’

‘His condition is unchanged. I’ve told my colleague Kanner to medicate him if he becomes agitated.’ Still looking out of the window, Liebermann asked: ‘What was Miss Lydgate doing at the morgue?’

‘Professor Mathias and Miss Lydgate seem to have developed some form of …’ Rheinhardt’s hand revolved in the air as he searched for the right words, ‘…
serviceable relationship.
He refers to her as if she is his protégée. I would never have predicted it. Would you?’

The streets outside were beginning to look shabby. Liebermann recognised the factory chimney, belching its black smoke into the sky, the railings, and the pile of rubble in the road. On this occasion there were no children scrambling up its sides. The carriage turned sharply into the adjoining avenue and came to a halt outside Erstweiler’s residence.

They disembarked and Liebermann noticed that the house looked exactly as it did before: ground-floor curtains drawn, upper-floor curtains set apart. It was just as he had expected.

Liebermann crossed the pavement and grasped the knocker. His three strikes were comfortably absorbed by a yawning silence.

‘Are you going to try again?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘There’s nobody in.’

The inspector smiled and, taking the knocker, reproduced the insistent rhythms of Rossini’s overture to The
Barber of Seville.

‘Just in case, eh?’

Rheinhardt waited for a few moments before searching his pockets. He withdrew a bunch of skeleton keys and began to insert them, one by one, into the keyhole. His efforts were rewarded by the noise of the lock-cylinder turning. Rheinhardt pushed the door and watched it swing open. ‘There.’

The two men stepped inside.

‘Hello?’ Rheinhardt called out.

Tilting his head to one side, he listened for sounds of occupation.

Nothing stirred.

To their right was a parlour, and to their left a kitchen through which access could be gained to a walled garden. A staircase of uneven stone sank into the ground and terminated at a cellar entrance.

They returned to the kitchen and Rheinhardt began opening the cupboards.

‘No bread, no cheese, no meat or vegetables. Only grains and pulses …’

When he had finished, Rheinhardt pointed at the ceiling.

‘Shall we go upstairs?’

Liebermann consented with a curt nod.

The first room they entered contained a double bed, a wardrobe, a washstand and a chest of drawers. Liebermann opened the wardrobe. Inside, he found a gentleman’s winter coat and a brightly coloured kimono. He lifted the garment from its hanger and held it up for Rheinhardt to see. Golden dragons flashed against a crimson background.

‘Isn’t that—?’

‘The same kimono that Frau Vogl was wearing? Yes, it is.’

‘What a coincidence.’

‘Erstweiler works for a businessman called Herr Winkler who imports objets d’art from Japan. He told me that he stole it for Frau
Kolinsky. Herr Winkler must also supply Frau Vogl with kimonos for sale in her salon.’

Liebermann put the garment back in the wardrobe and turned his attention to the chest of drawers. The top drawer was filled with men’s clothing: socks, undergarments, shirts and trousers. The two lower drawers were empty.

‘Herr Kolinsky’s clothes are still here,’ said Liebermann. ‘But Frau Kolinsky’s are gone. It is interesting that she took all her clothes
except
the kimono.’