“Imagine,” she said, shaking her head and dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “To lose a son—and only fifteen years old.”
“How was it that you became acquainted?” asked Rheinhardt.
“The masters at Saint Florian's—particularly those with wives— often invite boys to their houses. It is encouraged here. Although the boys look like men, in many ways they are still children. They miss their families, ordinary things… sitting in a garden, a glass of raspberry juice with soda water, home baking. Zelenka always wanted me to make spiced pretzels. I have a special recipe—given to me by my grandmother.”
“How often did you see Zelenka?”
“He used to come at my husband's invitation with other boys, and sometimes he would come on his own. I think he enjoyed my company—felt comfortable. You see, his family is poor, and I…” Frau Becker hesitated for a moment, and blushed. “I also come from a poor family. We had this in common.”
Rheinhardt found himself glancing down at the young woman's blouse. It was made of black lace and lined with flesh-colored silk, a combination that created a tantalizing illusion of immodesty. A gentleman's eye was automatically drawn down to the transparent webbing, which promised the possibility of indecent revelation.
“What was Zelenka like?” said Rheinhardt, forcing himself to look up, and loosening his collar.
“A kind, intelligent boy. But…”
Frau Becker paused, her expression darkening.
“What?” Rheinhardt pressed.
“Unhappy.”
“Because of the bullying—the persecution?”
Frau Becker looked surprised. “You know about it?”
“Yes.”
“He never told me what happened—what they did to him—but I could tell that it was bad.”
“Did he ever mention any names?”
“No. And when I asked, he refused to answer. He said it would only make things worse. He would get called a squealer, a snitch, and other horrible names—they would pick on him even more.”
“Did you speak to your husband?”
“Of course.”
“And what did he say?”
“He told me that unless boys like Zelenka are prepared to name their tormentors, nothing can be done. The whole school can't be watched every hour of the day. And I suppose that's true—isn't it?”
“May I ask a question?” said Liebermann. Frau Becker assented. “May I ask whether or not you had any dreams last night?”
“I beg your pardon?” Frau Becker looked at the doctor in surprise.
“Did you have any dreams—last night?”
“Yes,” she said, tentatively. “Yes, I did.”
“Would you be kind enough to tell me what occurred in your dream?”
Frau Becker shrugged. “I could… but it's nonsense, Herr Doctor.”
“Please.” Liebermann urged her to continue.
“Very well,” said Frau Becker. “I dreamed that I went to the theater with my husband.… One side of the stalls was empty. My husband told me that Marianne and her fiance had wanted to go too—”
“Marianne?”
“A friend.”
“An old friend?”
“Yes, we grew up together. As a matter of fact, I got a letter from her yesterday, which contained some very important news. She has just got engaged to a lieutenant in the uhlans.”
“Go on.”
“Where was I? Oh yes… Marianne and her fiance had wanted to go too, but only cheap seats—costing eight hellers—were available, so they didn't take them. But I thought it wouldn't have been so bad if they had.” Frau Becker looked at Liebermann. She seemed confused, and faintly embarrassed. “That's it. That's all I can remember.”
Liebermann leaned back in his chair and allowed his clenched fist to fall against his right cheek. The index finger unfurled and tapped against his temple.
“Did the empty half of the stalls that you saw in your dream remind you of anything?”
Frau Becker paused and gave the question serious consideration. Her lips pursed, and a thin horizontal line appeared on her brow.
“Now that you mention it, yes. Just after Christmas, I wanted to see a play—a comedy—at the Volkstheatre. I had bought tickets for this play very early. So early, in fact, that I had to pay an extra booking fee. When we got to the Volkstheatre, it turned out that I needn't have bothered—one side of the theater was half empty. My husband kept on teasing me for having been in such a hurry.”
“And the sum of eight hellers—is that associated with some memory of a real event?”
Frau Becker toyed with her brooch, a thin crescent of garnets.
“Not eight hellers but eight kronen. The maid was recently given a present of eight kronen by an admirer. She immediately rushed off to Vienna in order to buy some jewelry.”
“Thank you,” said Liebermann. “Thank you,” he repeated, nodding his head. “You have been most helpful.”
Frau Becker looked from Liebermann to Inspector Rheinhardt, her expression inviting an explanation. But the inspector merely thanked her for being so cooperative.
On leaving the house, Liebermann and Rheinhardt discovered that the garden was no longer empty. A man in muddy overalls and boots was kneeling next to a flower bed, tugging coils of dead creeper from a thorny bush.
“Good afternoon,” said Rheinhardt.
The man stood up, drew his sleeve across his nose, and uttered a greeting. Rheinhardt introduced himself and showed the gardener a photograph of Zelenka—the one that he had had copied after visiting the boy's parents.
“Do you recognize him?”
“Yes, I recognize him.”
“He came here often?”
“Some would say too often.” The man's lips suddenly parted. He began to chuckle, revealing a mouth full of yellow carious teeth.
“What do you mean, ‘too often’?”
The gardener made a lewd gesture with his hand, winked, and, without excusing himself, stomped off.
Liebermann and Rheinhardt watched him recede.
“Just a moment,” Rheinhardt called.
The man accelerated his step and disappeared behind the house.
“When our great poets versify about the rustic charm of country folk,” said Rheinhardt, “what do you think they mean, exactly?”
Liebermann stared out of the carriage window at the passing woodland.
“So,” said Rheinhardt. “What did you make of Frau Becker?”
“She is very much regretting her marriage.”
“If that really
“Professor Freud has explained that dreams are often a reaction to events that occur on the preceding day. This certainly seems to be the case with Frau Becker, who only yesterday received a letter from Marianne, an old friend, containing news of her engagement to an excellent prospective husband—a
