Vienna Blood (32 page)

Kanner sat very still, blinking. “What? You … I thought … I thought …” Connecting words to make sentences was simply too demanding for him.

“It's just as you describe,” Liebermann continued. “
Something
has changed. I didn't mean to stop loving her—it just happened.”

Kanner sat back in his chair and rang the service bell. Almost immediately, the door opened and a waiter appeared.

“More slivovitz,” Kanner called out, his speech slurring slightly.

The waiter waved his hand to clear away some of the smoke.

“Are you sure, sir?” he asked in slow, sinewy German. Liebermann thought he sounded Transylvanian.

“Yes, quite sure,” Kanner replied. The waiter bowed and stepped backward out of the room, smiling contemptuously at the two young men. “Well, Max,” continued Kanner, pouring the last few drops of alcohol into his glass. “I don't know what to say.”

A long silence ensued.

“For the last three weeks,” said Liebermann softly, “I've been treating Herr Beiber.”

Kanner's brow furrowed as he set his mind to the task of producing a sensible reply. “The monomaniac obsessed with the Archduchess Marie-Valerie?”

“Indeed,” said Liebermann. “I know that he is unwell, but during our sessions it has become plain to me that in his madness he comes much closer to the general conception of true love than I ever have. In a peculiar way, I envy him. I have desired Clara, enjoyed her company, and been excited at the prospect of consummation—but I have never …” His words trailed off.

“What?”

“I have never felt that … that I could not live without her, that we are soul mates, that we were destined to meet and that we have been drawn together by a higher power.”

“Maxim, what
are
you talking about? You don't believe in any of those things: the soul, destiny, a higher power.”

Liebermann shook his head. “It's difficult to explain … but talking to Herr Beiber has underscored the deficiencies of our relationship. I have never loved Clara improvidently, wildly—and that is how it
should
be.” He paused for a moment, and repeated his last words, more to himself than to his companion. “That is how it should be.”

The door opened and the waiter entered. He placed the bottle on the table, and made a preternaturally discreet exit.

Kanner filled their glasses again.

“Max, forgive me for being so blunt, but as your friend …” Liebermann gestured that he should continue. “Is there someone else?”

“No!” Liebermann's denial was far too strong and even in Kanner's inebriated state his suspicion was aroused. Something of his clinical sensitivity had survived the evening's excesses and he scrutinized his companion more closely.

“These things happen, Max.” Kanner's tone was forgiving. “If there is someone else …”

Miss Lydgate, sitting in the window seat of the Natural History Museum. Her flaming hair in the darkness. Rocks and gems surrounding her—sparkling, like stars in the firmament.

“
No,” Liebermann said again. “There is no one else.”

He snatched up his glass and gulped down his plum brandy. It was rough and astringent—almost caustic.

“What are you going to do?” Kanner asked.

“What
can
I do? I have no choice. I will have to end our engagement.”

“Max, you need to think about this.”

“I
have
thought about it, Stefan. I've thought about it day and night. In fact, I've thought of little else since the spring.”

“Then why didn't you say anything before?”

“The opportunity never seemed to present itself. I almost said something to you when we dined last at the Bristol.”

“But that was months ago.”

“Yes, I know.”

Kanner bit his lower lip. “And I thought
I
had problems.”

They talked into the early hours until the conversation became desultory and incoherent. At some point Liebermann must have fallen
into a fitful sleep, for he woke with a start—and discovered that the chair opposite was empty. He turned his head and saw Kanner lying on the sofa. He was evidently not asleep, for he was singing quietly to himself.

“O heiliges Band der Freundschaft treuer Brüder …”

Oh holy Bond of Friendship of true Brothers …

Kanner possessed an untrained tenor voice, yet the melody possessed an unmistakable sweetness and clarity.

“Stefan?”

Kanner opened one eye. “Ah, Max!” It was as though he had not been expecting to see his friend seated at the table.

“Is that Mozart?”

Kanner smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “What?”

“That song. Is it Mozart?”

“I … er … I have no idea.”

“It sounded like Mozart.”

“Well, perhaps it is.”

“Where did you hear it?”

Kanner seemed inexplicably embarrassed. “I don't know … must have picked it up from somewhere. I really don't know.” He raised himself up from the sofa and winced. “Oh, my head. What time is it?”

“Three o'clock.”

“I have a clinic in five hours.”

“No, you don't—it's Sunday morning.”

“You know, Max, I had a most curious dream. I dreamt that you said … you said that you were going to break off your engagement with Clara.”

Liebermann threw some coins onto the table. “Come on, Stefan. Get up. We have outstayed our welcome.”

56

R
HEINHARDT STARED INTO THE
mirror. In the reflected distance stood a short man wearing a soft cap and a paint-spattered smock.

“And how, Herr Olbricht, does one become a member of the Eddic Literary Association?”

“You are invited.”

“By whom?”

“The president, Baron von Triebenbach. Any member can nominate interested parties; however, it is the president who has the final say. It is he who extends the invitation.”

Rheinhardt turned. “And who nominated you, Herr Olbricht?”

“I am proud to say that it was none other than the president himself.”

The artist was unable to suppress a self-satisfied smile. Two rows of stunted uneven teeth made a brief appearance. Rheinhardt approached a large unfinished canvas that was leaning up against the wall. It showed a man with long yellow hair, plunging a sword into the neck of a dragon. Red-black blood spurted out between broken metallic scales.

“Siegfried?” asked Rheinhardt.

“Of course.”

The inspector twisted the points of his mustache and tested their sharpness with the soft pad of his forefinger.

“How did you and the baron become acquainted?” asked Rheinhardt.

“Through the kind intercession of my patron, Baroness Sophie von
Rautenberg. She was of the opinion that I would be inspired by the poetry and stories of the
Edda.
”

“And were you?”

“Most certainly. Immersion in the Eddic tradition has completely revitalized my art.”

“Did you study at the academy, Herr Olbricht?”

Olbricht's face tightened. Rheinhardt noticed that the lines around his mouth were particularly marked.

“No, I didn't. They …” He seemed flustered for a moment and his eyes searched the room nervously. “I am self-taught.” Then, somewhat defensively, he added, “There has always been a demand for my work.”

“Do you have a dealer?”

“Yes. Ulrich Löb; however, his gallery is quite small and he's only interested in architectural drawings—St. Stephen's, the Hofburg, the town hall, that sort of thing. Almost all my substantial works have been commissioned by my patron's circle of friends.”

“You are most fortunate, Herr Olbricht. There must be very few artists in Vienna who have the support of such a devoted champion.”

“That is very probably true. Nonetheless …” Olbricht paused. “There are also few artists in Vienna to whom their patrons owe such a debt of gratitude.” Rheinhardt inspected the artist's face more closely. It was distinctly batrachian. His nose seemed unfinished, and his eyes were set too far apart.

“Oh?”

With what appeared to be genuine reluctance, Olbricht muttered, “When I was a young man, I … saved Von Rautenberg's life.”

“Did you really?” said Rheinhardt, nodding to encourage further disclosure. But the artist did not respond. Instead, he wiped some brushes on his smock and dropped them into a bottle of turpentine. “You are too modest, Herr Olbricht. Other men would seize such an opportunity for self-aggrandizement.”

“It was many years ago.”

“How many?”

“Twenty or so.”

“And what were the circumstances?”

The artist chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. “Bosnia-Herzegovina—the campaign of 1878. In those days I was a foot-rag Indian.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“An infantryman. Von Rautenberg was our commanding officer.”

“And how did you come to save his life?”

“There had been some skirmishes with small groups of insurgents. Not very well organized. Even so, it was necessary to undertake daily patrols. It was early evening and we were in woodland going down to a river.” Olbricht indicated the gentle gradient in the air with a movement of his hand. “The baron insisted that he should lead the party. A more junior officer could have done the job—but that was what Von Rautenberg was like: never one to shirk responsibility—a military man of the old school. If only we had more men like Von Rautenberg today, this empire of ours would be a power to be reckoned with.” Olbricht crossed his arms with unusual vehemence. “I noticed some movement among the trees and acted—more from nerves, or instinct perhaps, than intention. I can't honestly say I was being courageous. Still, I was very young—eighteen or thereabouts. I can remember pushing the baron down, the sound of gunfire and losing consciousness. When I awoke, I was being attended by the doctor. A bullet had grazed my head.” Olbricht raised his hand and stroked his right temple to show the bullet's trajectory. “It went straight into a silver birch—just where the baron had been standing. I thought I'd be in a military hospital for a few days and then back with my regiment. But it wasn't to be. … I suffered from dizziness, nausea, and headaches—terrible, blinding headaches.” He winced at the
recollection. “Sometimes my vision blurred. It was impossible to continue. In due course I was discharged on medical grounds.”

“You returned to Vienna?”

“Yes. While convalescing, I had formed the habit of sketching—pen-and-ink drawings of men in the infirmary. The doctors said I had a talent.”

Rheinhardt returned his attention to the unfinished canvas of Siegfried slaying the dragon. A subtle change in his expression indicated that he found the image quite pleasing.

“It needs much more work, of course,” said the artist.

“Yes,” said Rheinhardt, nodding his head and pulling at his chin. “Even so, an arresting image.”

“There is something about Siegfried's posture that is not quite right,” said Olbricht. “It does not suggest sufficient strength and power … the way his left knee is buckling. I thought that this detail would make the figure seem more animated, but I fear that it has only succeeded in making him appear weak.”

“No, not at all,” said Rheinhardt. “Fafner is a terrible adversary. One would expect even the greatest hero to falter during such an encounter.”

Olbricht was flattered by the inspector's evident pleasure. “I will be including this work in my next exhibition, Inspector. If you wish to come, you would be most welcome. It opens next week.” Olbricht walked over to a battered chest, his feet sounding a hollow knock on the bare floorboards. He lifted the lid and removed a small poster, which he handed to Rheinhardt.

The image was simple: an ancient Germanic god, most probably Wotan, holding his spear aloft. Heavy Gothic script set large announced the title of the exhibition
: Olbricht—Our Heroes and Legends.
“It will be at the Hildebrandt Gallery on Kärntner Strasse,” the artist added.

“Thank you,” said Rheinhardt. “May I bring a friend?”

“Of course.”

Rheinhardt folded the poster and slid it gently into his breast pocket.

“I cannot help but notice, Herr Olbricht, that you are very fond of operatic subjects.”

“The baroness has many friends in the Richard Wagner Association.”

“Are you ever asked to paint scenes from operas other than those by Wagner?”

“Some:
Der Freischütz
and
Euryanthe.
And earlier this year a concert violinist wanted a scene from
Fidelio
as a present for his wife.”

“Have you ever been asked to depict any scenes from Mozart?” asked Rheinhardt.

“No,” Olbricht replied. The syllable dropped into a pool of silence. Their stares locked together but Olbricht's blank expression showed no sign that he understood why Rheinhardt had asked him that particular question. Gradually his features softened. “No,” he said again, with a minute shake of the head. “No one has ever asked. Although I doubt that I would enjoy such a commission. I am convinced that German opera is most successful when it addresses romantic or epic themes.”

Rheinhardt had been ready to observe some small sign: a flinch, a blink, a pause—restless, fidgeting fingers. The kind of sign that his friend, young Doctor Liebermann, was in the habit of identifying as significant. But there was nothing unusual about Olbricht apart from his amphibian-like features.

Reverting to more traditional methods of investigation, with which he felt more comfortable, Rheinhardt patted his coat pocket and withdrew a small notebook and a stub of pencil.

“I wonder, Herr Olbricht,” he began. “Can you remember what you were doing on the morning of Monday the sixth of October?”

57

P
ROFESSOR
F
OCH EXCHANGED HIS
frock coat for a quilted black smoking jacket.

His supper had been frugal—nothing more than a small portion of goulash. He had decided to forgo the pleasure of Frau Haushofer's impressive but very sweet
salzburger nockerln
with cassis sauce because he had been suffering from borborygmus of late and had come to the conclusion that he must be eating too much.