Vienna Secrets (25 page)

64

H
ERR
P
OPPMEIER WAS LYING
on a rest bed, his hands behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. His youthful face had assumed an expression of perplexity. Liebermann, who was seated out of his patient’s view, was waiting for the salesman to resume speaking. The session had not been very productive. In fact, none of Herr Poppmeier’s sessions had been very productive. When asked to freely vocalize whatever came into his mind, without censorship or restraint, his chain of associations invariably led back to items included in the Prock and Hornbostel catalogue. In due course, Poppmeier said, “I had another dream last night. Do you want me to tell you about it?”

“Yes, of course,” said Liebermann, eager for something substantial to work on.

“It’s not the first time either. I’ve had it before.”

“A recurring dream…”

“Yes.” Poppmeier crossed his legs. “Do you have a cigarette?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I’d love a cigarette right now.”

Interesting
, thought Liebermann.

“Arabelle wants me to give up smoking,” Poppmeier continued. “She doesn’t like the smell of tobacco. I’ve tried, but it’s extremely difficult. I get so irritable, and then feel guilty afterward. I can be quite disagreeable.”

The salesman seemed unaware that he had strayed off the subject. Liebermann made a note:
Delay—resistance?

“Herr Poppmeier,” said Liebermann, “you were going to tell me about your recurring dream?”

“Oh yes, so I was.” The salesman bit his lower lip. “It’s like this…” He drummed his fingers on the mattress. “I’m staying in a hotel, a very pleasant hotel with red carpets and gilt mirrors and busy waiters and miniature palm trees, a little like the Kaiser in Steyr, and—this is most peculiar, even embarrassing—I am a priest.” Poppmeier laughed nervously. “I am sitting in the foyer, listening to a string trio, when I am approached by the concierge and asked to give the last rites to a dying child.”

Mention of the last rites made Liebermann sit up.

“Go on…”

“I am escorted to a room that is full of my jewelry samples—rings, pendants, brooches. The rings are from the Prestige range and feature some very attractive stones imported from Bohemia. The pendants are heart-shaped, silver—with two opals set in a decoration of perpendicular silver bars. The brooches—”

“Herr Poppmeier,” Liebermann cut in. “Your dream?”

“Oh yes… There is a child in a bed, being cared for by a pretty nurse. For some reason, which I cannot justify, I refuse to perform the sacrament and leave.”

Poppmeier resumed chewing his lower lip.

“Is that it?”

“Yes. An absurd dream, but always remarkably vivid.”

“When did it first occur?”

“Difficult to say.”

“Do you think you’ve been having it for years? Months?”

“Not years, exactly—but for quite a long time.”

“A year, then?”

“About that, yes.”

Liebermann flicked through his notes and found the entry he was looking for:
Frau Poppmeier: Gravida 3/Para II. Intrapartum death—1902 (early?)
.

Poppmeier’s wife had been pregnant twice before her current pregnancy and the second pregnancy had ended in the tragedy of a stillbirth. The timing was exact.

65

“Y
ES,” SAID
A
SHER
K
USEVITSKY
, addressing Professor Priel. “Schnitzler had some interesting things to say about Lautenburg. The man’s a fool, just as I thought. I won’t be sending him any of my scripts in the future.”

The walls of Professor Priel’s parlor were covered in examples of modern art. They were mostly allegorical works, in which personifications of philosophy poetry, or music were rendered in a style that owed a considerable debt to Klimt. The figures, usually women, stared out full-face against a background of strong tonal contrasts. In addition, there were numerous contemporary portraits, some of which were quite disturbing. Sketches and watercolors of troubled individuals—emaciated, gaunt, their skin discolored, suggestive of putrescence. The models might have been recruited from a mortuary.

All the art that Professor Priel possessed had been made by impoverished young men who had benefited from a Rothenstein creative bursary. Although he wasn’t particularly fond of the portraits, he recognized that they were original and most probably indicative of a significant trend. He had not, however, purchased them as an investment. He had bought them to bolster the confidence of the young artists. They were always delighted to see their work hanging on his walls.

The only non-modern piece in Professor Priel’s collection was a plaster cast reproduction of Michelangelo’s
Moses
. It occupied a central position on the sideboard. Even though it was only a fraction of the size of the original, the copy was still powerfully evocative: Moses the lawgiver, seated like a Titan or a great warrior, his muscled arm resting on the commandment tablets, his long beard a wild tangle of writhing serpentine spirals.

A servant arrived with tea for the professor’s guests and a glass of magnetized water for the professor. A daily circuit of the Ringstrasse and a glass of magnetized water was—so he believed—the key to a long and healthy life.

“Gabriel,” Asher continued, “tell Professor Priel about Liebermann and the von Kortig business.” He then turned to face Priel. “Listen to this. It’s quite scandalous.”

Gabriel Kusevitsky repeated Liebermann’s story.

When he had finished, Professor Priel was silent, his head slowly shaking from side to side.

“It’s political, of course, and what worries me is where it could lead,” said Asher. He spoke quickly, making expressive gestures with his hands. “I mean to say, if Liebermann is dismissed—and they get away with it—who will be next? Where will it end?
Lieutenant Gustl
has already cost Schnitzler his rank in the reservists, and I don’t believe for one minute that it was because he broke the code of honor by writing it, as the authorities insist. It cost him his rank because he is a Jew. One can see where this is going. There are passages in
The Dybbuk
where I am critical of the church. If things continue like this, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if an official turns up and closes down the theatre.”

“Liebermann,” said the professor. “What’s his first name?”

“Max,” said Gabriel. “Professor Freud speaks very highly of him. I’ve read a few of his case studies and was most impressed by his paper on paranoia erotica. It would be a great shame if his career was blighted because of political opportunism.”

“Oh, then I
really must
do something,” said Professor Priel.

Gabriel sipped his tea and returned the cup to its saucer. On landing, it produced an unusually loud chime.

“Be that as it may,” Gabriel continued, “he is not very active in our circle. He has not associated himself with our charitable organizations and causes.”

“Is he a member of the lodge?”

“No, I don’t think he is. I met him there when Professor Freud gave his last talk, but I had never seen him there before—and have not seen him there since.”

“I don’t think that should concern us,” said the professor. “He is a talented young man with prospects. He needs help, and I may be in a position to provide it. Rothenstein has some exceptional lawyers in his employ. One can’t just stand by and watch something like this happening. Asher is quite right. In the end, if something isn’t done, we’ll all be affected. Never forget what Councillor Faust was proposing in his article. Where can I find him, this Liebermann fellow?”

Gabriel was dressed in the very same jacket that he had been wearing in the Café Central. He reached into his pocket, found Liebermann’s card, and gave it to Professor Priel.

“He works at the General Hospital.”

“Good. I’ll see what I can do.”

Priel took a swig of magnetized water. He could feel the energy coursing through his veins, invigorating and refreshing his nerves and muscles. He looked over at the reproduction of Moses. A good man’s work was never done.

66

N
AHUM
N
AGEL WAS SITTING
behind the counter of the general store, watching the scales seesaw. He was deep in thought.

Everybody was convinced.

Everybody was expecting salvation.

But was it really going to happen? When the thugs came again, what should he expect? Would the ground tremble as its massive feet stomped down the alleyway? Would the shop door be thrown open, would it duck beneath the lintel and grab the villains? Would it rip off their heads, right there, on the other side of the counter, before his very eyes?

The gossip went round and round in his head, like whispering in a cloister.

Alois Gasse… mud… Prague… golem…

Upstairs, his father was coughing. If they didn’t move very soon, the old man would die.

Nahum removed one weight and added another. The scale tipped and began, through its slow reciprocal motion, to negotiate a different resting point. As the dishes rose and fell, it struck Nahum that the process was like a dialogue between two parties: offers made, rejected, reviewed, and finally accepted. The angle at which the scale bar finally came to rest was, in effect, a compromise.

Nahum’s thoughts crystallized.

The universe that God made is imperfect. That is what Isaac Luria taught his disciples. We have no need of complex philosophical arguments to explain why God has let evil into the world. Its presence is a mistake. The vessels broke
and must be repaired. Humanity can either assist in the process of healing or compound the disintegration of all things through acts of self-interest and cruelty. Luria places the fate of everything not in the hands of God but in the hands of humanity: the peddler, the kitchen maid, and the street cleaner. Everyone is responsible
.

The familiar sound of hobnailed boots resonated in the alley. It grew louder, and the door swung wide open. Haas entered the shop and strolled up to the counter, kicking a tin of olive oil over as he came forward.

“Well,” he said. “I believe you owe me some money.”

“Where is your friend?” Nahum asked.

“Why? Have you missed him?” Haas laughed.

Nahum stared at the scales.

The zaddik had spoken with conviction.

You have nothing to fear. You have only to call and the golem will come to assist you
.

“Give me the cash box!”

Nahum handed Haas the tin. The thug opened it up and looked inside. He turned the empty container upside down and threw it over his shoulder. It clattered across the floor.

“I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

Nahum closed his eyes.
Come to me, help me…

And, to his surprise, the prayer was answered.

The golem arrived, but not in the form that he had anticipated. It came not as a supernatural being. It came instead as blind, pitiless rage.

They are evil, and their evil is my responsibility
.

Nahum opened his eyes.

“The money,” said Haas.

The shopkeeper snatched up the heaviest weight from the counter and swung it against the side of Haas’s head. It made a strange, sickening thud. Nahum then allowed his hand to drop.

Haas did not move. He remained standing, swaying slightly, his expression showing nothing more than mild irritation. Blood ran down his cheek in a straight line until it was diverted along the arc of his scar. His eyes rolled and he fell backward, crashing to the ground.

Nahum stepped out from behind the counter and began to go through the thug’s pockets. He found a wallet bulging with notes, enough to pay for dry rooms and a specialist in lung diseases.

Haas was still breathing.

“Father?” Nahum called out.

“Yes?” the old man croaked.

“Get your coat. We’re leaving.”

67

P
ROFESSOR
K
RAUS ENTERED
G
ABRIEL
Kusevitsky’s room without knocking.

“There’s a policeman outside,” said the professor. “He wants to speak to you.”

“Me?” said Kusevitsky, rising unsteadily from his chair.

“Yes, you. What on earth have you done, Kusevitsky?”

“Why, nothing, sir. Well, nothing wrong, at least.”

“This is a private hospital,” said the professor. “We can’t have the police snooping around the wards. It won’t do.”

“Indeed, sir, but I can assure you—”

The professor cut in, “Just make sure he doesn’t come back, eh? You young fellows are all the same. Dueling, drinking, parties, and ridiculous pranks. You’re not a student anymore, Kusevitsky.”

“With respect, sir, I have never—”

“And incidentally,” the professor pressed on, “that necktie is far too loud. It lacks gravitas. And if there’s one thing a patient expects from his physician, it is gravitas.”

“Very good, sir,” said Kusevitsky. “I will wear only a black necktie in the future.”

“His name’s Rheinhardt.”

“Sir?”

“The policeman. I managed to hide him away in the common room.”

“Thank you, Professor Kraus. I will see him immediately and make sure that when he leaves he does so via the kitchen entrance.”

The professor made some grunting noises and left. His footsteps (loud, regular, and implacable) resounded down the corridor.

Gabriel Kusevitsky sighed, tidied his notes, and made his way to the common room, where a portly gentleman in plain clothes was waiting. He had been expecting a constable with spiked helmet and sabre. The man stood up, bowed, and said, “Herr Dr. Kusevitsky? I am Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt of the security office. Forgive me for interrupting your day.”

His civility was a pleasant change after Professor Kraus’s insults.

The two men sat down at a table covered with medical journals.

“Does the name Jeheil Sachs mean anything to you?” asked Rheinhardt.

“Yes. He’s a procurer. Why?”

“What else do you know of him?”

“Well, he lives in Spittelberg and recently assaulted a poor young woman, Fräulein Pinski, who was admitted into this hospital.” Kusevitsky produced a flickering smile, a fast series of facial contractions. “I think there must have been some mistake or misunderstanding, Inspector. She is not in my care. You really need to speak to Professor Kraus and Dr. Goldberger.”

“No,” said Rheinhardt. “There has been no mistake.”

“But I know nothing of this woman’s circumstances. Other than that she was a prostitute, of course.”

“Tell me,” Rheinhardt continued, resting his elbows on the table and locking his fingers. “How did you get to hear about Herr Sachs?”

“One of my friends—Fräulein Katzer—she does charity work in Spittelberg and told me what had happened, about the assault.”

“Fräulein Katzer… Is she just a friend? Or are you romantically associated?”

Kusevitsky’s cheeks flushed. “We are associated, yes,” said the young man stiffly.

“And when she told you what Sachs had done to Fräulein Pinski, what was your reaction?”

“I was angry. Very angry. It was a brutal and ugly attack.”

“Fräulein Katzer went to see Herr Sachs with…” Rheinhardt consulted his notebook. “Fräulein Mandl. Why didn’t you go with her?”

“I learned of her visit only after she’d already gone. It was a foolish thing to do.”

Rheinhardt twisted his mustache. “Where were you on Thursday night?”

“At home, with my brother, Asher.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“What possible use would such information be to you, Inspector?” Rheinhardt allowed the ensuing silence to build. “Very well,” said Gabriel, shrugging. “I was writing up some preliminary results of a study I am conducting into the nature of dreams.”

“Ah, dreams,” said Rheinhardt. “A very interesting topic. You must be a devotee of Professor Freud.”

Kusevitsky was surprised. “Yes, as it happens, I am. Are you familiar with Professor Freud’s works?”

“I have read
The Psychopathology of Everyday Life
and some of
The Interpretation of Dreams
. I enjoyed the former but struggled to finish the latter. The technical passages at the end were somewhat obscure.” Rheinhardt glanced nonchalantly at one the medical journals. “What time did you retire?”

“On Thursday night? Quite late. The early hours of the morning, I imagine.”

“Yes, but what time?”

“I can’t remember. But it must have been around one or two.”

Rheinhardt made a note.

“Inspector?” The young man was looking at him intently. “Your questions and manner lead me to conclude that something has happened to Herr Sachs. Has he, by any chance, been murdered?”

Rheinhardt reached into his pocket and took out a folded copy of the
Illustrierte Kronen-Zeitung
. On the cover was a crude drawing of a plague column and a headless corpse lying—its position inaccurate—on the pavement next to it.

“You haven’t seen this, then?”

Kusevitsky took the newspaper and examined the image.

“Did he deserve to die?” Rheinhardt asked.

“That is not a question I have the moral authority to answer,” the young doctor replied calmly.