“No, not now. Another time. We have work to do.”
“Of course.”
They played some more Beethoven, and a few Mozart sonatas— including the little E minor. In due course, Liebermann raised his wrist and pointed to his watch. The law decreed that music-making in Vienna had to cease at eleven—and it had just gone half past ten.
“It is getting late—and, sadly, we must bring our music-making to an end. Besides, you must be tired. Shall we find you a cab?”
Trezska smiled, and shook her head. “That won't be necessary. I have no intention of returning to Landstrasse.”
She glanced through the open double doors and across the landing, to what she clearly hoped was Liebermann's bedroom.
44
GEROLD SOMMER PEERED OUT of his window. He was grateful that the sky had cleared and the moon was shining brightly. A lamp at this hour would be conspicuous on the grounds of the school. He put on his coat, picked up a paraffin lamp and a box of matches, and hopped down the corridor on his crutches. Thankfully, Lang was a heavy sleeper. Sommer turned the key carefully and pushed the front door open. The air was freezing. He thought of returning to his room to get some gloves and a hat but decided against it. Too much noise.
The path sparkled with frost and was easy to follow. It took him to the front of the school. He passed the statue of Saint Florian and entered the courtyard. It was much darker beneath the cloisters, and it was at this point that he lit his lamp. He adjusted the wick so that it provided just enough illumination for him to find his way—but no more.
Once inside the school, he progressed to the back of the building and with great difficulty descended a flight of stairs that led to a large damp basement room, one wall of which was covered in lockers. They were arranged in alphabetical order. Sommer lowered the lamp, and read the names: Zehrer, Zeigler,
He placed the lamp on the floor and thrust his hand inside the locker, frantically exploring the space with his fingertips.
He cursed under his breath.
“Looking for something?”
It was a young voice—one of the boys.
Sommer started and swung around.
On the other side of the room the speaker struck a match. The flame slowly rose to meet the end of a cigarette and cast a yellow light over the distinctive features of Kiefer Wolf. “It's no good, sir,” said the boy, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “All Zelenka's possessions were removed. Well… with the exception of one item.”
Sommer swallowed.
“What… what was it?”
“The only thing that I thought was worth taking: a rather fine dictionary.”
“Give it to me.”
“Why should I?”
“It's of no use to you.”
“True. But it's clearly of considerable use to you!”
As Wolf drew on his cigarette, his face reappeared—infernal, in the red incandescence.
“What do you want, Wolf?”
“Only that you continue to honor our arrangement.”
“I've already said that I would. I'll keep my word.… You don't need that dictionary as well!”
“Have you read much Nietzsche, sir?”
“What?”
“Nietzsche—the philosopher.”
“I know who he is, boy!” said Sommer, suddenly angered. “According to Nietzsche,” said Wolf, “you can never have enough power.”
45
LIEBERMANN WAS UNFAMILIAR WITH ZIELINSKI’S—but it was where Trezska had insisted that they meet: a small, dilapidated coffeehouse, close to her apartment in Landstrasse. He had chosen to sit at the rear of the coffeehouse on one of several quilted benches, arranged in pairs, with an oblong table between: a small velvet drape increased privacy by partitioning the heads of adjacent patrons.
Liebermann looked at his wristwatch. Trezska was late. As time passed, he began to look at his wristwatch with increasing frequency, succumbing by degree to worries about her safety. He was considerably relieved, therefore, when the door opened and she finally appeared. The young doctor waved, capturing her attention. Trezska smiled and rushed over, flushed and a little agitated.
“I'm so sorry. My first lesson with Rose—it lasted much longer than I'd expected.”
Liebermann stood and kissed her on the cheek. Now that she had arrived, the wait that he had endured seemed inconsequential.
“How was it? The lesson?” Liebermann asked.
Trezska pulled a dissatisfied face. “I could have played better.” She beckoned a waiter: “Absinthe… and some sugared almonds.”
Liebermann shifted along the bench and invited Trezska to sit next to him. She slid her violin case under the table and sidled up close.
“Forgive me,” said Trezska. “I am exhausted. Rose is a demanding teacher—and very pedantic. At one point, he even questioned the way I was holding my bow! The Mozart was acceptable but the Beethoven…” She shook her head. “Very poor.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“I don't know. Perhaps I allowed myself to become overawed.… The performance was too timid.”
“What did Rose say?”
“He was polite enough—but clearly unimpressed. He wasn't happy with my phrasing and thought that I was treating certain rhythmic figures too freely; however, if I had been more at ease, I am sure I could have produced a more confident performance. Then he might have been better able to understand what I was trying to achieve and less inclined to seize on what he saw as technical deficiencies.”
“Perhaps you will be able to communicate your intentions better next time? You will be more accustomed to Rose—and less anxious, no doubt.”
Trezska took his hand and squeezed it affectionately—an expression of gratitude for his solicitous remarks.
The waiter returned and deposited Trezska's order, along with a carafe of water, on their table. She reached out and turned the bottle so she could examine the label. It showed an eighteenth-century dandy in a striped jacket and Napoleonic hat being approached by a flower girl. The legend read JULES PERNOD, AVIGNON.
Liebermann asked Trezska about Rose's teaching practices, and then indulged in a little musical gossip.
“Did you see his wife?”
“No.”
