who were familiar with Snjezana's habits would, at this juncture, immediately deposit a sum of money under her pillow and leave—because Snjezana's pining was usually followed by a violent eruption of anger during which she would curse all “Germans” and suddenly strike out. Her painted nails were long and sank into flesh with the efficiency of razor blades.
From below, Wolf could hear the sound of an accordion and raised voices, the hysterical shriek of the barmaid, and raucous laughter. The smell of Snjezana's room was making him feel slightly sick: her overpowering, cloying perfume failed to cover the reek of stale tobacco and the fishy odor that seeped into the atmosphere when she became aroused. He lit one of his own cigarettes—and hoped that its fragrance would neutralize the room's nauseating miasma.
Drexler appeared from behind the screen. He was bare-chested, and was fumbling with the belt of his trousers.
“Your turn,” he said.
Wolf closed the book and shook his head.
“No.… I think not. Let's go.”
“What?”
“I don't feel like it.”
The sound of tired bedsprings, relieved of weight, produced a sequence of loud cracking sounds followed by a tremulous hum. Snjezana stepped out from the other side of the screen. She was wearing a long, richly embroidered peasant skirt, and her hair was wrapped up in a black head scarf. Wolf glanced nonchalantly at her breasts—her erect nipples, her coffee-colored areolae.
“You said the two of you.” Her voice was accusatory. “That's what you said.”
“Don't worry, Snjezana,” said Wolf. “You'll get paid.”
“For two?”
Wolf sighed. “Yes. For two.”
Snjezana sneered—and affected a mocking singsong voice.
“What's the matter with poor Wolf—not feeling well?” She pushed out her lower lip and made circles on her stomach with the palm of her hand. “Is he missing his
Drexler laughed.
“Be quiet, Drexler—don't encourage her.” Wolf tossed some silver coins onto the floor. “I'll see you outside.”
Wolf got up abruptly and left the room. The landing was in total darkness, so he had to feel his way down the wooden staircase, his sword striking the banisters as he made his descent. Outside, the air was cool. He leaned up against the wall and looked up at the starry sky. Releasing a cloud of smoke, he watched it rise and dissipate.
“There are no moral phenomena,” he whispered. In some peculiar way, the cold impartiality of the heavens seemed to confirm the author's sentiment. He inhaled—and Snjezana's cloying perfume cleared from his nostrils.
20
THE INSPECTOR HAD POSITIONED HIMSELF at the back of the classroom—the very same one he had used to conduct his own interviews earlier that week. He had hoped that this would allow him to make discreet observations without distracting Perger.
Rheinhardt was accustomed to Liebermann's preference for oblique methods of inquiry. However, on this occasion the young doctor's behavior seemed so irregular, so incomprehensible, that he was sorely tempted to halt proceedings and demand an explanation. Liebermann had asked the boy if he enjoyed playing chess. He had then produced a chess set from his bag, and a contest of some considerable length ensued. When it was over—and Perger had been declared the winner—Liebermann opened his bag for the second time, and took out a bundle of papers that seemed to have nothing on them except spilled ink.
“And now,” said Liebermann, “another game of sorts.” Rheinhardt bit his lower lip and stifled the urge to protest. “I would like to show you some inkblots, and I want you to tell me if they remind you of anything.”
Liebermann showed the first sheet to Perger.
The boy had a nervous habit of jerking his head upward in small movements—like a rodent testing the air— and when he spoke, his hesitancy threatened to become a stutter.
“No. It… it doesn't remind me of anything.”
“Come now,” said Liebermann, smiling broadly. “You must, at some point, have observed the clouds in the sky and thought they looked like something else? A great galleon, perhaps? The profile of the emperor? Look closely… and keep on looking. Eventually you will perceive something familiar. Now tell me, what do you see?”
The boy's eyes suddenly widened. “Yes, yes.… Two old men— with long noses.”
“Very good. Now here's another. What do you see?”
“A… a bat.”
“Excellent. And here?”
“The face of a wolf.”
And so it went on: Liebermann showing the boy page after page, and the boy responding.
Perger was soon finding the task easier—and his descriptions became more detailed.
When Liebermann had worked through all his inkblots, he said to Perger, “Another game of chess? It is only right that you give me an opportunity to redeem myself.”
Rheinhardt was certain that Liebermann had lost the previous game intentionally. He had seen his friend perform respectably against the seasoned enthusiasts who gathered at the rear of the Cafe Central. It was extremely unlikely that a logician of Liebermann s calibre could be bettered by an adolescent boy.
The new game differed from the first, insofar as it did not take place in silence. Liebermann asked Perger what books he liked to read. What cakes were sold at the Aufkirchen bakery, and whether or not ticks were a problem in the summer months. None of it (as far as Rheinhardt could determine) was of any consequence. Then, after a relatively short period of time had elapsed, Liebermann moved his queen and said “Checkmate.” The boy wasn't expecting this sudden defeat and was obviously quite surprised.
“It's a well-known snare developed by the great Wilhelm Steinitz,” said Liebermann. “You should have paid closer attention to my knight! But this is a most unsatisfactory outcome, wouldn't you agree? Both of us have now won a game, and I am curious to know which of us is really the better player. Let us have one more game— and that shall be the decider!”
Rheinhardt could sit still no longer. He stood up and clomped over to the window. A single rider was leaping fences in the equestrian enclosure, and beyond, the fir-covered hills were black beneath a taupe sky. Rheinhardt yawned. As he watched the rider repeating his circuit, the classroom began to recede and he gradually slipped into a state of drowsy abstraction. When he finally overcame his torpor, he found himself eavesdropping on a conversation.…
Liebermann and Perger were talking about the school: masters, examinations, drill. Occasionally, Liebermann would remind the boy to watch his knight—then proceed with another nonchalant inquiry. Which of the masters taught Latin? Why did Perger find Latin so difficult? Could he speak any other languages? Rheinhardt noticed that the boy's head was no longer jerking upward. He was concentrating on the game, answering Liebermann's questions with an easy, natural fluency.
“Thomas Zelenka was your friend?”
“Yes, he was.”
“You must be very lonely now?”
“I have other friends.…”
