Mortal Mischief

'He's telling the truth.'

Rheinhardt returned to his chair and Liebermann lay down on the divan. 'How do you know that?' 'His fluency. The absence of significant hesitations. He made no slips or errors. And the dream – the dream was extremely interesting.'

'Was it?'

'Oh yes – it was entirely consistent with his story, and the unconscious never lies.'

'Perhaps you could explain?'

'With pleasure, Oskar. In order to preserve sleep, the mind must work certain transformations on the content of dreams, particularly if the dream is likely to promote anxiety. Otherwise that anxiety would constantly wake us up, which would not be very good for our general health. Thus the dream that we remember is an adulterated version of an original. Think of it as a coded message, a language of symbols in which relatively innocuous images replace those of a more challenging or disturbing nature. Herr Holderlin found himself in a nursery – which suggests a wish to return to the world of childhood. A simple world, free from sexual intrigue. Most dreams conceal a wish of sorts . . .' As Liebermann spoke, he addressed the ceiling, punctuating his explanation with expressive hand gestures. 'But his assignation with Fraulein Lowenstein is still very much on his mind and his mental defences could not keep her out of the idyllic world of the nursery in Penzing.'

'Max, he didn't mention her once!'

'No, but she is still the principal subject of the dream. Take the rocking horse, for example . . .'

'What about it?'

'Are not horses a symbol of potency? Stallions and suchlike?' Liebermann's clenched fists closed around the imaginary reins of an equally imaginary galloping steed.

'They are, but—'

'And where do horses race in Vienna?'

'The Prater.'

'Which was where—?'

'He had his assignation.'

'Very good, Oskar.' Liebermann let his hands drop. 'And at that time, he would no doubt have been excited by the prospect of enjoying Fraulein Lowenstein's sexual favours. I hope that I don't need to spell out the obvious associations between Herr Holderlin's expectations, connections with riding, and the motion of a nursery horse.'

Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows.

'He observed,' Liebermann continued, 'a jewellery box on the floor.'

'Which belonged to his mother.'

'One step at a time, Oskar. Can you think of what a jewellery box might represent?'

'I know that the term is sometimes used by uncouth individuals to mean . . .'

'Indeed. There is no need to be coy, Oskar. It is a common term, a slang word for the female reproductive organ. Now, in the dream Holderlin is discovered attempting to gain entry into the box, which is more or less what actually transpired. He was discovered during an assignation. However, the dream tells us that his sexual exploits were frustrated. He didn't get very far. He may have propositioned Fraulein Lowenstein – in fact, he probably did – but she refused him. Thus, in the dream, the lid remains closed.'

Liebermann glanced at his friend. Observing an expression closer to horror than surprise, he added: 'Oskar, if you think this a little farfetched, you might want to take another look at those photographs. The box was ivory, with mother-of-pearl inlay. Fraulein Lowenstein was wearing a white dress and a double string of pearls. I am absolutely convinced that Holderlin is telling the truth about his relationship with Fraulein Lowenstein. He did not make her pregnant – they were not lovers.'

Liebermann's tone was positive.

Rheinhardt grunted his assent, and the young doctor continued his analysis.

'Herr Holderlin described himself protesting, even though he had been discovered with the box in his hands. I think it safe to assume, given his mother's reprimand, that he was doing something that was supposed to be wrong. At first sight, this seems to make little sense. How could he justify himself when he had been discovered – and I use these words knowingly – in flagrante delicto? But in dreams, meanings are conflated. He was not protesting about the assignation. His protest concerned the more significant accusation of murder. That is why the inconsistency of his position aroused no emotional conflict. His denial was experienced in the dream as acceptable. Which would suggest that, with respect to the allegation of murder at least, he is indeed innocent.'

'But why was he discovered by his mother? In reality he was discovered by von Bulow. Surely, Max, you aren't going to tell me that Holderlin's mother represented von Bulow?'

'Professor Freud has suggested that significant dreams often reproduce scenes from infancy. It may be that the whole edifice of Holderlin's dream is founded on a real memory of discovery involving his mother but now deeply buried in his unconscious. However, to uncover the secret of what really happened in the nursery all those years ago would necessitate many hours of psychoanalysis.'

Rheinhardt shook his head.

'This is all very well, Max, but I can't see Brugel being very sympathetic to your interpretation.'

'Perhaps not,' said Liebermann, sitting up and turning to look at his friend. 'But I can promise you now, Oskar, that von Bulow will not extract a confession from Holderlin, no matter how long he keeps the wretched man locked up!'

74

'THE MAYOR'S ABSOLUTELY right,' said Councillor Schmidt, dabbing his lips with a table napkin. 'Doctors, lawyers, teachers, opera-house directors – they're everywhere. Something has to be done.'

'Indeed,' said Bruckmuller. 'People have become so complacent. I tell you, Julius, we need another Hilsner. That would get people talking.'

Cosima von Rath, who had been staring wistfully at the last of the chocolates, turned to face her fiance.

'Does he work in the town hall too?'

Bruckmuller and Schmidt looked at each other for a moment and then laughed.

'Good heavens, no, my love. He's not one of us – he's one of them. Surely you've heard of Leopold Hilsner?'

Cosima shook her head and the pendulous rings of flesh around her neck wobbled like blancmange.

'Hans,' she cried, pursing her lips together and producing a rather ugly moue. 'You know how unworldly I am.'

'Do you never read the papers, my dear?' asked Schmidt.

'Never,' she replied.

'I've seen you read the society pages,' said Bruckmuller.

Cosima ignored him.

'I would have thought,' continued Councillor Schmidt, 'that as a connoisseur of arcane rituals and practices the Hilsner case would have interested you a great deal.'

'Oh? Why's that?'

Cosima extended her hand towards the solitary truffle, seduced by its alluring sprinkle of cocoa powder.

'Hilsner was a ritual murderer,' said Schmidt.

Cosima's hand stopped above the chocolate where it hovered like a bird of prey.

'Was he?' She turned to look at Schmidt, her piggy eyes glinting in their pink pouches.

'See?' said Schmidt to Bruckmuller. 'I knew we'd get her interested in politics one day.' He raised his glass in a mock toast and sipped his brandy.

Bruckmuller smiled and placed a patronising hand on Cosima's shoulder.

'He was a Jew, my love. A shoemaker's apprentice. He was tried for killing a girl – she was only nineteen, I believe.'

'Yes, nineteen,' Schmidt asserted.

'Her body was found near the Jewish quarter of Polna. Her throat had been cut.' Bruckmuller dragged his