see if you can find a murder weapon. If it's here, it'll be easy to find. Something large, I suspect-an axe or some sort of sword.”
After the stifling heat of the reptile house, the fresh morning air was a delight.
3
The dining room was large and grandly decorated. An ornate chandelier hung from a high ceiling, and one of the walls was dominated by an intricately carved Biedermeier chest. It was a massive piece of furniture that stood almost as high as the cornicing. Liebermann-a man whose aesthetic preferences were decidedly modern-found its involutions too fussy and its stolid virtues dull. On the opposite wall was a large canvas by a popular landscape artist depicting trees and a distant horizon of snowcapped peaks. It was blandly titled Vienna Wood.
Since his engagement to Clara, Liebermann had found himself eating with the Weiss family at least once a week. Whenever he chose to visit Clara, Jacob or Esther (Clara's parents) would invariably insist that he stay for supper. Dining with the Weisses was not as exacting as dining with his own family-which was always a somewhat tense affair-but it represented, nevertheless, an obligation that was beginning to pall. In addition to Clara and her parents, several other members of the Weiss family were present: Clara's adolescent sister, Rachel, her older brother, Konrad, and his wife, Bettina. Konrad and Bettina's two infant sons-Leo and Emil-were asleep in a bedroom upstairs.
The company had just finished the main course, which consisted of boiled beef with green vegetables, and the servants were clearing the plates.
Clara was in full spate.
“You will never guess who I saw yesterday-Fraulein Stahl. Outside Lobmeyr's. I haven't seen her for ages- apparently she went to Franzenbad this year, although she didn't have a single good thing to say about the place.”
“Where did she stay?” asked Esther.
“The Hotel Holzer. She said that the people there were very stuck-up.”
“Yes, I'd only go to Meran now,” Jacob proclaimed. Turning to Liebermann, he spoke more softly. “We went there in the summer, of course.” Then, addressing the table at large, he added, “A much nicer atmosphere. I don't know why we've never been before. The grapes were particularly good.”
“Fraulein Stahl said the water in Franzenbad tasted disgusting,” said Clara. “Even so, she was made to drink buckets of the stuff because her doctor-what's his name-Rozenblit-thinks she has a weak liver and he believes the waters of Franzenbad are particularly good for such complaints. Do you know him, Max? Rozenblit?”
“No,” said Liebermann. “I'm afraid I don't.”
“Max,” said Clara, a trace of exasperation creeping into her voice. “You never know any of the society doctors!”
“He will,” said Jacob, smiling. “Given time-won't you, my boy?”
Liebermann smiled patiently at his host. “Perhaps, Herr Weiss.”
“Rozenblit advised Fraulein Stahl to consult the doctors at Franzenbad,” continued Clara, “who prescribed a special diet of cabbage and dumplings, and she had a mineral bath every day. But she said the evenings were very boring. The main street had one hotel after another and the whole place was lifeless after eight o'clock.”
The conversation stopped as the cook arrived with a monumental emperor's pancake. Soft lumps of fragrant batter had been piled high to form a massive yellow pyramid, the slopes of which were sprinkled with generous snowdrifts of castor sugar. A kitchen maid followed, carrying two bowls: one filled with a thick maroon plum stew and the other with a spiraling conch shell of stiff whipped cream. Jacob complimented the cook, a sentiment that was echoed around the table.
When the conversation started again, Bettina inquired if Fraulein Stahl was still being courted by Herr Bernhardt, the famous entrepreneur, and slowly, talk flowed from incipient romances, through society engagements, to the forthcoming wedding of the couple present.
“Have you decided where the ceremony will take place?” asked Bettina.
“The Stadttempel,” said Clara.
“How wonderful,” Bettina exclaimed, “I love the Stadttempel- the ceiling… with its gold stars.”
“Very romantic-and we're having the dress made by Bertha Furst,” said Esther.
“Clara,” said Bettina, “you'll look stunning.”
“And me…,” said Rachel. “I'm going to have one made too.”
“Well,” said Jacob, “we'll see-”
“But you promised, Father!” said Rachel, her face beginning to color.
“I promised you a new dress. I didn't promise you a Bertha Furst dress.”
“Oh, Father,” said Clara, appealing to him with wide eyes. “Rachel must look her best on the day too.”
Jacob groaned.
“Oh, very well then-a Bertha Furst.” He leaned toward Liebermann and said under his breath, “See what I have to put up with.”
Rachel clapped her hands together and her face radiated joy. “Thank you, Father,” she cried. Then, getting up, she ran around the table and threw her arms around Jacob's neck, kissing his cheek.
“Enough now,” he said, theatrically shaking her off in mock high dudgeon.
Rachel skipped back to her chair.
“You won't regret it, Father,” said Clara, more seriously. “She'll look like a princess-won't you, Rachel?”
Rachel nodded and slipped a fork full of whipped cream into her mouth.
Further discussion of the wedding was continued after coffee had been served. Herr Weiss was quick to declare, “Gentlemen, perhaps we should retire to the smoking room?”
When Liebermann stood, Clara looked up at him, took his hand, and pressed it to her shoulder. It was a small gesture, but one that was full of affection. Her eyes glittered in the candlelight and her lips parted a little, showing a row of straight white teeth. Unusually, Clara had let her hair down. It was dark and undulated in glossy waves around her face. Liebermann's fingers lingered in her gentle grip as he left the table.
In the smoking room, Jacob Weiss distributed cigars and brandy. He stood by the stately gray-marble fireplace, an arm resting on the mantelpiece. Occasionally he would flick the ash from his cigar into the fire's flames. The two younger men occupied deep leather armchairs, facing each other across a Persian rug.
They discussed politics for a while: the appalling cant to be found in the columns of the Deutsches Volksblatt, the mayor's vanity, and how the deep cultural divisions in the empire seemed to be getting worse rather than better.
“I heard a good joke the other day,” said Jacob. “You know that the parliament building has chariots on the roof-and they all point in different directions. Well, some wag I was talking to said that they are becoming increasingly recognized as a very good symbol. Everyone inside the parliament building wants to go a different way. And, you know, it's true-things are falling apart. I don't know what's going to happen.”
“People have been saying much the same thing for years, Father,” said Konrad. “And nothing changes.”
“Ah, but things do change. And not always for the better.”
“You worry too much.” Konrad stubbed out his cigar and consulted his pocket watch. “Excuse me. If you don't mind, I think I should check the children.”
“And you say it's me who worries too much?”
Konrad smiled at his father and left the room.
“Another cigar, Max?” Jacob offered.
“No, thank you.”
“Then another brandy, surely.”
Jacob moved away from the fireplace, filled Liebermann's glass, and sat down in Konrad's vacant chair.
“I saw your father the other day,” said Jacob. “We met for coffee at the Imperial.”
“Oh?”
“We had a long talk.” Jacob exhaled a stream of blue smoke. “He wants you to take over his business one day. You know that, don't you?”
