Vienna Secrets (18 page)

Part Three
Prague

45

T
HE WHISTLE BLEW AND
the train began to roll out of the Nordbahnhof. Leaning his head against the window, Liebermann looked out at the receding platform—at luggage porters, army officers, smartly dressed women and children, the tide of humanity flowing backward as the locomotive engine gathered speed. The last person Liebermann glimpsed on the platform was an elderly gentleman holding up a white handkerchief, fixed in the attitude of his final parting gesture. It was a sad image that kindled a sympathetic pang of grief in Liebermann’s chest. He did not want to be leaving Vienna. The train chugged through Brigittenau, crossed the Danube over an iron bridge, and thundered off through a thinly populated suburb out into open countryside.

“So,” said Mendel. “What made you change your mind?”

“It’s a long and rather complicated story.”

“Well, we won’t be arriving in Prague until midday, Maxim. You’ve plenty of time to explain yourself.”

Liebermann sighed and told his father about the young Baron von Kortig, Liebermann’s interviews with the chancellor, the article in
Das Vaterland
, his suspension from clinical practice, the allegation of religious agitation, and the forthcoming committee meeting at which, in all probability, his career as a doctor would be blighted. Mendel sat through the account in silence, but his expression showed that his feelings were complex, vacillating between conflicting states of horror and hope. He was furious that his son had become the victim of anti-Semitism, but at the same time he was aware that the demise of his son’s medical career would force him to consider alternatives, one of which would surely be to enter the family business. Never before had Mendel’s foremost wish come so close to fulfillment.

“Well, that’s very bad. Very bad indeed,” Mendel muttered. “Do you need a lawyer? I’d pay, of course.”

“I don’t think that would help, Father.”

“Perhaps not.” Mendel took off his hat and laid it on his lap. “Despicable, the way they treat us. Despicable.” He looked down and toyed with the hat’s label. “I know how much medicine means to you, Maxim. But if you do lose your position, and can’t find another post…” Somehow the offer of employment seemed to be more tactful if implied, rather than spoken.

Ordinarily, Liebermann would have responded with a verbal parry, or a defensive change in posture. But now he was feeling tired and drained. He had succumbed to an insidious, enervating pessimism. He nodded and said, “It might well come to that, Father.”

Mendel had not expected the concession to come so easily, and he looked up, surprised.

“It’s not such a bad life,” said Mendel cheerily. “Business!”

Liebermann managed to smile, but the pretense was unsustainable, and an expression of blank despondency quickly reasserted itself.

Father and son fell silent. The rocking motion of the train was conducive to private meditation, and some thirty minutes passed before Mendel stirred again. He opened his bag and pulled out a ledger book.

“Here. Take a look at this.”

Liebermann crossed the compartment and sat next to his father.

“Now,” said Mendel, stroking the cloth cover, “here we have the principal financial record book of the textile company. It contains details of transactions, assets, and liabilities.” Liebermann tried to listen, to understand what his father was saying, but the language of commerce was totally foreign to him. It failed to find any purchase in his mind, becoming a meaningless, disconnected babble: “expenditure,” “solvency,” “returns,” “profit,” “imports,” “loss,” “receipts,” “equity.” Indeed, Liebermann marveled at his own inability to learn anything. Something deep inside him refused to cooperate. He recognized it as a form of resistance, the strength of which was almost pathological.

The journey felt interminable, and when the train finally pulled into Prague, although Mendel’s spirits were unusually high, his son’s were correspondingly low.

They hailed a cab and traveled first to the Old Town Square, where Mendel had arranged to collect a garnet necklace, a present for his wife. While Liebermann was waiting for his father’s return, he stepped down from the carriage and found himself standing next to a massive astrological clock. The upper disc, being the timepiece, was ringed with golden numerals. The lower disc, which appeared to be a calendar, was richly illustrated with seasonal tableaux and the signs of the zodiac. Set among the allegorical figures that adorned the clock was a skeleton: death, carrying his hourglass.

Across the square, Liebermann observed an imposing Gothic structure, which he knew to be the Church of Our Lady Before Týn. Its two towers, of unequal height, were festooned with sharp pinnacles. It looked nothing like the baroque churches of Vienna, with their ebullient ornate façades, which always reminded Liebermann of confectionery. The Church of Our Lady Before Týn was a much darker piece of architecture—brooding, even sinister. The black, bristling spires were menacing, the home of some horrifying storybook evil.

Liebermann shivered in the breeze, chilled more by his fanciful imaginings than by the cold. He got back into the cab.

Mendel returned, carrying a jewelry case. He opened it up and took out a necklace of bloodred garnets, suspended in a delicate web of silver chains.

“It’s beautiful,” said Liebermann.

His father allowed himself a smile. “A surprise. She’ll like it.”

Their hotel, the Ambassador, was on Wenceslas Square. After depositing their luggage with porters, they proceeded to the restaurant, where Mendel had agreed to meet his brother Alexander. The restaurant had a large plush interior in which a piano trio played music that—unusual for him—Liebermann did not recognize. He suspected that the composer might be Dussek.

As soon as they were seated, Mendel began looking at his watch and huffing impatiently.

“Father, he isn’t late yet,” said Liebermann.

“Yes,” said Mendel. “But he will be. He always is.”

The restaurant clock struck one, and Alexander did not arrive. Mendel grunted and seemed to derive satisfaction from the fact that his brother was now genuinely late. Another twenty minutes passed before Uncle Alexander made his entrance. He glided through the double doors, a tall, distinguished-looking man with long hair swept back from his forehead. Hanging loosely over his shoulders was a long camel-hair coat, and in his hand he carried an ebony cane with a silver handle. He moved with a distinctive fluid ease.

“Mendel, how good to see you,” said Alexander. The two brothers embraced, Mendel exhibiting a certain awkwardness when they touched. “And Maxim. Maxim, my boy.” Liebermann felt a surge of affection for his uncle. Alexander kissed Liebermann and hugged him close. “Maxim,” he repeated. “How you’ve changed.”

They sat down, and Alexander immediately began asking questions. How was Rebecca? And Leah, and baby Daniel? Hannah and, of course, Leah’s husband, Josef? Mendel reciprocated by inquiring about Alexander’s health.

“Old age…,” said Alexander, making a helpless gesture with his hands. “There’s no future in it.”

He delivered his bon mot in an indolent drawl, one word slurring into the next. He then spoke a little about his knee, which was arthritic and quite painful. For the two brothers, orthopedic problems supplied a rare topic of mutual interest. In the absence of more conventional commonalities, this was the closest they came to enjoying an effortless dialogue.

The waiter arrived, and Alexander insisted that they try the liver dumplings, followed by duck roasted with chestnuts and served with red cabbage. Apparently the chef was a master of traditional Czech cuisine.

Alexander then turned to Liebermann. He made some small talk about the pleasures of living in Prague and enthused about the city’s cultural institutions. Like his nephew, Alexander was a very competent pianist. Indeed, one of Liebermann’s earliest memories was of sitting on his uncle’s lap while he played bravura arrangements of Strauss waltzes.

“You should go to the philharmonic while you’re here,” said Alexander. “An excellent orchestra, and the chamber groups are very good too. I can recommend the Czech Quartet. Their second violin, Suk, is a pupil of Dvoýák and—I believe—is married to the great man’s daughter. Suk’s piano works are exquisite. The
Polonaise-Fantasy
, the
Village Serenade
, and the
Bagatelle—
lyrical but distinctive. The music shop in the old town stocks his piano scores. I’ll give you the address.” He took a pencil from his pocket and wrote the details on one of his visiting cards.

On no fewer than three occasions, Mendel attempted to raise the subject of work, but every time, Alexander managed to steer the conversation in alternative directions: theatre, politics, Czech wines, and the relative virtues of Budweiser and pilsner beers. Eventually Mendel, who Liebermann could see was becoming impatient, barked, “Alexander! I’m supposed to be meeting Doubek at three. We must talk about the factories!”

Alexander looked surprised, even a little hurt.

“Of course, of course… the factories. I was just getting to them.”

He said this with appeasing gentility, but his mellifluous tones were tainted with a hint of condescension. It was clear that Alexander thought his brother was being inexcusably bad-tempered.

The food was served, and there then followed a conversation that Liebermann found excruciatingly dull. He took some consolation from the fact that his uncle seemed to be suffering just as much as he was. The remainder of their meal was dominated by talk of productivity and pay.

After they had eaten, they removed to a private lounge on the first floor of the Ambassador and waited for Doubek, a factory manager. Doubek was punctual, and the meeting seemed to go well. Indeed, at its conclusion, the jolly Czech produced a bottle of Boroviýka—a juniper-flavored spirit—and proposed a toast to lasting friendship and prosperity. Their second meeting was a short distance from the hotel at the offices of an accountant named Slavik. Unfortunately Slavik was unable to answer many of Mendel’s questions, and the atmosphere soon became tense and edgy. Occasionally the accountant would glance at Alexander, his eyes appealing for help; however, all that Alexander could offer in return was a pained grimace. When the meeting was over, Mendel’s silence and sullen expression declared his displeasure.

“You’d prefer it if I dismissed Slavik,” said Alexander, “wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Mendel bluntly.

“Is that really necessary? I know he wasn’t very impressive today, but I think that’s because of his wife. She hasn’t been well lately—a chest infection. He’s been distracted.”

“Are we a charity now?”

“No, but…” Alexander sighed and shook his head. “We play cards together.” Mendel turned on his brother, his eyes incandescent with anger. “All right, all right,” Alexander resumed. “I’ll deal with it.”

Liebermann and his uncle exchanged a confidential glance. Alexander looked a little discountenanced, but this did not stop him from winking. He had never taken his brother’s temper very seriously.

46

I
T WAS EARLY EVENING
, and they had just finished another substantial meal in the hotel restaurant.

“Well,” said Mendel, draining his coffee cup, “I think we should all retire early. Tomorrow will be another busy day.”

Alexander rubbed his knee.

“My leg’s a bit stiff. It happens if I’ve been sitting still for too long. I think I’ll go for a walk and a smoke before going home. How about you, Maxim? Do you feel like a walk?”

Liebermann looked across to his father. The old man shrugged, as if to say,
Do as you please
. Liebermann and his uncle bid Mendel good night, collected their coats, and left the hotel. They strolled through the Staré Mýsto, veering east through quaint narrow streets toward the Vltava. Liebermann had to get used to his uncle’s unhurried gait. Alexander took his time, occasionally stopping to examine the contents of a shop window or an interesting stucco decoration above a door. He was also in the habit of raising his hat and smiling at every pretty woman who passed. This was achieved with the natural, unconscious charm of a seasoned roué.

When they reached the Bethlehem Chapel, Alexander said, “I was surprised when Mendel told me that you would be coming along. I always understood that you weren’t interested in the family business.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why are you here?”

“The fact is, Uncle, I’ve got myself into a bit of trouble.”

“Trouble, eh?” Alexander looked mildly amused rather than concerned.

For the second time that day Liebermann described the von Kortig affair and the events leading to his suspension.

“Well, that’s truly dreadful,” said Alexander. “And I imagine that after today, the prospect of joining the family business is even less appealing. However, if you are forced out of medicine, you wouldn’t have to stay in Vienna. You could always come here and work with me. I suspect that you would find working in the Prague office less onerous.”

Alexander produced a complicit smile.

“Thank you, Uncle,” said Liebermann. “That’s very kind of you. I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Yes, you do that.”

The twilight was deepening as they approached the Charles Bridge, and ahead the Gothic portal loomed into view: a tower of dark brick surmounted by a massive wedge-shaped spire, out of which sprouted numerous gold-tipped pinnacles. The two men walked under the central arch into a preternatural night and then out onto the bridge itself.

The prospect that came into view inspired wonder. It possessed a strange phantasmagorical beauty. An amphitheatre of hills provided a backdrop, the northeastern summits of which were dominated by Prague Castle and the spiky silhouette of Saint Vitus Cathedral. Red roofs appeared among the greenery of the lower slopes, which cascaded down to the left bank of the river. The low walls on either side of the bridge were punctuated by large statues of religious figures and converged in the hazy distance, where two more Gothic towers marked its end.

Liebermann and his uncle advanced until they were about halfway across. They had arrived at the feet of a bronze saint, green with age, his head surrounded by a halo of gold stars. In his hands he held a palm branch, also of gold, and a giant crucifix.

“Who is this?” asked Liebermann.

“Saint John of Nepomuk. The Bohemians have made a cult of him.” Alexander pointed to a relief tableau. “This shows his body being thrown off the Charles Bridge after he had been tortured to death.”

Liebermann noticed that the saint’s patina had been worn away by the touch of countless pilgrims. The little upside-down figure had been polished to a striking brightness.

Alexander took out a silver cigarette case and a box of matches. He offered a cigarette to Liebermann, who took it, and soon they were both leaning over the parapet, smoking. High, wispy clouds were reflected in the steely flow of the Vltava, and an eerie ancient melody, plucked from a stringed instrument by an invisible musician, floated on the air. The first star ignited above the castle.

“I was sorry to hear that you broke off your engagement with Clara Weiss,” said Alexander. He did not turn to look at his nephew but stared fixedly at the lone sentinel, burning in the sky.

“It was difficult. A hard thing to do.”

“I can imagine.”

“I upset a lot of people. The Weisses, Mother and Father—and Clara, of course. She had to go to a sanatorium, you know. To recover.” Liebermann drew on his cigarette and directed a stream of smoke upward. “Still… she’s with somebody else now. And I understand she’s happy.”

“And what about you?”

“Am I happy?”

“No. Have you found somebody else?”

Liebermann’s answer was hesitant.

“There’s this… this Englishwoman.”

“English, eh? I had an English mistress once.” Alexander’s expression softened, and he fell into a dreamy state of abstraction. After a few moments he blinked as if waking from a trance and said, “Forgive me, Maxim. Do go on… please.”

“I have strong feelings for her. But the circumstances of our meeting were rather unusual. You see, she was a patient whom I treated at the hospital.”

“These things happen. I have a doctor friend who is always having assignations with his patients. Even the ones who are married!”

Liebermann shrugged. “It hasn’t happened to
me
before.”

“There’s always a first time, my boy.”

“She is a woman whose appeal I find difficult to describe. Indeed, the majority of men might find her manner somewhat peculiar.”

“Well, she’s English. Is she beautiful?”

“Yes. Very. But she is strangely dispassionate.”

“Cold?”

“She can be.”

“Ah, then you have found yourself a
cruel mistress. A Belle Dame sans Merci
.”

“Not at all. She is kind and compassionate. It is just that she…” Liebermann searched for the right words. “Is uncommonly rational. I’ve never met anyone like her before. She is quite unique.”

“Have you become intimate?” Alexander’s emphasis left no doubt as to his meaning.

“No.”

“But you
desire
her?”

“Yes.”

“Then why haven’t—”

“The moment is never right. Besides, I am not in any way confident that a physical demonstration of my affection would be welcome.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She has had… an unfortunate experience. With a man.”

“I see,” said Alexander, perceiving his nephew’s discomfort. “Do you love her, Maxim?”

Liebermann made a helpless gesture with his hands.

“I don’t know what I can expect from such a woman. I can as much imagine her managing a home as I can imagine myself managing a factory! And as for children—”

“Maxim,” Alexander cut in. “Excluding a man’s mother, there are three women in every man’s life. His wife, his mistress, and the
unattainable object of desire
. His wife becomes commonplace, his mistress a frivolous expenditure, but the unattainable object of desire remains alluring in perpetuity. She is the guardian of his vital powers. Her currency never depreciates. She is never cheapened or diminished by consummation, and her stock rises as we grow old. Even when our flesh becomes arid and we succumb to the depredations of time, she reminds us of what it was like to be young. This Englishwoman, if I am not mistaken, is your unattainable object of desire. Let her serve her purpose, because in all likelihood she has no other.” Alexander dropped his cigarette into the water below. “A handsome fellow like you should be enjoying life, not fretting over a frigid English girl.”

The sudden bluntness startled Liebermann. He turned to look at his uncle, who reached out an affectionate hand and squeezed Liebermann’s arm.

“You probably think me an old fool—or, even worse, an old cynic. But I have always been fond of you, Maxim, and I do not like to see you unhappy.”

Liebermann acknowledged his uncle with a smile. He stepped back from the wall and looked toward the Gothic bridge tower, which was now looking distinctly sinister in the fading light. Beyond was a pleasing cluster of umbrous domes, onion steeples, and triangular pediments.

“That dome,” said Liebermann, pointing to the largest, “owes a great debt to Brunelleschi.”

“What?”

“Brunelleschi, an Italian architect. It was he who set the precedent for putting lanterns on top of domes.”

Alexander tilted his head quizzically, but decided that his nephew’s non sequitur did not merit further inquiry.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s get a nightcap.”

They walked back through the Staré Mýsto and stopped at a beer hall near the House of the Two Golden Bears, a Renaissance edifice with eponymous ursine relief work. The landlord of the beer hall was obviously well acquainted with Alexander. When Alexander introduced Liebermann as his nephew, the landlord shook his hand and insisted they have a few Gambrinus—on the house. When they had finished their beers, Liebermann was alarmed to hear his uncle ordering a bottle of liqueur.

“Becherovka,” said Alexander. “It’s made with herbs. I often take it as a tonic.”

The amber liquid tasted bittersweet.

When they left the beer hall two hours later, it was nighttime, and Liebermann was conscious of the fact that he had drunk far too much. Indeed, his legs had become unreliable and he had acquired a style of speech similar to his uncle’s.

“Well, good night, Maxim.” His uncle kissed him on the cheek. “And cheer up, eh? Life is too short to be taken seriously. I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well.” He winked and chuckled. “Sleep well.”

Alexander turned and walked off, whistling a melody from an Offenbach operetta.

When Liebermann got back to his room, he undid his necktie, took off his shoes, and flopped back onto the bed. He thought about the hospital committee, what life would be like if he came to work with his uncle in Prague, and his recent conversation with Alexander on the Charles Bridge.

The unattainable object of desire…

Perhaps his uncle was right. Perhaps he had become fixated on Miss Lydgate simply because she was, in so many ways, inaccessible. And such was the human mind, with its childish inclinations, that what was held beyond reach was always what was perceived as most desirable. Liebermann rubbed his chin, which was scabrous with stubble. His thoughts became disconnected, and he sank into a fitful sleep.

Liebermann woke with a start.

A gentle rapping, knuckles on wood.

He got up, steadied himself by touching the bedpost, and made his way to the door. His head felt full of glue. A young woman was standing outside. She pushed through the opening and stood proudly in the center of the room.

“Fräulein,” said Liebermann, brushing his hair from his eyes. “I think you’ve made a mistake.”

“My name is Anezka.” She took off her hat and threw it onto a chair, then narrowed her shoulders and let her unbuttoned coat fall to the floor. She was wearing a tight silk dress, the intrepid neckline of which descended steeply, revealing a plenitude of bulging flesh. “Herr Dr. Liebermann?”

“Yes.”

“Then there has been no mistake. I am a present.”

“A present?”

“Yes, from your uncle.”

She rushed up to Liebermann and pushed the door closed. Then, taking him by the hand, she pulled him to the bed and playfully pushed him so that he was seated on the edge.

“I’m really not sure about this,” said Liebermann.

“The gentleman said you might be a bit shy. But he said I should persevere.”

Taking Liebermann’s hands in hers, Anezka placed them on her hips. Her corset creaked as she bowed to kiss the top of his head.

“Well,” she said, “do you think I am pretty?”

“Yes,” Liebermann said. “I think you are very pretty.”

He knew that he should ask her to leave; however, the machinery of articulation failed to engage. He looked up, into the woman’s black eyes, and they seemed to expand until there was nothing but an infinite, starless void. His will to resist evaporated. The hot breath on his neck made him sigh with pleasure. He allowed his body to go limp, and he fell back onto the mattress, confident that he was surrendering his body to the ministrations of a skilled professional.