Wolf looked over at Steininger and Freitag. It was a collusive look—an invitation. They responded with laughter: fits and starts, encouraged by Wolf's widening smile, mounting, until their lungs and vocal cords were engaged in the production of a continuous asinine braying.
“He wasn't going to kill Stojakovic, Drexler!” Steininger cried, “Whatever were you thinking?”
“Yes, Drexler,” Freitag echoed. “Whatever were you thinking?”
It was a good performance. But their relief was palpable.
15
RHEINHARDT'S HEAD WAS BURIED in his copy of the latest edition of the police journal, which contained an extremely interesting article on the work of Jean Alexandre Eugene Lacassagne—a professor of medicine at the University of Lyon who had made extraordinary advances in the identification of decayed corpses. As he read, Rheinhardt became increasingly aware of piano music: music of incomparable lightness. An innocent, profoundly beautiful melody leaped an octave, before making a modulating descent over a flowing left-hand accompaniment. It charmed him out of the dark, morbid world of mortuaries and rotting cadavers. When the melody climbed again, he lifted his head—as if watching the ascent of a songbird.
His eldest daughter, Therese, was seated at the instrument, her slim fingers negotiating the naive geography of Mozart's
He registered the good-humored curve of Else's mouth, the thickness of Mitzi's hair, and the straightness of Therese s back—the way that something of his own likeness lingered in the lineaments of both his daughters and, by some miracle, did so without diminishing their beauty.
Thomas Zelenka was only one year older than Therese. Although Zelenka wore a uniform and had been taught to use a sabre, he was still—like Therese—a child.
It was a disturbance in the order of things that Rheinhardt could not—would not—accept as
The music suddenly shifted into a minor key, as if responding to his thoughts. He remembered visiting Zelenka's parents—the empty birdcage, the unoccupied bedroom, the void behind Fanousek's eyes: the four gas towers, like massive mausoleums, breaking the line of a bleak horizon, the terrible, suffocating atmosphere of desolation, misery, and loss.
How could any parent survive the loss of a child? How would Rheinhardt ever cope, if the piano playing ceased, the humming subsided, and the parlor was chilled by his daughters’ absence? The silence would be intolerable.
Yes, Liebermann was probably right—by denying juvenile mortality he, Rheinhardt, was railing against fate, attempting to safeguard his children. But did that really matter? The existence of such a mechanism did not invalidate his feelings. Perhaps intuition originated in parts of the mind too deep for psychoanalysis to fathom. Moreover, Rheinhardt comforted himself with the thought that even Liebermann was beginning—albeit reluctantly —to accept that there might be something more to Zelenka's death than Professor Mathias's autopsy had revealed.
Rheinhardt looked at his daughters again and was overwhelmed by a force of emotion that made his breath catch. It was not comparable to the comfortable affection he felt for his wife, the companion-ate closeness that had mellowed and matured over the years. No—it was something quite different. A raw, primitive emotion—a violent, visceral, instinctive attachment combined with a desire to protect, whatever the cost. And yet, at the same time, it was remarkably satisfying and joyful. It defied description, was characterized by contradictions.
The music had recovered the tonic major key, and the principal subject was being recapitulated. The inspector counted his blessings and raised the police journal to conceal his watering eyes and the peculiar shame associated with the expression of uncontrollable, improvident love.
16
LIEBERMANN AND HIS FRIEND Dr. Stefan Kanner were seated in a private windowless dining room. The food they had eaten was traditional fare, simply prepared but deeply satisfying: semolina dump lings in beef broth, Tyrolean knuckle of veal with rice, and
“It was a beautiful day,” said Kanner, tracing a flamboyant arc with his hand to evoke the cloudless empyrean. “Jeanette and I drove out to Dobling and had dinner, alfresco… and the following Sunday we went across the Kahlenberg to Klosterneuburg. On our way home, in the railway compartment, her head fell on my shoulder— and she said that she loved me.”
Kanner pushed the box of cigars into the middle of the table, and encouraged Liebermann to take another.
“Go on—help yourself. They're Havanas. A gift from a grateful patient—well, her husband, actually—whom I cured of a zoopsia accompanied by gastric pains.”
“What animals did she hallucinate?”
“Only one: a dancing bear.”
“And how did you treat her?”
“Maxim. Just take a cigar and let me finish my story will you?”
Liebermann muttered an apology and signaled that his friend should proceed.
“Still under the benign influence of the sweet
“Which is just as well,” Liebermann interjected.
Kanner thrust out his lower lip and blinked at his friend.
“Have I told you this story before?”
“No.”
Kanner shrugged and continued. “I spent the afternoon in Cafe Landtmann… and when the streetlights came on, I went for a stroll in the Rathauspark. It was quite dark—but I'm sure it was her.”
“Jeanette?”
“In the arms of Spitzer.”
“The throat specialist?”
“The very same.”
Liebermann threw his head back and directed a jet of smoke at the ceiling. The gaslight flared and made a curious respiratory sound— like a gasp.
“So, she wants to be an actress.”
Kanner sat up straight—surprised.
“How did you know that?”
“Throat specialists always have a large number of famous actors and singers among their patients. They are frequently invited to first nights, gala performances, and other glamorous occasions. Among the medical specialities, throat specialists are by far the most well connected with respect to the arts. Subsequently, they are common prey to a particular type of young woman: pretty, intelligent, coquettish, of slender means, and with theatrical ambitions.”
